A Thousand Stitches

by Constance O'Keefe

  “Gen,” she called when she surfaced a third of the way across the lake, “you didn’t happen to wear a bathing suit, did you?”

  “No, was I supposed to?”

  “No, I did just in case. I wasn’t sure it would be sunny, and I wasn’t sure we’d have time. I’d suggest skinny-dipping, but it really is cold in here. Glorious, but cold.”

  She took a few strokes on her back. “I have to keep moving or I’ll freeze. I won’t be able to last much more than a few minutes longer.”

  As she predicted, it wasn’t long before she climbed out of the lake and balanced herself on a large flat stone. He handed over her towel, noticing another long scar that snaked around the thigh of her right leg, longer and deeper than the ones on her face. After she had rubbed herself dry, she wrapped a sarong around her legs and stretched, reaching toward the sky as she laughed with sheer joy at where she was and what she had done. “The sun is so beautiful, and it feels great after being in the water.”

  With a few graceful steps she moved to where she had left her knapsack. She pulled her camera out and handed it over to him before moving back to the stone.

  “Take my picture,” she said, tilting her chin up and smiling at Gen.

  He held her image in the viewfinder for a moment. He was silent, and she stood patient and content, waiting for him. As he clicked the shutter, he realized that this is how he would always remember her, fearless and beautiful. How she would fill his thoughts, steady his resolve, and rule his heart. Lynn, his Lynn.

  3. MICHIKO

  Nara, 2000

  Akiko was winded by the walk from the bus stop. As she stood in the genkan catching her breath, Michiko observed the walking shoes, the characterless black pants, the turtleneck, and the long dull red vest straining over an ample middle. Akiko struggled out of her shoes, and as she stepped slowly up into the room, Michiko realized that her guest was plagued by arthritis. The much-gossiped-about hussy had bad knees. Despite the decade that separated them, she too was an old woman.

  As soon as she had opened the door, Michiko regretted her dress and make-up. As Akiko presented her omiyage, obviously a fancy sweet, Michiko decided there would be no tea in the tatami room. “Let’s sit in the dining room,” she said as she led the way to the back of the house. “Even though it’s too chilly to open the windows, the sliding screens are open in the tatami room, and we can see out to the garden from the dining room table.”

  Michiko brought tea and slices of cake to the table. The vernal equinox holiday would be in two days. The garden was wet from the morning’s rain and the sky still gray, but the buds on the weeping cherry promised spring. A single branch of forsythia was arranged with pussy willow in a vase in the tokonoma, and the scroll hanging above it had a Soseki quote and brush strokes that suggested a cat. More yellow branches were a bright blur in the neighbor’s garden.

  Akiko kept a hand-quilted furoshiki in her lap. Whatever was wrapped in it was neither large nor heavy. Michiko wondered why Akiko had used one of the old-fashioned carrying cloths for something that could have fit in her purse. When she admired the furoshiki, Akiko smiled and said, “Oh, yes, my sister Junko made this. She’s become quite interested in these old sashiko patterns in the last few years”; but as she spoke Akiko tightened her hold; the furoshiki remained in her lap.

  Akiko picked up her tea cup, and Michiko said, “I hope you like the cake. I have to confess that I used the event of your visit to buy my favorite.”

  Akiko looked at her plate and smiled. “Yuzu?” she asked. “I love it too. The house I grew up in Ukawa was surrounded by mikan groves. This taste reminds me of home. I wonder if people who grew up in Tohoku or Hokkaido feel about citrus fruits the way we did in Shikoku.”

  “Or Kyushu,” said Michiko.

  The thought of Kyushu reminded Michiko of a family trip to Kagoshima: the lava fields, Shotaro luxuriating in the warmth of the black sand baths, and Tetsutaro eating bonton ame and saying, “Mama, I like these funny citrus candies. It’s fun to eat the wrapping. How does it disappear?” And then she was back on Okaido, with Sam, headed for the Castle to watch the sunset and laughing about the bonton ame she had found on a dusty high shelf in the storeroom behind the shop. She remembered the sensations as the candy melted in her mouth and the last of the sunlight faded from the summer sky.

  “We’re both Ehime girls,” said Akiko. “It’s embarrassing, but what I brought is a yuzu cake too. Actually, the exact same one. I’m sorry.”

  “Not at all. You now know I’ll enjoy it as much as you do. I’m another Ehime girl.”

  They laughed, and as their laughter died away, the moment was gone. They were no longer Ehime girls; they were old ladies, widows. They started again, proceeding slowly, with full formality and careful politeness. Michiko accepted Akiko’s condolences and answered questions about her son, her daughter-in-law, her grandson. After a pause, it was she who mentioned Sam’s name. She offered Akiko condolences, saying she was sure there must have been a number of celebrations of the life of such a distinguished teacher. Akiko appeared eager to take up this theme and recounted stories about events in Himeji, Atsugi, and San Francisco. She talked about Sam’s students and Sam’s students’ students. She talked about a gaijin speaking Japanese at the memorial in Atsugi, about the ceremony to hang a portrait in the college in Himeji, and how she suspected her husband’s colleagues had drunk themselves silly after she had been seen safely off in a taxi. And then she talked about the Japanese, Chinese, Egyptian, Colombian, Brazilian, Saudi, German, and Swiss students all giving speeches in English in San Francisco, in a chilly room at the top of a tower with a sweeping view of the City, the Bay, and its bridges. She pulled photos from her purse. Michiko, dutifully polite, leaned forward to look. The photos showed earnest youngsters grinning out of their black, brown, tan, and deathly pale faces. Middle-aged, clumsy-looking teachers appeared at the ends of rows, all of them too fat, too tall, or none-too-well groomed.

  Akiko stopped when she was about half way through the stack of photos. She reached for the envelope to put them away, but Michiko pointed to the one that was now on top—an off-center photo with a black-sleeved arm in the lower right hand corner and wilted flowers floating in choppy green water. “Wait,” she said. “Tell me about this one, please.”

  Akiko took a deep breath, sipped her tea, and said, “I wish I still smoked.”

  “Good God, so do I, but there’s a limit to the foolishness we’re allowed now, isn’t there?”

  “He wanted his ashes scattered in San Francisco Bay. Do you know that American song about leaving your heart in San Francisco?” She hummed a bit before she continued, “Well, I decided to do it. We did nothing at the temple. He always said he didn’t want it, didn’t want any priests. So Junko, our neighbors, and some of his colleagues helped me celebrate. On the forty-ninth day commemoration, I decided to do what he wanted about San Francisco.

  “Evidently, having their ashes scattered in San Francisco Bay is something many Americans want to do. So Sam’s wish wasn’t unique, but I quickly found that there were a lot of rules and restrictions. I was lucky because one of his former students now does environmental work and arranged all the licenses.

  “Junko went with me—there she is in this picture—and my neighbor Harumi. Sam used to joke that she was his last student. She’s using the English he taught her in medical school in Australia now.”

  Michiko examined another photo of a small group on a boat—Junko, an older, dour version of Akiko, Harumi, young, slim, and stylish, and a small group of some of the same foreigners from the other photos.

  “Junko has been such a help to me. I don’t think I could have gotten on a plane with my husband’s ashes in a shopping bag if I hadn’t had my sister with me. And without her I couldn’t have let him go, have left him there, knowing I’d have to come back here to be alone.”

  The silence between them filled with the sounds of birds in the garden, a scolding squirrel, laughter of chi
ldren on their way home from school, and the faint resonance of a temple bell. Michiko said, “I still think of kaki kueba almost every time I hear that bell,” and the two of them recited Shiki’s words aloud together: Kaki kueba / Kane ga naru nari / Horyuji. As I bite into a persimmon / A bell begins to ring / Horyuji.

  As they finished, Ehime girls again, Akiko gathered up the photos and tucked them into her purse. “I shouldn’t have been so melodramatic. I’m actually quite happy I was able to make the gesture he wanted. And I’ve asked his former students in San Francisco, the ones in those pictures—they’re teachers themselves now—to help get his memoir published. It’s just a manuscript in English at this point, but I know they’ll get it done.”

  “He would have appreciated his wife making sure he had exactly the funeral he wanted and making sure he ended up where he thought he left his heart,” Michiko said with a smile. She used the word okusan, giving Akiko the proper, formal, and honorific title for wife and thus fully acknowledging her status. When Michiko finished speaking, they fell silent again.

  Finally, looking down at the furoshiki rather than at her hostess, Akiko said, “You know, Michiko, he always loved you—until the very end.” She looked up and held out the furoshiki. “That’s why I brought this for you. I found it in his bottom desk drawer. Take it. Please.”

  Michiko reached across the table. When she had the furoshiki in front of her, Akiko said, “It’s not just another omiyage. Don’t put it aside. This is why I invited myself today. This I want you to open.” Michiko unfolded the furoshiki slowly, and the silence came again. This time it was deep and long, the silence of loss, regret, and history. Around them the ancient capital grew quiet in the deepening shadows. Without another word, Akiko rose from the table and walked back to the genkan. After she had put on her shoes, she stood with her back to the room and said, “I must get going. If I don’t hurry, I’ll miss the train back to Kyoto and then won’t be able to catch the express that will get me home. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

  As she put her hand on the doorknob, she turned back. Michiko was kneeling and bowing at the edge of the genkan, whispering her thanks. “Samazama,” Akiko said. “Samazama,” answered the other Ehime girl. They didn’t need the rest of the words. Michiko remained kneeling in place long after the lock clicked into place, until all the light faded out of the afternoon, until her own knees ached.

  Almost five months later, Michiko again sat at the dining room table, surprised that the radio reports on the anniversary of the end of the war had so washed her in memories and melancholy that she again had the furoshiki in front of her. She told herself that the package that had arrived from Himeji the week before was another reason for what she was doing. The thick manuscript Akiko had mailed was nearby, on a shelf in the sideboard.

  She was dressed as she preferred: a loosely cut white shirt over slim black slacks. With the veranda windows open, the obliterating heat of the day extended inside and filled the house. What wasn’t occupied by the heat was filled with the swelling and ebbing cries of cicadas. Michiko had a glass of icy mugicha at her right hand. She moved slowly, as the heat and the noise commanded. Junko’s tiny white stitches made an impressive, intricate pattern and a strong contrast with the indigo cloth of the furoshiki. Michiko ran her fingers over the pattern, took a sip of the cool tea, and then sat still for a full minute before she untied the furoshiki. She slid the contents out and put the carrying cloth aside. Then she unfolded the senninbari and spread it out over the table.

  She smoothed the cloth to its full length, and touched the red stitches. As she thought of the lonely days in front of the train station and all those who had helped her by adding a stitch, samazama again came to mind. Samazama, she said to herself, and then recited the words of Basho’s famous poem: Samazama no / Koto omoidasu / Sakura kana. So many things / Are brought to mind by / Cherry blossoms.

  Michiko continued to finger the stitches and thought of all the years, all of her memories, and how different Akiko’s must be. Falling under the spell of the cloth spread before her, she thought of all the lost cherry blossoms of the Imperial Navy. When she shook the memories away, she walked across the room to the telephone and punched in her son’s number in Kamakura.

  “Mariko, I hope you’re well. I’ve been thinking of you because I know you’re interested in textile arts. I have a nice furoshiki I think you’ll like—it’s white sashiko stitching on a piece of deep dark Matsuyama-area indigo. But I’m really calling to ask how Gen-chan is doing and tell you about an idea I have for our ronin.”

  4. SAM

  Matsuyama, 1932

  “So, Gran, my job is just to read and translate this story?”

  “It’s the memoir of an elementary school classmate.”

  “In English?”

  “He lived in San Francisco until he was ten. He wrote it in English first and intended to translate it but died before he could.”

  “Sorry, Gran.”

  “I knew him a long time ago, and I never saw him again after the war. The first chapter says 1932. That’s when he—Sam, which is what the Americans made of Isamu—came back to Japan, to Matsuyama.” She handed over the manuscript, and picked up her needlework.

  Gen leaned back on the sofa, smiled at his grandmother, and began.

  ———

  My first experience of the Seto Inland Sea made no impression on me. In the years to come, its beauty would seep into my bones. It has never abandoned me. In all the years since I left Matsuyama, thoughts of that beauty have been at the core of my homesickness. But that day, boarding the ferry was just one more in a series of first experiences flowing past an overwhelmed ten-year-old.

  Two days earlier I had been awed by Mitsukoshi in the Ginza. Thronged with elegant shoppers, it sparkled with exotic merchandise. It was vast, much bigger than the Emporium in San Francisco, where a trip with Mother had been a special treat. And just three days before that, Father’s niece Kazuko and her husband, Masaaki, a Tokyo University professor, had met us when the Tatsuta Maru docked in Yokohama. Mother had talked during the entire crossing about how wonderful it would be to be back home in Japan, and how nice it would be for us all to be together in Matsuyama, once Father finished the job of getting our affairs in order and was able to join us. I had found her talk as confusing as I had found all the talk at home since the New Year holiday. I kept remembering Father standing at the dock in San Francisco as the horn blew and the ship slipped from the pier. It had felt like I was going backward and leaving Father behind.

  In the months before we left San Francisco, I had tried to stay awake to listen to the late-night talks. I remember certain words that floated up the dark stairs: stability, opportunity, prejudice, family status, Matsuchu. On the Tatsuta Maru, I wanted to ask Mother what “getting affairs in order” meant, but knew that there would be no answer I could understand.

  Despite my worries, the trip was fun. There were other kids my age; we played every day and gorged ourselves at the buffet, which served both Japanese and Western food. Mother laughed when I ate soba and spaghetti at the same meal. I was happy when she joked; I enjoyed her teasing before I ran back to the buffet for even more.

  When the ship bumped against the dock in Yokohama, Mother said, “Home again. Finally. March twenty-third, Showa Year Seven.”

  That means March 23, 1932. I’m arriving “home” to a place I have never been.

  Kazuko and Masaaki took us to a Japanese-style inn somewhere in the huge city, which felt as big as the ocean itself. Kazuko was tremendously kind, even though she and Mother had met only once before. She had lived in Tokyo for more than a decade and was our tour guide while her husband worked. We visited Yasukuni, but my only real memory is that it was the biggest wooden building and the first real Shinto shrine I had ever seen. Mother and Kazuko talked a lot about the shrine’s cherry blossoms, about the trees that were ready to bloom, and how magnificent it would be in a week.

  The morning we left Tok
yo was bright and chilly. Kazuko came with us to Tokyo Station. Mother and I were booked to Osaka on Japan’s fastest train, the Tsubame, the Swallow. The sleek Tsubame was far beyond my experience: all I knew were the boxy cable cars that inched up and then swept down San Francisco’s hills. Kazuko and Mother assured me that the highlight of the eight-hour trip to Osaka would be the view of Mt. Fuji. Kazuko helped us get settled and made sure we were seated on the right-hand side. “We want Isamu’s first sight of Mt. Fuji to be front row center,” she laughed. “There should be a good view on this beautiful clear day.” Back on the platform, she kept chatting with Mother through the open window as we waited for the train to get under way.

  The conductor called, “All aboard.” As the Tsubame slid into motion, Kazuko bowed deeply, and then stood smiling and waving her hanky as we gathered speed.

  Mt. Fuji, as promised, was about a third of the way to Osaka. I had heard about it my entire life and seen many pictures, but I wasn’t prepared. It loomed in majestic isolation over a broad plain, completely out of proportion to everything around it. It was huge, powerful, and austerely beautiful. I was riveted and craned my neck until it slipped out of sight as the train moved south and west. Mt. Fuji meant Japan; that much I knew from San Francisco. And now I was in Japan—“home.” I was living where each new day began when the light of the rising sun struck that magnificent mountain. I would finally become really Japanese. Yes, that was it. I was to be Japanese, truly Japanese.

  Up until that moment, being Japanese was something like having red hair. Kevin O’Rourke and Suzy Meecham, two of my classmates at Raymond Weill Elementary School in San Francisco, were redheads. It was their trademark. My trademark was that I was really good at music. Of course I could speak Japanese, but that wasn’t anything special at Raymond Weill, which was on the edge of San Francisco’s Japantown. Although most of our immediate neighbors were Caucasians, three other Japanese families lived within two blocks of our house on Cedar Street: the Sakuyamas, with four girls, and the Wajimas and the Nishizawas, each with two sons. We all played together and developed our own patois of our two languages. I was often in and out of their houses, as they were mine. The Wajimas had decorated their living room with portraits of the Emperor and Empress that seemed mysterious and alien to me. My family had no such thing. Nor did we have any religious pictures or paraphernalia, like the Buddhist altar at the Sakuyamas or the crucifixes at the Kellys, our next door neighbors.