Four hands, four eyes. Two hearts. She had never told her sergeant the doctor said there were two babies. Funny how she still thought of her new husband that way.
She fingered the pendant in her pocket. The long, green thumb of jade, her passport “home,” to Hawaii, a place she’d never seen. There were palm trees and sand, Hanako had said, and little rivers running to the sea. When her best friend had talked about her home, there was no one listening who couldn’t taste the ripe, scented mangos dripping through their fingers or feel the daily rain that left the grass sparkling and the trees and flowers heavy. It was safe, a place where everyone was welcome. And when the war was over, Hanako had always promised, they would go there together with Toshi.
Now Hanako was gone, and so was Toshi. Lillie, too, was a figment of the past. Miya was going to Hawaii alone. But she told herself that that was what Hanako would have wanted: the return of the pendant to her Aunt Suzy, and the welcome that would surely follow. It was what Miya herself would have wanted for her best friend if their positions were switched and she had a home to give. Since Miya left her parents’ farm, the war had tossed her from place to place. Hawaii was her choice; a place of safety where she could finally stay.
A home, she thought, with her hand on her belly. A true home, for a family that no man and no country could ever take away from her again.
Tomorrow, they would dock in Honolulu to load more fuel and supplies before the last, long leg to San Francisco. Miya had looked for land all day through the cloudy glass of the porthole but didn’t see it. She liked the idea of that: islands so small, you’d have to stumble on them. Hawaii was not a place where her sergeant would think to search for her. Her plan would hold. It had to. Even if passengers weren’t supposed to go to shore, she had an excuse—milk, and fresh fruit; she needed perishable food. She was skin and bones, after all. Even if they spotted her, they would have to let her pass.
She was a free woman, and now a citizen once more. She had to remember that.
The babies kicked her. They were always kicking now. She was exhausted, and her blood felt as thin and weak as water. Miya knew, once they landed, that she wouldn’t have much time to find passage to the island Uncle Joe and Aunt Suzy lived on. Once, she’d planned to send them a telegram, but now she knew she couldn’t wait for an answer. The babies were coming early, she could feel it, and Miya couldn’t take the chance of being so sick that she would get stranded for months in Honolulu with infants in a hospital where her husband might eventually be able to track her down.
In her mind: the first sight of Aunt Suzy’s face. Suzy Harada. She would look so familiar: the sharp lines across the bridge of her nose, the pincushion frown on the tip of her chin. The soft pouches under her eyes would be new, but otherwise Hanako’s aunt would look just like she had in Hanako’s picture. Hanako’s pendant would be her message, too hard to voice, that Miya was the only one coming. She couldn’t bear to see the hope drain from Aunt Suzy’s face when she realized Hanako wasn’t with her, but at least Miya could give them some answers to what happened so they weren’t left to guess. She could tell them how much Hanako loved them, how her beautiful stories about them and their island were a lifeline during the war that kept her friends alive.
In her mind, she practiced walking off the gangplank with only her small handcase and her enormous belly, trying not to stumble this time when both feet reached solid land. Her freckled bunkmate, whom she’d paid with a golden silk fan and bewitched with stories of her terrible mother-in-law who would beat her when she arrived in San Francisco, could be counted on to vouch that she had returned to the ship. By the time anyone else found out Miya was missing, they’d be deep into the ocean crossing. They’d assume she had become despondent and thrown herself into the sea.
No sane person would run away, abandoning the four trunks full of silk kimonos, family scrolls, lace, and lacquer bowls. Her sergeant was giddy with all he’d collected, a bounty—a dowry, he called it—that would ensure her smooth acceptance into his family in South Dakota. He’d wanted to show her each item, but when he got to the long, bound tails of glossy hair that his mother could sew into exotic wigs, she couldn’t take it any longer. She’d passed through plenty of black markets both in Hiroshima and Tokyo, where scavenged bits of what would be garbage anywhere else were proudly displayed on pieces of tin and cloth, and the more valuable family heirlooms were only a private conversation and a secret meeting place farther away. Didn’t the Americans care about the lives they had taken? Miya wondered. Her sergeant was better than most. So why couldn’t he, why couldn’t any of them, see what they were doing, picking away every bit of value that was left in the remnants of those conquered lives?
But she had already married him. And behind the facade of romance and in the quiet acknowledgment that the troops were being recalled back to the States in waves now and quickly, what had once seemed impossible became easy enough: She had papers to go home. The Occupation suddenly had all the deliberation of a fire sale—everything must go, all bets off, everybody grabbing whatever they could carry and moving out—and all Miya had to do was to tell her sergeant that she was afraid. She was afraid of going into labor on the voyage. She was afraid of being left behind to give birth without him if he was ordered to leave when she was too pregnant to travel. It was a simple thing now for him to take care of her. Ships were sailing. He arranged for her to get on one. She could stay with friends—his friends, his buddy who was already home in San Francisco and who had plenty of room—and he would follow as soon as he could. They would travel across the country to South Dakota together when the baby was old enough. They would see the world by train. He would show her an America she’d never even dreamed of, with its sweeping prairies and huge mountains. They could stop to see the Grand Canyon.
These were his dreams. In the short time they were together, he, at least, had kept his promises. She worried for him a little: What would he do when she went missing? Would he suspect a grisly cover-up of a birth gone wrong? She imagined him pounding on all the compartment doors and forcing open the holds to look for her, but of course he wouldn’t be there when the ship docked. He was still in Japan. It would be days before he got the news; it would be weeks, maybe even months, before he could follow her, and by then she would be long gone. Safe and hidden on a different island, sheltered with her babies, and the trail would be cold. The boarding cards would show that his wife had boarded in Yokohama and only hearsay and scattered memories might say what happened next. All her belongings would be accounted for.
Leaving, she thought. It’s not so bad when you have somewhere to go.
The last two nights, the sky had been overcast with only a few points of light peeking through the blanket of clouds, but on her last night before her disappearance, the wind picked up and the stars were clear once again.
And in that moment, with so many stars winking and most of them close enough to touch, Miya remembered how she used to lean against her father to keep warm as they took turns making up names for the stars. That was how Pleiades, the Seven Sisters, became a cloud, became the Golden Egg, became the Baby Jesus. Just like a baby swaddled and left on a doorstep, her father had said. They had gazed up together at the constellation, tracing the outlines of the little bundle of joy. Though she had been a young girl then, she would not forget the night that they’d changed the name of the Pleiades constellation to the Blessed Child. It was her father’s idea, in honor of the swaddled orphan.
He had raised her to be strong enough to be okay without him. She had to believe that, too, when she gave up her son. Love was not connected to a presence. She could love despite loss, beyond death. Miya knew she had done her best for Toshi. He was alive because of it, living in a country that was beginning to heal, where everyone would look like him. She was alive because of him, too. If she hadn’t left to search for him, she would have been killed by the bomb. They had survived, and though in separate worlds, happiness was still possible. Toshi’s unborn s
iblings were proof of that—she knew she would always see him inside them—and it was up to her to make a good life for them, too. Still, she felt her tears come as she looked up at Pleiades, smudging her vision so at first it seemed like there were two constellations, touching each other, before they resolved into one. Two babies. She had been looking for their names, and it gave her an idea.
When the sun rose in a few short hours, Miya would see the volcanic peaks of Paradise rising out of the ocean in the distance. The ship would stop for supplies, and she would totter her way down the gangplank to shore, barely memorable amid all the other passengers getting off to stretch their legs. There, she would find a large, browned man with a big laugh who said he could get her on a boat. The dull ache in her lower belly, a tight band around her hips, would confirm that there was, once again, no time to send a telegram to Uncle Joe and Aunt Suzy before she boarded the empty cattle transport, its engines already running and about to cast off the dock. On it, she would set course for the new life Hanako had offered her.
This time, she would make sure that no one would stop her from taking her children and going home.
Hana
I wake like the dead: heavy legs and arms, groggy. The first thing I notice, as I try to get my bearings, is that my head is empty of dreams. I am lying on my floor, naked, wrapped in a sheet dried brown and stiff with bloodstains. When I move, hard disks of blood crackle and peel themselves off my skin.
The cave rushes back, then wraps around me. I remember. And that memory turns my stomach over, turns me inside out. Of all the possibilities that the blank in my mind could have been hiding, the truth is something I would never have suspected. It’s inconceivable.
Yet, I know.
I have to tell Kei. I have to see her. This is a story she will surely wake for, if I can just bring myself to form the words. I imagine myself sitting beside her on the edge of her bed, holding her hand, just as I’ve been doing for so many days, but with a difference. The girl I was before was numb, stunned. Uncomprehending. There’s no way she could have reached her sister in such a weakened state.
I sit up, dump the sheet in the kitchen sink before taking stock of my wounds. The new ones are just an echo of what they were after the cave. The first cut, under my left arm, ends in a ragged pucker that might need a stitch or two, but the rest are just a little oozy in the cracks of the scabs when I move. I find some old gauze, left over from the days when an extra layer felt good between my skin and my clothing, but I have to tape it on with Scotch tape, which makes for a stiff-legged walk and some telltale crinkling. I know Eckert has hospital tape and anything else I need, and that there will be time enough for dealing with this once I get there. With six years between us, my recovered memories can’t wait another hour.
I keep to myself when I get to Kei’s floor. The last thing I need is Bree’s usual perky morning greeting. Hey there, Coco Chanel, I can almost hear her saying. You look like death warmed over. I didn’t think we were going to see you today. There will be no more need for more stimulation therapy, not once I tell Kei what really happened. She can hear—isn’t that what Bree said? What I remember will free us both.
“Kei?”
The halls are quiet, and she seems peaceful, alone in her room. I half expect that she’s gone through some kind of similar revelation in the night, that she woke up already knowing what I can’t quite figure out how to tell her, but that is wishful thinking, too. As usual, she doesn’t answer. My left arm aches, so I roll up my sleeve and am applying a thin layer of ointment on the cut on the underside of my forearm when Bree appears in the doorway. She glances at my arm and hesitates, as if some other duty calls, and I flash on the first time I ever saw her at Eckert, how she was on her way elsewhere that day, too. But she lets herself be drawn over to Kei’s bed.
“Bike accident,” I offer, rolling my sleeve back down as quickly as I can. The fabric sticks to the ointment. My excuse is believable. In the light of day, my arm looks like I suffered no more than a shallow scrape I could easily have gotten from sliding along the pavement.
Bree seems tired. I’ve been through hell, and I know I look it, but she doesn’t ask how I am.
Instead, she stands beside Kei. “Why do you call her ‘K’?”
“Oh.” Was she lurking in the hall when I came in? I drop down onto the corner of Kei’s bed, too exhausted to come up with a good answer. “It’s just a nickname. From childhood.”
“What does it mean?”
“Well,” I begin, “we both have a K in our names…” Almost anything else would sound more plausible. There is a momentary silence.
“How could you think you would get away with it?”
We both keep our eyes on my sister’s body while I try to sift through all the things I’d hoped to get away with. Or at least all the things I have been trying not to face. I still have not answered when she relents. “It might have helped if we had at least been calling her the same name.”
Bree sighs and seems to want to sit. Instead, she straightens, professional and clearly wanting to get what she has to say next over with. “Her insurance denied payment. It seems there’s some discrepancy with the police report.”
I would have panicked once, but I’m so weary that it’s almost a blessing to be caught. “Really?” It doesn’t sound like a question.
“She’s being transferred off the ward tomorrow.”
“But…” Kei doesn’t look any different. “To where? I don’t understand.”
“She’s not responding to our treatment. There’s some concern about her fever and a possible infection. If she’s unresponsive when they test her, as long as she’s not septic, she’ll be transferred to a long-term care facility. An evaluation team has my notes.”
“You’re giving up on her?” How long has Bree been calling Kei’s condition unusual? How many times has she said there’s no significant damage, no medical reason why Kei shouldn’t wake up? “I thought we had another day? Another week if I was here to help you? I thought you said she wasn’t really in a coma? How can you make a decision like that?”
“I’m sorry.” Bree picks her words carefully. “These things are hard to predict. And look into her insurance, Koko—I mean, if that’s what your name is. Without it, she’ll end up at City, and that’s not where you want her to go.”
Bree is angry with me for lying about Kei’s name, but what’s a stupid name, anyway? Does it really matter what we’re called? Kei would answer to either name, just as we did when we were still Koko, before our names finally stuck. Or perhaps she’s mad because I didn’t come in yesterday? Is that why this is happening? “You said she wasn’t in a coma.”
Bree doesn’t point out that I’m repeating myself. “I did. But apparently your ‘K’ disagrees.”
“But…” How could this happen just as I got Kei’s driver’s license back? Of course, I ran out of the police station without it, but the point is, I can sort out the documents now. I just need a little time. Time is the one thing Bree keeps insisting we can’t afford to waste. How can she abandon us? “There have to be some other tests. I’ll pay for them.”
Despite all Bree’s talk about the mystery of Kei’s condition, I realize that she also holds the opposite view: that Kei was attacked and the answer lies there, not in some past family drama. What if she’s right? What if there is no wishing away whatever’s happening in Kei’s body, just like there’s no wishing away cancer? Insurance, mug shots, what if none of it was ever important?
What if it’s out of my hands?
But Kei is a fighter. She could never be hurt. She’s the lucky one, the one who gets away with everything, and I need her to fight now, just as she did after the Big Wave, and at every swim meet, and in the school yards. I need her to fight, not just for herself, but for me. Now more than ever, knowing what I know now, I cannot bear to be alone.
Before I can say more, I hear the tone in Bree’s voice, clubbing my words back to earth. “Go home, Koko, or wherever
you have been the last two days. There’s nothing more you can do here. Find someplace for your ‘K’ to go.”
This can’t be the end of hope. There are things I need to say. Truths that have to be sorted through and amends to make. I am suddenly hollowed by the thought that during this whole week sitting beside Kei, I haven’t even heard her speak, and now I might never hear her.
“They’ll be by to start her testing in the next half hour. If I were you, I’d make sure I wasn’t around for that until I get my answers straight, because they’ll have questions.”
Is Bree kicking me out? How is that possible? “Please. I need some time with her.” Bree starts to shake her head, but I talk over her. “Give me a few minutes with my sister? Please. You asked me to tell her stories and I have one I know she’ll want to hear.”
On Kei’s left wrist, my name. But in her right palm, the proof that it is her. On the edge of Kei’s bed, I pick up her hand, tracing and retracing the wiggles and turns of the scar in her palm. It’s a symbol of her resilience. A reminder that Kei is like a phoenix, who can burn everything around her and rise from the ashes.
But I have no such regeneration skills, for me or for her. I am finally at rock bottom: a place beyond blood, or exile. It’s a place of nothingness. Nowhere. And despite what I just promised Bree, it’s a place without stories. For stories have always been a lifeline; a way to get out. And in this story, there is no escape.
Bree lingers at the door as I swing my legs around to lie down on Kei’s bed, curling beside her. I nestle her head against my shoulder so her cheek lays on my collarbone. She is warm against me, but there’s no response. I rake my fingers over her scalp and sink them into her long hair. Then I simply hold her. This is my fault, and now, without my sister, I am no one.
Shadow Child Page 31