Kira nodded. Dan had loved Rosa. He didn’t define his relationship with her through Kira; he acted more like a son than a son-in-law, stopping by Rosa’s house to see if she needed anything, suggesting small home improvement projects, helping her tame the garden after heavy rains. Dan had married into the fragments of a family and tried to make it whole, not realizing that he could never make up for the loss of a father or a husband. Or maybe he did know that, but Kira didn’t grant him that grace. She had told him often enough that when everyone got together—their little triad and the Kaneko clan—the crowded table was her childhood dream made real. What she didn’t tell him was that the contrast made the emptiness of her childhood resound, reminded her of everything her mother couldn’t give her. Of the limits of love.
Last night there had been seven of them at the table. There should have been nine, even ten if Kira’s father had stuck around. At any moment there might be six, or five, or four. You never knew. Dan’s family seemed borrowed, not owned, as easily taken away as Kira’s father, her mother, her child. What if, in losing the parents and child she had loved so intensely—the bookends of her bloodline—she had lost her capacity to love anyone else?
Kira closed the photo album and wept.
“Hey, sweetie, it’s going to be okay,” Dan said. “We’ll get through this, I promise.” He kissed her, and she responded at first. When she pulled away, Dan sat quietly for a moment, then put a hand on hers and went into the kitchen.
Kira was pushing him, she knew. The way Dan saw it, love was love—romantic, friendship, maternal, whatever—and if it existed, you couldn’t deny it or change it. Some connections are simply there, he said, maybe inexplicable but there. He liked to talk about existence as a continuum. One time, in the early months of their relationship, they’d lingered in bed after making love and he’d said he felt like he’d always known her, like they had been lovers in another life, in another spectrum of time, and maybe they would be again someday as different souls, or as the same souls in different bodies. Teasing him, Kira had accused Dan of believing in reincarnation or being overly romantic, which were perhaps the same thing.
“Why do you think anyone knows what’s real and what’s not?” he’d said. “Can you define truth? Can you prove reincarnation doesn’t exist? I can’t. You’re trying to put things that have no form into boxes that will define them. Let them be what they are. Some things are nameless.”
Kira hadn’t known what to say to that. Dan thought in ways that were more like water than granite. While he questioned ideas and opinions, he was convinced that something unbreakable bound him to her, something that needed no explanation. Dan believed in love without boundaries. He would give her that, if she let him.
From the kitchen, he called to Kira to come and eat. He’d set out glasses of red wine, leftover pasta, a thrown-together salad.
They ate in silence. Then Kira said, “I’m going to Mom’s tomorrow.”
“What for?”
“I need to look through her stuff. I want to try to find that man my mom talked about.” She hadn’t thought about the man in weeks, Kira realized; now she felt compelled to find him.
“It can wait.”
“Actually, I don’t think it can.”
“You are the most stubborn woman on the planet. I really think you should rest, and I’m serious about you seeing a doctor.”
“I need to do this.”
“I’ve got a full day tomorrow. We can go Wednesday.”
“I’m going tomorrow.” Kira wanted the empty house, the privacy. Dan wasn’t part of the plan.
Dan drained his wineglass. “You win. But I’m going with you. End of discussion.”
He would do that for her. Truth was, he would do anything for her.
“There’s got to be something in the house about that man,” Kira said. “Or maybe I’ll remember something Mom told me about him when I was a kid.”
“Yeah, places can do that—trigger memories, the way smells do.” Dan put his plate and silverware in the dishwasher. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
When the shower was running, Kira went upstairs, past their bedroom to the room that would have been Aimi’s. Leaning against the closed door, she pressed her cheek and palms against the cool wood. They’d gotten as far as painting the walls egg-yolk yellow and putting up a Winnie-the-Pooh wallpaper border at crib height, where Aimi could see it as she grew. The bamboo floor remained unfinished, and the crib, the bedding, the changing table, the bouncy chair, the toys and mobiles and onesies and booties that Kira and Rosa couldn’t resist buying months in advance—those remained in the closet or stacked in boxes against the wall. Kira hadn’t opened the door since Aimi’s death, and as far as she knew Dan hadn’t either.
She leaned against the door, energy evaporating. This was her ritual, once or twice a day. Usually she ended up sinking to the floor outside Aimi’s room and gazing at the skylight, where sparrows or chickadees lined up on its edge, chubby silhouettes in the rectangular sky. They would chatter as if discussing her strange behavior, then fly off, leaving her to stare into the birdless brightness.
She touched the doorknob. Her baby should be sleeping on the other side of the door. In that empty, dusty room, there should be the soft breath of a child, wails and murmurs, the warm scent of life. There should be Aimi, dreaming sweet dreams.
They left for Martinez at eleven the next morning, after Dan had grilled Kira about how she felt, whether she was sure she was up to it, what the doctor’s office had said. She had an appointment with her GP in a week, Kira said, the earliest available. It was true, and so was the fact that appointments could be canceled.
Forty minutes later they were in Martinez, rounding the corner onto Haven Street. “What a mess,” Dan said as he stopped the car in front of Rosa’s white Victorian. Dust and debris dulled the front porch, and flyers bloomed on the screen door. The roses climbing the fence sported fleshy pea-green whips, and two butterfly bushes drooped like shaggy dogs.
“Mom would be—”
“Mortified,” Dan said. “I know. According to my calculations, based on frequency of use, it was her favorite word.”
Kira laughed. “Thank you for the analysis. I love that you remember that.”
“So much for the landscaper I hired.”
“Oh my God, the fish!” Kira took off for the backyard.
“They’re fine,” Dan called after her. “The neighbor is feeding them.” He caught up with her and kept going, into the garden beyond.
Kira stood beside the pond, her sneakers damp from the tall grass. A koi the length of her hand surfaced, flashing golden in the murky water. Ripples fragmented on lily pads and spiraled outward from orange-lipped kisses. The statue of the Virgin Mary peered out from her niche, looking serene despite the splash of bird poop on her pale blue cowl. Serenity, Kira thought. She could use some of that.
She turned to face the house. In the Farrah Fawcett photo, her mother was standing right here at the pond’s edge, baby on her hip, smiling at her husband, allure in her eyes. Vivacious and confident, with no sign of the darkness that Kira, as a child, a teen, a young woman, had seen in her. What had happened to Rosa that made her so unhappy?
“Look at this,” Dan said, coming back from the garden. “Mint and lemon verbena. It’s like a hothouse back there. The mint is overpowering.”
Dan’s face was alight; he hadn’t smiled like this since Rosa died, Kira thought. He was happy to be here with her today, happy that she’d called the doctor. He probably thought they were on their way back to normal, a word she no longer knew how to define.
“I’ll make some tea,” Dan said, and she followed him to the house.
The back door opened and the airless rooms sighed, then gathered breath. Kira hovered at the threshold. This place that held so many memories, where so much had been hidden, perhaps
forever—now the house thrust hope at her, seemed to say Yes, yes, you are here where you should be. A path opened through her muddled thoughts, as labyrinthine as the house’s narrow hallways, but promising. Promising what? From the layers of fear and doubt that consumed her, a thought emerged: the dreams meant something. Maybe this place of memories had something to tell her. If there were answers—why the dreams, why she was having them, who the girl was, the protagonist of this story Kira didn’t understand—maybe she would find them here.
In the kitchen, brown stalks and withered blooms sagged in a green vase on the table. A sugar bowl squatted next to its lid on the counter, and in the sink, petrified cornflakes crowned the rim of a cereal bowl. Evidence of Rosa, a life interrupted.
“Let’s air this place out,” Dan said. He went from room to room, opening windows and stacking magazines and newspapers. A breeze swept in to dispel the sadness, clamoring of spring, the early bloom of acacias.
Walking through the house, Kira tried to avert her eyes from the omnipresence of loss. In the dining room, a white lace cloth sheltered the oval table’s dark wood, and buttery tapers stood in cut-glass candlesticks. Majolica pottery splashed blues, yellows, greens, and oranges onto the white-painted shelves of a built-in cabinet. In the living room, she picked up a CD case from the coffee table—Andrea Bocelli singing opera excerpts, art songs, and Rosa’s favorite, “Ave Maria,” which she’d instructed Kira, at least a dozen times over the years, to play at her funeral. Kira didn’t want to hear the song ever again.
Everything looked familiar and completely wrong.
Dan jogged up the stairs. Upstairs was her mother’s bedroom, above that the attic weighted with cobwebs and silence. Kira went into the office, once her bedroom, reminding her of the child she’d been, long before innocence became regret. The desk chair stood at an angle, as if her mother had pushed it back moments before, had gone, perhaps, to the kitchen or bathroom and would return any second. Kira picked up the navy mohair cardigan draped over the back of the chair, held it to her face. A hint of Shalimar, a few gray hairs threaded into the loose weave. Essence of mother.
She straightened the chair and sat, flipped through the bills, shopping lists, and junk mail piled on the desk. Shoved against the wall amid the clutter, a silver frame held a five-by-eight photo of her grandmother Maddalena, her hair knotted low, her eyes sad and distant. The photo had traveled the house over the years, from the mantel to a sideboard to the desk, as if Rosa couldn’t let her mother rest. How often had she thought of Maddalena? Had she ever forgiven her mother for leaving her?
Kira dusted the glass with her sleeve and returned the photo to its place. The thought of sorting through her mother’s belongings made her want to sleep for a solid year. For today, tidying up would be enough.
Back in the kitchen, she submerged the crusted cereal bowl in warm water, returned the lid to the sugar bowl. Gathering the wilted flowers from the vase on the table, she dropped them, her hands flaring hot. Instantly the room color-shifted and a scene appeared—a small bedroom, a single window, a dresser with a mirror, everything in soft focus as if seen through gauze. Her protagonist, a teenager in a wedding dress, with an older woman standing behind her.
My bouquet is store bought, pink and white carnations and too much baby’s breath, stiff like cardboard. I’m glad there’s no scent because it would have sickened me. My hair is up, pulled tight like he never would have wanted it, my face in the mirror pale with powder and sadness. My dress isn’t my mother’s wedding gown, the silk one heavy with embroidery, fitted at the waist, the one she said a thousand times I’d wear someday. This dress is plain, a cheap satin sack from a catalogue, a size too large so that my body floats within it. It’s all you deserve, my mother said. Her face is flat, unforgiving. She pins a veil to my hair, tells me to be still. I stand still as death, my eyes on the mountains that guard the desert floor.
Footsteps intruded, drumming down the stairs. Dan’s voice, distant but rising. The scene disappeared and Kira leaned on the kitchen table, head in her hands. That shapeless dress, the scentless bouquet—she ached for the girl.
“Did you hear me? I found mouse droppings upstairs. We should—” Dan froze in the doorway, bundled newspapers under one arm. “What’s wrong?” He dropped the papers and rushed to her.
Three times now, Kira thought. Not chance, not hallucinations, but something intended. The dreams weren’t random; they were a path through this maze of the unknown. The girl had a baby, but clearly she wasn’t happy to be getting married. Whom did she love? What did she fear?
“Kira, talk to me.”
Dan was worried, frightened, and he loved her; she owed him an explanation, or as close to one as she could get. Yet the urge for secrecy was overwhelming. The dreams seemed to target something deep inside Kira, in her family, her childhood. She couldn’t identify it yet, but she knew it was as personal as her breath. She met Dan’s gaze. Stay silent, or trust that he would believe her? He would, wouldn’t he? After all, he talked about reincarnation, the metaphysical, the intangible force between them.
“I’m okay,” Kira said. “I think what’s happening is—oh God, this sounds so crazy, but when I picked up the dead flowers to throw them away, I had a kind of a dream, just for a few seconds. But I wasn’t asleep.”
“You were hallucinating?”
“No, I don’t think so. I can’t explain why, but this is different. It’s happened three times now.”
“Three times, and you’re just now telling me?” Dan paled. “Shit. This is what happened at my parents’ house.”
“Yes. They’re like memories, but not my memories. Someone else’s.” Realization came as Kira spoke. “I think they’re real. I think they happened.”
Dan stared at her. “We’ve got to get you some help, sweetie. Jesus, I had no idea things were this bad. This is fucking serious. We’re going to the ER.” He ran his hands through his hair, as distraught as she’d ever seen him.
“Wait.” If she let him believe the dreams weren’t real, that they were something a trip to the ER could fix, then their marriage was over right now. She needed to tell him—no, show him, what she’d seen.
Dan waited, his world collapsing.
“I want you to do something.” Kira rummaged in the junk drawer for a pencil and paper. “Here. Sketch what I describe.” He started to protest and she cut him off. “Please.”
Sitting at the table, Kira talked and Dan drew. When he finished, Kira stared at the sketch, trying to reconcile what he’d drawn with what she’d told him. She’d described the room, the girl’s dress, the mountains through the window, and he’d gotten all of it right. But he’d also captured sadness in the girl, judgment in the woman, an overwhelming sense of grief in the room. All true, but she hadn’t mentioned any of it.
“Dan?” She put a hand on his arm and his muscles quivered. “How did you know the girl was sad?”
“I don’t know. That’s how I saw her. Why?”
“Because I didn’t tell you she was sad. But she was.”
Kira reached for the paper. In the dream, the women’s faces were indistinct; yet the girl in the sketch, the planes and lines of her face and neck, they reminded her of Maddalena. Lightning flickered down her spine. “Wait a minute.” She went to the office and got the photo of Maddalena. “Look.”
“Holy shit. I drew your grandmother?”
Dan had drawn something that existed only in her head, had filled in details she hadn’t mentioned. There was no explanation for that. But then, the threads of the universe, the known and the unknown, couldn’t be explained either, not entirely. So why couldn’t these dreams be truths too, glimpses of a reality that wasn’t her own? Maybe, in giving voice to these images, she’d made them real to Dan too, revealed the story they seemed intended to tell. What if the girl was Maddalena, and the dreams delivered some as-yet-unknown truth?
I
f the girl was Maddalena… Kira looked at the drawing again, fear spiraling through her. That heat in her hands right before the color shift—the same thing had happened when her mother died. Her fear spiked again, then vanished. She didn’t understand what was happening, not yet. But she needed to.
Kira stood, pulling Dan up with her. “It’ll be okay. At least I think so.” Wrapping her arms around him, she fitted her body into the comforting angles and hollows of his. She’d made the right choice in telling him, but he would have to decide what to believe.
It was obvious now, what she needed to do—find out why these images were coming to her, what they meant. And she had to start where she could get closest to Maddalena, here, in this house. She had to enter the maze, alone.
As if he knew what she was thinking, Dan nudged her into a kiss. Kira acquiesced, then released him. Dan wasn’t part of this. Already he seemed less tangible, spiraling away from her consciousness as he had when she’d gone into labor with Aimi. Whatever was ahead, she would face it on her own.
Twelve
July 3, 1945
Maddalena gave the coffee table one last swipe of polish and surveyed the living room. The house was neat as a pin, and any minute now Regina would arrive to stay overnight and celebrate the Fourth of July. Maddalena bounced on her toes with anticipation. She had decided to tell Regina about Akira, partly because keeping him a secret was like trying to hold her breath forever, and partly because she wanted to write him a letter and she needed Regina’s help. Neither of them had any experience writing letters to boys, but between the two of them they’d figure it out. Then she would ride into the open desert, away from this suffocating house, and give the letter to Akira. She’d already figured out how to do it. And she had to act fast. The war could end any time now, everyone said it would, and then Akira would go back to wherever he came from, maybe without ever seeing her again. She couldn’t let that happen.
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