Daughter of Moloka'i

by Alan Brennert

  “I named you Ruth,” Rachel suddenly declared, a seeming non sequitur.

  “Did you?” Ruth said, not knowing how else to respond.

  There was a brief pause, then Rachel asked, “Did you speak with your … parents before you called me today?”

  The way she hesitated a second before saying “parents” annoyed Ruth.

  “My father passed away several years ago. My mother’s very frail, I didn’t want to possibly upset her.” A note of her old anger and resentment crept into her tone: “Anyway, it was me you wanted to talk to, wasn’t it? Though isn’t it a little late to decide you want to get to know me?”

  There was a deep, sad sigh on the other end of the line.

  “Ruth,” Rachel finally replied, “I gave you up for adoption because I had to. Because I was forced to … by the government.”

  Ruth was completely thrown by that. “What?”

  “Have you ever heard of … Kalaupapa?”

  “Kala … no.”

  “It’s on Moloka'i. Where Father Damien died.”

  Ruth had definitely heard of Father Damien: the Catholic priest who went to a remote leper colony to tend to the afflicted, only to himself contract, and die from, the disease. The implications of what Rachel had said now sank in, as did Etsuko’s words of thirty years ago: “She had no choice.”

  In a small, shocked voice, Ruth said: “You’re a leper?”

  In the silence that followed, Ruth could almost see Rachel flinch.

  “They call it Hansen’s disease now. And I’ve been paroled. They found a cure. A treatment. I’ve been released, I’m no danger to anybody.”

  Feeling numb, Ruth could only repeat dully, “Hansen’s disease?”

  “It’s not hereditary. It doesn’t pass from mother to child unless the baby remains with the parents for an extended time. That’s why we had to give you up.”

  The numbness was giving way to panic. She didn’t know what to say except, “I … think I’d better have a talk with my mother.”

  “Yes,” Rachel agreed, “that’s a good idea.”

  “I’ll call back tomorrow,” Ruth said, desperately wanting this conversation to be over before her heart exploded. “Or the next day.”

  “Ruth—”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t talk right now. I’ll call back, I promise.”

  She was not certain if that was true or not.

  * * *

  “Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?”

  In the privacy of Etsuko’s bedroom, her mother sat on the edge of her bed, her head lowered in embarrassment.

  “I wanted to. Many times. But your father thought it best you did not know all the facts of your parentage.”

  Ruth was dumbfounded. “But why?”

  Etsuko looked up. “In Japan, having leprosy is a terrible thing. It is seen as sinful—in Shintō the word tsumi means both sin and leprosy—and Buddhism says it is a punishment for sins in a previous life. It is the blackest of black marks on a family’s lineage. The shame is so great, no one will marry into the family.” She added pointedly, “Had Frank’s parents known about your mother’s illness, it is unlikely they would have blessed your marriage.”

  Ruth labored to understand. “Then why on earth did you go to Kapi'olani Home? Weren’t there other orphanages in Hawai'i?”

  Etsuko sighed and patted the bed. “Sit with me. As we used to.”

  Ruth sat down beside her mother and waited.

  Etsuko asked, “You have heard the story of how your father nearly died of pneumonia when he was twelve?”

  “Many times. Did he really drink the blood of a carp?”

  Etsuko nodded. “I have no idea if it helped him, but it surely did no good for the carp.” Ruth had to laugh. “The doctor prescribed remedies, but it was not he who saved his life. Taizo was nursed back to health by a woman—a midwife friendly with Taizo’s family. In those days there were no such things as nurses in Japan, only midwives. But they often knew as much as doctors did, and this one came over almost every day for six months—applying warm poultices and hot mustard plasters, making sure he had fresh air, feeding him nourishing soups and broths—until the winter fever passed.

  “When he was well enough to leave the house, he went to the midwife’s home to thank her for all she had done. But when her mother answered the door she declared, ‘I have no daughter.’ Taizo persisted, and she admitted that her daughter had left because she was … ‘unclean.’ The last thing this mother said to her daughter was ‘Never come back. And die quickly.’”

  “My God.” Ruth flinched at the cruelty. “She—she had leprosy?”

  Etsuko nodded. “She must have contracted it from one of the women she had midwived. Back then, there were no leprosy laws in Japan and no public hospitals that would take them; it was not uncommon to see homeless lepers wandering from town to town, living hand to mouth. Your father searched for her, but it was fruitless. Years later he learned that she had died at Kaishun Hospital in Kumamoto-ken, a private sanitarium for lepers opened by an Englishwoman, Hannah Riddell. He never had the chance to thank his benefactor for what she’d done for him.”

  A tingle of intuition ran up Ruth’s spine as she asked, “This woman—what was her name?”

  Etsuko said, “Her name was Dai.”

  Of course, Ruth thought. Of course.

  “Taizo felt he owed her a debt he could never repay—until he read about the Kapi'olani Home. And so we found you and named you Dai to honor her.” She squeezed Ruth’s hand. “I know you found your father’s ideas about honor difficult to understand. But you owe your life with us to that sense of honor.”

  Tearfully, Ruth embraced Etsuko. “I understand now,” she said softly. “I understand, Okāsan.”

  They sat there, interlocked in their love and grief for Taizo, until Ruth pulled away and asked, “So what should I do? About my … Hawaiian mother?”

  “She is part of your life, Ruth. She gave you life. Call her back.”

  “What if she asks to come here? How would that make you feel?”

  “I am secure in the knowledge that I am the mother of your heart,” Etsuko said, smiling. “But she is the mother of your blood. She deserves to see what a fine woman you have become … if that is what you wish as well.”

  “I wish I knew what I wished,” Ruth said. “This is so … overwhelming.”

  “It is your decision, butterfly,” Etsuko said gently. “But I have never known you to make a bad one.”

  * * *

  That night, while Donnie and Peggy were in the living room listening to the music and adventure from Gene Autry’s Melody Ranch, Ruth closed the door to the bedroom she and Frank shared and told him everything. He read Rachel’s letter and was as stunned as Ruth was by Rachel’s admission and by the history Etsuko had revealed. His first thought was “What about the kids? Are they going to—” He couldn’t bring himself to complete the sentence.

  “She said it wasn’t hereditary. But I’m going to call Dr. Higuchi tomorrow and ask him what he knows about leprosy.”

  “That’s good. Jim was an Army doc, he might’ve encountered this. Ask him whether it’s safe for us—and the kids—to be around her.”

  “I called her a leper.” Ruth felt ashamed. “She sounded hurt. But that was the only word I knew.”

  “You couldn’t know. This is beyond the experience of most people.”

  “What do I do, Frank?”

  He smiled. “I think that may be the first time you’ve asked me that since we’ve been married. You don’t usually have trouble figuring that out.”

  “I do now. I feel so … confused about this woman. For years I’ve been angry at her, at my hapa half, but when we spoke I couldn’t help marveling at how alike we sound. And there was such longing and sadness in her voice—”

  “You don’t have to decide right away. And you don’t have to commit to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  Ruth nodded. If only she knew what she wanted
to do.

  * * *

  It took her several days to assimilate all that Dr. Higuchi told her about Hansen’s disease; she even went to the public library to read whatever she could find about Moloka'i and Father Damien. There wasn’t much other than a couple of biographies of Damien, and she was impressed by the courage of this man who had given his life to help people who had been forgotten, abandoned. But the graphic descriptions of the physical effects of leprosy—tumors, disfigurement—made her queasy, anxious. It took more days to work up her nerve, but that Sunday Ruth again dialed Rachel’s number in Honolulu (though a few hours later).

  This time Rachel answered it on the first ring:

  “Hello?” The fear and anticipation in her voice was palpable.

  “Hi,” Ruth said. “It’s me again.”

  Simultaneously they said, “I’m sorry—”

  Simultaneously they laughed.

  “You first,” Ruth said.

  “I’m sorry if I alarmed you last week,” Rachel said. “I’m sure it was enough of a shock, hearing from me, much less the rest of it.”

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to call back,” Ruth said. “I guess I panicked a little. My first thought was for my children; what it might mean to them.”

  Ruth heard the barely concealed delight in Rachel’s voice: “How many children do you have?”

  “Two. Peggy’s eight and Donald is ten.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “My doctor says you’re right, leprosy isn’t hereditary,” Ruth said. “But that children are more susceptible to it.”

  “Did he also tell you that you don’t get it from casual contact? From touching someone, or breathing the same air they do?”

  “Yes. But he did say that children are more susceptible.”

  There was a pause as Rachel seemed to consider her words. “Ruth, it’s you I want to see. I’m willing to do it under any conditions you name. If you don’t want me near your children, I won’t go near them.”

  Ruth ginned up the courage to ask, “How … bad … is your leprosy?”

  “You mean, am I disfigured?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Rachel said candidly, “My right hand is deformed. And my feet. Other than that, my main complaint is neuritis.”

  Dammit, Ruth thought, why do I keep putting my foot in my mouth like this? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound … tactless—”

  “It’s all right. Not many people know much about leprosy. Even in Hawai'i it’s something most people would prefer not to think about.”

  There was a long silence, and then Ruth admitted, “I used to wonder about you. Who you were. Why you…” She paused. “I think it’s only fair to tell you. I love my okāsan, my mother. I loved my father.”

  “Of course you do. They raised you. Raised you well, to judge by what I’ve heard. I’m not trying to replace anyone in your affections, Ruth.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  “Just what I said in the letter. To see you.” Here Rachel’s voice caught. “You were the only baby I ever had, and you were taken from me after less than a day. If someone had taken Peggy or Donald from you right after they were born—if you hadn’t seen them in thirty years—what would you want?”

  Ruth heard and was moved by her words, but even more clearly she heard Rachel’s voice. It was a voice that sounded like family.

  “We’re not rich,” she told Rachel. “I can’t afford to come to Honolulu.”

  “I don’t expect you to,” Rachel said, sounding relieved. “I have savings. And Social Security—I worked at the Kalaupapa Store for almost twenty years. The government paid for my food, housing, and clothes, so I’ve got a few dollars in the bank … and a list of places I want to see before I die. But nothing as much as I want to see you, Ruth.”

  “You worked for twenty years? How long were you at Kalaupapa?”

  “Let’s see—I was sent there when I was seven years old, and I left last year, so … fifty-four years.”

  Ruth was thunderstruck. Seven years old? Suddenly the contours of Rachel’s life seemed larger, and sadder, than Ruth had ever imagined.

  But there was only happiness in Rachel’s voice now. “Ruth—mahalo nui loa. In a nutshell that means ‘thanks a bunch.’” Ruth laughed at that. “I’ll be in touch when I know my travel plans.”

  * * *

  That evening, after the kids had been put to bed, Ruth told Frank and Etsuko of her decision. “I think it’s best I meet her alone, away from the kids.”

  “I agree,” Frank said. “How do you feel about this?”

  “Afraid. Excited. Part of me can’t wait to see what she looks like. Part of me wants to drive the hell away, as far and fast as I can.”

  “Hawaiians and Japanese have something important in common,” Etsuko noted. “We both revere our ancestors. In Hawai'i I was honored to hear long, beautiful meles—songs, or chants—joyously singing the history of an 'ohana, a family, going back twenty generations or more. It is like hearing a chorus of voices singing across time itself.

  “You have a Japanese legacy, Dai, but our blood is not your blood, no matter how much we love you and you love us. You have songs to hear from your Hawaiian mother, and songs to be revealed, perhaps, of your Japanese father. I am excited for you. I cannot wait to hear the songs you sing back to us.”

  Chapter 15

  The Hotel Sainte Claire, built during the last great roar of the 1920s, was a lavish, six-story palace whose extravagant cost earned it the nickname “the Million Dollar Hotel.” It was still the finest hotel in San Jose, and Ruth had been frankly startled when Rachel wrote saying she would be staying there. Either her Hawaiian mother really did have money to spare or she was trying a bit too hard to show she did not need money from Ruth.

  Ruth had never even been inside the hotel’s lobby before and couldn’t help feeling intimidated—both by the opulent Spanish Revival decor and by the fact that hers was the only nonwhite face there. The lobby was chiefly populated by businessmen in dark three-piece suits. In her sunshine yellow dress, Ruth felt like a canary among a flock of blackbirds.

  She hadn’t anticipated being as nervous as she was. Even after their several phone conversations, none of this seemed quite real. She took the elevator to the sixth floor, then stood at the door to Rachel’s room—collecting both her thoughts and her composure—and knocked.

  A few moments later the door opened and Ruth found herself staring into the face of the woman who had given birth to her.

  Rachel was tall and slim, her broad face and amber skin resembling Ruth’s own. Her graying hair was styled in fashionable waves. She looked to be in her early sixties. She was quite beautiful, with warm brown eyes and a smile that, upon seeing Ruth, lit up her face like a sunrise.

  Ruth’s smile was more nervous.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Ruth.”

  Rachel’s eyes glistened.

  “Ruth,” she said softly. “Oh my baby, you’re so beautiful.”

  As Ruth blushed, Rachel reached out in an embrace. By Japanese standards, hugging a total stranger was well outside the norms of polite behavior, and Ruth couldn’t help tensing up as Rachel held her. Rachel seemed to sense this and let go before it became too discomfiting.

  She took a step back, wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said with a smile. “I’m a blubbering old woman. Take me out and shoot me.”

  Ordinarily this would have made Ruth laugh, but she had barely heard the words. Her gaze had fallen on Rachel’s right hand, which—as Rachel had warned her—was deformed, contracted into something like a claw.

  It was true. It was all true.

  Ruth felt suddenly unsteady on her feet. “May I … sit down?” she asked.

  Rachel stepped aside. Ruth wobbled precariously on her heels and gratefully sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Can I get you some water?” Rachel asked with concern.

  Ruth shook her head and took a few
deep breaths. She looked at Rachel and said in quiet amazement, “You … really do have leprosy.”

  Rachel seemed understandably puzzled. “Well, yes.”

  With an embarrassed laugh, Ruth confessed that until that moment, “part of me didn’t quite believe you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh, but…”

  She explained what Etsuko had told her about her Hawaiian mother having no choice but to give her up. “But I couldn’t help it, I’d still wonder. How you could have given me up. Why you didn’t—love me enough—to keep me.”

  “Oh, Ruth,” Rachel said with a sigh, sitting down beside her.

  “Please don’t be offended by this,” Ruth said, “but in a strange way … it’s almost a relief to learn that you have leprosy. To know that you gave me away because you had to, because you really didn’t have any other choice.”

  “Nothing else in this world could have made me give you up.”

  All at once Ruth felt self-conscious, having shared so much, so soon. She stood, smiling sheepishly. “Why don’t we go downstairs to the restaurant and get some coffee,” she suggested. “Or maybe something stronger.”

  * * *

  The gin and tonic she ordered in the hotel’s palm-bedecked atrium restaurant helped relax the tension in her body but did nothing to relieve the tension of the conversation. Rachel had ordered a Danish pastry and a cup of coffee. She took a sip. “So … your parents adopted you when you were five?”

  Ruth nodded. “Mama always wanted a daughter, but after my brother Ralph was born she learned she couldn’t have any more children. So they decided to adopt a girl.” She did not bring up her namesake, Dai; she was still coming to terms herself with her okāsan’s revelations.

  “Do you recall anything of Hawai'i?”

  Rather than go into the few scraps of the past she recalled from her parents’ home in Honolulu, Ruth said, “I’m afraid not. My earliest memories are of Florin, our farm there.”