The Woman in the White Kimono

by Ana Johns

  No. Not yet.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Japan, Present Day

  I took slow steps toward the traditional house and the woman who gardened at its side. My heart pounded in my ears as I stepped from the road to the grass, then found the gravel path, kicking up pebbles.

  She turned with wide eyes.

  I stopped, just as surprised, but then regained my composure. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” I took a few steps and a deep breath, but the building pressure across my ribs didn’t ease. “Are you a member of the Nakamura family by chance?”

  She removed her visor, folded it and preened the hair that worked loose from her bun. She stared, first at my silk scarf, my blazer and then at my face. While she studied me, I gazed at her. She was elegant, with paper-creased skin and onyx hair banded gray with age. Pinned up, it exposed a delicate neck and bone structure. She was about the right age, but was it her?

  I smiled and adjusted my blazer. “I’m Selby Porter,” I said, using the pseudonym I wrote under. I lowered my voice as I neared, afraid I’d spook her. “I’m working with Yoshio Itō from the Tokyo Times and we may be doing a story on your family and the trading company in Yokohama, and even the family home.” I gestured to the house.

  She turned and glanced where I’d indicated.

  “It’s beautiful, by the way.” I took several more steps until I stood in front of her. “The flowers are absolutely stunning.” The herbal scent filled the air. They were the same kind of flowers displayed at the Nakamura Trading Company on the reception desk. A type of white chrysanthemum, but unlike the common variety found in the States and almost three times larger.

  The woman only stared.

  I tried again, my heart beating erratically. “Are you a member of the Nakamura family? The family that has had the property for generations?” I dropped my shoulders. Maybe it wasn’t her. The woman my father wrote to could speak English. I dug into my bag for my father’s letter, wanting to show her the address.

  “Yes, this is my family home.”

  I glanced up slowly, surprised by her words and the delicate tone of her voice.

  “I am Naoko Nakamura.”

  It was her.

  I found her, Pops. I had really found her. “It is so lovely to meet you.” The words were almost whispered. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions? About the home?”

  There was a considerable pause but then she gave a small bow. “I was just about to have some tea. Would you care to join me?” She motioned to the pebbled path that continued around the house.

  I followed through a small gate to where a low table held prepared tea on a moss-covered patio. Was this where my father had gone?

  While the exterior of the house was spectacular, the gardens took my breath away. It was a landscape of perspective. The pond reflected large rocks as though they were distant mountains, and moss-covered boulders placed within the water appeared as islands. White sand created the shore and pebbled paths led in either direction to vanish within the expanse of ornamental trees and groundcover.

  “Sit, please.” She gestured to a floor cushion positioned on a tatami mat, then with careful hands poured a dark, grassy tea. “It’s strong, like bitter truths.” She offered me the tall, ceramic cup.

  My fingers slipped into the grooves as I took a polite taste—pungent and earthy.

  She smiled, creating starburst crinkles around her eyes. Such a tiny woman, and yet the way she held herself—stately, focused, composed—filled the space, and me, with unease. I didn’t know how to begin and feared her reaction.

  “You are writing an article on my family’s home?”

  “I’d like to, yes,” I said, tasting the rancid lies as they rolled off my tongue. I took another sip and looked around to regain my composure. “Both the house and gardens are beautiful.” The same dense, low-growing plant with large white blooms carried over from the side yard.

  “Not as beautiful as your scarf,” she countered, eyes fixed on the hand-painted textile in hues of red. “May I ask where you found such a treasure? The details are exquisite.” She leaned in for a closer inspection.

  “Oh...” I offered an abbreviated smile. “Thank you. It was a gift.” I almost said from my father but caught myself, not ready to transition to my real intent. I twisted its tattered edge, then flipped it over to reveal the badly repaired seam. “It’s a bit worse for wear, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, kintsugi.” She straightened. “This I understand. In Japan, repaired objects hold even more beauty as the restoration becomes part of the object’s history. Like my family’s summer tea bowl.” She nodded to the ceramic container beside her. “See how the jagged split is filled with gold? It interrupts the painted pattern but adds to its value.”

  “It’s beautiful.” The design mimicked the flora in the garden.

  She tracked my gaze. “My cherished mother’s favorite flower. The bowl broke because I once served her an unfair serving of selfish soup. Many years passed before I discovered she’d repaired it.” She smiled. “She had melted her best gold jewelry and ground it into a fine powdered dust. Then she mixed it with lacquer and pieced it back together. Now, in knowing of both her sacrifice and forgiveness, this tea bowl is also cherished. So, you see? Its true life began the moment I dropped it.” Her brows arched. “Is it not the same for your mended scarf?”

  I half shrugged. “It was just carelessness, really.”

  “You must have cared considerably, for not only have you repaired it, you wear it even now.” She smiled. “So, Miss Selby Porter, what would you like to know about my family’s home?”

  Patches of guilt warmed my face and neck. “Well...” Manipulating a source to attain sensitive information played well within the boundaries of investigative journalism, but the lies I told crossed lines of decency. And with the way she studied and cataloged my every move, I feared my lies, and whatever lines they tangled, stretched transparent. I had to tell her the truth. Pops would have wanted me to.

  I set my tea down. “I’m afraid when I said I was here to write an article about your home, that wasn’t entirely true. While I am a journalist, and I do write under the name of Selby Porter, it’s not my real name.”

  “I know who you are.”

  I sat back. She knew? My chest swelled with emotion, making another breath almost impossible.

  Naoko smiled at my surprise. “You have your father’s eyes. They capture the same light, like the bluest water absorbing the sun. There’s no mistaking the resemblance. I knew the moment you approached.”

  I flushed again, causing my thin blazer to build with heat as if it were wool instead of cotton.

  “And, of course, you are also wearing my scarf.”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, certain I heard wrong.

  “Your beautiful scarf.” She motioned to the decorative silk around my neck. “It was a gift from my father, and I in turn gave it to yours.” She angled in for a closer look. “I thought I would never see it again.”

  “This was my mother’s,” I said without thinking, and covered it with my hand.

  She straightened with a small smile. “Forgive me. I’m of course mistaken.” Her eyes glanced toward the scarf, the one I still clutched. “Your mother’s scarf is beautiful. The red-and-white pattern suits you.”

  The memory of my father’s words wiggled its way between worlds to layer with hers. I always intended for you to have it. It’s important. I relaxed my hand, but not the realization that gripped me. Mama’s beautiful scarf had originally been Naoko’s. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Since you now know my name, and we are officially acquainted, might I finally learn yours?”

  I never did say. “My name’s Tori. Tori Kovač.”

  “Tori?” Her lips parted with the last syllable frozen between them. The hand that held her tea trembl
ed.

  I shifted forward. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Yes.” She steadied herself, looked away and blinked at nothing.

  I took a long drink. I’d finally spoken the truth, but her reaction to it confused me. “Forgive me, but if you knew who I was, why did you play along?”

  Her gaze sharpened and locked on mine. She arched a brow. “Is that really the question you traveled so far to ask, Tori Kovač?”

  It wasn’t.

  I reached into my pocket and produced Pops’s letter, the one addressed to her, the one returned.

  Old eyes narrowed to focus, then brightened in recognition. “A letter from Hajime?” She covered her trembling lips with a frail hand, eyes fixed on the envelope, but I wasn’t ready to hand it over, not yet.

  Instead, I smoothed out the creases, trying to connect the lines of time, picking my words with care, so I wouldn’t trip over them. “This letter left me with more questions than answers. Not just about my father, but about everything. I know from reading this that I have a sister.” My heart lodged in my throat. I pushed down the emotion. “I was hoping you could tell me where she is and what happened. I’d like to know the story of you and my father, so I can understand.” I clenched my jaw, nervous of her reaction.

  She folded her slender hands across her lap, glanced at the letter in my hands for a long time, then met my gaze. “And I, in return, would like to learn yours.”

  “Mine?” I shook my head. “I’m afraid I don’t have one.”

  “Ah, but you do. The story of what led you to travel halfway around the world to hear mine.” Her eyes sparkled like black diamonds.

  She wanted to hear about Pops. I understood. It made sense and was only fair. I gave a nod and answered in earnest, “I can only tell you what I know.”

  “Then we have an agreement.” She refilled my tea, then hers, took a measured sip and regarded me from the rim. “My given name is Naoko Nakamura. My married name is Naoko Tanaka. And once, for a short time in between—” her gaze held mine “—it was Naoko Kovač.”

  Naoko took another sip, then released a slow, long breath. “My grandmother often said, worry gives a small thing big shadows. Yes,” she said, nodding. “I believe that shadow is where this story begins.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Japan, 1958

  Sora shouts in a panic to wake the whole monastery. “Please, my friend is having her baby! Is there anyone who can help us?”

  I sit wide-eyed and doubled over at the gate, the cramping now stronger and coming in fast pronounced surges. This child will no longer wait!

  Sora repeats her pleas, her voice high in her throat, her words tumbling together to whoever can hear. “Please, help us! She is having her baby! Tell someone we are here!”

  At once, the small buildings light up. Footsteps, bouncing lantern lights and frazzled voices charge in my direction to open the gate. Buddhist nuns emerge from one side of the compound, monks from the other. The women direct the men how to lift me, what speed to move and where to go.

  “Ahhhh!” Another contraction rips through my spine like fire along a fuse. A burn that threatens to combust. I am carried through the pain. Faces and voices blur.

  Inside a small building, everyone is shooed away except for Sora and two women. One, old and stoic, the other, composed and knowing. They peel my layers off and point questions at Sora.

  “How old is this girl? How far along is she? Where’s her family? Where’s the father?”

  My screams bury Sora’s answers.

  The nuns’ robes, stained in rich saffron and turmeric, swoosh around me. Aloeswood scents the air, its sweetened beginning and bitter end mixes from repeated burnings to smell of dried seaweed.

  Sora strokes my head, trying to keep me calm. The older nun with a weathered face holds prayer beads and chants. It comes from deep in her belly and vibrates through her throat in a series of elongated words and breath. It’s beautiful, but I mar it with my cries.

  “No voicing. Stay quiet,” the one with wire glasses and steady eyes tells me.

  We are not supposed to express our discomfort during the birthing process. This is what we learned in the maternity home, not that anyone listened. I thought the housemother lied to silence us, but here, they say the same.

  Doubled over, I scream, anyway.

  I am done being quiet.

  My lower back is raw and burns with fire. I don’t know or care who’s helping me, I just want this baby. “Ohahh!” My head lifts, and I grab my knees. I am squeezed so tight I cannot breathe. Every muscle contracts in a violent embrace. Fighting it makes it worse.

  “It is okay, Naoko. Everything is okay. Stay calm. Stay calm.” Sora recites this comfort over and over as much for her benefit as mine. Her eyes are wide in worry, maybe fear. This will be her before long.

  He who begins ill begins worse. I was weak to begin with, now I am spent. Every ounce of energy was used to escape, and any I had in reserve is exhausted. The waves come one on top of the next, and again I’m up, red-faced and holding my breath to endure.

  “Breathe. You must breathe, child,” says the nun with glasses, waving her hand to coax. Her ruddy cheeks puff and release to demonstrate.

  The other nun chants louder, her long sounds cut in half. Her robe sways in graceful trails of autumn. It is as though she floats on air.

  I try to breathe...a deep inhale through my nose and a hard exhale through dry lips. Again, I breathe in and out. Did Hatsu come here? I want Okaasan. Okaasan! And Hajime. My thoughts are spiraling. Another tightening folds me in half. “Ahhhh!”

  “Push now, child. Push.”

  The intonation grows louder still.

  “Push!”

  “No. I can’t. Wait. I need to stop.” My words strangle with gasps of air, meaning nothing. “Ahhh!” The pain has hit a piercing threshold, the duration of each contraction increases to make it worse. My bones want to loosen and separate from the constant force.

  The main nun now stoops. I see only the top of her shaven head and the fuzz that covers it. The chanting nun stops behind her, singing words of peaceful entry.

  “Yes! That is it. I can see the crown.” Excited eyes see what I cannot. “One more. Ready? Push!”

  Sora grips my arm. My hands hold my knees tight, and I rock forward in agony.

  “Again. One more. Now!” It is said with authority, and I surrender to it.

  My nails dig into flesh, and I squeeze my eyes, my stomach, my being. A growl releases between clamped teeth. My lips pull up to expose them.

  “Ah, the head is out, okay. Okay.” She pats my knee. “Now wait. Be still.”

  I fall back in a heap. Sora catches me in her arms. For a second, I have relief. Pain has numbed me, but I sense the new pressure between my thighs, the foreign shape that rests there. I don’t dare move. My heart thuds against my chest. The nun speaks in hushed tones, but in fast speech. I hear words but cannot decipher them. Spots dance in front of my eyes.

  “Now we deliver. Ready? Help her up. Help her up, child.”

  “No...no...” I need another minute. One more minute. I am so tired. But no one listens.

  Sora reaches under my shoulders and pushes me up. My insides burn and twist. The pressure builds from within. Their spoken words are nonsensical and garbled. Blood trumpets in my ears. The grip of my knees causes the veins in my hands to bulge. Chanting swallows the room. Do more stand outside the door? One voice becomes many. My scream rides them all.

  “Ahhhhh!” I bare teeth.

  I push.

  I push.

  I push.

  And then my whole body trembles with release. My chest caves in with a breath. Sora sets me back with care.

  The song is done.

  “You have a girl. You have a girl!”

  A girl. I lie still, breathing, watching.
I knew it was a girl. Voices bounce back and forth. I do not know what they are saying. “Small,” I hear, then something about weight.

  Sora strokes my head and smiles. The nuns busy themselves with my baby. I catch only glimpses of her. Dark hair, she has dark hair. My ears prick, desperate to hear her cry. I need to hear her cry.

  I watch their hands for pinching fingers.

  “Do not touch her face!” I shriek, eyes bulging, trying to see. “Do not touch my baby!” Why does she not cry?

  Please let her cry. I cry for her, panicked.

  Then a sputter and gasp, followed by a solitary note of anger that fills the air.

  It is the single sweetest sound I have ever heard, a potent declaration of arrival softened by lungs too small in size. My breath hitches by three and releases with steady tears that stream down my cheeks.

  She cries.

  She lives.

  We did it.

  “Please,” I say, reaching out with open hands, hungry for her skin. “Please, my baby...”

  The nun with glasses swaddles her in cloth of apricot and speaks in a soft, low tone. “Once, Buddha was asked, ‘Are you a healer?’

  “‘No,’ Buddha replied.

  “‘Are you a teacher, then?’

  “‘No,’ he replied again.

  “‘Then, Buddha, what are you?’ asked the student, exasperated.”

  The nun walks close and holds out my daughter. “Buddha replied, ‘I...am awake.’”

  The nun’s eyes meet mine as she places my daughter in my arms. “She is tiny, but she is also awake.”

  “Oh...” I gather her close; she weighs nothing. I am worried but enchanted...by her sound, her smell, her miniature everything. How she fits in the palm of my hand.

  A daughter. Hajime, we have a daughter.

  A tuft of black hair sprouts from the top of her narrow head like a carrot. I blink, concerned, and look at the nun with glasses.