by Ana Johns
Out of breath, I stop, hunched over to listen.
Inconsistent drips filter through branches to land on the forest floor. It’s almost musical as they strike one leaf to the next, a hollow chord progression of tap-tap-tap followed by a pause before changing tempo and key.
But that is all I hear.
No distant shouts. No nearby footsteps. No one follows me here.
But where is here? Where is Hatsu? I pray she is far away and safe.
I blink in the darkness and look back the way I came. I ran erratic, a hare stalked as prey, going left, right, maybe in circles.
Sliding to the ground, I clutch my knees, having lost all sense of direction and losing hope. Snares have scratched my legs. Raised thin lines wind up my calves and swell in serpentine welts. They itch. I don’t care.
I dig at the earth, squeezing mud and twigs between my fingers, and gently rock. I will stay put, wait out their search—if they still search—then move at first light.
We left so late, morning can’t be long off, but with this rain, it’s hard to tell. Rain drips from drenched hair and beads along my cheeks. It collects on my lashes, blurs tear-filled eyes. Open, shut...open, shut. I squint, trying to keep focus.
When I am with others, it is almost bearable, but here in the blackest of nights alone? Grief and worry are intolerable. My head spins in the past, remembering my choices, choices made for me... If I had chosen different would Okaasan be here? Would I? But then what of my baby?
My head pounds from memories. The muscles around my chest pinch so I cannot take a full breath. Instead, I focus on my hands. The twig I hold and strip of bark. When it is bone-bare, I drop it and claim another to begin peeling off its many layers. I imagine Hatsu at the monastery, warm, fed and looked after. This thought warms my heart and sustains me as I wait...
Minutes. Hours. And then...morning clouds drip red with the long-awaited yawn of light.
My mind scrambles to reacclimate my surroundings. What did I say to Jin and Hatsu? “We know there’s a front path between the locked gate and the maternity home and a back path to where the spirit babies wait. But the rest is an infinite wood surrounded by an endless fence.”
I lift my chin. That is it.
I just need to climb back up on the elephant and march him in a straight line. Eventually, I will either find myself back on a path or blocked by the fence. Either way, one of them will lead me to the gate.
Pressing muddy hands to soaked thighs, I rock myself up. I pivot left, then right, then spin back the way I’d come. A thousand-ri journey begins with one step, and so what does it matter? This way will do. A stiff step forward. Then another. Then one more.
With outstretched arms, I push through. I catch on an exposed root, stumble over mud and moss, but don’t quite fall. It goes on and on this way. Under the rain-soaked canopy and in drenched clothes, I am in another world. Damp earth fills my nose. A dank chill rattles my teeth. And it is quiet. Except for squabbling birds and something more—something familiar. I cock my head.
Water.
The stream! Am I so close? My heart propels stiff legs to up their pace. To move faster. To get out! Stepping high over brush, I snap back branches with still-wet leaves, dart to where the woodland clears and find the small river. I accommodate myself to the water, remembering its direction. I chase the current’s swirl to flow out the current’s spin. And there it is.
The red footbridge. The path. And what it leads to...the gate.
I run.
I run along the uneven stone path as it winds through dense woodland. I run until I spy golden slats of tall bamboo. I run and slam open palms into its crossbeam gate.
It sways from impact but jolts me back.
I push again.
Again.
Leaning close, I peer through. My stomach drops. A new lock hangs crooked on the other side. Housemother’s not here. Has she gone to look for Hatsu? Me? Maybe she believes I’ve gone.
My emotions run feral. First, calm in a suspended disbelief. How did this happen? How did Housemother know? Then anger rips through me with a quiet scream. I strike the gate again and again, then spin on my heels to find Chiyo’s smug smile.
“Hello, Naoko.”
I now understand how Housemother knew. How she found us so quick. We were foolish to underestimate her.
Spies and foxes are no match for such a rat.
THIRTY
Japan, 1957–58
In the course of a month, the forest changed its seasonal wardrobe, shedding late summer for fall. The momiji, maple trees, are now blush red and wear a coat of haughty yellow and burnt orange. I settle for a hand-me-down sweater in gray for warmth. Without the sun’s face, the breeze blows cool through too-thin walls. My six-moon belly, although small, makes the worn cover-up awkward to close. That and it is missing two silver buttons.
Sitting up, I knead between my brows. The room seems to rock, so I lie back and close my eyes. Things have not been right with me since Hatsu’s escape and my capture. The rain’s damp fingers had soaked through my skin and gripped my spirit. My teeth rattled as it shook me. The ordeal cost me my good health. I am wasting away skin to bones.
A labored sigh blows through my weary lungs.
Without Jin or Hatsu, I am all alone here.
Maybe everywhere.
On my side, I lay in a ball, cradling my belly. I have not gained enough weight, and my limbs ache from lack of use. Housemother Sato keeps me bedridden and warmed with special tea to encourage my good health’s return. Her concern is I might miscarry and then she will lose months of fees.
Mine is for my baby.
There has been no word from Hajime. No word from my family. No word on Hatsu’s well-being. She is in my constant prayers. I dream of Okaasan and cry out to her. “Haha,” I scream. But she never answers, and I wake drenched, cold in sweat and burning up in fever.
Chiyo’s chatter and big laugh enter my room. “That girl is Naoko, but don’t mind her.” She spits the words in a pretend whisper to a girl I have never seen. “She thinks she’s married and that her husband will rescue her.” Something else is said but hidden by her cackle.
The new girl glances my way, curious. She’s all angles, high cheeks and a tiny chin. Her long hair is tucked behind her jutted ears, and the side part highlights wide-set, questioning eyes of the deepest acorn brown. Her belly rounds but isn’t ripe. With closed lips, she smiles.
I do not. It is as though I have blinked, and all the familiar faces have changed except for Chiyo.
“Come on.” Chiyo tugs her arm and she is gone, as well.
* * *
Months have passed, and the disagreeable climate and autumn foliage now slumber under January’s cool watch. The temperature drops enough to chill my thinned blood with its dry, crisp breath, and freeze mine in a solitary puff. Here, in Kanagawa Prefecture, it seldom snows, but winter is sleepy. I am still sleepy. I lie in bed, waking from an afternoon nap only wanting to rest more. It has been this way an entire season.
My hand rubs at my face, then into my hair. I stroke it back, comforting myself. Tears well up and I bury my face in my hands. Okaasan. Hajime. Someone.
Death would be easy. The difficulty is in the living.
The new girl often visits. Her name is Sora. I sometimes wake to find her sitting beside me, and although I am now like Jin, quiet and not up for conversation, she talks, anyway. I listen through my fog, grateful for the company and saddened by her now-familiar story. Her American soldier denied the baby as his and accused her of sleeping around. Only later did she learn he already had a baby and a wife. Another foolish girl.
Cruel-hearted Aiko delivered and left. Although I mourn for her baby, I’m not sad to see her go. Two others came and went. Sora shares their stories and their stories are the same. This one was reckless in hopes to snag a husband and th
at one was careful but not careful enough. Neither wanted their child. And with me so weak, I could offer no other option. This weighs heavy on my soul.
And what of my baby? I remember our pact, the one Jin, Hatsu and I swore to one another. I think of Hatsu, her baby somewhere safe, and Jin, her baby’s spirit still waiting to travel safely home.
“Naoko? Naoko, wake up.” It’s Housemother Sato.
My eyes stay shut in hopes she might leave. Bony fingers of death rock my shoulder, the same fingers that pinch tiny noses and dig shallow graves.
The same fingers that will reach for my baby.
That took Jin’s.
“Naoko, up, I have made more tea. You can take it at the kotatsu.”
Her voice grates on my ears. Sharp like glass but transparent. She pretends concern. I pretend to sleep.
She shakes me again. This time hard. It rattles my senses. “Come on. It’s warm and toasty and all ready for you. Does that not sound nice?”
Having my legs warmed under the large blanket that drapes the heated table does sound nice. I roll over, giving in.
“Ah, there we go.” Her eyes are soulless orbs behind wire rims. They narrow with her contrived smile.
I watch her leave, her wool kimono dragging across the floor with each step. Sitting up, I wait for the room to steady and then gather the strength needed to rock to my feet. My brain is mottled and fuzzy, my limbs sore and feeble.
With slow movements, I slog myself to the kotatsu in the main room. Sora, with her high cheeks flushed and pink, sits on the other side. I scoot up close, so my baby bumps the table’s edge, and pull the blanket around my lap to warm us both. It is cozy and comforting underneath from the burner. I stretch stick legs and wiggle numbed toes to aid in circulation.
“You are so pale, Naoko,” Sora whispers. “You are like the yūrei, ghost.”
I am, it is true, except I am still here floating between worlds, finding comfort nowhere. It is a disconcerted state between feeling too much and too little.
Housemother Sato sets down the tea and pours. With one hand, she holds the lid secure, and with the other she tips the pot to fill my cup. Steam swirls, filling my nose with its sweet and grassy scent. I bring it to my lips and blow a cooling breath.
“Drink every drop, yes?” Housemother waits for my nod, then disappears to check on Chiyo. Her labor has begun.
“Wait.” Sora holds a hand up as I start to drink. “I need to ask you something.” She scoots around the table to sit beside me, our legs now fighting for the same limited space.
I set the cup down but keep my hands wrapped around it to soak up its heat.
Sora glances over her shoulder toward the back room where Housemother Sato attends to Chiyo. She tilts her head to listen, then leans even closer. “Is it true you helped a girl escape? That you want to keep your baby?”
This grabs my attention. Did I hear her right? Did I answer?
“Naoko...” With beseeching eyes, she starts again, only slower. “Do you still want to save your baby?”
My lethargic heart pumps a beat faster. I rub a hand through tangled hair. Hair that has not been combed in weeks or longer. I blink.
Her fingers wrap my emaciated wrist. “Naoko, do you trust me? Have I not been a good and faithful friend?”
I nod. She has. Who else has visited my bedside? Brought extra blankets or a cooling rag for my fevered brow?
“Good.” Sora’s eyes brighten and dance like liquid ink. “Then we leave tonight.”
Her words jolt me. “What?” My breath catches in my throat, as though I have not spoken in some time. Have I? I cannot remember.
Sora leans closer still. “Yes. It is perfect. Chiyo only starts labor, by dark she will steal Housemother Sato’s full attention, and we will steal away into the night.”
The gate. I stare at my knobby fingers and paper-thin nails, trying to focus. “Hatsu took the key.”
“And I have taken the new one.” She smiles.
I frown, remembering. “It was wet and dark, and I was lost. I am too weak.”
“Naoko, you are like the blind man who traveled at night carrying a lamp. He did not need it to see, it was lit so others could see him. You still carry the lantern for us all. You never needed it to know your direction.”
My head shakes. Stories, always stories. “His lamp blew out, Sora.” Just like mine. Just like me.
“Yes, you’re right.” She reaches out and places her other hand over mine. “And are we not lucky it did? How else would I have bumped into you?”
Almost a smile. This is all I can manage. Sora and I are indeed friends.
“Please,” Sora says. “I am scared to try alone. Say we leave tonight, and you will fight to save your baby from that demon midwife.”
Demon midwife. My promise to Little Bird. The pact with Hatsu and Jin. My baby’s spirit stirs inside to wake my own. My eyes lift to meet Sora’s.
“Yes?” Sora prods.
I nod.
Her eyebrows drop low and knit together. “Then...do not drink that tea.”
THIRTY-ONE
Japan, Present Day
My earlier research for traditional homes in Zushi had led me to several that were converted into ryokans, traditional Japanese inns. They each sounded lovely. One included a hinkoyi bath, a wooden tub of white cedar where you soaked in steaming water mixed with soothing essential oils. Two had elaborate gardens with reflection pools for peaceful prayer and meditation, and all had the simple futons over tatami mats and personal yutaka kimono robes. That was where I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t. Guilt wouldn’t let me.
I sold my father’s Cadillac to cover the expense of travel, not to indulge in luxuries as though this were a personal holiday. So instead of a beautiful traditional inn, I opted for the budget-priced Seijaku Capsule Hotel. Seijaku translated to “silent.” It was anything but. There were constant door clicks as guests ventured back and forth between the community living space, the shared bathroom and the luggage locker room.
The minipods were built around an elongated twin-size bed. They were narrow and long and, at most, four feet high and stacked one on top of another in double rows. Those in the top row were required to climb a small ladder to gain entrance. Inside, there was a ceiling-mounted TV with headphones, a mirror, a single coat hanger, an electrical outlet and a light over the bed. That was it.
It wasn’t for the claustrophobic, for anyone of significant height or size, or for those expecting privacy. The pods were for single occupants and separated into gender-specific rooms of twenty. But, to me, it was still better than a bunkbed at a hostel. I did have my own space and could close the bamboo blind over the see-through door.
It was late, but I couldn’t sleep, so I rested on my back, and skimmed hundreds of neglected emails while my thoughts ran rampant. I was thrilled Yoshio found the traditional house and that records of ownership matched the last name on the marriage affidavit, but what if they didn’t connect to the family? What then?
I adjusted my pillow and propped myself up, then selected several emails to delete, but opened one from the records department instead. Although my father’s military records would arrive by mail, I’d gotten impatient and requested a status update.
Thank you for submitting a request to the National Personnel Records Center. We service approximately 20,000 requests each week, and while the average response time is six to eight weeks, you may experience a longer response time due to a fire in 1973 at the National Personnel Records Center that destroyed some sixteen million military files, and unfortunately, no duplicate copies exist.
While we cannot confirm your requested records were among them, this correspondence is to alert you of a possible delay for our search.
Thank you.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. If the company in Yokohama wasn’t
a match to the family, and Pops’s records were lost, what else did I have to go on? Worry burrowed like a worm, tunneling right to my core. What if I’d sold Pops’s Caddy and traveled all the way to Japan just to see a vacant house?
Working through the rest of my emails, I stopped on one with “USS Taussig” in the subject line, then glanced below to find several more responses from the military forums. Blood rushed to my head and I sat up taller. I’d forgotten I’d left contact information on the navy reunion site.
The first was from a crewmate that served as an interior electrician but didn’t remember my father. He shared reunion information but cited how most of the crew had passed or were too old to travel.
The next was from a woman whose husband worked within the engine room aboard the USS Taussig during the same time frame as Pops. He had passed, but her brother-in-law also served, and she would reach out to him.
Another shared how their father had served aboard the Taussig, but now suffered from Alzheimer’s. He’d showed his father the photos I’d shared, but he didn’t have any reaction.
There were a few others, but they all had similar stories. And then...
Dear Tori Kovač,
I found your post requesting information on the Taussig and some of the crew, including your father. I was aboard the Taussig from 1954 until 1957, making three Far East cruises. I don’t remember seeing your father and don’t recognize the other names listed, but with over three hundred souls aboard, and over fifty years gone by, I’m afraid my memory fails me. I did pull out my copies of the cruise books, however, and found a picture of your father in the roster. I’ve attached it in hopes it helps you in your search.
Respectfully,
Sal Dia
I opened the attachment. The swell in the back of my throat was instant.
There was Pops, standing in uniform, front and center with a semismile. He had his chest pushed out and his shoulders back. A brave young sailor ready to take on the world. Tears welled.