Fog Island Mountains

by Michelle Bailat-Jones

  “You were not a student of mine. I would have remembered your excellent English.”

  A quick bow of his head, and then the man jumps a little in his seat as the front door rattles. “I have traveled a lot. English is a very practical language.” And then he is looking at Alec, he is determined, he is not thinking of himself. “Sensei. You were on the news. They have put out a search party.”

  No, no, this is silly, and Alec is shaking his head, he is telling this man that they have better things to do, what with the storm and all, what with the rivers that will overflow and the possibility of landslides . . .

  “There is no reason to be looking for me at a time like this.”

  But Fumikaze will not let him carry on, and he says, now in Japanese, now with the ease of a man returning to himself. “Sensei . . . your family . . . your family is looking for your body.”

  * * *

  Today the hospital has become the beating heart of our little town, the injuries have begun to come in—small ones from broken glass and from slipping in the rain, and a large one when Mr. Kōno’s back door blew in on him and knocked him into his kitchen table—and so there are extra nurses on duty tonight, and even though it was discussed and debated, they have asked young Nurse Noriko to come in and help, even if she might not be able to perform her job correctly, her mind is elsewhere you see, her spirit doesn’t come to us without complications.

  And here she is at the nursing station, they have asked her to maintain the floor, keep the paperwork sorted because this is always a problem on a busy day when more patients are coming in than going out, and so she is sorting the intake stickers and checking the files, she is making piles of folders in the box they use when they cannot file them right away in the large file room, and when the piles are neatly arranged, when the box is tucked under the desk, well, then she begins making visits to patient rooms and asking all the right questions, and none of the patient scan even guess that she hasn’t heard their answers, that she is scribbling the name of her boyfriend in all the empty boxes on her paperwork.

  “Please take care of yourself,” she says, bowing and smiling at the door as she backs out of each room, and then she turns on her heel and goes to the next.

  And the patients are so pleased with her attentiveness, they feel so lucky to be in such good hands, especially today, when it is more than inconvenient to be sick, or worse, to have been injured by this terrible storm.

  On her way from the women’s corridor to the men’s corridor, she must walk through the main lobby and she can see the emergency room entrance, the blinking lights have not stopped blinking today, and just now they are bringing in another person on a stretcher, one more hurt body to add to the tally from today, this time an older woman from one of the farms on the outskirts of town, who slipped in her garden while trying to cover her vegetable patch with a tarp, and the medics are sliding in all of the mud they’ve tracked in, and the nurses are calling for a janitor as the woman’s arm slips off the stretcher, limp and dripping water, and there is a great commotion because this woman should only be a little shaken up, it was only a sliced finger, a bruised hip and maybe a strain, her life shouldn’t be a question, but now we are asking it, and Nurse Noriko freezes as the alarm rings again, but this time it’s the generator because the wall of the storm is upon us and the strength of the wind is much too much for our wires. The hospital goes black.

  The children are crying and the mothers are shushing, an old man is laughing and ready to tell the story of the great typhoon of ’21—the hospital lobby has rarely been this packed, this animated, and everyone is at the windows now, watching the black line of clouds through the rain, this is the storm’s most furious moment and even the medics stop to pause, hardly a breath-long, because this woman needs chest compressions and they are wheeling her down a hallway, still slipping in the mud, especially in the dark, and the lights flicker, but only a flicker because the generator hasn’t come on like it should, not right away, so people are shouting, a maintenance man running, and then—a crackle, a snap, there is light.

  But Noriko has gone outside and she is standing in the overfull parking lot, in her pink uniform and that croissant-shaped hat, and there is water lashing against her legs and her hair has come free and the hat is now gone, let’s watch it fly off into the wind, and the whole lobby is turned toward her, the news of her tragedy rippling quickly through the people.

  “Yes, it’s terrible.”

  “And he’s so young, and she’s nothing but a girl.”

  “Are they sure he won’t wake up?”

  And why isn’t anyone going out to her?

  The storm wall is coming, it’s descending down from the sky, this noon sky without a sun, only these clouds and this wind, and Noriko is thinking of Masa, her boyfriend in his own hospital, with his own tubes and his injured brain, and the question is whether to let him go on, and they are waiting for her to decide if she will give him up, because she was supposed to have him for the rest of her life. But this isn’t a fair question for a girl of her age, because the rest of her life is so long, and so she’s passed it along to this storm, she is waiting for her answer, for the wind to push her over or take her away, for someone to make this decision in her stead, how on earth can they ask it of her—parents and family alike, they think she should be the one to decide to keep holding onto this young man whose brain has stopped working but whose body, a young man’s body, is strong enough to go on.

  And here it comes upon her, the full force of the wind, the first eye wall slamming down on her, on her little pink uniform, see it molded to her, see her tiny body, and she is blown against a first car, and there is a gasp in the lobby, and now other medics are running, picking up mud from the floor onto their once-clean shoes, and racing to catch her, because she’s being slammed against another car, and the men are holding onto one another, and onto the wheel rims of the cars, cutting their hands on the metal, fingers straining on plastic, and they are crouched low to the ground to keep themselves safe. They reach her eventually, where she’s wedged beneath the bumper of a third car, half on purpose because she is still young enough that something inside her does not want to die, and they gather her up just as the eye wall passes on, just as the wind drops completely, and she is so small really, and they will carry her back into the hospital, it’s easy now, what with the stopping of the wind and the chain of bodies that has formed, one after another, holding each other tight to give something to the medics to hold onto as they rush her back inside. And we are proud of ourselves, we are smiling now, our faces wet and our hair in great peaks, and we are moving backward now, one person at a time, retreating back into the lobby of our hospital, and we are its heartbeat, its savior soul.

  THE EYE

  We are all suddenly surprised with the silence—the still and the sun, it comes quickly, so quickly, and most of us know what this means, most of us know to stay put. And so I go to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil, and while it is heating, I walk into my small bedroom and change from my cleaning clothes into my practice kimono, then back to the kitchen to get the hot water and into the chashitsu. Open the door, shut the door. Silence. Everything is as I left it yesterday, all I need to do is pour the hot water into the black kettle and clear my mind, clear everyone away for just this moment.

  A hum, really, that is all I need. But a gentle hum at the back of my mind and I can create the proper emptiness. Hear it? The animal shear it; they have quieted in their cages. Everyone hears it. Alec in the lobby of his inn, tense and focused. Kanae on her bicycle, no longer heaving, now able to breathe. Listen to it. It ripples behind our ears while I cross the tatami floor, rumbles softly in our minds while I kneel before the kettle and pour the hot water. It vibrates about us while I sit, quiet myself now. With this hum I leave everyone else’s story to its peaceful pause. The storm has surrounded us; here, at its quiet center, we are at a stop.

  My back is straight, my knees folded beneath me so that my bod
y becomes its own special character, a moji that is an alphabet letter of myself, the me who is here only to prepare this tea, theme that means peace. Hear the whisper of the same hum. It is still here, it breathes around us. Watch me take the ladle and admire it, the length of the bamboo handle, its angle in my hands. There, now admired, it is placed gently on the kettle for when I will need it later. Again, I straighten. Listen to the quiet. Now I move the bowls—still we are humming, silently, a vibration in the air between us—I place the bowls before the kettle, lingering with my fingertips on the grain of the pottery, on the tiny raised ridges of the blue glaze. Fingers still full of this touch, I reach for the red scarf tucked into the pocket made between my obi and my kimono and I unfold it, run the tips of my fingers along the silk. Pull it taut, fold it. Now it is ready, now I am ready. Again, we must not forget to breathe. I clean the natsume, I clean the tea spoon. Gently now. Oh so gently. And the instruments begin to hum with us. The woven floor and my knees against the weave, my straight back and the parallel scroll hanging against the wall, the fragile bamboo and the steam of the water in the kettle. Everything hums.

  Take your eyes off of me and look at Alec standing in the lobby of the inn. I am pouring the hot water and he is not in pain, just for this moment, just now while we are paused. And Kanae on her bicycle has started listening to the gentler wind in the trees, to the drops of water falling from the leaves, this typhoon music and her mind is empty and her heart is quiet. And my mind is closed. I pour the water. I rinse the bowl. I am making us all clean again. Hear the flow of water from the ladle into this bowl, see the steam rise up and vanish into the air of this room. Now the bowl is clean, now the spoon is clean. Prepare the whisk. Everything in its place.

  Now I measure the tea. The fragrance of the powder reaches me, reaches all of us. We breathe in together. Here, right here, we are all in the same story. I am not telling this story; it is happening to us. I click the slender bamboo spoon against the side of the bowl and the powder falls into the scooped base. Tap. Just once. It is done. As he stands, hands folded and waiting, Alec hears the click, prepares himself for what will come. The green of the tea in the base of this black bowl is a color harmony whose richness empties us completely. Here, we are all at peace. This pause does not ask us to be happy, does not remind us that we are sad. It is nothing. We find ourselves in the space between the rich green and the shiny black. There. Only there.

  Do not replace the tea spoon too sharply on the natsume. It does not deserve to be dropped now that its purpose is concluded. We honor it for its contribution. We place it upward, tilted. We are grateful. Now to the ladle again, an extension of our own arm, a way to bridge the impossible distance between our sensitive skin and the heat of the boiling water. The steam rises from our ladle, trails through the air. We pour the water into the tea bowl, against the tea powder, letting it race and press against the porcelain. Here is the only violence of this ceremony. The heat of this water is the strongest force we allow into this room. It is a necessary violence. Take the whisk, this gentle curving tool and stir the tea, around with the wrist, scratching against the bowl. Faster now, careful not to spill. The hum grows louder, we are reaching the end point of our pause. We are climbing toward this ending with gentle hands and a quiet mind. Stir. Breathe. Stir. Whisk it quickly. Smell the damp leaf smell of the absorbing tea, the hint of hot porcelain beneath these fingers. Slowly my back has folded forward, my neck tipped down to watch my task. As the ceremony comes to its finish, the shape of the moji made by my body has softened, relaxed. I replace the whisk on the floor and lift the tea bowl. Such a heavy object, filled with such promise. I turn it in my hands, carefully, gently. And now I give it to you. I give it to Alec. I give it to Kanae. I give it to everyone here in Komachi. I take a sip myself. It is seconds only, warm green seconds when we drink together from this tea bowl and breathe in the silent steam, when we listen to the hum that has lifted us up, that has given us pause. We finish the tea.

  * * *

  Ken’ichi Chester sits reworking a drawing of an Apis florea honeybee, not for an article he will soon publish, not because he needs to finish last-minute work for the weekend, but because it is his favorite, and so he glides the pencil over the sheet of paper in soft, careful strokes, creating the bee’s silver-colored beard, he traces out the creature’s slender wings and lifts his pencil to make the lines as light, as faint, as possible. Today this little corner of the hospital waiting room has become his own, two chairs, a small low table to rest his bag and notebook, empty paper cups for the tea he sips while he waits and watches and hopes.

  “Your work is as passionate as your sister’s, I hope you know that,” said Alec to Ken’ichi years and years before.

  Ken’ichi had bowed, trying not to smile; Megumi was the artist and Ken’ichi the scientist.

  Ken’ichi stares at the A. florea he has drawn, a male specimen and so much thinner, much more fragile than the female he is meant to serve, and the truth is in the next pencil scratch—this truth: that he might never see his father again—and his pencil stops, midway through the arc of the bee’s transparent wing, and Ken’ichi must take a little extra air into his lungs, a breath pause of disbelief. He has never put much faith in the imaginary, why waste his time wondering about intangible, made-up problems or ideas when the real world is fascinating enough, so much complexity in everything around him: the insects he studies with their miniaturized lives, bodies and behaviors, his life with Etsuko and how their partnership works its tiny, gradual alterations on their individual personalities, encounters with strangers on the street, coincidences, events, the weather, the world. No, Ken’ichi has never wanted or needed to look past this concrete universe.

  His pencil is beginning a new drawing, one with strong lines and angles, a stick tree of a man with round eyes, but before Ken’ichi can finish his picture, the emergency entrance light is bleating and flashing—oh yes, yet again, he has witnessed it come to life already many times today while waiting here at his post—and the hospital’s double doors are sliding open to let in the sound of the storm, much calmer now it seems, Ken’ichi is thinking it must be over soon, but there in the space between the open doors is a man holding a teenage girl in his arms, and she’s clearly too heavy for him, he is nearly dropping her and calling out for help.

  Staff members step forward and they take the girl and lay her out on the floor of the waiting room, just a few meters from Ken’ichi— the girl’s lips are blue, her clothing soaking wet, her arm bent at an unnatural angle, and there is blood, too, something dark on her sleeves, or is it mud? and the man who brought her in is panting now, staring at the hospital staff as they work, kneeling then standing, kneeling then standing, but the staff are taking the girl now, putting her on a waiting gurney and telling the man to go to reception for all the details and it is only when the man turns to do this that Ken’ichi recognizes him.

  “Koizumi-san?”

  Yes, they went to school together, Ken’ichi is remembering it now, a quick flash of baseball games and science club and jokes passed in class beneath the nose of a strict teacher.

  The man turns to him and there is recognition in his eyes, too, then a nod, a touch on the arm from one to the other, a greeting of boys-now-men, and then Koizumi is sitting down in one of these hard plastic chairs, he is rubbing his face, and he is whispering, “When I found her, I thought she was dead . . . but she wasn’t, and what if . . . what if she had been dead?”

  “They will help her, they will help your daughter.”

  The man looks up, “She isn’t my daughter. I found her. In a side street—between my house and my mother’s house. She was slumped against a wall, near the entrance to an alley. I have no idea how long she’d been outside.”

  “She was alone?”

  “Why would a young girl be outside in this storm? Alone? Where was her family? Her friends? How old do you even think she is?”

  Koizumi looks at Ken’ichi and between them stretches out
the same childhood, the same small town, the neat lines of children walking to school in red caps and blue uniforms, the safety of Komachi’s streets, mothers in aprons waving from doorways, fathers at dinner and on Sundays, and they know this wasn’t all perfectly true. They remember the boy beaten by his father, they remember a car accident and the rumors of alcohol, but they can’t help seeing a shadow line somewhere, a then versus a now, and they are thinking about what we are all discussing these days: knife attacks at elementary schools, girls who play at being women, drugs to make us all smarter, drugs to make us all forget we will never be smart enough.

  “And her arms—did you see her arms? Those cuts. Old ones and new ones. And so young. She’s not my daughter, luckily, but I have a daughter,” he is looking at Ken’ichi now, his face losing its edges, his lips sticking high against dry teeth. “What if she . . .”

  Ken’ichi is thinking of his father now, wondering how people make these decisions, how does one decide to end a life, because it isn’t an easy thing, we aren’t so fragile as we think, our bodies stronger than we know, and maybe Ishikawa Sensei should not have been so forthright, maybe we aren’t meant to know our own timeline like that, maybe this knowledge is too much for us to bear, and Ken’ichi is wondering if he could bear it, himself, and then up kicks a sharp stone of guilt, because he should not be thinking of himself, but of his father.

  His old friend Koizumi is holding his head in his hands now, moaning a little, and Ken’ichi stiffens, wishes Etsuko were here, she would know what to do, would know how to smooth the moment with simple phrases and an offering of tea.