Over his shoulder, he gives his sister her final orders. “Don’t give it back until we decide what we should make our little tiger do.”
He leaves the two of you together in appearance only. Missy gives you a drowning glance, then tightens the sketchbook against her chest. You can’t fault her. Blood is thicker than water, as the saying goes.
Except that in your family, blood is thin and treacherous, and that’s what gives you hope.
Hana
I draw all day: a kind of therapy. One stroke. One stroke. One stroke. I could fill a whole book with the face of Kei’s attacker, except that I rip the pages out freely, crumpling some of them and spreading the ones with at least something of him around me on the floor. He is there, in pieces—the profile of a nose, the hollow of a cheek—in the same dismembered way that he litters my thoughts.
But I am getting somewhere. I recognize an expression in his eyes especially, and that spurs me on. I run my black crayons down to small nubs, then change to charcoal. By then, I am no longer controlling anything, and I can shade him freely. His hairline. Did I see his ears? It is that double take, that expression, that I finally capture.
He is here. Finally, on the page. Not 100 percent, but enough that I can feel the malice pouring off him, and I know that he recognizes me as clearly as I recognize him. The pressure builds behind my eyes as I look at his image. I don’t know whether to expect jubilation or vertigo, but after all that, I am empty. I have recovered my voice, and I have survived it. I want to share it with Kei; she’s the one who has always understood me. Will she recognize the picture?
But of course, Kei cannot see.
What more can I do? What have I overlooked? I am coursing with energy, finally taking action. My nerves are jangling, but I want more. There has to be something else that can bring my sister back to me.
I have searched through my mother’s case. I’ve been through Kei’s things, too. She came with clothing. With gum. She wore that chunk of jade, a tapering, deep olive obelisk, thumb-sized, on a knotted cord. My sister didn’t even have socks with her—that’s how unprepared she was. How light she was traveling.
But there are, still, the contents of the case. Nothing I haven’t tried to understand already. Some of these have given up their stories. Others will forever remain a mystery. Maybe because of the night I just spent puzzling the pieces of Kei’s attacker together, I go into my bedroom and take every item out of it, then spread them around me on my bed. It’s a circle of life, Mama’s life. My attention catches on the two photos labeled “Hiroshima.” The first one, of an empty concrete bridge, is particularly strange as there are no people in it. No bomb debris, no scenery. In the second one, a gray water tower is etched with the dark shadow of a ladder.
What could Mama have seen in a picture of a water tower? In the shadow of a ladder, broken as it is on the third rung? It must have been made from bamboo, handmade, lashed together in the smudged bulges at the joints. On the top, I can see where the lashing itself seems to be unraveling, its frayed edge etched into the bleached metal.
Except, there is no ladder there. I have to do a double take to realize what I am looking at. Few things on earth could imprint the shadow of something as flimsy as a frayed piece of cord into steel. I am looking at the blinding flash of the atomic bomb. At its aftermath. How did I not notice it before?
Shadow child.
I was young when I learned what Kei’s name meant. It was offered to me with a certain ghoulish interest, but that’s no excuse now. The point is, I used to tease her, and she pretended it was the ideal name for her, which spoiled my fun. It was Mama who put an end to it. One day she heard me calling Kei a shadow and she became very still. “Oh, Hanako,” she said, and for a minute, I thought she might not speak again. And then she said, “The shadow is the proof of the soul.”
She didn’t tell me not to tease my sister. I didn’t even know what she meant. The shadow is the proof of the soul. Was she saying Kei had a soul, and I didn’t? She looked so grave that I knew it was important, and more than that, the way she used my full name, which almost never passed her lips, disturbed me.
“Flower child,” I said, showing her I understood where my name came from also. “Flower child. Flower.” She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, as if trying to catch up with what I was saying, and then the sun broke over her face and she smiled. That smile was enough to prove that I had not lost my mother completely, that mine was the simple, straightforward name. I never mentioned the shadow again.
It wasn’t until I was in college that another possibility was offered. In my junior year, I met a girl named Keiko, so I told her, without thinking, my full name. She translated it for me, “flower child,” as expected. Then she pointed to herself and said, “God child.” Then she thought about it further and clarified. “Blessed child.”
Had I given Kei the wrong name? The girl explained that the meaning of Keiko depended on the kanji. Shadow…she considered what I told her. It was not the most common usage, but she admitted slowly that it could work. By then, it didn’t seem to matter; I was sure I would never see Kei again to tell her. But in Mama’s pictures, I found a deeper understanding of Kei’s name. There were shadows on the bridge in the second photo, too: shadows of the railing imprinted in concrete. And what’s more, the spots that had first seemed like the dappling of an old photograph were actually very specifically shaped shadows that had been left wandering all over the foot bridge. Shadows are proof of the soul, my mother had said. A reminder that our lives were dappled with clues we might never notice, with hints we must decipher for ourselves. These shadows in Mama’s pictures were imprints where, in the instant before the blast of radiation incinerated them, people were standing.
Human footsteps. Feet.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Lillie—Mama told me this story one afternoon, when I was a teenager. I’d come upon her in the garden, in front of a small fire. I thought she was burning trash, but she was throwing paper across the top of the fire, page after single page. Mama’s face was bright and her eyes sticky as she read each word off each sheet of paper to herself silently before feeding it into the flames. She waited for each page to ignite and then to sail, lit, on the draught of the rising heat like a fiery little fairy. She kept reading, and burning, even when I sat down with her.
They were wishes, Mama told me. When Lillie was just about my age, her mother taught her that she could send all her wishes and prayers to Heaven in the smoke. There, God would hear them, and all the spirits and the angels, too. You could even send messages to your past or future self, or to someone else who was still living.
“It’s a big, big world,” she said. “And sometimes you lose people. But just because they are lost to you doesn’t mean that they are gone.”
It was a clumsy explanation, and I knew it. Christian preachers prayed in church, or kneeling by the side of the bed, not in a garden by a fire. I knew of girls in my school who went with their families to the temple to burn gifts for the dead and prayers written on wooden planks every new year, but that was a Japanese church. But I kept quiet.
Mama’s wishes were densely written on each page. Some looked like they were addressed as letters. I tried to read them, but from the distance, I couldn’t make out any words.
“What did you wish for, Mama?”
She didn’t answer at first. And then she said, “Sometimes I wish I could talk to my mother.”
I watched the letter spark and dance and carry, mostly turning into ash. There were little singes in the grass, too. Lillie left her parents and never went back, I remembered, and the coincidence unnerved me as much as the thought of a mother separated from her child. Maybe it was the sadness in my mother’s eyes, so close to spilling over, but I didn’t say anything. We sat together, watching the smoke sway, dissolving into spirit. We watched her letters becoming a part of everything in the big, big world, until all the pages were gone.
I know all that I ev
er will about my mother now. Her mysteries will remain mysteries, and it will have to be enough. If I lie on the floor, like Mama used to, I can feel what she must have been feeling. The way the floor holds you up. The fact that you have already hit bottom and can fall no further. This is the true inheritance my mother tried to give me: the truth of losing everything and the courage to be reborn. I never understood, and now, it’s just me. No trio. I don’t have anyone to bring me water or to hold my hand. That was so long ago I’m not even sure it really happened.
But here’s what I do know: I should not have left. It’s that simple. At least not without seeing my mother again. Arnie used to say we could change the future with just one choice, but if I could do it over, I would never scream at Arnie in the hospital. I wouldn’t blame Kei or Mama; I wouldn’t have to be sedated. I would come home, instead, to find out why they never visited me. There must have been a good reason. And I would have chosen a different college, closer to home, just like I’d promised Russell. Despite the way our relationship ended, he was right: So far away, I’d miss my family. I’d miss my Mama, and walking barefoot, and the salty trade winds off the sea. Hawaii was my home. If I left it, he’d warned me, I’d be just the shadow of who I could be.
It was early spring, in our senior year, when I noticed Russell watching me.
After the award ceremony in the library, the paintings had been moved to the school hall. Ghost River had the most prominent spot. Sure, I was getting some cockeyed looks, some comments about how dark I was inside. Like, You seem like such a nice person—where did that come from? And others along those lines. I knew where the darkness came from, and I’d seen it clearly in my mother’s face. I’d wanted to shake the viewer, just like we had all been shaken, and every comment I heard only proved I had succeeded.
Which is why I wasn’t entirely shocked that Russell approached me. I must have known some basic facts about him—our town was small and we’d both grown up in it; he wasn’t one of the haoles with names like Smith and Phillips who were moving here with more regularity now that Hawaii was a state. Still, I’d found myself observing him whenever he appeared in the halls or with his buddies, which seemed to happen between almost every class. He was a regular guy: medium brown hair, medium build, medium intelligence. He wasn’t rich or poor, though his style leaned toward surfer in the wide-striped shirts he often wore, and his hair was ‘ehu: highlights reddened by the sun. He didn’t hang out near the auditorium with the troublemakers, nor was he the captain of any team as far as I could tell. His grades were above average; he played a little basketball; he was an only child. He was bland, normal, a regular guy like Arnie. He seemed kind. If he hadn’t, I never would have let him come close enough to ask if I would go with him to the dance.
I remember: After the bell rang at the end of the day, the students used to pour out of the buildings, down the wide steps and onto the grass where they slowed down and puddled. I had never noticed them, not until I put myself out there with the painting and realized that, to balance out being so vulnerable, I had to see them, too. There were the surfers, and the “Wreckers,” and the kids from the different plantain camps; they gathered according to where they lived, the sports they practiced, what they liked to do. The buildings all had walkways along the outside, facing the square courtyard and open to the weather. I was leaning into one of the big arched openings to feel the breeze when Russell came up behind me and leaned, too, both of us side by side, looking off into a shared distance.
“So,” he said, still facing forward, “you going to the dance?”
It was not an invitation, exactly, but I had been waiting for this very question, rehearsing it at night before I went to sleep. Now that it was happening, I couldn’t make myself speak. I kept my eyes on my classmates: the snakes of kids who slipped obediently along the walkways; the odd ones who struck out on their own. I was a path taker, and it seemed like most of the other kids were, too, even though the ones who set off across the grass got where they were going faster.
What to say?
I’d pulled away from him in case anyone was looking. He’d been coming over to talk to me for several weeks, but what if it was all just a practical joke?
“You know who I am, right?” I kept it light, jokey. I was ready with a follow-up, something like, I’m the one who can’t dance. But I had to know that he wasn’t there just because of some ghoulish interest in Ghost River, and, more important, that it wasn’t Kei Russell thought he was talking to.
Russell must have felt the space grow between us. He pushed off the ledge and straightened, looking around. He seemed hurt. I’d ruined everything; he was leaving.
“I could,” I almost gasp.
“What?”
“I could go. I mean, if you are.”
He relaxed back toward me. “Cool,” he said. “That would be cool.”
He looked like he would say something more, and for a minute we stared at each other. His thick hair, glinting with the color of an old penny, fell over his hairline in a soft, cowlick curl that drew attention to his flecked-with-gold eyes. But it was his neck I was looking at, or rather the hollow between his collarbones. He opened his mouth, but I was nodding again, my eyes darting away, so his did, too.
“I would like to know you, Hana,” he said. “Better.”
As I watched him walk away, my fingers dipped into the indent at the base of my own neck to see if I could feel my beating heart. My fingers were amazed by the softness of my skin.
He liked me, and who knew where that could lead? We could become one of those couples who danced so close that the teachers had to measure the space between us with a chopstick. The thought of it made me blush. It put an unfamiliar weight into my limbs.
Now, when I look back, I realize that I still don’t know what he was doing. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if he had been just interested in me? What would it be like to turn back time, make space for the possibility of a little bit of happiness for that girl, who was stronger and more trusting than I am now? The artist. The former Koko. The girl who once believed she could be loved?
Suddenly, more than anything, I want to know.
Kei
Missy has a secret smile now, the one with sharp edges, getting sharper. The one you have to try to smooth down if you are ever going to get your sister’s sketchbook back. Hana hasn’t said a word about her missing monster diary. She never said thank you, either, or acknowledged that she knew your role in her first-prize win. You don’t kid yourself: She knows exactly which book the drawing you submitted came from, and probably which page. Still, her silence gives you space, and time. Which means you spend your Saturday mornings sitting under the trees at the beach watching Eddie and his friends surf.
While you wait for the surfers to get tired, Missy mentions Russell. “Hana’s in love.”
“No way.” You shake your head, squinting at black dots bobbing on the white break lines so far away. You can’t even tell which one of them is Eddie. “Hana? She’ll never let anyone close to her.”
“Wrong again!”
Maybe it’s that your best friend is all knives now. Or maybe you are finally paying attention. On Monday, when the bell rings, you know Hana will lag behind the rest of her classmates as always, choosing to jot down every last note and detail over taking a few extra moments of fresh air. You know her patterns cold. But when Hana is actually one of the first people out of the building, you recognize this, too. It’s the new norm since they announced the exhibition selections, and, in fact, you have seen it. You have also seen her talking with the boy who comes out beside her, rolling his eyes about something someone must have said in class, some new and safe stupidity to share.
Russell Robello. Missy was right. He is standing a respectable distance from Hana, but you can see how easily they slide into talking, even if she hugs her books to her chest.
You notice Missy’s smile. Her favorite pastime is disrupting other people’s crushes. Her record is thirty seconds. Sh
e’s by far the most beautiful girl in school. It’s going to be ugly to see how fast Russell crumbles, but there is nothing you can do. Eddie’s pride is wounded, but Missy is still fixated on Hana.
So Hana’s heart will break, you think. There’s nothing you can do about it. At least she can take solace in the fact that she’s leaving soon.
But Hana looks so happy, and whatever Missy is planning for her, you can’t deny it’s because of you. You brought her to Mr. Kealoha’s attention. You lied to Missy, your best friend. How can you stand there between them and watch Hana shatter when you can buy her some time? You know what Missy wants: to be the one you chose. You turn to her. “All right! Enough! How can I make it up to you?”
When you jump, there is air, first, before the water. A sleeve of wind to slip into. The higher you are on the cliff, the longer the sleeve. To feel it tingle all the way from your toes to your ears, you have to jump from the top rocks, where it’s tricky because they’re set back from the water’s edge. You have to leap out, launching yourself like a track star, but with no running start. Cycling your legs to get beyond the shallow spots, and always feetfirst.
Thirty feet is only one second of falling.
On the old train bridge, though, you can dive. Hands- and headfirst into the wavering dark patches of safety beneath the surface. And that is beauty.
River water is cold. Much like Ice Pond. And it’s a different kind of chill when it begins headfirst, in your ears and throat. When it travels down the whole long length of you, gets caught in the hollow of your belly, then releases, to your inner thighs and down. The shock of the water will fade. The body moves to equilibrium. But what if it doesn’t? What if it stays, ice against your skin until it burns hotter than any summer sand on your instep, hotter than prickly lava? This is what you don’t know. What Mama, who chose to lie down in the snow to die, could tell you. How do you sleep your way to death?
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