I am afraid for Yujiin.
What if no one let him out of that crate?
What if he is roaming the streets looking for me?
What if he found a ferryboat to the island and is waiting at our house because Pastor Rob does not know he has returned?
And the worst: What if he followed the train tracks and is lost in the dusty wind?
*
When Miss Rosalie hands me paper at the end of the school day, I get an idea.
If the wind was strong enough to carry my letter to Ron, then maybe it is strong enough to bring Yujiin.
When I get home, I draw Yujiin on a piece of paper. I do not know what he looks like now, so I draw him as I last saw him, shoved into a crate. I draw his eyes and his ears and his tail. His mouth open and barking. His paws pushing against the crate.
I fill the drawing with promise words:
Come, Yujiin, and I will give you an extra bowl of rice and chicken.
Come, Yujiin, and we will run until we fall down.
Come, Yujiin, and you can sleep in my bed.
In the morning, I rise early. I water Mother’s garden and check each of the plants. Since the rainstorm they have grown tall again. Then I walk past Block 3, toward the administration buildings. I walk behind the buildings until there is nothing but dirt and sky between me and the fence that surrounds the prison-village. I hold up my picture of Yujiin and make a wish, raising my arm high above my head. The wind flaps the paper. Then it rips it from my hand, carrying it over the fence. I watch my paper until it is too far away to see.
I have added my paper promises to the air.
After school, I draw another picture of Yujiin. This time, I draw him as he looked hidden beneath my coat. His panting tongue. His wide-open eyes. Crouched and quiet.
I write more promise words on this drawing:
Come, Yujiin. Come. We will take long walks and wrap up in a blanket together.
The next morning, when I release this drawing in the wind, it flies higher than yesterday’s paper.
Every day, I draw Yujiin. Some days it is one picture. Some days it is more.
Yujiin running on the sand.
Yujiin sleeping under Grandfather’s chair.
Yujiin watching seabirds dip and bob.
Yujiin waiting by the door.
Each morning, I make a wish for Yujiin to come and I send new promises in the air.
*
After ten and then twenty and then thirty drawings, I wonder. One of my pictures should have found Yujiin by now. So why hasn’t he come?
I draw one last picture. Yujiin and Grandfather. Sitting side by side on their rock at the beach. The ocean in front of them. The sun behind them. This will be the one, I think. This will be the one that brings Yujiin.
When I release this picture the next morning, I do not write a promise. I write a message instead: I’m sorry, Yujiin! I’m sorry.
I hold it up high. Then I jump and throw it into the wind.
Wind and dust and tears fill my eyes. I scrub at them with my sleeve and run home. Past people on their way to work. Past Mother’s garden.
Inside our room, I drop to the floor at Grandfather’s feet. I wrap my arms around his legs and try to speak. But my throat is still closed. I want to tell him I am sorry. I want to ask him to forgive me. But no words come out.
“I know you miss Yujiin,” Grandfather says. “I miss him, too.”
I cry until I feel Grandfather’s hand on my head. I look up and he moves his hand to my cheek. I scrub at my eyes again.
“I know you are sorry,” Grandfather says. “I am sorry, too.”
Ron has already left for school, and classes have started. But my heart feels like flying when Grandfather takes my hand and walks me to school.
*
That night, Grandfather and Ron and I sit at a long table in the mess hall. Grandfather leans his head toward Ron, who is speaking to him. There is no mention of secrets in Ron’s words, so I stop listening. Instead, I keep my eyes fixed on the entrance to the kitchen. This is the first time Grandfather has come to the mess hall. Mother does not know about Grandfather’s decision, and I want to see her when she learns.
Mother comes out, balancing a teapot and cups. She takes several steps before she sees. Then she stops walking.
I touch Grandfather’s arm.
Ron stops talking.
Mother starts walking.
She sets the teapot and cups on the table.
I can see tears on her cheeks.
I also see her smile.
It is a small smile. A quiet smile. But it is the first smile I have seen on Mother’s face since we left the island.
“Father,” Mother says. “You’re here.”
Grandfather nods. “I am here.”
I lift the teapot to pour hot water into the cups, but Mother stops my hand.
“Wait,” she says. She leaves the table, walking so quickly she is almost running. She leaves the mess hall. In a few minutes, she returns, carrying a bowl and a cup as well as a small sack in her arms.
Mother sits at the table and places the teapot in front of her and one cup next to it. She sets the bowl to her left. She bows over the table.
I remember this from the island. It is a special ceremony. A ceremony to honor a special moment. Mother is preparing tea.
Grandfather sits up straight.
Ron and I place our hands on our laps.
Many pieces of the ceremony are missing.
There is no special mat to cover the table. Instead, Mother folds her napkin and sets it on the table.
There is no special tea set. But Mother pours water into the cup in front of her, swirling it around to clean it before pouring it into the empty bowl. She dries the cup with a napkin.
There is no special tea powder to whisk into boiling water. Instead, Mother shakes the last of the tea leaves from the sack into the teapot. She pours the weak tea from the teapot into the cup. She holds the cup on her palm and then places it on the table in front of Grandfather. Grandfather holds the cup in his palm and sips. He sips again before placing the cup on the table. Then he takes a napkin and wipes the rim of the cup.
Ron takes the cup in his palm and sips. After he has set the cup on the table and wiped the rim, it is my turn.
I am careful to do as Mother has taught me. I place the cup on the palm of my left hand and raise my palm to my chest. I sip slowly.
This weak tea washes the dust from my throat.
Perhaps tonight I will find my voice.
*
Father joins us in our room earlier than usual this evening. He looks excited.
I remember the last time Father looked excited. It was when he pulled Keiko’s letter from his pocket.
That was many Yujiin pictures ago. I think about this morning’s picture—the picture with a message. I wonder how long it will take for that picture to find Yujiin.
This time Father does not pull a letter from inside his shirt.
This time he pulls something furry and small and brown from inside his shirt.
He places it on the floor of our room.
“This dog needs a home,” Father says. “I saw him by an administration building. He’s little, like Yujiin. I thought maybe it would help. Maybe bring back Manami’s voice. I asked a soldier if we could have the dog. The soldier said the dog didn’t belong to anyone. It just wandered in through the gate. He said I could have it.”
My heart starts to beat so hard that I think it might beat out of my chest.
Ron pets the dog.
Mother brings a bowl of water.
“Hello,” Grandfather says. He smiles when a pink tongue licks his hand.
I hear Father’s laugh and see Grandfather’s smile.
Mother looks up at me and her smile freezes. She reaches toward me.
“Manami?” she asks. “Do you want a dog?”
I do want a dog. I want my dog. I want Yujiin.
The wind gave my message
to the wrong dog. If this dog got Yujiin’s message, then how will Yujiin find me?
I want to explain, but my throat closes tight. Too tight for words to get out. Too tight for air to get in. I run outside to Mother’s garden.
I sit on the ground between mounds of zucchini and cilantro.
I touch the thickening stems.
I touch the handprint-shaped leaves.
My throat begins to open just a little bit. Just enough for air to get in.
I close my eyes when I see Father walk out the door carrying the dog.
The next morning, I see the dog following behind Kimmi’s mother.
At school, Kimmi tells me how happy she is that my father gave them the dog.
I want to be happy for Kimmi, but I cannot smile. After a minute, I nod.
AUGUST
The wind that blows sand so hard that it hurts my cheeks finally stops. But the sun grows hot and heavy and burns everything in the prison-village: faces, necks, hands, plants.
For several weeks, there will be no classes. Workers will use the time to make new classrooms. The high school classes will continue to be in Block 7, but the elementary and junior high school classes will be spread out in many blocks. When school starts again, we will all still meet in the school yard in front of Block 7 for the pledge.
There are also some other new buildings in the prison-village. It is starting to look like a town. Except for the wire fence.
Workers have just finished building a hospital.
A store opened. Mother can buy fabric and shoes. The store sells everything—besides fabric and shoes, you can buy furniture and dishes and toys and tools.
Ron asks me to meet him at school. Miss Rosalie is leaving for the school vacation, and she would like to say goodbye to me.
I would also like to say goodbye to Miss Rosalie. And I wish to give her a gift. I pull my drawings out from under my mattress and look through them. There are three pictures I like.
The first is a drawing of the school during recess.
The second is a drawing of Miss Rosalie reading a poem to the class.
The third is a drawing of me and Ron and Grandfather in Mother’s garden.
Because I cannot choose, I take them all.
When I arrive, I see Miss Rosalie sitting on the steps outside the classroom. Ron stands in the doorway behind her, frowning.
I wonder what has made Ron unhappy.
“Here’s Manami,” Ron says.
I hand Miss Rosalie the three drawings. She looks at them all quickly and then looks at the picture of her reading a poem for a long time.
“This is very good,” she says. “But I think you know that.”
Miss Rosalie studies the drawing.
“Do I really do that with my hair?” she asks.
I nod. Yes, I think. You do. You do twirl your hair with your finger when you read poetry to us.
Then she pulls out the drawing of Mother’s garden.
“I shall treasure this most of all,” she says. “I will look at it every day and think of Manami. Manami who loves her family. Manami who grows a garden. Manami who draws beautifully.”
I look down because I do not want Miss Rosalie to see my sorrow. I will miss her.
Miss Rosalie leans down until she can see my eyes.
“I’m just visiting my aunt and uncle for a few weeks,” she says. “I will come back.”
Miss Rosalie says it like a promise.
I nod.
“I have a gift for you, too,” Miss Rosalie says.
She goes inside her classroom and returns with a thick stack of paper and four pencils.
I lift my eyes to Miss Rosalie’s face and am surprised to see tears on her cheeks. For the second time, Miss Rosalie wraps her arms around my shoulders.
“I will miss you,” she whispers. “But I will come back.”
Ron tells me to walk home without him.
On my way, I see Kimmi’s dog lying in the shade in front of their barracks.
As I walk past the mess hall, I see another dog following a man. This dog is white. But it is large. When I see this new dog, my heart starts to beat faster. Why did this dog also come and not Yujiin? I run the rest of the way home.
When I burst through the door, Grandfather jumps from his chair and I drop my paper and pencils.
“What is wrong?” he asks.
My breath comes quickly after that run. I cover my eyes with my hands.
Grandfather lifts me and sets me in his chair. “Breathe,” he says.
When my breath is calm again, Grandfather says, “Tell me what has happened.”
I open my mouth, but words do not come out. My eyes burn with tears, and I close them.
Grandfather places a pencil in my hand and sets a piece of paper on my lap.
“I must know what has upset you, little one,” Grandfather says. “Is it because your teacher is leaving?”
I shake my head no.
I think about the Yujiin drawings. I think about the promises I made. I wonder if these two dogs found my Yujiin drawings by mistake. And came to the prison-village because of them.
I open my eyes, but Grandfather is blurry. The room is blurry. When I write, even my letters are blurry: Dogs.
“I understand,” Grandfather says. “They make you miss Yujiin more.”
He takes the paper and pencil from me and then sends me to my bed.
“No drawing,” he says. “Sleep.”
When I wake, it is nearly dark. I have slept for hours and missed dinner. Grandfather and Mother and Father and Ron gather around the small table, speaking in low voices. I sit up on my bed.
Mother joins me, unbraiding my hair and brushing it out. The rhythm of the brushing almost makes me fall asleep again. She brings a wet cloth to clean my face and hands. It feels cool against my skin. I hold it to my forehead while she braids my hair.
“I’m sorry the dogs upset you today,” she says. “Come.”
I sit between Ron and Grandfather.
Ron tells Mother that I went to the school to say goodbye to Miss Rosalie.
“Miss Rosalie is fond of Manami,” he says.
“Manami is a good student,” Mother says. “I am not surprised.”
“Yes,” says Father. “Manami is a good girl. We are proud of her.”
“Manami brought paper and pencils home,” says Grandfather.
“They were a gift from Miss Rosalie,” Ron says.
I feel my cheeks heat up. This praise makes me feel happy and uncomfortable at the same time.
Mother uncovers a bowl of rice and places it before me. She slices a cucumber and arranges it on a plate in the shape of ocean waves. She pours water from a teapot into a cup.
The water is not hot. It is also not cold. But the cup feels good in my hands. Solid. The cucumber is cool and sweet. The rice is filling.
While I eat, Ron and Father talk. Ron wants Father to find a place for him on his building crew until school starts again. Father does not want Ron to work on the building crew. Father wants Ron to spend his time studying so that he will not fall behind when he returns to college. When their talk is almost an argument, Mother interrupts.
“My garden is strong and healthy,” she says.
“You brought good seeds,” Father says.
“This desert sun is hard on the plants,” Mother says. “They would have died if not for Manami and Ron’s help.”
Father again tells Ron to use this month to study. Before Ron can answer, Grandfather speaks.
“No arguments tonight,” he says.
Mother fills the silence that follows with a song.
*
With no school, the wild boys run loose. They do not study. They do not garden. They do not work. They huddle in shadows. They scowl. They smoke cigarettes.
Grandfather says, “Their fathers are working and cannot take them out on boats.”
Grandfather says, “Their mothers are working and cannot watch over them.”
; Grandfather says, “They are running wild.”
I think, My father is working.
I think, My mother is working.
I think, I do not run wild.
Ron buys a baseball bat, a baseball, and a glove with his salary. He makes a baseball diamond. He gets wood squares from Father for each base.
It stays light past 8:00 p.m. So after dinner, Ron picks up his bat and ball and glove.
“Baseball?” Ron asks me.
I look at the ground because I do not want to disappoint Ron. But I do not want to play ball with the wild boys.
“Maybe next time,” he says.
He tosses his ball in the air with one hand and catches it with the other while he walks to the baseball diamond.
From the spot in Mother’s garden where I squat to check for tomato bugs, I see one wild boy after another slink from the shadows to follow Ron.
“That is good,” Grandfather says.
I disagree. I do not like to see those wild boys with Ron.
*
On the island, August is not hot the way it is in this prison-village. Here, there is a time during the day that is so hot that I cannot move. So hot that sweat films over my entire body. So dry that my lungs hurt to breathe. So bright that my eyes burn.
It is during this time of the day that Mother tells me to lie on my bed. If I am still, the heat is not as bad. And sometimes I can fall asleep. If I cannot be still, then I draw. And I forget about being hot.
It is during this time of the day that Grandfather tells me stories of his childhood. He wasn’t born on the same island I was, but on a different one: Japan. He tells me stories about my grandmother. He tells me the story of a great wave taller than a building that destroyed an entire village when he was a boy.
*
It is also during this hottest month of the year that we light lanterns to honor and remember our ancestors. The celebration brings our whole family together. At home we always sent our lanterns down a creek. They floated in a sparkly line: the first one was Mother’s to honor Grandmother, then Grandfather’s to honor his parents, then Father’s to honor his parents, and then Ron’s, Keiko’s, and mine. Ours honored our long-ago ancestors.
Paper Wishes Page 5
