A life without her children is one that she can imagine; it's just not one that she could bear.
RISKING A GLANCE AWAY from the door, she takes a quick peek at her watch. Thirteen minutes past the hour. Hana takes in a long, slow breath of coffee-scented air in an effort to hold on to her calm.
“You want to know what the really amazing thing is?” Henry had asked, when telling her about the pattern in his life. “When I see that a pattern exists, I no longer see anything to regret.”
Thinking about it now, she has to agree: that is an amazing concept indeed. When she has looked back on her life, which isn't often, Hana has usually thought of it as one filled, regrettably enough, with regret. She should have told Seiji to be careful as he stepped out of the car to retrieve a fallen suitcase; she should have made sure that it was fastened more tightly to the top of the car in the first place. She should have told Henry when they first met about her exposure to the bomb; she should have told Kei and Rei when they were young.
She should have held on harder and longer to Henry.
Today, though, perhaps for the first time, she's thinking that there's another way to look at the unfurling of her life. For so long, what she has focused on is the tenuousness of one's existence, its terrifying inconstancy. The way in which your life can change in an instant: as you're stepping outside to let your hair dry, or as you, with one hand on your swelling belly, tilt a mirror toward you.
Yet as Hana looks back, here in this Boston café, on the past sixty-six years, the moments she remembers are other ones—smaller, perhaps, and less dramatic, poor material for stories that get passed around like towels (here Hana smiles; she always smiles when recalling how Rei used to hold Claudia spellbound with stories of herself and her family), but no less monumental when it comes to tallying up the sum of a life. Seiji shyly holding out a daikon to her in a crowded airport; Henry placing a pinch of soil on his tongue; the miracle of five fingers on each hand, ichi ni san shi go.
If life is a pattern, then those are the threads that glow the brightest.
HANA RISES SO SUDDENLY to her feet that she has to steady herself with the table.
Her daughters are here.
Chapter Thirty
Claudia
Boston, 1999
NEITHER OF US CAN STOP GRINNING, EVEN AS WE KISS. We hold on to each other tightly, lying together as close as we possibly can, for the joy of it—we both know that the threat of loss is gone.
My body feels as if it is glowing. And who knows, it might actually be: there is magic in Vikrum's lips.
“Do you believe that bodies have the capacity to remember?” he asks, when we finally stop to breathe.
“It's funny that you ask me that. My mother was just saying the other day that teeth have memory. And muscles do too, don't they? It's not through our minds, at any rate, that we remember how to ride a bike and throw a baseball and drive shift.”
He nods. “These past three weeks, I've been waking up to find my body contorted into a very certain position. Every morning it's the same. My mind really hasn't been functioning so well lately. Otherwise it probably wouldn't have taken me so long to figure out that I was waking up wrapped around a space that fit the exact proportions of your body.”
Sometime soon, perhaps, I will call my mother to let her know that Vikrum and I have grown together like teeth.
“Which made me think,” he continues, “that we should be buried together. Not just in caskets side by side, but in the same box. That way, my body can be curled around yours until the end of the world. Or until we turn into commingled dust, whichever comes first.”
“How . . . romantic,” I say, laughing. “Oh, wait. Did I mean to say how macabre?”
“The former,” he says promptly. “That's all you meant to say. Because there's nothing macabre or the least bit scary about the thought of dying, as long as we're together.”
His hands pass over my face, casting spells wherever they land, and then he places his lips against mine. Is Vikrum correct in his belief that bodies possess the ability to remember? I pray that he is, because if so, I will use my muscles, flesh, skin, bones, and teeth as well as my mind to store for eternity these memories: the wild tenderness of these kisses; the exact pressure and texture of his fingers on my face; this moment of happiness, shimmering and pure.
I cannot afford to let these memories fade. One day, perhaps, they will be all that I have of him.
“Would you like to meet Rei?” I say at last. “Maybe over lunch or dinner?”
He props himself on his elbow to peer into my eyes. “Do you really have to ask?”
“No, I guess not,” I say with a smile. “You know, her mother's here too. She'll be staying for a few days more. I don't know if you're interested, but—”
“You mean I could meet Hana as well?”
“If you want to.”
“I do,” he says. “It's funny—over these last few days, I've been thinking a lot about what you told me about her. All those rules that she broke, the way that she chose the life she wanted to lead and then proceeded to live it. Her example could probably teach me a thing or two, don't you think?”
His gaze is so bright and eager, I have to drop my own. “I don't know,” I say. “But Rei's stories about her have sure had an influence on me.”
“So how soon can we all get together?”
“Tomorrow, maybe,” I say, savoring the knowledge that Vikrum and I have time ahead of us like a luxurious unfurling of the body. “Or the day after that . . .” My voice is trailing off. When did I last sleep a full night? “. . . or the day after that.”
I BLINK, STRETCHING, and then yawn.
“Hush,” says Vikrum, his voice a rumble in my ear. “Go back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up.”
It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him that the sleep I am heading into is a deep one, and that he should not be making promises he may not be able to keep. But I keep my mouth shut. Even if he has to go before I wake, it's all right.
I burrow into the warmth of his arms and shut my eyes.
After all, no matter what happens, I have Rei by my side.
To my sisters, Yoko and Aiko,
For climbing in to dig me out of more
holes than I could possibly count
This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names,
incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the authors
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, companies, or events is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgments
My mother, Hiroko Sherwin, a novelist in her own right, brought her talent and her knowledge of Japan to bear on this novel. James Sherwin read numerous drafts and gave me trenchant feedback.
That this book was finished at all is because of my editor, Danielle Perez, whose belief in it was as steady as her revision suggestions were astute.
My agent, Sandy Dijkstra, was always on hand to dispense advice and warm encouragement. Sandra Zane, whose critical eye is always illuminating and often brilliant, stepped in at a crucial juncture to whip this book into shape.
Fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, the Ucross Foundation, and the Radcliffe Institute provided me with the quiet needed to make this novel grow.
The companionship and counsel of the following people shaped this novel: Jerry Berard, Francesca Bewer, Andrea Cohen, Ioanna Christoforaki, Shannon Jamieson, Claire Sauvageot, Ali Sherwin, Scott Swanay, and Eve Zimmerman.
I would also like to thank Greg Curci for his patience, Suzy Becker for her help, Mahmoud Hamadani for the title, and in particular Kyoko Mori and her cats for long conversations.
Finally, I owe a special debt to my stepsister, Miranda Sherwin. In that my relationship with her has taught me how family transcends bonds of blood, her influence has been as profound on this novel as it has been on my life.
About the Author
Mako Yoshikawa has studied at Columbia U
niversity and at Oxford. She has been a Vera M. Schuyler Fellow of Creative Writing at the Bunting Institute at Harvard University and is a doctoral candidate in English literature at the University of Michigan. She is also the author of the novel One Hundred and One Ways. Yoshikawa lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
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