Silver Like Dust

by Kimi Cunningham Grant

  Instead, she sat around at the hospital for two days, wandering the halls, waiting impatiently for the baby to make its appearance. When the real labor finally began, the pain was so intense and awful that she thought something must be wrong.

  “I want to die!” she screamed. “Please! Just let me die! I want to die! Please!” Obaachan recreates the scene for me in her dining room, squinting her eyes, scrunching her face. (I still have trouble imagining her actually screaming that she wanted to die, but I don’t interrupt.) “And then a nurse told me, ‘Snap out of it, young lady!’ She told me I’d better start pushing because the baby was ready to come out, and I’d be better off helping it instead of bawling around.” Obaachan looks at me. “She was a tough lady, that nurse,” she says, her eyebrows raised, her mouth in a half smile. So Obaachan pushed. And pushed some more. “I was so exhausted,” she says, “but every time I wanted to give up, that unsympathetic nurse would glare at me and tell me to keep pushing.”

  As my grandmother relates this story, she doesn’t mention my grandfather’s absence. She says nothing of how she was alone in that small delivery room, how in addition to her ignorance about what giving birth would be like, her husband was hundreds of miles north, not knowing she was in labor, picking sugar beets, no doubt making friends and telling stories from San Francisco or his home of Iwakuni on the Inland Sea. In the hallway outside the hospital room, Papa waited. He had been there off and on over the previous two days, when he could be, between caring for his wife and tending to his own daily chores. With only a thin wall separating him from Obaachan, he must have heard her screams.

  At last she heard the cry of a baby, that pitiful, heartbreaking sound that only newborns can make. She stretched her neck to see. The formerly severe nurse had a wide smile on her face. Now that the work was over, she transformed into a different person. “Congratulations!” she said cheerfully. “You’re a mother. You now have a son.”

  Although she didn’t realize it right away, it turned out that my grandmother gave birth on her own twenty-third birthday, in July of 1944. Her father reminded her when he came in to visit later that evening. Oddly, while my grandmother was in labor, Operation Valkyrie, a failed attempt by the German Resistance to assassinate Hitler—the fourth one that year—was occurring on the other side of the world. With that failure, the German Resistance nearly crumbled, and Hitler’s army would continue fighting for almost another year.

  “Happy birthday,” Obaachan’s Papa said with a smile. He did not reach out to touch her, no squeeze of the hand, no reassuring hug, but he did hold the baby. On that day, as Papa held the little boy, he must have thought of his other grandson, Obaachan’s sister’s child, whom he’d seen only as a newborn, and only for a few days, right before the evacuation. By now, he was over two years old, likely babbling, certainly running and getting into things, testing his parents. What did he look like? What words did he know? Was he learning to speak both Japanese and English? Papa would not have recognized him if he saw him—he had no photographs of the boy—so he could only wonder about his features and size. What he knew of his grandson would have been compiled from the letters that came each month from Obaachan’s sister.

  “How are you feeling?” Papa asked. “Do you need anything?”

  “Tired. Completely exhausted,” Obaachan answered, adding that, no, she did not need anything.

  “It was a long labor,” he said, looking down, obviously uncomfortable with the topic.

  “Did you tell Mama that she has a grandson?”

  “Oh, yes.” Mama couldn’t wait to meet him, Papa assured her. But it would be best to wait awhile before arranging a meeting, at least until Obaachan was out of the hospital.

  Obaachan noted the look of concern on his face. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no. She’s just tired, I believe. She wanted to come to visit you, but I told her she must wait until you can bring the baby to her instead. It’s too much for her to come here. She can’t overdo things.”

  “I’ll bring him as soon as I can. Tell her I’ll bring him soon.”

  “I’ll be sure to let her know. I’ll leave you to rest now,” Papa said. He nodded slightly, put on his fedora hat, and smiled. “I’ll come back in the morning, after I get your mother’s breakfast and have my own. Good night.” He walked out the door, the baby went off with a nurse to the nursery ward, and Obaachan fell asleep.

  My Ojichan did not return for several more days, and since my grandparents had not determined a name for their child, the boy remained nameless until my grandfather came back to Heart Mountain.

  “We’d talked about it, but we hadn’t come up with a name,” Obaachan explains. “And I didn’t want to name him without your grandfather.” So she waited. She tried to adjust to the baby’s frequent feedings, tried not to be consumed by the many questions that raced through her mind. When was her husband coming home? What kind of future might her son have? Would he remain at Heart Mountain for years? Would he have the chance for a “normal” childhood?

  How strange, overwhelming, and disillusioning my grandmother’s first experience with childbirth must have been. Not only was she shocked to discover how intensely painful labor could be, but even after she’d given birth, she was alone. Her mother was too ill to visit; her child had no name. And she would have known that my Ojichan had no idea that they had a son. She must have felt the miles and miles of rough Wyoming and Montana terrain that separated them. She must have wondered where he was.

  At last Ojichan returned. Papa, having gotten wind of the returning work crew, had been waiting at the entrance to Heart Mountain to tell him the news. Ojichan rushed home, went to the bathrooms to shower and shave, and arrived in my grandmother’s hospital room fresh and clean, his curly hair still wet and his cheeks smelling of aftershave. He never would’ve gone straight to the hospital without cleaning up—for Ojichan, with his obsession with hygiene and appearance, to see his child for the first time in a state of filth not only would have been unsanitary, but a disgrace. So there he was, days after my grandmother had given birth, holding his new baby boy, pressing him against his chest, and smiling. He had waited so long for such a moment.

  “Our son,” he whispered, looking at the small face and mess of black hair. He studied the baby’s features and was silent for a moment. “Charles,” he said decidedly, looking up at her with a slow smile. “We will call him Charles.” He pressed his lips to the boy’s forehead and beamed.

  Although their last name was clearly identifiable as Japanese, my grandparents did not give any of their children Japanese first names. I think of Obaachan’s story from her adolescence, how she made up a fake name for herself when filling out forms for free makeup and toiletries because her real name “sounded too Japanese.” My grandfather had adopted an “American” name himself; no one knew him by the name his family had given him, but by the name he’d chosen in San Francisco. Considering the importance that Japanese families place on naming their children—and choosing the right characters for those names—the decision to break with that tradition must have been somewhat difficult.

  Then again, perhaps it is not so surprising that my grandparents decided against Japanese names. Perhaps they saw American first names as a gesture toward showing their patriotism. Perhaps it was a way to protect their children a bit from the prejudice they would undoubtedly face, regardless of what their names were.

  “Here,” Ojichan said, placing a small box into my grandmother’s hand. “I got you this in Montana.”

  “Oh,” Obaachan said, surprised. She reached out her weakened arm. “What is it? You shouldn’t have bought me anything. I thought we were saving money for the baby …” As soon as she said the words, she knew she shouldn’t have done so. A flash of anger flickered like a shadow across my grandfather’s face. She quickly took the box in her hand. Ojichan was not fond of receiving advice, particularly of the financial sort.

  “Just open it,” he said with a forced smile, one that
failed to mask the initial emotion. “It’s for your birthday.”

  Obaachan opened the box and gasped. Inside were a necklace and matching ring. They were very unusual: each had an ivory image with brown coloring that reminded her of the silhouette of tall grass along a river. The pendant hung on a delicate gold chain, and the ring was gold, too.

  “They’re beautiful,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  She liked the gift very much, and it had been a long time since she had received any type of present. Since my grandfather had not given Obaachan a wedding ring, the necklace and ring would have been the first jewelry she ever received from him. And the set certainly was lovely. But this was the kind of gift that was both touching and frustrating. It appeared to be an expensive purchase, and although Obaachan appreciated her husband’s thoughtfulness, her practical side thought that a frivolous set of jewelry was not as important as having some money to help cover the expenses of a new child, especially since she would now be working less at the mess hall. It was also money that could have been saved, should they ever have the opportunity to leave Heart Mountain and start over. The jewelry, on the other hand, would not be of much use. She cringed when she thought of the waste.

  Ojichan never did say a word about the money he was supposed to have earned in Montana; he just brought home a few gifts for my grandmother and the baby. She didn’t dare ask whether anything had happened to it, or to him. And rather than worry about it, she made up her mind to focus on the present, to take a mental photograph of those first few moments of her life as part of a “real” family, and to imprint the image into a space in her memory where it would not be swallowed up by so many hardships.

  Chapter 13

  IT’S SEPTEMBER, AND ALTHOUGH SUMMER SHOULD BE over here in Pennsylvania, it’s hot and humid, we’ve still had no frost, and the snapdragons at the front of my parents’ brick home remain in full bloom, their pinks and yellows tangled. I’m visiting for the weekend, standing at the island in their kitchen, looking over a large blue colander that can barely contain its mound of tomatoes so ripe their skin is bursting. My mother is scalding some of these tomatoes for canning, cooking them just long enough to make the skin come loose. My father has about sixty plants each year, much more than the two of them can ever eat—some primordial need to produce as much food as possible, I think—which means my mother spends late summer and early fall preserving everything she can. She looks up from her vat of boiling water, the steam lifting in a heavy white cloud, her face hot and tired, and says nonchalantly, easily, as if the words have no weight: “Your grandmother’s moving.”

  I drop the tomato I’ve been holding back into the colander.

  “Your aunt and uncle, they’re selling the house, and, well, she’ll be living somewhere else,” she continues.

  “What do you mean she’s moving? What do you mean they’re selling the house?” I say, my tone just a little too strained to hide.

  My mother seems surprised, confused by my strong reaction. Twenty years ago, my aunt and her husband purchased the house in Florida and generously allowed my grandparents to live there, free of charge. When my Ojichan passed away, my grandmother remained in the house. My aunt and uncle have never lived in Florida and never intended to; they own homes in Hawaii and Colorado and live in Alaska. Since they’ve never been short on money, I don’t understand why they’re selling Obaachan’s home—why she has to move. At her age, I fear, packing up and relocating will be a great strain.

  “They’re downsizing,” my mother says with a shrug. “The insurance, what with all the hurricanes … it’s just not possible for them to keep the place in Florida.” She studies my face. “They’ve put the house in Honolulu on the market as well. They want to simplify.”

  I frown. Is there something else going on that my mother’s just not telling me? Can’t something be done to avoid this? Might the rest of the family pitch in to cover expenses? But I know better than to voice my concerns to my mother. She possesses a strange, unrelenting forgiveness toward her sister’s actions—Charlotte can do no wrong in her eyes—and if I push her, she’ll let me know, as she has before, that I rank below my aunt in her hierarchy of favorites. Deciding to keep my mouth shut, I shuffle outside to the deck at the back of the house and close the glass door behind me.

  My father is seated on a white plastic chair, reading a Terry C. Johnston Western, his feet propped up on another white chair, a mug of beer on the table beside him. He looks up, moves his feet as an invitation to join him, and takes off his reading glasses. He never needed glasses until recently, and he still feels embarrassed about wearing them in front of people, even though I think they look distinguished and have told him so.

  “Did Mom tell you about Obaachan?” I say, flinging myself into the chair and slumping. “About her house?” (I’m aware that it’s not really her house, which is precisely the problem—and yet it is her house, which is the point.)

  He nods, taking a sip of beer, looking at me, his eyes blue and earnest in the September sunlight. He knows what’s on my mind, understands that I’m concerned about Obaachan. He leans back in his chair and places his book on the table, still says nothing. The breeze picks up and the sea of poppies beside the deck sways, their furry stems lifting.

  “I mean, Mom doesn’t even seem concerned—she doesn’t even seem aware of what this means for Obaachan. She told me like it was good news or something. Where’s Obaachan going to go? What’s she going to do? She’s eighty-six. It’s her home.”

  My father shakes his head and looks down. “I stay out of it,” he says with a shrug. It’s not his business, not his mother, not his sister, not his family. He understands my mother and her siblings are not interested in how he perceives the situation. (My guess is that he, too, knows where he stands in the hierarchy.) “But it’s a shame to see her … displaced … again,” he adds, folding his hands in his lap.

  “Yes. Displaced is the word, exactly.”

  At Heart Mountain, my grandparents struggled to adjust to life with a newborn in that small, dingy room. After a twelve-day stint in the hospital, Obaachan headed home to Block 17. With those thin walls that didn’t reach the ceiling, my grandmother must have cringed every time the small boy cried—everyone else in the barrack would have heard it, would have woken up with each feeding and discomfort, as she had, with all the other children who shared their building. My grandmother has always been extraordinarily sensitive to how her actions are perceived by others. She tries her best not to inconvenience or bother people. Once, she told me that people don’t like it when old folks run their errands in the evenings. “Old people should go out during the day, so that working people aren’t held up,” she explained. “We’re too slow.” At least that’s what she had read in a series of editorials in the local newspaper. And after learning that she might be disturbing the routines of some of her fellow Floridians, she made sure that she ran all of her errands during the workday hours. In the close quarters at Heart Mountain, however, there was no such flexibility to accommodate the desires of others. Obaachan simply had to do the best she could.

  In her weak condition, Obaachan’s mother would not have been able to help with little Charles. On occasion, Obaachan took him to visit her mother, sometimes in her apartment, sometimes in the hospital. Mama certainly would have appreciated seeing her grandson, even though she couldn’t interact much. “She was in and out of the hospital at Heart Mountain,” Obaachan has told me. “She would be there for a few days, or a couple of weeks, and then she would be sent home for awhile. But as time passed, she was in the hospital more and more.”

  However, to my grandmother’s surprise—and, I must admit, to my own—Ojichan was very hands-on and helpful with the baby. Although I understood as a kid that my grandfather loved children, playing with them is certainly different from helping to care for them. Plus, in a time when family roles were strictly delineated, when men were not expected to help with children or house upkeep, Ojichan changed diapers,
walked the baby around the room when he was fussy, and doted on his every move. Years later, when my aunt, mother, and uncle came along, Ojichan played with them, romping around on the floor, just as he did with us grandchildren. Before he became ill with pulmonary fibrosis, Ojichan was always the fun grandfather—the one who took my brother fishing, walked the exercise trails with us, and quizzed us on our times tables. We adored him and knew we could always count on him to transform a boring afternoon into an adventure.

  As his illness grew more and more debilitating, his tolerance for our antics waned a bit. By the time I turned thirteen, his jovial manner had changed. “Open the window and turn on the fan,” he commanded my brother when he used the bathroom. “Let it run for fifteen minutes. I need the cleanest air possible.” In his final years, Ojichan spent most of his time in the tan recliner my grandmother had bought for him, his oxygen tank constantly at his side, the plastic tubes hanging from his nostrils. His face, once handsome and lively, swelled to almost twice its original size. Still, even in those years when he was dying, his hair remained dark, thick, and wavy.

  When he passed away, I was on a weekend retreat with a school program, and my mother called to tell me that she was flying to Florida to be with her family and to toss my grandfather’s ashes into the Atlantic. My brother and I were not asked to go. I felt little emotion then, with my sixteen-year-old view of the world and its giving and taking. “He was old,” I said to myself. (He was actually only seventy-five, so he wasn’t that old, really.) “And they all knew he was sick.” Surely my mother and her family were not so naïve as to think he might miraculously recover from the pulmonary fibrosis. After all, he’d lived for almost two years beyond what the doctors had predicted.