After the Bloom

by Leslie Shimotakahara

  This other Rita, the bad daughter.

  When she glanced in the bathroom mirror the next morning, her skin appeared thin and weathered, splotched by sunspots and burst capillaries. Lily had always warned about the dangers of the sun and too much drink, but of course Rita hadn’t paid any attention.

  She resolved to be a better person, if only for Kristen’s sake. Forgoing her morning cola, she walked to the mini-mart and bought a jar of instant coffee and a pale green banana that left behind the taste of wood chips.

  Then she put on one of her better dresses, the navy blue one with white polka dots that she usually wore for teacher-parent interviews, and drove out to Don Mills. The streets were wide and empty, flanked by trees that were so healthy-looking they almost appeared fake, as though they’d been made out of plastic.

  Mrs. Yamamoto’s living room resembled one big crib. Knitted stuffed toys — puppies, kittens, elephants — crowded every surface in multiple pastel shades. They were perched atop the fireplace and the credenza and tucked around cushions on the cellophane-covered sofa. Rita had to extract a duckling wedged beneath her butt.

  For the first twenty minutes, all Mrs. Yamamoto could talk about was her dog. A tiny blond poodle — a real poodle — which she was feeding cream wafers. “The vet tells me I shouldn’t let Momo have people food, but I figure he’s getting older — you only live once!”

  Mrs. Yamamoto was getting older, too. Her white tresses looked vampiric, her skin like rice paper.

  “So you were going to tell me about these other meetings Lily attended?” Rita began yet again, in as calm a voice as she could manage. Each time she circled back to the point of her visit, Mrs. Yamamoto seemed to miss the urgency of the situation, insisting that Rita have a cup of tea and choose a toy for Kristen.

  “Other meetings?”

  “Some meeting other than the Nisei Women’s Club?”

  Bony fingers touched the gold locket around her neck. “The house meetings. Oh, yes.”

  Rita bit into one of the butter tarts she’d brought; it exploded in a flaky mess, crumbs snowing all over the lime-green brocade of the armchair. She tried to clean it up, only making the pastry dandruff worse.

  “It was at Mavis Okawara’s this time.”

  “What do you do at these meetings?”

  “Oh, you know. We drink tea and chat about this and that. The old days.”

  “The old days?”

  “Well before your time.”

  “These meetings aren’t part of the Nisei Women’s Club?”

  “Gosh, no. Men are allowed, too. Most of them are men — you know how men are about speaking up!”

  “Speaking up about what, Mrs. Yamamoto?”

  She pulled at a lint ball on her skirt, downturned eyelids like seashells. “An apology from the government. For what happened.”

  “You mean the internment?”

  A slight bob.

  “Lily was getting involved in redress? You can’t be serious.”

  “I wouldn’t say involved. She’s just interested in learning more.”

  “Are you sure about that? My mother refused to talk about the internment — practically denied it even happened.”

  The Redress Movement would hardly be Lily’s thing. Nor was it Rita’s, to be honest. Occasionally, an article would show up on the back page of the paper, quoting the Minister of Multiculturalism, full of grand promises that never seemed to amount to jack shit. And she’d received a phone call from some organization with a fancy title, asking if she’d like to donate or volunteer. They were the activist set, intent on raising awareness about the injustice that had been committed. Good luck with that. Rita had given a bit of money simply in order to get off the phone — not that she didn’t believe it was worthy and all; it just made her uncomfortable to throw money after a lost cause. Besides, what good could come of thinking of yourself as a victim? That had always been Grandpa’s view, in any case.

  “Things are changing, maybe,” Mrs. Yamamoto murmured. She stared out the window at a massive maple, leaves lit up with blotches of sun. She didn’t say anything for a long time, her thoughts receding to a time she didn’t want to — or couldn’t — explain. “Shikata ga nai. Why talk about something that can’t be helped? That was how we all thought back then.”

  “But not anymore?”

  Her lips twisted slightly. “Now, we just want to learn more. So we go to the house meetings, drink tea.”

  “What is it you’re hoping to accomplish?”

  “Well, for one thing, my son tells me it’d be nice to pay the mortgage off on this place.”

  Rita wiped her fingers as her impression of this frail, white-haired lady resolved like through the lens of a camera. If the government makes an apology, who knows how the money will get divided? That was what was going through these people’s minds. Lily had the same steely, practical side to her; maybe it had something to do with having shopkeeper fathers. The prospect of compensation — and getting her fair share — now that might catch her mother’s interest.

  As if she could read Rita’s thoughts, Mrs. Yamamoto buttoned up her cardigan and crossed her arms.

  “Who organizes these house meetings?”

  “The JCNA.”

  The organization that had called to ask for a donation. “What does that stand for again?”

  “The Japanese Canadian National Alliance.”

  “How many of these meetings did my mother attend?”

  “I saw her at a house meeting about a month ago. And when we chatted at the last Nisei Women’s Club, Lily said she planned to come to the house meeting last week. She never made it, I guess.”

  “How did she seem to you at these meetings?”

  “She just stood by the wall, listening. You know how it is. We don’t want to stir up trouble. Maybe it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. That’s what my husband thinks, so he doesn’t come. And maybe he’s right” — her eyes dropped, but not before Rita had caught the flash of fear — “if this is what’s happened to poor Lily!”

  That old morass of paranoia. Rita laid a hand on Mrs. Yamamoto’s arm, suddenly overcome by sympathy. “You think Lily’s disappearance has something to do with the fact she went to a redress meeting?”

  “The government keeps an eye on us all the time.”

  An uneasy chuckle died in Rita’s throat. Yet folks like Mrs. Yamamoto had had relatives secreted away in the middle of the night, dragged off for interrogation, so maybe it wasn’t so absurd that they’d forever be watching over their shoulders. They’d lived in those dusty camps no one talked about. No amount of compensation could change that fact.

  “Who leads these meetings?”

  “That professor.” Mrs. Yamamoto looked tired. She brightened as the poodle jumped on her lap. “If you don’t mind, Momo’s due for his walk soon.”

  “What’s this professor’s name?”

  “Mark Edo. I believe he works at U of T.”

  Momo must have sensed the hesitation in his mistress’s voice; he began growling at Rita and nipping at her ankles. She grabbed her purse and jumped up to leave.

  Through the glass wall of the phone booth, Rita watched a couple of teenage girls perched on the curb. They were passing a cigarette back and forth, holding it like a joint, a smoke swirl around their desultory expressions. She missed her students; she missed her regular life. She missed her mother. A lawn across the street was the most brilliant green — so bright it almost hurt to look at it — and it seemed all wrong that the patch could be so lush and alive while Lily was still out there missing.

  Gerald sounded excited when he answered the phone. The note faded upon realizing it was only Rita. “So what did you find out from the Yamamoto woman?”

  “Did my mother ever say anything about getting involved in redress?”

  “Did she ever say what abou
t getting a new dress?”

  “Redress. The Redress Movement.”

  “What the heck’s that?”

  Just as she’d suspected. “Did Lily ever talk about being interned during the war?”

  “Interned? What’re you talking about?”

  Rita explained how her mother’s family had lost everything and been thrown in camps. She shared with him what little else she knew about the internment and Redress Movement. “Lily never told you anything about this, Gerald?”

  Ruminative silence. “She mentioned that her dad had lost his shop during the war. She was mad as hell because it would’ve been worth a crap load of money now. But I had no idea she had to go live in a camp.” A disgusted snort. “Well, that’s the U.S. government for you. Ignorance is, ignorance does.”

  “It happened in Canada, too.”

  “Not surprising.” It was clear from the frog in his throat that he found it very surprising indeed. Gerald was one of those guys who liked to go on about being a proud Canadian. “Well, what does any of this stuff have to do with Lily’s disappearance?”

  “Nothing, probably.” She was just killing time, in some lame attempt to feel useful, because what else was she supposed to do? And yet, as Gerald prattled on, the conversation with Mrs. Yamamoto continued to replay in her mind.

  Don Mills Centre was dead. The few people there had arthritic hips and dandelion-ball hair and they pushed walkers. Rita carried her tray to a table in the corner of the food court. She squirted ketchup all over her fries until the whole thing looked like a bloodbath. Normally, she was more careful about what she ate, but what the hell. A bit of grease might revive her senses.

  She opened the spiral notebook she’d just bought at Zellers and jotted down a bare-bones summary of her conversation with Mrs. Yamamoto. Why would my mother get involved with redress?? Follow up with Mark Edo, prof at U of T, she added. Officer Lee had told her to keep a log of all communications surrounding Lily’s disappearance. He’d said it as though Rita’s notes might actually be useful to the police investigation at some point, but she suspected he was just giving her something to do.

  After she’d finished her cheeseburger, everything settling in her stomach like a cement block, she pulled out the list of people whom she was supposed to be getting in touch with. Most names had been crossed off, though a few remained. One name in particular weighed heavily on her heart now that she was surrounded by old folks.

  Aunt Haruko.

  It wasn’t likely that Lily would have contacted her, but someone needed to call and check. Rita had been dragging her heels.

  She couldn’t remember much about the old lady beyond a few lone images. That tiny shrine inside her bedroom closet. The delicate crunch of tatami beneath bare feet. A small brass box emitting a stream of gritty, aromatic smoke that made Rita’s throat tickle. Aunt Haruko chanting something, some magical incantation, in a soft, mysterious language that sounded nothing like English or Japanese. Rita recalled kneeling and closing her eyes as raindrops peppered her cheeks. When she had opened up, she was looking at a dripping wand. “You’re a Kirishitan, now. Just like me and your bachan, ne?”

  Rita had never met her grandmother, her bachan. The Hidden Christian thing had something to do with some religious sect that her grandmother and Aunt Haruko had belonged to back in Japan. Tiny white paper crosses would fall from the wide sleeves of her flowered housedress and flutter to the ground. Aunt Haruko stashed the crosses all over the house — under mattresses, at the backs of drawers, in the cookie jar. They honoured the many Christian martyrs who’d died in Japan over the centuries. One morning, Rita had stumbled upon a figurine of Christ on the cross tucked away behind some soup cans — she’d screamed, thinking it was a dead mouse.

  That had been back when Aunt Haruko lived with them. Around the time of Rita’s seventh birthday, Aunt Haruko had moved away. The Buddhist church was opening a Japanese nursing home for the issei widows and widowers. Some deceased patron of the church had bequeathed his property out in St. Catharines, where Yoneda Home would be established. They desperately needed people who spoke Japanese and could interpret for the old-timers. Aunt Haruko said it was God’s will that she help out.

  Her departure had upset Rita terribly. Who would teach her how to paint with watercolours now? And Aunt Haruko had promised that down the road she’d teach Rita sumi-e — Japanese brush painting — which was harder because it employed only black ink, diffused into so many shades of translucent shadow. Rita liked watching Aunt Haruko paint this way. Strange, unpopulated landscapes of light and dark. Bamboo shoots. The trunk of a cherry blossom tree, unpredictable in all its knots and curves. It was fun to try to guess what the picture was going to be. As it took shape in deft strokes, Rita felt still and calm inside.

  As the years went by and they saw less and less of each other, Aunt Haruko faded into a ghost of another time.

  There was something about watercolour that was like exploring a yearning, as though the wistful, translucent colours formed a mirage of something that Rita could barely remember, that she was struggling to hold on to. The back of her head against the old woman’s sagging breasts an oddly reassuring feeling, like laying her head on a grassy mound. She wondered if Aunt Haruko had been happy in her life without them.

  Nine

  A face hovered above, familiar, yet strange. “How are you feeling, Lily?”

  Numb and sluggish, lost beneath all these cumbersome layers of flesh. She thought of a collapsed horse that she and her father had passed on the side of the road once. Shapeless as a mound of dirt, left for dead by some farmer who’d given up on beating it back to life. She hadn’t realized that the creature was still alive until its dull flank twitched. Through the rear window it vanished in the distance: a dark blotch, a pinprick, nothing.

  A similar animal impulse stirred indistinctly, deep in her body. “How did I get here?”

  “Kaz brought you. He found you behind one of the barracks. Who did this to you?”

  The thick, woolly scent of sweat and desire. Head hitting the ground, body becoming weightless, as though she were sinking underwater. The voices dancing above her seemed to be getting louder and harsher, even as they were floating away…. And then it came back to her: Kaz hiding, immobile, in the background. The thud of Kenny’s feet, his voice thundering down. The stench of the dumpster, that guard’s menacing, meaty hands, his endless moaning….

  What would have happened if Kenny hadn’t come along? Would Kaz have watched her be violated and left her for dead?

  “What do you remember?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He was wearing a black mask. I couldn’t see his face.”

  “Your underwear was torn.”

  “He didn’t do anything. Kaz came to my rescue and the guy ran off.” It came to her instinctively, as lies often did.

  The doctor looked away, like he didn’t really believe her.

  Her cheeks grew hot at the thought of him examining her. Those bruises weren’t from last night. Earlier that week, Kaz had her up against a barrack, in an area of the camp still under construction. The tarpaper wall had rubbed roughly against her backside as he’d thrust into her, and with each jolt, she’d felt herself dissolving into the dusky, vermilion-streaked sky.

  “Someone else was hurt last night.”

  “Who?” She forced herself up.

  “A guard named Aiden. Two attacks in one night. There must be a maniac on the loose.”

  “Was he hurt badly?”

  “He’s in a coma. We found him beaten — alive, just barely — behind one of the mess halls.”

  “Is he here now?” An inward shudder. Please, no.

  “They took him to the hospital in town.”

  Relief washed over her, trills of that strange, neighing laughter.

  The doctor was watching her
closely. “There’s going to be trouble now.”

  “Fights break out here all the time.”

  “This is more serious — he’s a guard. He might die. There’s going to be a full investigation. If you know anything, Lily, you must come forward.”

  “I told you the man had on a mask.”

  “Kaz doesn’t have anything to do with this, does he?”

  She shook her head.

  The smell of mothballs rose in her nostrils as she awakened. Peeling wallpaper, a faded rosebud print. If she wasn’t in the hospital anymore, she must be dreaming. Being in a real bedroom — even in a dream — was a blissful prospect.

  Stepping into the dim hallway, Lily paused in front of a framed black-and-white photograph. The woman’s features appeared too large for her smallish face, giving her the look of an overgrown schoolgirl, her braided hair coiled around her head. Even as she smiled, her eyes seemed to glare at the camera, watchful, self-righteous. The man beside her resembled a better-groomed version of Kaz.

  The doctor and his late wife.

  With a rush, Lily realized she wasn’t dreaming — she was in the doctor’s very own house. He must have moved her here while she was sedated.

  She tiptoed down the creaky stairs into the kitchen, her feet sticking to the linoleum. Sticky with too much lemon cleanser. Tears of homesickness filled her eyes.

  The one real house in Matanzas. Leftover from another time.

  A real bathroom, complete with a toilet that actually flushed. Such luxury, after months of being made to use the latrines, no partitions between the roughly made seats. The stench, the embarrassed, humiliated eyes.

  A mirror loomed above the sink. A sallow, frightened face stared back at her, one cheek turning all the colours of the rainbow: plum red, putrid yellow, all backlit by a greenish tint. Tiny blackish scabs were sprinkled atop the cheekbone amid criss-crossing scrapes.