by Sarah Bird
“My daughter’s ‘death guide,’ ” she tries, “her ‘spirit teacher’ told her to come.”
Light looks uneasily from her mother to the villagers, and only relaxes when, after a few seconds’ delay while they absorb the words, they begin muttering, “Un, un,” and bobbing their heads in enthusiastic agreement. “Death guide?” “Spirit teacher?” Of course, she must mean yuta.
Silvery explains that this death guide had ordered Light to come today, saying that it would help her to accept her sister’s death. That it would give her closure. Here Silvery illustrates the strange English word by touching the tips of her forefingers and thumbs together, making a circle. The villagers nod their heads with even greater enthusiasm, understanding Silvery’s “closure” symbol immediately. They agree it is the perfect way to represent the obligation of helping a dead relative complete her long journey to that other realm.
Silvery then points to the green-and-red bag her daughter is clutching and, rolling her eyes to indicate that she realizes how foolish it is, explains that Light insisted that they stop on the way to Madadayo, so that she could scramble down one of those steep black cliffs all the way to the beach below. Alone. Light wouldn’t let her come. Silvery tells them that she waited at the top of the cliffs for more than an hour while her daughter was down on the beach. Silvery asks them to understand that Light has been through a hard time, but she seems to be coming out of it, and that’s the reason she is indulging this obvious misinterpretation of Ryukyuan ways. Poor Light, Silvery continues, believes that whatever she collected on the beach is required as some sort of offering. She asks Mitsue to please try to understand when Light presents her with … Silvery stops to consult her dictionary again and, shaking her head at the inadequacy of her translation, and finally finishes with “old wood of the sea.”
Mitsue and the villagers wave off her apologies. Who among them has not consulted a yuta? And then performed whatever task, no matter how outlandish, that she prescribed? Really, there is nothing to understand. The grandmothers who see their granddaughters in this girl who is both bereaved and favored of the gods, are the first to open their arms to her and wrap her in hugs. It takes several stunned moments for Light to believe in the novelty of being accepted so immediately and so completely by a new group. But as she breathes in the wet hay smell of green tea and Pond’s cold cream coming from the old women, she relaxes with a deep sigh into their embrace. Light borrows her mother’s phone dictionary and, laboriously plucking out the words, gestures to the assembled and says, “Everyone. Here. Madadayo. My grandmother.”
The villagers put their hands close to their faces and clap gentle claps of delight.
With all the apologies and explanations out of the way, Mitsue declares it time, and the procession begins. At the edge of the village, they stop short just before reaching the gate of a house where a young boy is recovering from a bout of pleurisy. A rope of rice straw is quickly fashioned and placed at the gate to prevent Hatsuko’s spirit from taking the sick boy with her. Outside of Madadayo, they wind their way through the open fields. The breeze has stopped and not a puff of wind rustles the crops. Clouds hang like shimmering layers of mica that the setting sun shines sideways beams through. Red-bellied lizards dart out of the tall susuki grass, their silver tails wiggling calligraphy into the dry dust. The sweet potato vines glow in the focused light, their leaves so bright it hurts to look at them. Acacia trees shaggy with yellow flowers canopy the path. The mourners march in silence, their only accompaniment the lamentations of the cicadas droning out the grief of all creatures who must leave this green and gentle place.
When the trail narrows and enters into the cool, permanent dark of the thicket of red pines, the priestesses in white lead the way. The woods are cool and smell of resin. Light leaves her mother’s side and allows all the mourners to pass her by until Mitsue, in the rear, reaches her. She signals to the old woman to hang back and they let the others go ahead, watching as the priestesses disappear in the dark. When the last mourner has been swallowed up in the folds of deep green, Light removes a package from her Christmas bag and hands it to Mitsue. Mitsue unwraps the soft pastel flannel and finds sea-washed bones light as balsa wood.
Mitsue strokes the bones, whispers, “Tamiko,” on a long exhalation, and presses her cousin Hatsuko’s lost sister to her chest. Her friend’s prayers have been answered.
The mourners are already kneeling when Mitsue and Light join them in the courtyard enclosed by a rock wall ringing the tomb. As the priestesses say the prayers and set forth the offerings Hatsuko has stipulated, the mourners of Madadayo weep. The smell of black Okinawan incense returns them to the golden time before the war, when they and Hatsuko were young and they ran together through the sugarcane fields and into the shadowed woods where they shared all the secrets of a mysterious world. They remember Hatsuko’s sister, Little Guppy, always trailing her about like a baby duckling, and how the happy girl’s round cheeks would turn red in the cold as they stood in the winter wind blowing up the black cliff high above the East China Sea and sang the old song of farewell that saw off so many young men and women leaving their poverty-stricken island for Hawaii, Peru, Los Angeles, Brazil, the mainland.
Go, my lucky child
On the ship of good fortune,
And return, tethered
By a golden thread.
After all the prayers and paper birds and flowers have been offered, the coffin is carried into the tomb. Mitsue places a tray holding Hatsuko’s favorite teacup, rice bowl, her set of chopsticks, and teapot on top of the coffin. In the center of the tray, at a spot she estimates to be directly about Hatsuko’s heart, Mitsue nestles the flannel-wrapped bundle, gives it one last pat, and bids farewell to the cousin who was a sister to her for seven decades.
As the rock slab is replaced, Mitsue’s tears are ones of relief, because she has finally discharged her solemn duty. When the men reseal the tomb, though, sorrow descends, for she realizes that never again will she have anyone to share her life with. Whom will she discuss all the exciting news of the past few days with? Mitsue now can only guess what Hatsuko would make of the American girl, Light, who was silent and almost detached until the moment when Mitsue carried the flannel-wrapped bundle into the tomb. Why, she wants to ask her old friend, did seeing that cloth, a worn baby blanket bright with ducks and elephants, disappear forever cause the girl to collapse in the wrenching sobs of the freshly bereaved? And what would her dear cousin have to say about the mother, Silvery, who did not immediately take her grieving child into her arms but waited until that child turned to her? And how would Hatsuko have described the expression that crossed the soldier’s tight face when she finally did fully embrace her daughter? Would her old friend agree that the look seemed to be one of wonder? As if, until that moment, Silvery had never properly held her own child? And then why, after her mother whispered something in her ear, did an identical look of wonder cross the daughter’s face? It is puzzling. But then, the Amerikās are a puzzling people.
But what Mitsue wishes most that she could confer with Hatsuko about is what happened next: Holding her only remaining child, Silvery smiled. And when she did, Mitsue knew exactly who Light’s mother reminded her of: Aunt Junko and cousin Chiiko, for she has the same gap between her front teeth as they did. The same gap that even Chiiko’s sweet girl Little Mouse did. But it’s not just that gap; Silvery simply looks like one of Aunt Junko’s daughters. Mitsue is certain that Hatsuko would scoff and say that such a connection is impossible: Junko’s daughter, Chiiko, died in the war and Chiiko’s daughter, Little Mouse, was never heard of again. Hatsuko would remind her that, after the war, they themselves had searched for a gap-toothed toddler in all the camps. And, besides, look at Light. No gap there. Only neat, straight teeth. Still, Mitsue thinks, watching the two visitors, mother and daughter, as they walk side by side away from the tomb back through the dark woods to Madadayo. Still.
It is nearing twilight when the funeral party exi
ts the tunnel of green and emerges into the open fields. A wild, piercing cry high overhead stops the group. They search the sky until, in the waning rays of the evening sun, they spot a crested serpent eagle as it rises from the tallest branches of an ancient Ryukyuan pine. A band of white borders the majestic spread of the eagle’s wings. The wing tips extend out beyond the white like dark fingers raking the sky as it glides silently from its perch, then wheels in the sky and heads west. The mask around the bird’s eyes turns to gold as it faces the sun. With one mighty stroke, the bird soars on, out toward the Pacific Ocean. No one can recall the last time they saw such a bird, once so plentiful in their youth, and they all watch until the eagle disappears from view.
SIXTY-FIVE
It’s a little weird, though not totally unexpected, that Jake ignores me when school starts a week later. Ignore, though, that isn’t the right word, since I can feel a spot on my back heating up like there’s a laser aimed at it from where he stands at the edge of the crowd gathered on the front lawn of Kadena High School, staring at me. Christy and the rest of the Smokinawans are with him.
“What a man-whore,” Jacey hisses into my ear.
“Naw, it’s not like that,” I tell her.
“Like what?” Kirby, his arm draped over Jacey’s shoulder, asks.
“Nothing.”
“Spit it out, Cabooskie. You want me to put the hurt on Furusato for you? Because I will. Someone disrespects my girls, I’ma cut a bitch. You know I will.”
“Thanks, Kirbs.” Even though he’s kidding, Kirby does actually have a nice protective streak that Jacey brings out. I can even see the possibility that he’ll grow up into a decent man.
An honor guard of Rotzees in khaki uniforms with white webbed belts crossing their chests marches out. The instant the first notes of “The Star-Spangled Banner” play over the school’s loudspeaker system, we all shut up, freeze, slap our right hands over our hearts, and watch our country’s flag being raised. Right beside it, on a flagpole precisely the same height, the crimson bull’s-eye of Japan’s rising sun ascends. DaQuane and Wynn, red eyed and reeking of pot, slip in next to us and sing out, loud and proud.
Instead of singing, I look away from both flags, stare at the clouds, white and high as Marie Antoinette’s wig, and think about my mom. It’s been different since she came back. Actually, things were exactly the same as before when I met her at the flight line. She was surprised to see me for about two seconds, then asked if I was in trouble with SF, needed to go into rehab, or was pregnant. No, nothing really changed until the funeral. Until I caught the last glimpse I would ever have of those cut-up squares of baby blanket that had stroked Codie’s skin going into the tomb forever. That’s when I lost it. When I surrendered. When, amazingly, my mom stepped up to catch me as I fell and whispered the most astonishing thing to me: “Your sister did not die outside the perimeter. She was inside the wire. She died instantly. Being a good soldier. Your sister was a good soldier, Luz.”
Because I understood then that the same question that had haunted me had also tortured her, and that she’d volunteered to go to the Sandbox so she could get answers for both of us, I said, “So are you, Mom. You’re a good soldier.” That’s when I laid my grudge against her down.
So now we’re careful around each other. And when she’s not, when she’s a jerk, which she and I will both always be entirely capable of being, I think about my mom as a baby, a newborn whose skin color made her father feel like the butt of a false friend’s joke. Baby Gena must have been just one color betrayal too many for Eugene Overholt, since she came along about the time that he was figuring out that his beloved air force had also done him wrong. That the supposedly harmless rainbow herbicides—agents Purple, Pink, and Orange—were killing him deader than any Charlie in the Mekong Delta could have.
And my sweet little grandmother? Anmā? I think a lot about her too. An ex–Koza bar girl, steeped in the belief that her entire purpose in life was to bear away a family’s shame in silence, what chance did she ever have to be the mother her daughter needed? I remember Anmā doing the best she could, dancing in secret with me and Codie, finding rare solace in the feel, the smell of her granddaughters’ dark curls, the ones that reminded her of being crazy in love with another man who wasn’t worthy of her, and my heart aches thinking of the damaged daughter these two damaged humans raised. A daughter who only found her true home in the military. Who was so genuinely devoted to the U.S. Air Force that she passed it on to her own daughter, believing, truly believing, that it was the most treasured legacy she had.
Once I accept that all of them, even my screwed-up mom, were just trying to do the best they knew how, I have no choice but to do the same. I even use military time now, just because it makes my mom happy. Makes her feel like the world is under control and has its shit wrapped up tight, the way it’s supposed to be. Which, I guess, is what we all want.
O’er the lah-hand of the WEED and the HOMO. Of. The. Buh-rave.
Kirby, DaQuane, and Wynn yell out their version of the last line of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The instant the anthem ends, the “on” switch is flipped, and all us military kids are reanimated again. At precisely 0815 hours, the bell rings and the doors open. Another first day at a new school starts, and Jacey and I surge up the steps together. We consulted on our first-day outfits. Even went to the BX together to see whether there was anything not terminally lame. There wasn’t. So she’s wearing the pink top I loaned her that looks amazing with her coloring, and I’ve got on a great pair of skinny jeans that shrank and she can’t wear anymore. Codie and I used to do the same thing, trade back and forth. I thought it was only a sister thing. Turns out it’s not.
Our fellow brats eddy around us, the boisterous ones, the shy ones. The ones who’ve been on the Rock for a while and know the lay of the land, the ones who just PCS’d in. The Post Princesses. The Gung Hos. The strangers who’ll sit beside us in class and play with us on teams. The kids who’ll become our best friends or our archnemeses. The ones with whom we’ll keep in touch for a few years, then not recall who stopped writing. The ones who won’t remember sitting next to us in geometry. The ones who’ll tell us at the reunion in twenty years that they had the biggest crush on us. The ones who will look us up after their children are grown and they’ve retired and have time to wonder what it would have been like to have grown up with the same friends. The ones who will want to connect with their childhoods, who they once were, and will settle for sharing the name of a base, the name of a teacher we both had, the name of a maid who might have worked for both our families. It won’t even matter all that much that we were on that base, had that teacher, that maid, at different times and never really knew each other. It’s a connection. It’s a true thing from our childhoods, and we shared it.
I’ll meet new people this year, my last at a dependent school, and the first thing we’ll ask one another is, “Where have you been stationed?” If our bases overlap we’ll talk about how great the French fries were at that one snack bar by the pool or how there was that bakery right next to the base and the smell of baking bread would drive us crazy. I’ll send them all Christmas cards. I’ll keep in touch. I won’t be the one who stops answering, because it turns out that friends are like the Velveteen Rabbit: They’re all Quasis if you don’t believe in them enough to make them real.
At the top of the stairs, me and my brat brothers and sisters funnel into the crowded hall and start looking for our first classes. I have calculus on the second floor. As I head for the stairs, I catch Jake scanning the crowd. When his gaze falls on me, the one he was searching for, he stops looking around, and tugs down the collar of his shirt enough to show me that he’s wearing Codie’s opal necklace. It makes me happy that he recovered it from the shrine. He touches the opal, but doesn’t give me a sexy smile or mouth the word “pretty” or do any of those flirty, playa things. He just closes his shirt and hides the gem’s pale radiance next to his heart.
I don’t know
exactly what will happen with Jake and me. Maybe nothing will. Whatever does or doesn’t happen, though, I’m certain that the most important thing already has. I’m certain that Jake Furusato will never forget me.
SIXTY-SIX
My mother, Anmā, Kokuba Tamiko, Little Guppy, killed herself so that I could exist. Now that we have been released, I understand why. In the forty-nine days after we are delivered to our family’s tomb, yet before we complete our journey to the next world, the entire story is made known to me. Even the saddest parts, which Mother had never allowed me to share. Even the parts that took place after Aunt Hatsuko left our family’s tomb and, carrying my grandmother’s crock of pork miso, went in search of the unworthy Nakamura.
I see everything that happened after the sisters were parted. I see how, in the days after Hatsuko’s departure, my mother was tortured by visions of what would befall her feckless sister without her, the one with her broad Okinawan feet firmly planted on the earth. And so Anmā left our family’s tomb, where ten generations of ancestors guarded her, where she would have been safe and grown fat eating my grandmother’s dried sweet potatoes and bonito, and went into a world that was now ruled by demons. She left to save a life that she thought was her sister’s but was not. The life she saved was mine.
I see the colors she saw in the weeks before I came to be. The sea was still the blue of jewels. The sky was still the blue of softness. But there were no greens. There was only endless brown and black. The bleak colors swirled and formed into charred stumps, mud, potholes, and rotting corpses. My mother knew then that her sister, so much more refined and delicate than she, could not possibly have survived, and she gave up her search. She no longer wanted to live in a world without green, without her sister. The mabui left her body and, bereft of her spirit, Mother could no longer go on. Little Guppy lay down beside the bombed-out remnants of a stone wall built to protect a family from typhoons. But the family and their house were gone; nothing but ash and the stink of decay remained. That is where my mother prepared to die.
