“I think I hear the water,” Junko says climbing up the rock ahead of me.
I stop in place, my hands clinging to the wall that seems to have come out of nowhere, jutting up from the forest floor and rising at a sharp enough angle to give us a true workout about twenty feet to what looks like a plateau. “I don’t hear anything. I think we’re lost.”
Junko stops as well, looks back down to me. “That is why we have the ribbons.”
“Well, we should’ve reached the lake by now.”
She ignores me and keeps climbing, so I follow, making sure to put my feet in the right place, pulling myself up, my shirt drenched and clinging to my body. After another few minutes I see Junko disappear over the lip of the wall. I soon follow and pull myself up, finding the plateaus are nothing but more trees, more green and brown and gray in every direction. I see Junko up ahead some, standing in place, waiting and listening for a sign to tell her we’re on the right track. I look back down the wall, at the forest, and see the last ribbon not far from it, then take another from my pack and tie it to the nearest tree, catching my breath as I do.
“So, where’s the water?” I ask, annoyed.
“I thought I heard it.”
“I told you, we’re lost.”
“Not lost.”
“Clearly we are. We’ve probably walked in one big circle.”
She turns toward me, equally annoyed. “How could we be in a circle if you are using the ribbons?”
“Look around us,” I say, yelling now. “Everything looks the fucking same!”
“Do not yell at me.”
“Then admit there’s a chance we’re lost. We’re not exactly on a trail. We’re just walking along, hoping to stumble onto something.”
She thinks for a moment, looks into the forest again and points. “We should go this way.”
“No. We’re not going anywhere.”
She turns back to me, her face twisted, scared. “What?”
“We’ve wasted a whole day on this trip, and I think it’s time we head back.”
“Then,” she says, tears forming, “you can leave. I will meet you at the car.”
“No, that’s ridiculous. We’ll go back together.”
“I cannot leave.”
“We have to. It’s late,” I say looking at my watch. “It’s almost seven-thirty. It’s going to get dark soon.”
“If your time is so important to you, then I would rather not have you join me now,” she says starting to walk off. “This was not about you or your time. This was about Izumi. This was about finding something of hers. This was about what she did and how she left things and how I will make them right.”
I start after her. “I know why I came, Junko. I came because I care about you. All I’ve been trying to get you to admit is that there’s a chance you may never find out what happened. That you may never find her at all.”
“I will find her.”
“Stop it, Junko,” I say, running now, trying to catch up to her. When I reach her I can tell she’s crying before she even turns around, but I don’t say anything, I just grab her above the elbow and spin her toward me. She faces me, terrified, angry, then pulls away, back toward the woods. I grab her shoulder this time. “That’s enough, all right?”
She keeps fighting me, pulling away, so I let her go, seeing how determined she is. “Do not touch me,” she says between tears once she’s far enough ahead of me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” I stop.
“You are always sorry!” Junko stops and leans against a tree, looking out ahead. Nothing but quiet around us. I’m a few paces back still, likewise standing in place, waiting for her to do something. I take out one of the ribbons and tie it to a tree nearby.
“Why didn’t you tell your parents you were coming here?” I ask.
“What?”
“Your parents. You told them we were going to visit the city.”
“How do you know that?” she says walking back toward me, her arms folded up into her chest.
“I can speak some Japanese,” I say. “I heard a few words, figured it out.”
“Because they would have told me not to come, Bill. They would have told me to forget about her like they have.”
“They haven’t forgotten her, Junko.”
“Yes, they have. They live as if she never was. As if it was just me and them. It . . . it makes me sick.”
“I’m sure—”
Junko is right next to me now, in front of me, and before I can even finish my thought she pushes me hard, shoves me to the ground. “You do not know! Do you understand? You do not know everything!”
I prop myself up on my elbows now, studying her. “I know that. I’m not trying to say I do. I just . . . I’m asking is all. You never tell me anything, so what else can I do but ask and assume?”
Junko turns and stomps away letting out a frustrated scream. “It is not your business to know everything.”
“Then why did you bring me here?”
Junko stops, facing away from me again, the view of her back familiar to me now. She’s breathing heavy, shoulders rising up and down with every great breath she takes in and hisses back out. “There are things you cannot know. That you would not understand about Izumi and me. Our relationship.”
I stand, keeping my distance. “Okay.”
“My parents, when this happened, they were . . . I have never seen them like that. For days they did not speak. Not a single word. Then, after two weeks exactly, they put all pictures of her away. They refused to talk about her, about what had happened. They acted as if Izumi had never lived and took all their secrets to the grave with her.”
“Their secrets?”
“Y-yes,” she says, stuttering, nervous. “Anyway, then I left for university, away from them, but I never forgot. And I realized I needed to come here, to fulfill my promise to her. To keep her alive. And to show him he did not win.”
“Show who?”
Junko turns back to me, wiping her eyes clean. “It does not matter. Izumi sacrificed much for me, protecting me from many horrible things she experienced. And coming here is what I need to do. If you cannot understand that, then there is not much left to say.”
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” I say moving toward her. “So, you’re right, it’s hard, trying to understand this bond and what happened between you two. But I’m here because of you. You need to know that.”
“I know.”
She presses her hand against my cheek. “It won’t be much longer, Bill. I promise.” She smiles and walks away from me, leaving me standing there, watching her move through the trees like she belongs, a sense of purpose riddled through her movements now, and even though my brain’s yelling at me to stop and turn back, my legs start up again and I find myself slowly following her deeper into the woods like I have no choice at all.
Kimiho’s father Goro was nearly eighty when dementia had fully taken his mind. Some days were better than others, but on most he could hardly recognize his only daughter, who visited him at the nursing home out of obligation and little else. He would regale her with tales of his own father, a Kamikaze during the Pacific War, going on about honor and loyalty to the Empire of Japan. Kimiho had heard it all before, of course, but the intensity and ferocity at which he retold the tales again and again—details slightly altered as his brain could no longer recognize fact from fiction—never ceased to amaze her.
And it was near his eighty-first birthday when Kimiho began an affair with a coworker, someone whom she had been attracted to since her first weeks on the job. And she found herself visiting her father now for another reason: her lover Orito lived nearby, and since her husband could not stand the sight of her father, she knew there was no risk of him finding out.
The bi-monthly visits soon became weekly as her feelings for Orito became increasingly more complicated, due in part to a recent miscarriage—Orito’s child, she was positive. And as the weeks dragged on and she s
aw the increasing strain on her marriage, the toll it took on her husband as he pined for her even though she snuck around behind him—he was, after all, an ideal husband, just lacking the virility she desired. She even began to blame her father, in his decrepit state, for making her this way, dissatisfied with a life that contained, as far as she could tell, everything she had ever asked for.
“Do you remember when you cheated on Mom,” she asked her father one day.
“What?” Goro said looking first at her, then through her to the back wall of his room. “Did Koyoshi come to see you? Did he tell you?”
“Dad, I am your daughter, Kimiho. Please, listen to me.”
“Yes, Kimiho. What is it, my dear,” he said holding a hand out. “Talk to me, please.”
“You cheated on Mom when I was young. I remember. I was not supposed to find out, but I heard her on the phone one night with Mariko and she explained the entire thing.”
“Mariko . . .”
“Yes, Dad, her sister. Anyway, I am—” Kimiho stopped and swallowed and even though she knew her father wouldn’t remember what she told him five minutes from now, she seemed hesitant. “—I am having an affair. I never . . . I never wanted to do this. Dai is a good man. Very loving, and he supports us. But something is not there.”
Goro had already diverted his attention to a nurse nearby handing out medication. “Very hard,” he said. “You must be sure.”
“No, listen. Please. How did you . . . This is your fault,” she said finally. “Something happened . . . I saw how easy it was for you, desiring something other than us, and I think . . . I think you broke me.”
Goro turned back to her slowly. “Not broken,” he said. “Human.”
It had been the first time Kimiho had mentioned her affair out loud, even to herself, and she stood, shaking. “I love Dai. Very much. Why do I keep doing this to him?”
“Human,” Goro said. “Human human human.”
Kimiho left and did not go back to visit her father for weeks, unable to look into his big, empty eyes, seeing herself in them. She tried, desperately, to fix things at home with Dai, spending more time with him and showering him with affection—and cutting herself off from Orito altogether—but the closer she got the more he pulled away. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, over dinner at home, Dai asked her: “How long have you been seeing him?”
“Seeing who?” Kimiho asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Please just . . . stop. I am not stupid.”
“I really do not understand—”
“That man, from your work. Orito, was it? He came by here ten days ago looking for you. He had no idea you were married, or that I was your husband. He told me everything.”
“Dai, listen—”
“No, just stop. He told me . . . that you saw him after you saw your father. That you only went to see him so you could . . . meet up.”
Kimiho’s heart and mind sped up. “I did see my father,” she said finally, quietly.
“And then Orito?”
“Yes.”
Dai stood, wiping his face. “How could you do this? What have I done to you?”
“Nothing! You have been perfect, Dai! This is . . . my fault. It is . . . my father’s fault!”
“Your father? Are you joking? His brain is a pile of mush. He does not even know what year it is.”
Dai turned to leave but Kimiho stopped him. “He cheated on my mom when I was little. I . . . it messed with my head.”
“Do not blame him. He did not do this to me. You did.”
Dai shook her hand free, grabbed his coat and left. Kimiho did not stop him, nor did she want to: he was right. This was her fault, not her father’s.
The following weeks were dreadful, and again Kimiho found herself visiting her father frequently, the only person who would give her company—not even Orito would talk with her, nor anyone else from the office once he had told them about her. She found some solace listening to Goro drone on and on, but eventually even that could not better the sick feeling that rose in her throat at the thought of her husband, the man she had promised to be good to, not being able to stand the sight of her. She lost ten pounds in under three weeks, her appetite fading fast, and while Dai had not asked her to move out, not even mentioned the word divorce, what they had now was far worse—ghosts living in the same home.
Then, after it had seemingly been like this forever, Dai finally relented: “I am going to stay with my brother for a little while, to figure out what to do here. I think it is best for both of us.”
Alone in their house, taunted by their memories, Kimiho felt even more alone than she ever had—her friends who at first stood by her side could no longer argue against her actions and how she had affected Dai. When she went to visit her father not soon after, she told him what had happened.
“And I do not know what to do,” she said. “I am afraid he will leave me for good. But if he stays, if we work it out, I am afraid he will not be able to look at me the same ever again. I need your advice.”
“Have you seen the Americans?” he said. “They are everywhere.”
“There are no Americans here,” Kimiho said wiping her tears away. “Just us. Now please, tell me what to do.”
Goro touched her face. “My father met Emperor Showa. Did I tell you that?”
Kimiho smiled. “Yes, you did.”
“My father was Kamikaze and killed many Americans. We were all so proud.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“He did it for honor. He sacrificed himself so we all would have a chance to live on. It was very brave.”
They were interrupted by the nurse with the medication, and as Kimiho returned home later, her father’s words echoed in her mind. She saw pictures of her and Dai—in happier times—and even tried to contact him but he would not answer. “For the best,” she thought. She left a message, professing her love, telling him that she would fix this and that he would, someday, somehow, be better off without her.
Kimiho then picked out the same outfit she wore on the day she and Dai first met, and rummaged around in her father’s old things they had held on to until she found it: her grandfather’s Nambu pistol, still in working condition after all these years, meticulously cleaned and cared for by her father. It was easy enough to figure out, and her father—not one to throw any artifact of history away—had stashed a few stray bullets in a pile of belongings from the days of the Pacific War, more of his father’s things. It took her almost no time to learn how to load the bullets as she wondered if her grandfather had ever killed anyone with it, or if she would be the first.
The next morning Kimiho took her car and drove to see her Father, but could not—he had an especially bad night and was in a medically-induced sleep. She told the nurse to tell him thank you, then found herself on the road to Aokigahara—not wanting to bloody up anything in their house, so Dai could go on living in it after she was gone. She parked the car and tucked the gun—still loaded—into her purse in case any day hikers or passersby might be present. The woods were quiet and beautiful, and she enjoyed smelling the sweet fresh air. But it was short lived: she could not escape the thought of Dai, of what she had done, of her now-sullied marriage and the fact there was no way back.
She hiked another thirty minutes into the woods, assured she was now alone, stopping near a small shrine someone had erected to the memory of a loved one, someone else who had died sometime before, and Kimiho wondered if anyone would erect one in her honor—but figured probably not. She walked away from the path directly into the woods then kneeled and emptied the belongings of her purse onto the ground and sorted through them: make-up she never wore for Dai, a phone she used to use to call Orito with, various trinkets that reminded her of how horrible she had been, then: the gun. She picked it up and felt the weight of it and imagined her grandfather in the cramped cockpit, the great whirring of the jet engines surrounding him as he flew to his death in order to protect his country—his family
. Kimiho then placed the pistol in her mouth, the barrel cold on her tongue, and thought only of Dai’s smiling face on their wedding day as she pulled the trigger.
Enlightenment
I’m counting the ribbons and we only have a dozen left, crumpled and sweaty in my palm. I’m standing on top of a small hill and as I put the ribbons back in my pack I look down at Junko sitting on a tree stump at the bottom, listening to her headphones, oblivious to everything. I look back into the woods at the crest I’m on which again seems to plateau out, noticing that the scenery has changed some, the trees smaller here, younger maybe, fewer dried leaves on the ground and, if possible, even more green everywhere. To my left there’s a large blue-green bush with orange berries on it, and for a moment I wonder if they’re poisonous, but decide not to risk it, hungry or not.
“Junko!” I yell down to her but she doesn’t hear me. I make my way down the hill slowly at first, between trees, over rocks and stumps, picking up speed as I make my way down, the breeze feeling good on me, when I suddenly hit a tree root and stumble to the ground into a somersault, rolling the rest of the way down through brambles, sticks and small green plants until I land on the ground about ten feet from her. When she sees me she rushes over and tries to help me up, but when I put weight on my left ankle the pain is so much that I collapse back to the ground, hammering the dirt with my fists.
“Your ankle?”
“Yeah, I twisted it.”
“Does it hurt very much?”
“Well, I can’t stand. So, yeah.”
She kneels and touches it, softly. “Here?”
“Yeah.” I wince and take off my backpack, lying back on the ground while she continues to rub the spot. Then she leans forward and touches my face.
“You are cut.”
I touch the spot with my fingers and see a small amount of blood on the tips, my cheek stinging now. “I guess I hit a stick or something on my way down.”
“Oh,” she says pulling back and standing. “What did you find up there?”
“Nothing.”
“No water?”
“There’s nothing but trees,” I say sitting up. “Just trees. No water. No lake. Nothing.”
Sea of Trees Page 6