A Thousand Stitches

by Constance O'Keefe

  I took on private students again, and on the few nights when I wasn’t using the study for classes, I sat in there planning lessons, sketching out new materials for classes and for the in-service program—and writing more letters to Akiko.

  At the end of October, Kayoko announced that she was pregnant again. She told Mother first, and Father and I found out at dinner one night. Mother was glowing with excitement; she talked about continuing the family line and about the history of our two families in Matsuyama and in Ishii. Kayoko looked rather pale and said nothing, but seemed thoroughly pleased with herself. Father leaned back at the table and said, “Ah, now that’s news. Congratulations to you two. How lucky we will be to be grandparents.” When he raised his glass to toast Kayoko, she smiled at him; her eyes then glanced past mine and she turned to smile at Mother, who was sitting beside her. It was clear that there would be no talk of abortion this time. I thought about a son, about my son’s future, about our future in Matsuyama. This would be it.

  Kayoko was sick most of the time, and Mother fussed over her, nursing her with tenderness and care. By the end of the year, her color had improved; she began eating and started to help Mother in the kitchen again. Mother made the New Year celebration especially festive. The house was decorated, and we were doing well enough to buy presents for family, friends, and colleagues and to have a delicious feast for the holiday. I had a nice break from work, but even in the midst of the festivities and even as I told myself that things would be fine, the certainty that this would be it wormed its way into my consciousness. I smiled and joined the family activities, but felt flat and unconnected.

  I spent my free days during the holiday reading the latest Graham Greene novel, which had arrived in a package along with an Amish quilt and handmade chocolates from my boss in Ohio, Jim Knowlton, who had been promoted to full professor and appointed director of the university’s international center. Father liked the chocolates; Mother, who was famous for her sweet tooth, did too, even though she pronounced them too sweet. Kayoko tried one, swallowed only part of it, and said, “Not for me. I can’t imagine ever getting used to foreign food.”

  Mother and Kayoko examined the quilt. “Look at how regular these stitches are,” said Mother.

  “Yes,” said Kayoko, “but don’t you think the pattern is rather loud?”

  “I think it may be a traditional American pattern,” said Mother. “Didn’t Sam say something about it being a pattern of some religious group? Let’s take it when we pay our New Year’s call on Aunt Furusawa. She can tell us all about it.”

  When they were off in Ishii Village the next day visiting Aunt Furusawa and the other neighbors there, I wrote Jim and thanked him for the package. I made sure to also thank Jane, his wife. I didn’t have much of an idea about the details, but imagined that she had spent long hours working on the quilt. I remembered a similar one in the Knowlton’s guest bedroom, where I had stayed for a few days after my lease came to an end and I was making my final arrangements to leave for San Francisco and catch my flight to Tokyo.

  “My grandmother made it,” Jane had told me. “Every stitch in it was put there with love for her family. I think of her every time I come in this room.”

  I emphasized how impressed all the women in my family were with the beautiful pattern and the skilled details of the construction of the quilt and how they had told me to send special thanks to her for such a generous present.

  Jim wrote back toward the end of January telling me that the program wasn’t going well without me and offering me a full-time job as director. I had to write back and say no, but his answer was, “Just keep it in mind. We need you. We’d love to welcome all three of you after the baby is born. Remember, the new school year doesn’t start until September.”

  The crisis came in late March, during the break between school years. I was in my office at the university, getting ready for the opening ceremony of the in-service session, scheduled for that evening, when the phone rang. Father said, “Isamu, go to the hospital immediately. I’m on my way there now. Your mother is already there with Kayoko. It seems she’s in labor.”

  “But it’s too soon!”

  “Go, go now,” Father said. “I’ll see you there.”

  It was long after midnight when the three of us arrived home. My son had been born and lived for less than an hour. His mother had lived for about an hour after that, but her hemorrhaging was so severe the doctors could not save her.

  When we came through the door, Mother ordered me and Father to sit down and said she’d make tea. We heard her crying in the kitchen. As she knelt to join us at the low table and began to pour the tea she said, “Calling Kayoko’s parents tonight was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. What a loss for our family.”

  Father pushed his tea cup aside, got up, and went to the cabinet where he kept his scotch. “What we all need is a real drink,” he said. He poured for all of us and said, as he lifted his glass to his lips, “There are no words for this.” We sipped in silence, until Mother, who was still crying quietly, got up and went to bed. When she left the room, Father’s only comment was “Son, you need another.” He filled my glass. I drank again, and we sat together, drinking without talking, until the sun came up.

  I’m not sure how the next month went by, but it did. All I can remember of the funeral, which was held on a chilly, rainy morning, were wet, warm sympathies of friends and family. As I gazed at my family, I thought, these are the same aunts and uncles who had ruled that there could be no divorce. After the funeral, there was the in-service session and planning for the new school year.

  I made up my mind just before the school year was scheduled to begin. I wrote to Jim and sent the letter special delivery. He wired back. I made an announcement at the university the next day. My colleagues were surprised, but supportive. Mori-san clapped me on the back and said it might well be the best thing. He made me promise to write and to consider coming back to work in the summer in-service program.

  Mother was shocked. “No, you can’t. Not now,” she said.

  Father said nothing, but searched my face with the intensity I remembered from Mie. Finally he asked, “When?”

  “Actually, tomorrow, I think,” I said. “I need to go.”

  “No,” said Mother, “you have to wait for the forty-ninth-day ceremony.”

  “No, Mother, I can’t.”

  I had to go to Tokyo before I left for Ohio. I went to pack.

  17. MICHIKO

  Matsuyama, 1965

  Michiko stacked the lacquer boxes of special New Year’s foods and straightened the pile of greeting cards the postman had delivered earlier that morning. She knew that Shotaro would look carefully through them, so many from his employees and those whose businesses supplied his company. He and Tetsutaro were in the park a block away, flying the boy’s new kite; it would be a while before they returned. The night before they had agreed with Tetsutaro that at ten he was old enough to stay up to greet the New Year, but he had fallen asleep in his father’s lap long before the midnight ringing of the temple bell. When the last of the 108 tolls had faded away, Shotaro had carried the boy to bed.

  Shotaro started the New Year by making sure they were up in time for the sunrise. They had stood behind their house, Shotaro’s arms around her, his hands and hers together clasping their son in front of her. The sky brightened and the sun rose lighting a scrim of clouds on the horizon navy and gold, violet and mauve. “It will be a good year,” said Shotaro, hugging her closer.

  Michiko made a cup of tea and went to sit in the tatami room. The house was warm and the neighborhood had the special silence of the holiday. She looked at the pine and bamboo in the garden where Shotaro loved to putter and thought about the year ahead with the same calm and confidence she had felt watching the sunrise. She thought about how her husband’s grit and tenacity had kept her safe for twenty years.

  They brought the cold with them into the room and stories about how the kite had almost got
ten away but finally had flown high and true. ­Shotaro went with Tetsutaro to help him store the kite away. When he came back, she poured tea for him, and as he sat down he said, “He’s reading his new book, but he’ll be asleep in ten minutes. He ran himself ragged in the park. I’m glad to have you to myself for a few minutes. I want to tell you about the plans of Miyazawa Industries for this year. It’s time for another plant, and my managers tell me that the best prospective location is Iyoshi. I’ll have to go there and visit soon. I want you to come.”

  “But, Shikoku, Matsuyama—”

  “Michiko, my dear, you know I hate traveling by myself. I’d rather be home with you and Tetsutaro. What if I make them wait until spring break so we can take the boy too?”

  “Well.…”

  “Fine, it’s set.”

  They didn’t tell Tetsutaro until just before his school term ended. Shotaro came home with the full itinerary, the train tickets, and the brochure for the hotel in Matsuyama. Tetsutaro jumped about, yelling, “We’re going traveling, traveling on the Shinkansen!”

  “Quiet, Tetchan,” said Michiko.

  “Stop,” growled his father. “We’re going in the opposite direction, so we won’t be on the bullet train.” Tetsutaro stopped jumping and asked, “Where’s Matsuyama?”

  “Stop your foolishness. What are they teaching you in that school? Go get the atlas and we’ll see where Matsuyama is.”

  When the impromptu lesson was finished and Tetsutaro was balanced on a step stool tipping the big book back on the shelf, Shotaro said, “The next time I go to Tokyo, maybe I’ll take you on the Shinkansen. But now it’s time for bed.”

  Shotaro had his driver pick them up early. Osaka Station was crowded and Michiko waited with their bags in a coffee shop near the entrance to the platforms while Shotaro took Tetchan to the shops at the other end of the concourse.

  When Tetsutaro reappeared at Michiko’s side, she was sitting with coffee and cake untouched in front of her, looking across the street at an old country granny, bent over under the weight of the huge box tied to her back, moving slowly through the city bustle. As she turned to hug her son, Shotaro limped up behind the boy, his smile the same sweet treat it had been that first day in the pine forest.

  “Mama, look at my model Shinkansen. And we got all these mikan and the sembei you like.”

  “It is a fine train, don’t you agree, my dear?” said Shotaro to his wife, even though his eyes had followed hers; he too was watching the granny.

  “Yes, my dears, it is a fine train. And thank you for remembering my favorite snack. We’re going to have lots of treats: we’ll see beautiful scenery and have good things to eat.”

  Tetchan was asleep by the time the express train was just three stops from Osaka. They had to wake him, and he was still groggy when they arrived at the ferry.

  “Papa, where are we?”

  “It’s the Seto Inland Sea. We’re going to Shikoku.”

  “It’s not the ocean?”

  “You used to be sure Lake Biwa was the ocean. Remember?”

  “No, I don’t remember, Mama. Everyone knows that Lake Biwa is Japan’s largest lake. Is Papa kidding?”

  “No, darling. Look at the beautiful islands. Look at the boats.”

  “Yes, Mama, it is beautiful. I’m glad we’re going to Shikoku so I can see where you lived when you were a kid.”

  They had enough time in Takamatsu to take a taxi to the Castle and walk around. The cherries were in bloom. “What do you think, a farmers’ cooperative?” Shotaro asked as they stepped off the path for a group of beaming old folks. As they passed, a gust of wind loosened some of the petals and blew them across the group. Michiko watched one old man stop walking and stepping behind his wife to brush petals from her collar and flick them from her hair. As soon as he finished, a second gust landed even more on her. When the wind died down, he smiled, put his hand on her shoulder, and leaned forward to say something to her. She shook her head and they laughed together. He stepped back to her side and they moved forward with the rest of their group, both smiling and both with their jackets and hair sprinkled with petals.

  And, as they settled in on the train for Matsuyama, he said, “Country people. Country trains. Old equipment. Old ways. Slow. But we’ll get there. And we’ll probably enjoy it more. Today we experienced a great luxury—time to appreciate the sakura.”

  They ate their mikan, Michiko peeling. Shotaro grumbled at Tetchan’s questions about his mom’s hometown. “You’ll see. You’ll see. You’ll see everything.”

  When the conductor entered the car, Shotaro gave his son the tickets. “Assistant Conductor Nakahara,” according to the tag pinned to his tunic, was no more than twice Tetchan’s age. He took the tickets from the boy, made a great show of examining them, and finally said, “Well, Sir, I see you’ve traveled a long way. Are you from Osaka?”

  “Yes!”

  “And you’re going all the way to Matsuyama?”

  “Yes. Are you going to punch our tickets? Are you from Matsuyama? My mom is from Matsuyama.”

  “No, I live in Sendai now, but I’m from Ohara, outside Kyoto. But this is my favorite route. I love the trip along the water to Matsuyama.”

  “Look at this.” Tetchan pulled his new prize possession out of his knapsack. “My dad got me this Shinkansen.”

  “The Shinkansen is the best. And Miyazawa-san, here are your tickets, with my punch. See it looks like a fish. I think maybe it’s a Seto Inland Sea fish.”

  “Wow. Cool. Mom, look.”

  Three officials of Ehime Prefecture and the Mayor of Iyoshi met them at Matsuyama Station. As the limo took them to the Grand Castle View Hotel, the local officials were full of the plans they had made for Shotaro. He listened politely and said, “Thank you very much for your kindness. We are most grateful that you came out of your way to pick us up. But we are tired from our long journey and need to rest tonight. What time do you want me to be ready in the morning? I am very much looking forward to touring the factory site.”

  Michiko thought, how wonderful that we’ll have the evening to ourselves.

  The locals bowed them into the hotel, and once the registration form was completed, the hotel staff bowed the Miyazawas into the elevator.

  As they ate a quiet dinner in a corner of the hotel dining room, Shotaro explained his responsibilities to Tetchan. “I have to take a little trip to another town with those men tomorrow. So you will go with Mom to the Castle. It’s famous because it’s a dark wood one. A powerful ruler named Lord Matsudaira lived there. It’s so high on a hill you have to take a ropeway to the top. After you see where the lord lived, I think you should walk back down the hill. It’s a job I can’t do. Your mom needs to see all these places again. I have to work, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t enjoy climbing that big hill. Can I depend on you, Tetsutaro?”

  “Yes, Papa. I’ll take care of Mama.”

  “How do you know all this about Matsuyama and the Castle?” Michiko asked her husband.

  “Since my wife never talks about her home town, I’ve had to read up on it.” Shotaro pulled a small travel guide out of his pocket and handed it to Tetsutaro. “You keep this, son, and check to see if Mom still remembers all the important details about her hometown.”

  As they walked down the hill from the Castle, Tetsutaro said, “Mama, it was even better than Papa said. We could see everything. The mountains were so tall.”

  “Yes, Lord Matsudaira sat at the top of a world that was all his. I had forgotten how wonderful the view is and how the mountains and the Inland Sea cradle the city. And seeing the collection boxes made me remember all the haiku our teachers made us memorize. And of course we wrote our own and put them in the boxes. Kiri ki naru / ichi ugoku ya / kageboshi, A human shadow / hovers in these foggy streets / a cloud of yellow. That’s about the most famous Matsuyama haiku poet.”

  “Mama, I don’t like that one so much. Too many clouds and ­shadows.”

  “Yes, my dear, it do
es feel sad, doesn’t it? Soseki the novelist and poet was in foggy London when he heard about the death of his friend, Shiki. He was cold and lonely in a foreign land, thinking of Matsuyama and Shiki, so far away. But here are some others. These are much older. This poet’s name was Basho. He lived about two hundred years before Shiki and Soseki, and he traveled all over Japan. Here’s one where he was looking out at water, the rough waters of the Japan Sea, not at all like the calm Seto waters: Araumiya / Sado ni yokotau / ama-no- kawa. The wild sea / and the Milky Way / next to Sado Island.”

  “Yes, Mama, I like the water. The sea and the river of heaven, the Milky Way.”

  “Very good Tetchan. And listen to this one: Samazama no / koto omoidasu / sakura kana. So many things / are brought to mind by / cherry blossoms. Remember those old farmers we saw yesterday looking at the cherries at Takamatsu Castle? How happy they were to walk in the sunlight and enjoy the beautiful blooms. But I think they were also smiling because they were remembering the other times they had seen sakura.”

  “Mama, they were really old. They probably remember lots and lots of other times, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, darling, and you, Dad, and I were lucky yesterday to be together when we saw those blossoms, and today you and I have seen another castle and more beautiful blooms.”

  Michiko hoped that, in his old age, her son’s memories would include not only this day, but also yesterday and the creased faces of the old farmers smiling under the blooming trees, remembering the many other times they had seen the blossoms. When Tetsutaro stumbled, she took his hand and said “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, darling? Here’s a taxi. We’ll be back at the hotel soon.”

  “Michiko? Michiko-san? Michiko Shizuyama? Is that really you? It’s Masako. Masako Mikawa. Used to be Sugano.”