Daughter of Moloka'i

by Alan Brennert

  “I’m so sorry, Ruth,” Rachel said, squeezing Ruth’s hand. “That’s a terrible burden to have to bear. But there’s a word in Hawaiian that might help you bear it: kala. It means ‘to forgive’ but also ‘to let go.’”

  “How the hell do I forgive the bastards who murdered my father?”

  “You don’t. I never forgave Crossen for murdering Kenji. But I finally forgave myself—for not being able to prevent it. Let go, Ruth. Kala.”

  Ruth wept, not just for her father but for herself, the daughter she had wanted to be, the one who could rescue him the way he had rescued her.

  Sumimasen, Otōsan, she apologized. Sumimasen. She could not save everyone she loved. But she could, and would, save Etsuko from this.

  Chapter 19

  1960–1961

  The house was too damn quiet. Ruth stood in the living room, longing for one more indoor baseball game with Donnie, Peggy, and Max. She felt a twinge of loss, even two years later, thinking of Max. She consoled herself with the knowledge that he had lived a long life—eleven years—for a dog his size, and that he had been loved every day of that life.

  The kids, of course, were a happier matter, as much as she missed them. After two years of pre-veterinary classes at the University of California at Davis, Peggy had been accepted to their School of Veterinary Medicine. She had studied hard and spent the summer between freshman and sophomore years working with large animals on Horace’s farm in Florin. Don graduated from San Jose State with a B.S. in Biological Science and was accepted to the Scripps Institution of Oceanography—affiliated with UC San Diego—for its Master’s Program in Marine Biology. Tuition at public universities in California was free, but Frank and Ruth were nevertheless both working overtime to pay the registration fees and room and board.

  “Dai, I’m ready to plant.”

  Etsuko, in gardening gloves and apron, entered the room carrying a small cellophane bag with a plant cutting inside.

  “This was very thoughtful of Rachel,” Ruth said. Etsuko had wanted a tropical plant that could survive in a colder climate; Rachel’s sister, Sarah, had suggested a bird of paradise, and Rachel sent a cutting from their own garden.

  “Yes, I wrote her that it will provide our garden with both a touch of Hawai'i and a warm reminder of her.”

  They went out to the garden, where Etsuko kneeled down, the arthritis in her knees keenly protesting. Ruth was hefting a large bag of mulch out of the house. Etsuko opened the cellophane bag and took out a three-inch length of tuber sprouting a fan of green leaves.

  Ruth deposited the bag of mulch on the ground beside her mother.

  “You’re sure it doesn’t get too cold in San Jose for these things?”

  “It’s true they grow best in warmer climates,” Etsuko said, taking up her spade, “but our winters are relatively mild; mulch should provide enough insulation from the cold. Should temperatures drop below freezing, we can cover the plant with burlap to protect against frost.”

  Etsuko happily dug a shallow hole, placed the cutting in it with the crown of leaves pointing upward, then backfilled the hole with topsoil. “Rachel recommends watering it twice a week and feeding every two weeks,” Etsuko said, adding, “I am so glad, Dai, that you saw fit to make her part of our lives. Knowing her has enriched us all, in one way or another.”

  Etsuko dipped her hand in the mulch and began spreading it lightly around the base of the plant. “Did you know the bird of paradise is also called a crane flower? Because its blossom resembles the head of a crane.”

  “I remember the paper cranes we had back in Florin,” Ruth said. “Weren’t they supposed to be good luck?”

  “Yes. In Japan the crane is revered—legend says it lives a thousand years and brings good fortune and longevity to a home. We had to burn those paper cranes on December 7. And bad luck quickly followed.”

  Etsuko started to get up—only to find her head spinning like a beigoma, a child’s top. What was happening to her?

  “Dai—” she started to say, before a wave of nausea struck her.

  Her legs buckled and she collapsed into darkness.

  * * *

  What seemed like only a moment later, Etsuko opened her eyes to find herself in a strange bed, wearing a thin cloth gown, a blood pressure cuff wrapped around her left arm. At her bedside were Ruth, Frank, and Dr. Higuchi, all of whom appeared relieved to see her eyes open.

  “What happened?” she asked. “I—I was just in the garden.”

  “That was an hour ago, Okāsan.” Ruth took her hand. “You lost your balance and fell. You were unconscious, I had to call for an ambulance.”

  “Oh no,” Etsuko said, her face showing its first flush of color. “Did the neighbors see me taken away? What must they have thought?”

  “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Etsuko,” Jim Higuchi told her, “and Ruth was right to call the ambulance. What do you recall happening?”

  “I—I started to get up from my gardening and my head began spinning. My legs collapsed under me. That is all I remember.”

  “Have you felt short of breath at any time recently?” Higuchi asked.

  “No.”

  “Yes, she has,” Ruth said. “Okāsan, every time you climb the stairs to the second floor you’re out of breath, remember?”

  “Only for a few moments,” Etsuko objected. “It’s nothing.”

  “Have you experienced any chest pains?” Higuchi asked.

  “No,” she answered truthfully.

  “Your blood pressure’s high,” Higuchi said, “and listening to your heart I heard an irregular rhythm. It could just be stress-related, but I’d like to get an electrocardiogram and a chest X ray to be sure.”

  “This is silly. There is nothing wrong with me. I just had a dizzy spell.”

  “Okāsan, please, do as the doctor suggests,” Ruth implored.

  The concern in her daughter’s tone outweighed Etsuko’s unvoiced fear; she agreed to the tests. But being out of bed for even half an hour tired her, and after the tests she fell asleep as soon as she was back in her room.

  When she awoke, Ruth and Frank were sitting by her bed. They called for Dr. Higuchi, who came in a minute later and sat down.

  “This is going to sound worse than it is, Etsuko,” he said, “but you do have an irregular heartbeat, and the chest X rays indicate a partial blockage in the left side of your heart. Technically you’re in the early stage of congestive heart failure, but don’t let that alarm you. You haven’t experienced any chest pains and we’re going to do our best to keep it that way. Your condition can be managed effectively with rest, medication, and small changes in diet. If you take care of yourself, you can continue to live a good long life.”

  “How long?” Etsuko asked warily.

  “Everyone’s case is different, but I’ve had other patients your age live up to another ten years.”

  That sounded both reassuring—in ten years she would be eighty-five, a long life by any measure—and frightening. Ten years could go by in a flash.

  Frank said, “Jim suggests we move your bedroom from the second floor to the first, so you can avoid climbing stairs.”

  “And I’m going to take a leave from my job while you recover. Everything’s going to be all right, Okāsan.” Ruth squeezed her hand as her mother had done for her many times. Etsuko chose to believe her.

  * * *

  Only a week later, Ruth walked into her mother’s newly relocated bedroom—formerly occupied by Don—to find Etsuko tucking her pillows under the bedspread and smoothing out its folds. “Okāsan,” she said, “why are you doing that?”

  “I have not forgotten how to make a bed, butterfly.”

  “But you’re not supposed to. Remember Dr. Higuchi’s chart?”

  The chart in question was a table of calories burned per minute for various daily activities: Washing & dressing was 2.6 cal/min; Washing face & combing hair, 2.5 cal/min; Sitting was 1.6 cal/min while Standing was 2.0, and Climbing Stairs a wh
opping 6.0–10 cal/min.

  “Oh, that silly chart,” Etsuko scoffed. “Look at me, do I appear to be exhausted? Or in pain?”

  “No, but you’re supposed to be avoiding chores like cleaning and washing dishes to conserve your energy for things you enjoy, like gardening.”

  “I am not yet an invalid, Dai. I can make my own bed, wash my own dishes. As for cleaning, at Manzanar I must have swept out a lifetime’s worth of dust and sand in three years, so I am more than happy to retire my broom.”

  Ruth smiled at that. “Good, we’ll have it bronzed. In the meantime, breakfast is ready. Did you take your diuretic pill this morning?”

  “Yes, yes,” Etsuko said with a sigh, “and I was up at least ten times last night. Is this pill so necessary?”

  “That’s the whole idea—flushing the sodium from your body.”

  “A little too much flushing, in my opinion,” Etsuko muttered.

  Ruth laughed.

  After breakfast, Ruth left for the supermarket. “Promise me you won’t go do any gardening until I get back,” she asked.

  “I plan on doing nothing more strenuous than sewing,” Etsuko said. “I need to finish the dress I’m making for Susan’s birthday.” Ralph and Carol’s daughter was turning three in two weeks.

  “Thanks. I’ll be back within the hour, okay?”

  “I will try not to die while you are gone,” Etsuko teased.

  Ruth found her mother’s sense of humor taxing at times.

  After her daughter left, Etsuko went to her bedroom to retrieve her sewing kit. The fabric for Susan’s dress—dark blue, patterned with white seagulls—was in the top drawer of her dresser. But the pattern she had been planning to use was not. She must have left it in the old shoebox in which she kept her patterns. It was probably still upstairs, in her old room.

  She did not relish climbing those stairs any more than she did acting against her daughter’s wishes. But she needed to finish that dress in time for Susan’s birthday party. She could wait an hour for Ruth to return, but it irked her to feel so dependent upon others.

  She took the steps slowly, keeping her hand on the banister, but with each breath she felt as if she were ascending Mount Fuji. When she reached the second floor she was breathless and rested for a moment.

  The shoebox was indeed in her closet, but had been placed on the top shelf alongside boxes of Donnie’s old sneakers. Etsuko dragged over a chair, but the memory of her fall in the garden gave her pause. Should she wait until Ruth came home? No, that was ridiculous; she was here now, wasn’t she?

  She got up onto the chair, standing there for a moment to make sure the dizziness did not return. When it did not, she reached up and took the box from the shelf. She felt a rush of pride and satisfaction—

  And then felt a spasm in her chest, as if something had reached inside her and squeezed her heart like a sponge.

  She gasped for breath—felt a shudder in her pulse—but the dizziness didn’t return and the spasm eventually subsided. She stood on the chair, breathing hard, then slowly got down. She waited, dreading another stab of angina—Dr. Higuchi had warned her of these and insisted he be told if she experienced one—but fortunately there was no further pain. She walked over to her grandson’s bed and lay down. After what seemed an hour but was probably only fifteen minutes, she got up, tucked the shoebox under one arm, and returned to the stairs. It was a long, frightening descent, but at the end she was merely out of breath, nothing worse. She gratefully lay down on her bed and fell asleep.

  She woke when Ruth returned home with the groceries.

  “Sorry. Were you taking a nap?” Ruth said as she paused by the room.

  “Yes,” Etsuko said, as matter-of-factly as she could. “I felt a bit tired.”

  “Good. I’m glad you’re taking Dr. Higuchi’s advice to heart.”

  * * *

  Over the next few months, Etsuko felt the occasional brief angina pain but told no one and simply endured it. Then one Sunday in the midst of church services she felt a spasm so painful that she cried out and fainted. Reverend Hojo called O’Connor Hospital as his wife hurried across the street to inform the Haradas. Within minutes Etsuko was being carried into an ambulance, which Ruth and Frank followed to the hospital.

  After examining Etsuko, Dr. Higuchi came out of the ICU and told the Haradas, “She suffered a heart attack, but a relatively mild one. When she came to, she admitted that she’s been having chest pains for months but didn’t want to tell you.”

  Ruth felt equal measures relief and anger. “She hid them from us?”

  “You know what it’s like with the Issei—they endure the pain, they gaman. And she didn’t want you to worry.”

  Reflexively Ruth began kicking herself—how could she not have noticed, not have known, that her mother was hurting?

  “What’s her prognosis?” Frank asked.

  “Generally good. We’ll have to keep her a few weeks for observation. I have her on Demerol, she’s in no pain; when she’s ready to go home I’ll prescribe digitalis as needed for angina. She should regain most of her strength, though she’ll have to be even more careful about exerting herself.”

  When they went to see her, Etsuko seemed weak and contrite for concealing her pain from Ruth, who was careful not to show any irritation: “The important thing is you’re going to be fine.”

  When Etsuko returned home two weeks later, still a bit unsteady on her feet, the first thing she wanted to do was check on the bird of paradise in the garden. She was pleased to see that it had sprouted several new shoots. “Perhaps it will bloom this fall or winter,” she said, and Ruth—happy to hear her mother looking forward to something—encouraged the notion.

  When winter came, alas, there was no bloom on the plant; but the season brought something else, just as welcome.

  * * *

  When Rachel walked through the front door on December 23, Etsuko’s face lit up with pleasure. “Oh, Rachel! I’m so glad you could join us,” she said. Rachel wrapped her arms around Etsuko—and was shocked by how thin and bony her small body felt. This reminded her, disturbingly, of Sister Catherine as she lay abed in the Kalaupapa hospital. But Rachel didn’t betray her unease and said with a smile, “I’m glad to see you too, Etsuko.”

  “How was your trip to South America?”

  “It was wonderful. I brought pictures.” Rachel sat down beside her. “Thank you for inviting me to share your holidays with you.”

  “My holiday is next week—New Year’s Day,” Etsuko said lightly, “but I have come to enjoy Christmas. Mostly for the delight it brings the keiki.”

  Don and Peggy, no longer keiki but adults in their early twenties, were on break from school and were equally happy to see their tūtū. Each was eager to tell her about their lives and studies.

  Over supper, Rachel noted idly that though Ruth filled her plate with yams, string beans, and other vegetables, she was avoiding the main course. “Ruth, aren’t you having any of this delicious ham you’ve cooked?”

  Ruth sighed. “I’m afraid not. Lately I’ve been trying not to eat meat of any kind. I’m not squeamish about cooking it for others, but growing up on the farm I could never understand the difference between dogs and cats, who we treat as pets, and cows and chickens, who we see as food. First rule of farming: never name the livestock. I never did eat chicken at home.”

  “True,” Etsuko confirmed.

  To avoid wearing Etsuko out, houseguests were carefully scheduled: on Christmas Eve, Ralph, Carol, John T., and Susan visited; on Christmas Day, it would be Horace and Rose’s family. Etsuko loved seeing the joy in the children’s faces as they opened their gifts; she even enjoyed listening to Bing Crosby’s velvet voice sing “Silent Night” and “White Christmas” on the hi-fi.

  She was unable, of course—and unwilling, in any event—to join the Haradas at Christmas Day services at their church. Ruth stayed home to look after her and Rachel kept them company.

  Sitting in the living room bes
ide Etsuko, Rachel said, “Kenji never cared much for Christmas himself. He knew I liked it and was always happy to eat a Christmas turkey”—Etsuko laughed—“but that was about it. He wasn’t a devout Buddhist either, but I do know he didn’t believe in God, much less a Son of.”

  Etsuko nodded. “Buddha teaches us that nothing in the universe is permanent, so there can be no immortal soul and no everlasting God.”

  “But Kenji did believe in an afterlife.”

  “The Pure Land, yes. Amida Buddha opens the path to that realm. But that is only a way station to one’s next rebirth.”

  Ruth entered, a bit dismayed at the morbid turn in the conversation.

  “Only karma survives death,” Etsuko explained. “If the karma has been one of good actions, as set out in the Eightfold Path, it will result in a better rebirth; if the karma has been one of bad actions, a lesser rebirth. What survives is not a soul or personality but karma. Think of it as a candle flame, which, in dying, lights the flame of another candle. Its light is reborn.

  “This cycle of death and rebirth is called samsara. But the ultimate goal is enlightenment, or nirvana, which means ‘extinction.’ When you achieve nirvana, your karma has no further need for existence.”

  Ruth said dryly, “There’s a cheery thought for a Christmas morning.”

  Etsuko shrugged. “It is not meant to cheer, butterfly; it is what it is. But I am not so prideful to think I have led a perfect life and will achieve nirvana after I die. I will continue on the great wheel of samsara.”

  At that, Ruth suggested they see what was on the great wheel of the television dial, and they watched TV until Etsuko eventually dozed off.

  Rachel, gazing at her with a sorrow that Ruth shared, said quietly, “She tires so easily. She was always so full of life and energy.”

  Ruth nodded. “I’m so glad she got to see Honolulu again, while she had the strength. And Chinatown, and our old home.”