The Red Kimono Page 5

  Sachi watched a roach skittle across the yellowed floor, then went back to watching the second hand, passing the time by creating rhymes with the numbers on the clock. One, two, three. Look at me. Four, five, six. Do this trick. Seven, eight, nine. Papa will be fine …

  A lump caught in her throat and tears burned her eyes. She laid her head on Mama’s lap and listened to the clicking of the beads.

  “Sachi-chan, wake up.” Mama shook Sachi’s shoulders. “It’s time to go see Papa.”

  Where am I?

  Crying echoed in the room. Ringing phones. The clacking wheels of passing gurneys. Her eyes focused again on the clock. Nine thirty-five. It hadn’t been just a bad dream.

  They followed a nurse down a long hallway where a light flickered and buzzed. The nurse’s starched, white uniform looked like it might crack if she sat down. Her nylon stockings swished, and her white shoes squeaked on the shiny floor. Sachi wondered why nurses wore those funny-looking hats.

  They stopped in front of Papa’s room.

  “Visiting hours are over, but you may have a few minutes,” the nurse said. “Then you’ll need to leave and return in the morning.”

  “Can’t one of us stay with my father?” Nobu asked.

  The nurse raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips, clearly irritated by his question. “Your father needs his rest, and so does Mr. Ihara in the bed next to him. You may have ten minutes, then I’ll have to ask you to leave. Like I said, visiting hours are over.”

  Sachi could have sworn the nurse turned up her nose when she walked away, kind of like older girls at school who thought they were better than everyone else.

  When she followed Mama and Nobu into Papa’s room, her heart beat so hard it hurt. She hid behind her mother, afraid to see what her father looked like. The man in the bed next to Papa was Japanese, too. He looked like a ghost and made wheezing noises that made Sachi feel like she couldn’t breathe.

  Mama walked to one side of Papa’s bed and Nobu to the other. Sachi stood alone at the foot of it. Her head throbbed when she saw his bandaged head. His blackened and swollen eyes. A fat, bloodied lip. Tubes everywhere. The fluorescent light above cast a blue-white light that gave his skin a strange color she didn’t like.

  “Papa,” Sachi said, her voice quivering.

  Mama touched his hand and whispered something that Sachi couldn’t hear.

  Nobu wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  A man walked into the room. His head was shiny bald, and his eyes were huge behind his thick glasses. A white moustache rested above his slight smile.

  Sachi read the badge on his white coat. Dr. Theodore Evans, MD, Neurology.

  Mama rose from her chair and greeted him, bowing slightly.

  “Mrs. Kimura?”

  “Hai … yes,” she said, bowing again.

  He extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Evans. I’m very sorry about what happened to your husband.”

  Mama looked at Nobu. “Please take your sister out of the room for a few minutes so I can talk to the doctor.” She moved her o-juzu beads even faster through her fingers.

  Nobu took Sachi’s hand and pulled her out of the room.

  “What do you think the doctor will say to Mama?” Sachi asked.

  Her brother brushed his bangs away from his eyes, then put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  After pacing up and down the dim hall for several minutes, they returned to the room. Dr. Evans smiled and leaned over to talk to Sachi. “Your father will need plenty of rest tonight. Maybe you should rest, too.”

  Sachi smiled to be polite, but couldn’t take her eyes off Papa.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Dr. Evans said before leaving the room.

  For a few minutes, everyone watched Papa in silence.

  The nurse came into the room like a cold wind. “It’s time to leave now.”

  Nobu touched Mama’s arm. “We should go.”

  Mama removed her o-juzu beads from her wrist and wrapped them around Papa’s as she softly chanted another prayer.

  Sachi rested her hand on his foot—the only part of his body she wasn’t afraid of hurting.

  “You rest now,” Mama whispered.

  Sachi kept patting his foot as Mama pulled her away. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Papa.”

  “Please don’t arrive before nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” the nurse ordered. “And the little girl will need to stay in the waiting area. No one under twelve is allowed in the rooms.”

  The words were like a door slamming shut. She looked up at her mother. “I can’t come in to see Papa in the morning?”

  Mama clutched Sachi’s hand and pleaded with the nurse. “Please. My daughter won’t be any trouble.”

  The nurse’s gaze shifted away. “I’m sorry. Those are the rules. We don’t want Mr. Ihara disturbed. She’ll have to stay in the waiting area.”

  Sachi didn’t like this nurse at all. Didn’t like the way she looked down over her upturned nose, like she was better than Mama. Didn’t like the way she was so bossy when she spoke to them. It made Sachi want to scream and cry at the same time.

  When Mama pulled her away from Papa’s bed, Sachi held on to the image of her father, even if she didn’t like the way he looked under that strange, blue light. Mr. Ihara’s wheezing followed her out of the room.

  After a long and quiet drive from the hospital, they pulled into the driveway. Sachi walked in the front door to silence so huge it pressed against her. She passed the Christmas tree—unlit, gloomy, and dark—and decided it was the saddest tree she had ever seen. Maybe turning the lights on would help. She plugged them in and watched the colors glitter on the tinsel. It didn’t help much.

  Mama called from the kitchen. “Time for bed, Sachiko.”

  Sachi gazed at the tree, in a trance. Was it really only that morning she had stood there, looking at presents? It seemed like days ago. Really, like another lifetime, when Papa asked her if she wanted to go to the park.

  “Did you hear me?” Mama called again.

  “Yes, Mama.” She walked up the stairs, wondering if she would ever return to that life.

  In the darkness of her room, all of the sights and sounds of the park flashed in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut to block them out, but the scene played over and over. The boys kicking, calling Papa a Jap. Cigarettes tossed on him. His body, curled on the ground. The colored boy with hazel eyes.

  Shadows of leaves danced on her ceiling like fairies in the moonlight. She made three wishes: that Papa would be all right, that it had all been only a dream, and that they’d never be called Japs again.

  After a time her body grew heavy. Then light. Floating, drifting into sleep, a dream.

  She stood in her front yard, and followed Papa’s stare to a sign where words were scribbled.

  Dirty Jap! Go Home!

  Patches of color were tossed all around the yard. She walked onto the brown grass, bent to see, to touch. Silk. No! Ripped and scattered, pieces of her kimonos—pinks, purples, yellows, and blues—were bright against the dead grass.

  Then she saw the tiny body parts. Her geisha dolls! Broken. Scattered. Delicate white hands still clinging to broken fans. Their porcelain faces, cracked and dirtied by the muddy soil.

  She turned to find Papa. But he was gone.

  Chapter 7

  Terrence

  December 23, 1941

  The doorbell rang. Terrence’s heart stopped. He turned on his lamp and checked the clock on the nightstand. Ten thirty-five.

  Momma called from the front door.

  He knew who it was. He’d felt hunted all day. Even if he didn’t see the hunters chasing him, he knew they’d find him. No place to hide. Should he run? Crawl out the window? How could he do this to Momma? And on the same day she found out Daddy was dead.

  “Terrence! I said come here!”

  Shuddering at the sound of fear and anger in her voice, he turned off the light and shuffled out of his room
. “Yes’m?”

  Momma stood by the sofa, straight and rigid, except for hands that twisted a handkerchief. The gold cross she’d worn since he could remember caught the lamp light and shone against her dark skin.

  Two cops hovered over her. A tall, skinny one took notes while the second cop watched Terrence walk into the living room. He must have been the leader of the two—his uniform was perfectly creased. All business.

  Momma’s voice broke as she asked, “Where’d you go this afternoon after you left here, son?”

  The clock on the wall tick-tocked and he wished he could just listen to it for a while longer. What was he supposed to say to her?

  “Terrence, I’m talking to you.”

  “Nowhere, Momma. Just walking.” He hated lying to her, but not as much as telling her the truth.

  The beanpole cop continued to take notes.

  “I’m Lieutenant Jackson,” the creased cop said. “We’ve spoken to a witness … a Nobu Kimura? Son of the man who was beaten up at the park?”

  Terrence’s eyes flashed wide open, but he caught himself. Crossing his arms, he stared at the floor.

  The cop continued. “Yeah, he gave us three names. We’ve already picked up your friends Joe Grant and Ray Morrison earlier. They said it was your idea. Now, care to change your story any?”

  Momma wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “Terrence? You wasn’t there, was you? Tell them where you went.”

  He couldn’t stand the hope in her voice, trust that he’d been somewhere else, not where the cops were accusing him of being. He broke down. “I’m sorry, Momma.”

  With reddened eyes, she searched his face, looking ten years older than she had a second before. Her lips quivered. “What’d you do, son?”

  “I … we … Ray, Joe, and me. But it wasn’t my idea! They … we beat up a man at the park. I’m sorry. I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen to me, Momma.” He searched her eyes for forgiveness, even a tiny bit. But she covered them with her kerchief.

  “Why, Terrence? Why’d you go and do a thing like that?” She rubbed her cross.

  “’Cause the Japs killed Daddy, Momma. I had to do something. So I got back at a Jap—”

  Her eyes widened and she gawked at him like he was a stranger in her house. “What you say?”

  “A Japanese man. I needed to get back at a Japanese man. For Daddy.” It sounded so stupid now. He felt his heart pounding in his neck, his temples. “But like I said, when I realized what we were doing, I tried to stop them.”

  “For your daddy? No, no. I don’t believe this.” She wouldn’t look at him and held her stomach like she was going to be sick.

  Lieutenant Jackson drew his handcuffs from his belt and grabbed Terrence’s hands. The cold metal stung his wrists.

  “Boy, you didn’t do nothing but shame your daddy tonight,” Momma cried.

  He wasn’t sure what hurt more—Momma’s words, or getting handcuffed in front of Momma in their own house.

  “We’re going to have to take you in, son,” Boss Cop said.

  Son? The word punched him in the gut. I ain’t your son. Only one man called me son. His throat clutched so tight it pressed down on his heart. Daddy would never call him “son” again. He wanted to lash out at the cop. But he knew to stay quiet. Daddy had told him before, “You don’t never talk back to no police. You understand? You do whatever they tell you to do.”

  “You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Michio Kimura.”

  Attempted murder? “What do you mean, murder? I didn’t kill no one,” Terrence said, panicked. “Just wanted to rough him up a bit.”

  “Mr. Kimura is in the hospital. In a coma,” Jackson said. “Not sure if he’ll make it through the night.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Momma cried.

  Jackson grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the door.

  When Terrence turned to say goodbye to Momma, he caught the twinkle of lights on the tree they’d bought that morning and shook his head. Still trying to keep things normal. Momma and the girls must’ve decorated that tree while Terrence was out beating that man. Neither act brought Daddy home.

  Just that morning. A lifetime ago.

  A dozen handmade ornaments dangled from the branches. Shapes cut from red and green paper were clustered at Missy’s height. Near the top hung a single glittered ornament, cut in the shape of an angel.

  He recognized Patty’s writing. “For Daddy.”

  Chapter 8

  Sachi

  December 24, 1941

  Sachi sat at the kitchen table, looking out the window at fog that blanketed the neighborhood. Blurry dots of Christmas lights on the house across the street blinked through the grayness. It was not merry like Christmas Eve should be.

  Nobu walked in. “Hurry up, Sachi. Visiting hours start in thirty minutes.”

  She pushed her bowl of rice and eggs away. “I’m not hungry anyway,” she said and scooted from the table.

  He picked up her dish and put it in the sink. “We’re leaving in five minutes. Mama’s upstairs getting dressed.”

  “I’m almost ready,” she said, then ran upstairs to her bedroom. She called for Mama. No answer.

  She called again. “Mama!”

  She found her mother in the dance room, kneeling in front of the altar. Her hands were pressed together and wrapped by o-juzu beads. Incense drifted from the wooden box where a small bowl of rice and an orange had been placed—an offering to Buddha. Mama bowed several times.

  Sachi listened to Mama’s whispered prayer. Though she couldn’t hear all of the words, she did hear “Papa” and “Taro” repeated over and over. Twice she heard Nobu’s name, and once her own. What prayers did she say for them?

  Mama’s head remained bowed, and she did not acknowledge Sachi.

  In silence Sachi watched, until at last, Mama placed a hand on the table to pull herself up.

  “What is it, Sachiko?”

  She held out a handful of books. “Can I bring these to the hospital today?”

  “Yes. But not too many—maybe three or four.” Mama walked out of the room.

  Sachi followed, still trying to talk to her mother. “Look at this picture I drew for Papa.” She held it up for her mother to see. “It’s a picture of our Christmas tree … to hang by his bed.”

  But Mama didn’t turn to look. “Nobu,” she called, removing her coat from a hanger, “are you ready to go?”

  “Yes, Mama,” he replied. “I’ll start the car.”

  Sachi placed the picture inside one of her books, guessing Mama didn’t care if she brought it. Papa would like it though.

  From the back seat of the car, Sachi watched Christmas decorations on street light poles drift by as they drove along University Avenue. Smiling children looked out windows of cars with suitcases tied on top. Mothers sat in the front seats. Fathers drove. She wondered where they were all going. It didn’t matter. Any place was better than the hospital on Christmas Eve.

  They walked into the waiting area on Papa’s floor, and Mama pointed to the green vinyl chairs. “Wait here, Sachiko” she said. “One of us will come out in a little while to let you know how Papa is doing.”

  She plopped down and felt the slap of cold vinyl against her legs. “Wait! Don’t forget this,” she said, holding her drawing.

  Nobu took the picture of the Christmas tree and smiled. “Papa will like this, Sach.”

  She watched them walk down the hall. The waiting area was empty. One, two, three … fifteen chairs in the room, and nobody to keep her company.

  Swish, swish. Swish, swish. A patient shuffled down the hall. Maybe he would stop to talk to her. But he passed, and when she saw the open back of his gown, she closed her eyes and held her hand to her mouth so the poor man wouldn’t hear her laugh.

  This place was quieter than the emergency room the night before. Too quiet. Only an occasional cough or moan from patients in the rooms broke the ringing in Sachi’s ears.

  She opened one
of her books, but couldn’t concentrate to read. She hated silence. In hushed moments, horrible images of her father’s beating haunted her. Flipping the pages, she hummed “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

  After what seemed like forever, Nobu returned and sat next to her. His face held no expression, but his eyes were red and puffy.

  “What, Nobu? Was Papa awake? Is he okay?” She longed for good news, but feared it would be bad.

  “No, Sachi. He hasn’t woken up since we brought him here last night.”

  She felt the urge to cry, but wanted to be strong like her brother. “Maybe he just needs more rest. Did you give him my picture?”

  “Yes. He’ll see it as soon as he wakes up.” Nobu took a deep breath and patted her hand. “I better get back in there. Sorry you can’t come in, too.”

  “It’s not fair.” She could no longer hold her tears. “He’s my papa, too.”

  Nobu hugged her; so like Papa’s hug. For the first time since she held Papa in the park, her tears rushed forth like crashing waves between deep, panting breaths.

  “It’s okay, Sach,” Nobu said, stroking her hair.

  Her usual soft voice teetered on the edge of a scream. “How can you say ‘it’s okay’? Why did those boys hurt Papa? He wasn’t bothering them. And what about that mean nurse? Why does she look at us the way she does? Just like the way kids at school look at me.”

  Nobu slumped into the chair. “I don’t know, Sach. I wish I did.”

  He held her for several minutes. The beat of his heart comforted her.

  Straightening, he asked, “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on that nurse behind the desk. She’s so absorbed in reading charts, she’s not paying attention.”

  Sachi’s eyes widened.

  “Let’s sneak you in. No one will know.”

  “Really?”

  “But only for a few minutes, okay? Promise you won’t get upset when it’s time to leave?

  “Promise. A few minutes will be better than nothing.”