by Rick Hautala
Kyoko’s hands were stiff and curled with arthritis that made it difficult for her to replace the letter in the enameled box where she had kept it all those years. Worse still were the emotions that filled her because it wasn’t their child—who had been born more than sixty years ago—who lay in those smoking ruins.
It was Ichiro.
Although there was no way of knowing for certain, Kyoko believed all her life, ever since that beautiful autumn day in September, 1944, that her lover, her Ichiro, had successfully flown his plane into one of the American battleships and destroyed it, taking with him many more lives than his own, which he so honorably sacrificed to his emperor and his nation.
—3 —
Miko’s heart was racing high and fast in her throat when she leaned across the car seat and gave her husband a fleeting kiss on the cheek. After so many years together, their displays of affection had become perfunctory, but the sudden intensity of what she was facing filled her with near desperation. She wanted to connect with this man, the man she loved and who had loved her so well for so long. She wanted him to know how much she loved him.
“Ahh, come on, now,” Dave said, waving his hand at her and smiling as the tears in her eyes threatened to spill over. “Everything’s gonna be fine. I’ll be fine. And you’ll be home in about a week.”
Miko held her breath and pursed her lips.
“Besides,” Dave continued, “you know you won’t relax until you’ve made sure your mother is all set in that assisted living facility.”
“I know,” Miko said, bowing slightly. She had so much to say, but—sadly—there was nothing more she could say. She wanted to believe that her apprehension about the flight was manifesting itself in these visions of the kamikaze pilot. There was no ghost haunting her, trying to communicate with her. She was being foolish, allowing her fears to get the better of her.
With the car idling in front of the airport entrance, Dave popped the trunk latch and got out to help her with her luggage. She had one small carry-on, which she slung over her shoulder with her purse, and one larger suitcase on wheels, which she would have to check in at the ticket counter.
After a quick embrace and kiss on the sidewalk, Miko gripped the handle of her suitcase and, as bravely as she could, turned and walked through the revolving doors into the terminal. Looking back through the tinted plate glass windows, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Dave as he got back into the car and drove off. When she turned to proceed to the check-in counter, she let out a gasp and froze in her tracks.
Standing directly in front of her, no more than fifteen feet away, was the kamikaze pilot. He looked completely out of place in the bustle of activity that swirled around him. His old-fashioned flight suit and short, black hair were ridiculously out of style, but Miko was frozen with fear. His eyes held a dull, dead gleam as he stared at her, unblinking. His lips, pale and thin, twitched as he said something, but the airport corridor was too noisy for Miko to hear his words. It didn’t matter. She knew, without hearing him, exactly what he was saying.
“Hey! Come on! Keep moving, will yah?” a voice growled at her an instant before a burly man wearing a New York Yankees jacket bumped into her from behind. He hit her hard enough to knock her off balance, and she almost fell.
Torn from her reverie, Miko turned in slow motion and watched as the man who had bumped into her strode away without so much as a backward glance or word of apology. When she turned again, the kamikaze pilot was no longer standing in front of her. He had vanished like a wisp of smoke, but still … she could sense his presence somewhere close by.
Miko’s legs felt stiff and too weak to support her as she started toward the check-in counter. There was already a long line, but it was moving along quickly. She squeezed the handle of her suitcase so tightly her hand and wrist throbbed. Her breath came in short gulps. It was a seasonably mild morning, and there was no reason for the airport to have the air conditioning running, but Miko half-expected to see her breath mist in the air when she exhaled.
As the coldness penetrated her, the unnerving thought that she might be having a stroke entered her mind. Maybe that was why she was having these hallucinations. She wanted to attribute it to pre-flight jitters, but even if it was the case, how could she explain seeing a man who she knew was dead?
Unable to stop such thoughts, she took her place in line for the ticket counter and waited, inching her way ahead as each passenger moved forward. She wished she could calm down, but the tension coiled up inside her so badly it was almost unbearable. A mother and her young daughter, who was maybe ten or eleven years old, were ahead of her. The little girl kept stealing glances at Miko, watching her with a mixture of curiosity and shyness. Under ordinary circumstances, Miko would have smiled back at the girl and nodded a silent greeting, but this morning the little girl’s fleeting looks only made Miko feel all the more self-conscious. She was too wound up even to make eye contact with the girl, so she lowered her gaze and stared at the floor. Her shoulders hunched as she cringed beneath the steady gaze of the little girl and the dead man she knew was somewhere nearby, watching her.
By the time she got to the ticket counter, Miko was feeling light-headed from hyperventilating. She watched with curious detachment as she handed her ticket to the woman at the desk. The woman said something but had to repeat herself a few times before Miko finally understood that she was telling her that her luggage was checked in and that her flight would be boarding soon. She told Miko the gate number several times before Miko asked her to write it down on a piece of paper. The woman smiled and patiently showed her where it was already written on the envelope holding her boarding pass.
With a quick bow, Miko left the line and proceeded toward the gate, which was on the second level. She hesitated at the bottom of the escalator and was not surprised when she looked up to see the kamikaze pilot again. He was standing at the top of the moving stairway, gazing down at her with his hands on his hips as though attempting to block her. The red sun on his headband glistened as if with fresh blood. Thin red lines of blood ran down the sides of his face. The scarf wrapped around his neck flapped as if caught in a strong wind even though Miko knew there was no such wind inside the terminal.
“Pardon me,” the woman with the little girl said as they made their way around Miko and started up the escalator. The little girl stared at Miko, and Miko was about to wave to her, but she was amazed when, at the top of the stairs, both mother and daughter passed right through the kamikaze pilot as if he wasn’t there. As they walked away, their figures shimmered for an instant as the kamikaze pilot wavered and then resolved more clearly.
“You gonna stand there all day?” a gruff voice behind her said, speaking so suddenly Miko jumped with a start. She turned and saw the same heavyset man wearing the Yankee jacket who had bumped into her earlier. He was glaring at her. “Yah know, there’s a stairway if this thing’s too hard for you to manage.”
Miko felt compelled to apologize, but her voice was trapped in her throat. Without a word, she stepped aside and watched as the overweight man got onto the moving stairs and glided up toward where the kamikaze pilot stood. He still hadn’t moved, and Miko was positive he was waiting for her and that, if she took the escalator up there, something terrible would happen.
The figure remained perfectly motionless except for the scarf that flapped in the strong breeze … a breeze that neither Miko nor anyone else in the terminal was able to feel. Even though his lips weren’t moving, his voice whispered in her ear, telling her that there was no honor in “it” … whatever it was.
But I have to go up there, Miko told herself. My flight leaves from up there.
If she delayed, she would miss her plane, and it would be a nightmare to reschedule a later flight. She had already made arrangements for her niece to pick her at the LAX. Although there was plenty of time to call and make different arrangements, Miko knew she was being foolish. She should never allow a few disturbing dreams and a bad night’s sleep t
o affect her like this.
Still, when she looked up at the top of the escalator, the kamikaze pilot was standing there, staring down at her with an expression of … what?
Longing? … Sadness? … Anger? …
Miko was so frightened she had no idea what to think. All she knew was that she didn’t have the courage to go up to the next level.
But she had to.
After taking a deep breath and settling the strap of her carryon on her shoulder, she stepped onto the moving stairs. Her hand gripped the moving rail, and the stairs shifted under her feet. The ride up felt like it took forever. Miko couldn’t tear her gaze away from the ghostly figure waiting for her at the top of the stairs. She wished she dared to look away, but the apparition’s dark, dead eyes held her. Her throat constricted as she came closer and closer to the figure.
When she reached the top and was about to step off, the heel of her shoe caught on the edge of the moving stair. She stumbled and, with a high-pitched squeal, lurched forward and then fell to the floor. She lost her grip on her suitcase, and it would have tumbled down the escalator if a young Middle-Eastern-looking man hadn’t caught it. Without a word, he moved the suitcase out of the way before helping Miko to her feet. It was only when she looked into his eyes that she realized that he—like the apparition—had a dark, empty look … a “dead” look deep within his liquid brown eyes.
Miko made a slight bow and was about to say “Thank you,” but when she opened her mouth, she was shocked to hear herself say in Japanese, “No honor in that.”
The man looked at her, confused.
Why did I say that? Miko wondered as the young man, who was wearing jeans and a freshly pressed blue cotton shirt, stood there staring at her. She doubted he spoke Japanese, but somehow, he seemed to know what she’d said.
Without a word, he strode away. As Miko watched him go, her vision narrowed into a long, dark tunnel with only that young man rapidly receding toward the end.
Still shaken, Miko took a few deep breaths and tried to compose herself, but as her vision cleared and she looked down the line of gates, she knew that she wouldn’t make it. It didn’t matter that she would have to reschedule her flight or that she might ultimately fail in performing her duty as a daughter. Her anxiety was so intense it now bordered on stark terror. It filled her with a cold, numbing pressure, and she knew without doubt that she was never going to get onto that plane.
Looking around, she saw a restroom about a hundred feet down the corridor. Moving stiffly, she started toward it. Even though the kamikaze pilot’s apparition was no longer in sight, she could still hear his voice, whispering in her ears.
“… There is no honor in that …”
— 4 —
When she entered the restroom and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the row of mirrors over the sink, Miko hardly recognized herself. Her face was drawn and pale—too thin. Her dark eyes were wide and glistening with the panic of a trapped animal. Her lips were thin and bloodless, and for an instant, she saw … not her own face in reflection, but that of the kamikaze pilot.
The same eyes … the same mouth … the same nose.
Trembling, she approached the nearest sink and, leaning forward, bracing her hands on the sink, stared at herself in the mirror as she mouthed the words the apparition had spoken so many times. Her face was so close to the mirror her breath fogged the glass, but even through the distortion, she couldn’t deny that she saw the resemblance she bore to the dead pilot.
And then it hit her. Without being told by anyone—because who would know?—she understood.
Fortunately, she was the only person in the restroom. Her body trembled like a leaf being tossed by the wind as she turned on the tap and ran the water until it was lukewarm. Then, cupping her hands, she splashed her face several times. When she closed her eyes, the feeling that someone else was in the restroom with her was so strong she let out a low, strangled moan.
The sound echoed in the restroom, sounding like a small animal in pain.
“No … ” she whispered. She quickly wiped the water from her eyes and looked around, but she saw nobody. “I can’t do it … I just can’t go through with this.”
It pained her to consider the money she would lose and the trouble she would cause other people—especially her mother—by not taking her scheduled flight, but the apparition was trying to tell her something, and she was convinced that he—or it—was trying to keep her from boarding the plane.
Clutching her carryon, she walked into one of the large toilet stalls. After locking the door behind her, she sat down on the toilet seat and, closing her eyes, leaned her head against the metal dividing wall. She lost all sense of time as wave after wave of powerful emotions swept through her.
She was ashamed of herself for being so cowardly, for not having the courage to face what she had to face. She was being dishonorable. Her mother needed help. Miko would be disgraced if she didn’t do her duty to her only surviving parent. She had never known her father. All her mother had told her was that he had died during the war a few months before she was born. Her mother had never told her how he had died, but because Kyoko had raised her daughter alone, Miko felt a dual responsibility to her.
Miko’s hands were shaking uncontrollably as she reached into her purse for her cell phone. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was already eight-forty-five. She had missed her flight, but she had never even heard any boarding announcements over the intercom. She was ashamed to realize that she had been hiding in the restroom like a coward for over an hour.
How could I have lost time like that?
Did I fall asleep … or pass out?
It was almost six o’clock in the morning out in California. Her mother might still be sleeping, but she dialed the number regardless. On the sixth ring, her mother answered, her voice as fragile as glass when she said, “Hello.”
“Hello, Mother … It’s me … Miko.”
There was a long silence at the other end of the line, and then she heard her mother take a long shuddering breath.
“Miko … You are on your way to see me?”
Her mother sounded so lonely, so dispirited it pained Miko’s heart to say what she was about to say. Guilt and shame, almost too much to bear, filled her, but Miko’s fear of the apparition and his vague warning was even stronger.
“I am not coming … at least not this morning,” Miko finally said. It took effort to force a note of calm into her voice. “There have been … complications, and I have already missed my flight.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” her mother said in a mild tone that didn’t register any real disappointment Miko knew her mother must be feeling sorry for having a daughter who let her down like this.
“I’ll have to make other travel arrangements,” Miko said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, but for now—”
Miko cut herself short when a smoky shadow shifted across the bathroom floor. She hadn’t heard the restroom door open, and there hadn’t been any increase in the sounds coming from out in the terminal. She was positive she was alone in the restroom, but a chill wound slowly up from the base of her spine to her shoulders when she sensed as much as heard someone walk past the closed stall door. Looking down, Miko saw a pair of battered man’s boots, old and scuffed, and the rolled up cuffs of heavy canvas pants.
Clutching the phone in her hand, Miko held her breath and, leaning forward, stared out through the crack between the stall door and the metal door frame. Her heart squeezed into a cold knot when she saw the kamikaze pilot standing next to the row of sinks. He was staring straight at the stall where Miko was hiding.
Miko swallowed hard, her pulse pounding rapidly in her ears. The apparition glared at her with such intensity she felt as though there was no metal door—nothing at all—separating them.
“I … I would like to ask you a question, mother,” Miko said in a trembling voice. She was surprised she could speak at all. “ … about my father.”
“Ahh … your father,” Kyoko said. Her voice was as clear through the phone as if she were right there beside her.
“Who was he?” Miko asked. She should be ashamed for this sudden display of curiosity. She wasn’t being respectful to her mother, and the truth was she had no idea where this question had come from. But it had to have something to do with the dreams and visions she’d been experiencing.
“I’ve told you many times. Your father died long ago.” Her mother’s voice was low and hushed with respect. “Before you were born.”
“But how? … How did he die?”
“He was a soldier in the war. He died—” A sudden silence on the phone made Miko fear she’d lost the connection, but after a pause, her mother continued. “He died honorably, fighting for our country.”
All this time, Miko kept one eye close to the crack between the stall door and frame as she watched the ghostly figure. He stood there, unmoving, unblinking, his dead eyes focused on her.
She finally knew—and accepted—that this was the ghost of her dead father.
“Was he a … a kamikaze pilot?”
The words scraped her throat like sandpaper, and sweat broke out across her brow. The phone in her hand felt like a dead weight. The air around her was suddenly too thin to breathe.
After a long pause, her mother sighed and said, “I will say only this. He died with honor.”
Miko almost didn’t hear her because at that very instant, the ghost of her father seemed to be standing beside her as he whispered something into her ear. A subtle gust of cool breath washed over her skin. A chilled shudder ran through her as tiny white spots of light weaved and danced across her vision. Time seemed to stop as she stared back into the eyes of her dead father. When she swallowed and blinked, he disappeared in an instant. Miko thought he might have shifted out of sight, but even though she could no longer see him, she was convinced he was close by, watching her even though she couldn’t see him.