Fog Island Mountains

by Michelle Bailat-Jones

  * * *

  A flick of an ear, a careful twist of the head, Komachi is alive tonight with stories and voices, and so we move in closer again to the Chester household, this time to Megumi who is watching her sister seated on the couch, watching Naomi’s half-frozen face, stricken with fear since their visit to the hospital the day before, and Megumi can hardly stand to stay in the same room with her.

  “Nao-chan, I’m going to see if I can get Mrs. Kenta, I want to see if she’s taken Jun over to her parents’ house.”

  Naomi looks up, her eyes wide. “I hope they’re not out on the road right now.”

  “The storm is stronger here, it might not even be raining hard yet in Kumamoto.”

  But no one is answering at Mrs. Kenta’s apartment, and Megumi cannot get the woman’s cell phone to connect, and here it comes, the sharp glitter shard of irritation, Megumi’s special form of panic—she should have brought Jun with her, what was she thinking leaving him so far away from her during a typhoon?

  “No answer?” Naomi has followed Megumi into the kitchen, is already rubbing the knuckles of one hand with the other, kneading and stretching the skin.

  “I’ll go check the shutters are all latched upstairs. Go lie down, everything is going to be fine.”

  Megumi can feel her sister’s eyes on her back as she hurries from the room, and it makes her even more angry, because Naomi’s constant worrying is exhausting, what good does it do to give all your concerns the same quantity of anxiety? Naomi has never learned how to parcel out her fear, how to distribute her apprehension into a variety of shapes and sizes and allocate them appropriately, but Megumi knows how to do this and by the time she reaches the top of the stairs she is feeling nearly smug, proud of how well she can apportion her emotions and how she knows to save her energy for important fears.

  She is looking around now, surprised to see how little this house has changed since the years she lived here with the rest of the family, her parents have not rearranged, have not made Ken’ichi’s larger room into a study, or made Megumi’s small room into a guest bedroom. As they were when she was a child, the bedrooms are all clustered at one end of the long hallway, a study and a family room at the other—it is a big house by Japanese standards, it is nearly luxurious and definitely sturdily built, because the sounds of the typhoon are so quiet here in this interior hallway, and she is looking at the solid wood beneath her feet and remembering how much she loved to run the length of these floors, sliding in her socks into the study to catch her father napping on the sofa or her mother reading a book, and Naomi or Ken were always at her heels, too timid to run and slide but anxious to follow her in search of their parents.

  Megumi stops now, hovering at the edge of the large family room, she will always associate this house with both of her parents, the space is such a mixture of their two personalities, a blend of east and west even if the décor is mostly Japanese and it strikes her as strange how traditionally styled her parents have kept the house, to an outside eye this house is so stereotypically Japanese and yet their family has always been a blend, not quite Japanese, not quite Western, and she runs her fingertips along the edge of a painting, it is one of her own, one she no longer cares for, it looks childish to her, the feeling so boldly stated, and she closes her eyes because she cannot yet imagine her mother living here alone, no, it will be too big for her by herself, she will give it up quickly, she will not want to share the space with all of her memories. And then Megumi is angry again, swiftly, satisfyingly so, because she should not be able to imagine this future so quickly, she should not be able to see her father vanishing so easily and yet he has already started to thin and disappear.

  The beep of her cell phone startles her forward out of the hallway and into the family room, her knees down onto the humid tatami—it is Mrs. Kenta and Megumi breathes deeply with relief, savoring the earthy smell of the woven floor, “We are at my parents’ house,” Mrs. Kenta is saying. “It is safer here, there is no flooding expected.” And Megumi is agreeing, her anger set aside, for now, and asking to speak to her son.

  “Are you playing with Grandpa Kenta?”

  Jun is laughing, “We’re killing the invaders, the aliens haven’t got a chance!”

  Megumi reminds him to be polite and mind Mrs. Kenta and her parents, and she tells him she’ll be back to pick him up tomorrow but he doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that he won’t see her this evening.

  “Can I have ice cream?”

  “If Mrs. Kenta offers.”

  “We had some at lunch, I just wanted to be sure.”

  “You’re a rascal, be good. And, Jun, you’re my best boy.”

  “Always!”

  They hang up then and Megumi holds tight to her cell phone for a few extra seconds, hearing the echo of his little boy voice, already so confident, and she is aware that she is known for being assertive herself, for speaking her mind, even if it isn’t very feminine of her, not that she cares. But Jun’s assertiveness is different, a variety of self-assuredness he hasn’t gotten from her, and although she would never tell this to anyone, she is certain it comes from Jun’s father because everyone knows that Americans have confidence and optimism in their blood.

  Mrs. Kenta asked her once, as have so many others, and as politely as possible, whether Jun ever saw his father, and when Megumi replied that the two had never met, Mrs. Kenta was either too embarrassed or too discreet to inquire any further, not that it would have done her any good, Megumi has never told anyone how she became pregnant with Jun, especially not her parents nor her siblings, all of whom begged for the truth when she announced she would be having a child, alone, on her own.

  She has imagined telling them many times, a casual announcement over dinner, an easy phrase tossed into a conversation and which would throw them all into a stunned silence: These American sperm clinics are really great, and Hawaii isn’t so far, really . . . and it was really easy.

  Oh, Megumi, what a lie this would be, nothing about having Jun was easy for you, you were terrified, you worried you would lose the baby, you worried you would hate the baby, and you went through labor for thirty-two hours, completely on your own at the hospital in Kumamoto because you refused to call your parents when you’d started to feel the labor pains and all because you believed you knew what it would be like, you knew they would be happy for you, but you were too afraid to see their own happiness, too afraid to see your parents, their couplehood, strengthened by the birth of their first grandchild, and it was what you were fighting against, isn’t it? You wanted to create something you could love as much as your parents have always loved each other, you’d promised yourself this, years ago when you were still a very young woman, you’d promised that if you ever had any children you would love them more than anyone else, that any child deserved this, and that you would put your child first.

  * * *

  From inside the house, the sounds of a typhoon are always loud—the wind clawing at the trees, clawing at the shutters and the roof tiles, whistling between the cars and the houses, hurtling bits of debris against the walls and windows, and I know it will be quieter outside, even now when the storm wall is approaching us fast, running up the sides of our mountains and settling in over our small town, and because of all this noise, I can no longer hear anything and I must brave the winds to check the forest with my eyes, to make sure the animals have all tucked themselves away, to make sure I am not needed. And so off I go beneath layers of cloth and plastic, meant to keep me dry but also to protect me from the sticks and bits of other people’s lives that will go flying through the air, and the worst part is the trek across the open field of my garden because I am such a small woman and the wind threatens to knock me over, but once I reach the stand of sugi and once I am on the trail, it is easier because these tree trunks are thick and the water is not running over the ground, not softening the earth around the tree trunks, and so maybe we will flood a little, later perhaps, but the ground will not give way. We a
re protected.

  We learn in school that typhoons love Japan, that ten or more a year approach our islands, and that most of these storms make landfall in the south, poor Okinawa, but here on Kyūshū we also have more than our share, we are often bombarded with these winds and this rain, and while we worry over these storms, while we fret and prepare and discuss what will happen and what has happened in the past, and while we complain to our politicians about the measures being taken and the measures being ignored, we also secretly love these typhoons, just a little, we love them because they test our spirit and our strength, and each and every time we make it through—we have been knocked down a little, yes, we have suffered, we have been inconvenienced, but against these storms, we have always won.

  I am slow to climb the trail and I even slip once or twice, but I make it and I am proud of my wiry arms and sturdy thin legs, I am checking around my patch of forest, testing the trees and listening for the animals and watching the way the water is running down the little stream—it is swollen, yes, but it is still only a stream—and everything is as it should be, the tree limbs are wild and the wind is reminding me of my own smallness and the animals are silent and hidden. So I sit for a moment to catch my breath in the hollow at the base of the biggest oak tree, and I wish I could stay here, huddled and warm and dry and certain that this weather would pass over me eventually, but I must return to my home and experience this storm like everyone else, it is a choice I must honor.

  So back on the path and gripping the muddy rocks and tree roots where I can, because going down is always harder than climbing up, with my feet slick on the mud and the rain pushing me from behind, and then there is a crack up above, a sound like thunder, the reluctant splitting of wood from wood, and then another crack, and the trees are crying out at their lost limbs and twisting in anger against the wind, and I must get out of the way until they have calmed, and so I am scurrying just a little further down the trail, and ducking into the old shrine, it is nothing more than a rock ledge with an overhang, but the debris won’t reach me here, not if I scoot myself back against the rock and I wait and it’s terrible, this cracking and tearing above me and so I turn away from the violence, I turn toward the moss-covered statues at my feet, a little row of them, not any higher than my knee, but what is left of their round faces is so solemn and so peaceful and I stare back at them until my own worries are settled.

  Not many people in Komachi remember this old shrine—there are no stone steps leading up to its entrance, no building for monks to visit and where people may come to pray, there is nothing but this ledge, this row of statues and a wooden box set into the ledge of the rock, with doors that were once painted red, and a drawer in which to leave offerings, but those of us who grew up in this neighborhood, who love or loved to walk in these woods, have often stopped by to pause in the quiet of its shelter, to wonder at these unnamed and soon-to-be faceless statues, and there are even a few people who believe they are the only ones to know about this place, and they have left parts of themselves, secret wishes and vows, made from folded slips of paper and pieces of money in the offering box. One such couple was so beautiful in their solitude, so honest in their communion, so free from the prying eyes that usually marked their public appearance, and this is years ago now, that it would not have been right for an old woman to break that silence and announce her presence, it was better to leave them alone and let them keep the memory of this little shrine to themselves.

  I run my fingers along the heads of the statues and wonder again who carved them and what people or monks were their model and then I am off back onto the path because the wind has quieted a little, has left the trees to their armless grieving and I can move a little faster and soon the path is leveling out and reaching the road, and I am crossing the road and slipping into my back garden—I am soaked through, how did I not notice it? I must hurry now and change my clothes, get inside my house and warm up, because I am still an old woman and it would not do to let this storm get the better of me.

  * * *

  The ryokan will break in this storm, thinks Alec, because already the power has gone out, already a window has broken somewhere, he could hear the old woman and her lonely housekeeper discussing how to patch it up, and he almost stood up and went to them, wanting to offer his help—because have they even prepared?—but when he tried to stand up from the cushions on the floor, he had to sit back down again, panting, moving a hand to the small of his back, pressing against the heat and the throb and the pain of this everywhere that is no longer medicated.

  “Seventeen children,” he told her once, from maybe this very room.

  “I was hoping you’d want sixty, I’ll be pregnant every year of my life.”

  He remembers reaching for the smooth skin of her belly, the taut line of flesh between each hip bone. “No, no, let’s forget that. No children. I won’t change an inch of you.”

  “I’ll grow fat anyway. You’ve been warned, you’ve met my mother.”

  He bit her upper arm, licked the tip of her elbow. “Then I’ll eat you for breakfast and lunch and dinner. Every day.”

  But that was then and this is now, and this room is dark and the wind is rushing at the side of the building and there is a crash in the courtyard and then the hurried scurry of feet along the hallway.

  “Is everything okay in here?” This from the old woman, she has entered his room without knocking. “Your lights are off as well? Come downstairs then, we’ve got a lantern in the dining room, it is the most protected room, and we’re going to serve some lunch.”

  Alec follows her out the door, sliding along the wooden floor in his socks, he has forgotten his slippers and Kanae would tell him he is behaving like a dotty old man, she would tell him to find something else to do, to read a book, write a card, pot a plant, and she would be somewhere keeping her hands busy, setting an example, but Alec is walking down the stairs now, listening to the rain on the roof and staring at the papery skin of the old woman’s neck, and he is wondering if they’ve got it all wrong, because this time he is pretty sure that a busy pair of hands will not solve their problem.

  Downstairs in the dining room is a man about his age, and they bow to one another, and the man stares at Alec just a beat too long, as Japanese people sometimes do, but Alec doesn’t mind, he is already turning away, yes, turning away from our Fumikaze, already looking for a magazine, something to keep his attention until they bring in the lunch, so that he won’t just stand there holding his abdomen and tiptoeing around and looking up at the roof. The structure of the ryokan is creaking and groaning, the trees are swaying over the skylight, and Alec chooses a low table and thanks the old woman for her pot of tea, and Fumikaze has stopped staring and has followed the old woman back into the hallway, from which Alec can still hear their conversation and he cannot help it, he has nothing better to do, he is listening.

  There is some question of Fumikaze returning to town.

  “Certainly not right now, sir, it’s much too dangerous.”

  “It’s rather important, so—”

  “It can’t last much longer, you really should wait—”

  The man’s voice lowers, and Alec is flicking through the pages of a catalog, reading about the amenities of various onsen hotels in the region, and he hears the old woman’s short gasp of surprise, the mention of the word “teacher” and now the other man has said “hospital” and so, without waiting even a second he is dropping the catalog and pushing himself to his knees, never mind the round press of pain, the crimp at his side, he shouts to them in the hallway.

  “I can hear you!”

  What a silence then—even the storm seems to have been startled, and then he is standing, never mind the tremble in his legs, never mind the flush of fever that is rising in his cheeks, and he is walking to these people in the hallway, and how silly he must look, he thinks, towering over this gentle man and this gentle old woman with his oversized limbs and pale hair, but he hadn’t expected the news of his sit
uation to travel so quickly.

  “There is some question about my health? Is that a problem?”

  The old woman has bowed her head. How demure. How resigned.

  But our Fumikaze is frowning now, embarrassed, hesitant to begin a conflict, to do anything but nod his head and tuck his disappointment and scurry away, but he stops himself. This is too important, this is worth fighting through. “I was sorry to hear of your illness, Mr. Chester.”

  Alec blinks. This man has spoken to him in English.

  “Excuse my . . . um, please forgive my direct speech. I understand there is little time.”

  Now there is a question of hallucination, and Alec is pinching his arm a little and looking from the man to the window, back to the man, and shaking his head, looking in on his rational brain. Such perfect English . . . and Shingo did not mention the possibility of hallucination.

  “Do I know you?”

  But Fumikaze has moved away, is seated now in a chair by the entrance and is clasping both hands around one raised knee, he is not looking at Alec, but up at the ceiling, he has closed his eyes and all around them the storm is beating on, beating against the building, pushing at these structures, our feeble shelters and buildings, all of them in its way.