Inheritors

by Asako Serizawa

  * * *

  —

  “LUNA?” HER mother was staring at her. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  Luna blinked at the egg-sausage-milk combo. The eggs looked spongy. She rolled the sausages from side to side. “I’m not hungry.”

  Katy, quicker than a cat, speared the sausages.

  “Katy.” Her father lowered the newspaper. “Let Luna decide if she’s finished.”

  “She said she doesn’t want them.”

  Everyone looked at Luna, who covered her ear. “I’m not hungry.”

  Her father gently pried her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she repeated.

  Her mother folded her napkin. “She’s fine. She can eat later.”

  Her father’s mouth tightened, but he closed his paper and scraped back his chair. “All right, I’m off. I’ll make sure I’m back around lunch,” he said. These days, he’d taken to visiting the hospital alone, his promise to return in thirty stretching into four, five hours. “I’ll give your bracelet to your ojīsan. He’ll love it,” he told the girls, who’d used their shells to make him a charm. “Don’t forget dinner’s at six,” he told their mother. “Let’s hope they’ll let my father out for a few hours.”

  “But I thought we were having lunch at your parents’,” her mother said.

  “My mother wants us all to have a nice dinner.”

  “Masa, didn’t we agree—”

  Her father scooped up the keys. “It could be his last time—can’t you see that?”

  Her mother stared at him, face set.

  Luna peeked at her sister, who was fighting to chew the egg and sausage she’d sulkily crammed into her mouth. Every summer, on their last day, Obāsan made osekihan and yakitori for Luna and Katy. Luna loved her grandmother’s osekihan, sticky rice plumped with red beans, a pinch of salt and black sesame sprinkled on top. She’d been anticipating it all week. She pushed her plate away. Her mother’s gaze fell on her.

  “At least finish your milk.”

  The milk was sweaty and as white as Elmer’s. When Luna brought it to her face, a sweet gamy smell wafted up her nose. She glanced at her mother, but she was looking out the window, watching her father traverse the little parking lot to their rented car. Luna shut her eyes and, in one queasy chug, drank the entire glass and carried it, sick and wobbly, to the kitchen.

  * * *

  —

  HER FATHER did return just after lunch, in time to take them to the neighborhood shrine he’d been talking up, someplace he and Ojīsan used to stop at on their walks to the vegetable stands along the back roads where the farmers lived. The stands were still there, rickety and weather-beaten, piled with seconds, a slotted box nailed to the wooden pillar to collect the proceeds. Luna loved feeding the box, the sound of the coins working their way down the obstacle course of paper bills, but she’d never noticed a shrine. Her father explained that this was because it was on a different road, a footpath, and unlike the popular shrines in the region, this one was local, shabby and small, dating back a thousand years or more, which might sound old but was in fact nothing compared to the sacred tree that stood beside it, its trunk so wide it took at least five adults to encircle it. The tree was the reason the shrine was there; its majesty had caught the eye of a traveling priest.

  “Is it open to the public? Is it safe?” her mother asked.

  Even a month ago, her father would’ve laughed—the conscientious tourist—but now he replied that all shrines were open to the public, and if it was safe for their neighbors it was safe for them.

  “Do spirits live there?” Luna asked. Her father had told them many stories about the mountain fox and raccoon spirits who liked to venture into town to prank people.

  Her father nodded gravely. “There’s a rumor that an actual god lives there. Jurōjin.” He stretched out the syllable for Luna and Katy. “Jurōjin is one of the Shichifukujin, the seven gods of fortune. Remember?”

  They nodded dubiously.

  “Jurōjin’s superpower is longevity,” he went on. “We’re lucky he’s the one who lives here.”

  “He can cure Ojīsan?” Luna asked, eyes shining.

  “We’ll see.” He smiled. Then he told them a secret: Jurōjin was actually not Japanese but Chinese, and long ago, before he became a proper god, he’d been a gambling pirate who lost all his treasures to Sinbad. Luna was astounded. “He knew Sinbad?” Katy was convinced their father was making it up, but Luna could tell she was excited. They jumped into action, Katy dashing for the sunscreen, Luna for their fugitive hats.

  * * *

  —

  THEY PARKED in the carport attached to Ojīsan’s house. Usually when Obāsan heard the car she came to the door to invite them for snacks, but today they were greeted with sweet and savory aromas, the door closed to company. In the heat it was impossible not to feel cheated, and Luna’s ear itched, the lobe oversoft like microwaved gummy bears. She plodded on, lagging behind Katy and her parents, and followed the wrong turn at the split, veering onto a dirt path that vanished into the backwoods. She was halfway down the path, kicking up dust, when her father called to her. She trudged back, and though it was muggy he squeezed her close, leaning her this way and that as the road narrowed, ambushed by a bamboo grove. When Luna asked how much longer, he told her that if they were home in Urbana, it would be like going from their house to the playground.

  They emerged onto a proper road, regulated by traffic lights and flanked by small businesses, one jammed with stationery, another displaying mannequins and posters of makeup and beauty creams. There was a pharmacy, a salon, then a shelter of rice vending machines. Katy ran to investigate them. “What do they say?” she demanded, pressing all the buttons. Their father read her the options, from the type (short, long, sticky) to the quality (premium to regular) to the level of processing (whole to brown to polished). “Some people take the husks, too,” he said. Luna pictured bowls of husks appearing in the morning. Katy wondered if she could make a mattress out of them. Their father laughed. “At this rate, we’ll need an extra suitcase to bring the husks home.” Their mother, quiet since the morning, turned away.

  They passed a boutique, a noodle shop, then a field, metal baseball bats clanging in the distance, the sky winking with summer kites. Their mother dabbed their faces and passed around the water bottle.

  “Are we there yet?” Katy asked, but her father, lost in thought, kept marching, his neck darkening in the sun.

  At last the blinding road began to dapple again, the mown field bursting into tall weeds, which thickened into brush, interspersed with spindly trees that soon broadened into real trees that sifted the sun. Their father finally stopped and pointed at a hill, a dark mouth gaping at the base.

  “I thought we were going to the shrine,” Katy said.

  “We are. We’re just taking a detour—a special one,” he said.

  The heat rose, the cicadas buzzed; no one said anything.

  * * *

  —

  THE TUNNEL was old, with a scraggly beard and a mossy forehead that sprouted a forest before vanishing up the hill. From above—a plane, say, or a parachute—the tunnel was invisible. Their father told them that for centuries it had been a vital pass linking the surrounding villages. During the war, though, it took on a different function. “Do you know what it was?”

  The girls frowned, wary of the chilly mouth, the dot of light on the other end forbiddingly far. Their mother said, “Masa, it’s hot.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to see for yourself, then,” he said.

  “Luna loves seeing for herself,” Katy said.

  This was true, but Luna was apprehensive of this tunnel, the seeping darkness that swallowed the sunlight and returned nothing. “I want to go back,” she said.

  Her father wiped her hair off her face. “
Let’s give things a chance.”

  But the tunnel was dark, the ground wet, its mineral breath furring the wall. Luna clutched her sister’s arm, and Katy let her, the two of them stepping cautiously, the wet crunch of their footsteps echoing like a cacophony of bats. Luna wiggled her ear; the tunnel’s clammy pressure had a plugging effect, darkening the dark on that side of her head, throwing off her balance. Katy pulled her closer and whispered, “It’s a dungeon.”

  Sure enough, Luna could see the outlines along the wall, the row of roughly filled passages, some streaked with slivers of what looked like metal. Then, astonishingly, an open mouth, fanged with bars.

  “Is it really a dungeon?” Luna asked, feeling the suck of air, the eternal inhalation.

  Her father palmed her head. “Good guess, but no. It’s a decommissioned bomb shelter. Bōkūgo. They’re filled now”—he reached to trace a seam—“but they used to extend pretty far into these hills.”

  “What are the bars for, then?” Katy asked.

  Luna edged behind her sister and felt the press of her mother’s hand on her back. “Masa, you’re scaring them.”

  Her father curled a hand around a bar and reassured them that they weren’t bars so much as gates people could close when parachutes dropped from the sky. “It was the safest place. Like wearing a magic cloak and armor.”

  But it wasn’t remotely like that; Luna could see the ghostly knuckles powdering the bars. In a dark this dark, someone could still be huddled there, unseen, waiting for bombs and parachutes to fall from the sky. “What if we get trapped?” she asked.

  Her mother squeezed her shoulder. “No one will get trapped. The war was a long time ago. Air raids don’t happen like that anymore.”

  “Actually,” her father said, inspecting a remnant of a latch, “wars are happening all the time. In some places, children like you and Katy make themselves into bombs.”

  “Bombs?” Katy said. “Like how?”

  Luna glanced back at the daylight shimmering behind them; diminished to a patch, it was now equal in size to the one ahead of them. “I won’t be a bomb. I refuse,” she said.

  “Sometimes we don’t have that choice,” her father said.

  “And other times we do,” her mother said. “Come on, that’s enough.” She grabbed their arms and pulled them toward the light.

  Her father trailed along, running his hand over the wall’s depressions. “You know your ojīsan and obāsan lived through it. They survived, but it was a scary time. All the lives lost. Soldiers and civilians. To say nothing of the colonial conscripts.” His voice vanished in the cackle of the tunnel.

  Her mother swiveled. “Really? This is why you dragged them here?”

  Her father’s shoes scraped to a stop. “This is important. It’s their history.”

  “For god sake.”

  “Everyone should know their roots, Say.”

  “Come on,” their mother said, prodding them forward.

  “They’re half mine too.”

  His words bounced off the wall and chased each other through the tunnel of Luna’s own ears. She’d never considered herself this way before—half—like something mashed together and pulling apart, like the dogs she’d once seen, joined by their bums and scrabbling in opposite directions. There had been a blind woman on the sidewalk too; disturbed by the mewling scuffle, she’d cried out. Luna’s mother had tried to explain, but the dogs, ever more panicked, yipped and tumbled, knocking the woman’s cane. Her mother rushed to help, and in that moment the woman, lost in the sudden vastness of space, had looked straight at Luna, her milky-white eyes darting behind her skewed sunglasses.

  “Mom?” Katy said. “Luna’s going to cry.”

  Her mother drew her in. “It’s okay,” she said, but Luna twisted away and ran, her plugged ear echoing like the tunnel, her whole being yearning for the sunlight, where she’d be able to see their faces and feel her father’s fingers work their way through her hair. And when she thought about that, she couldn’t control her tears.

  * * *

  —

  DINNER WAS quiet that evening. Despite Obāsan’s hopes, Ojīsan couldn’t be discharged, and an eerie absence emanated from the spot Obāsan had set for him. Katy couldn’t understand why anyone would set the table for an absent person. “It’s creepy,” she said, watching her grandmother arrange a small plate for Ojīsan.

  “Your obāsan misses him. This way, it’s like he’s here with us,” her mother said.

  Her father ladled soup into their bowls, a consommé Obāsan thought their mother would like. “It’s a gesture of respect, Katy. Your grandmother wants you to know how much your ojīsan wanted to come.”

  “It’s still creepy.” Katy took the piece of sweet tamagoyaki Obāsan was holding out to her.

  Luna sat on her hands, eyeing the crock of osekihan. “Katy didn’t say arigatō,” she said.

  “Loser,” Katy said.

  “Well?” her mother said.

  Katy mumbled her arigatō.

  Obāsan nodded, folding back the sleeves of her perfectly pressed blouse. Even alone in her own home she dressed this way—a generational propriety, her mother had explained; a side effect of the Depression and the war, her father had explained. Obāsan held out a heaping plate. “Yakitori?”

  “Thank you, arigatō,” their mother said, accepting the skewers and distributing them among their plates. “Girls?”

  They said their arigatōs.

  Obāsan’s eyes lit with pity. “Kawaisō ne.”

  Luna looked at her father, who, for once, was uneager to translate. “What do you say before you eat?” he asked.

  “Itadakimasu,” the sisters chimed in unison.

  Their father reached for the dish of pickled cucumbers, his favorite. After a moment, he said, “Guess what I learned the other day.”

  Luna dipped her chopsticks into her soup, chasing elusive slivers of carrots and onions.

  “I found out I was adopted.”

  “You were an orphan?” Katy said.

  “What’s an orphan?” Luna said.

  “It’s when you have no mom or dad,” Katy said.

  Luna frowned at her father and her grandmother.

  Her father brushed a dot of rice from her chin. “Katy’s right. But, luckily, your obāsan and ojīsan adopted me right away, after my mother died, just after the war. She was very sick, isn’t that right?” He spoke to his mother in Japanese.

  Obāsan nodded wearily. She explained through him that food and access to medicine were limited. She said something else with “America” in it, but he chose not to translate it.

  “Did she live in the tunnel?” Luna asked.

  “Honey, no one lived in the tunnel,” her mother said.

  “Actually, she did,” her father said. “Not the tunnel we went to, but a bigger one in a town called Matsushiro. The tunnels there were built to form a huge underground maze, designed to hide the Emperor. Many people died during the construction. Most were Korean, forced to work there by the Japanese.”

  Her mother scooped a mound of sesame spinach. “How about we talk about this later? Your mother is already sad.” She smiled at Obāsan.

  Luna peered at her grandmother, who did seem sad.

  Her father lowered his chopsticks. “One day it’ll matter to them. They deserve to know.”

  “So we’ll talk about it later,” she repeated.

  Her father lifted his bowl. “All I want to say is that it was strange to find out my parents were Korean. I’ve been Japanese for forty-one years—my own parents’ colonizer.”

  “What’s a colonizer?” Katy asked.

  Her mother, still a mask of pleasantness, said, “My mother’s parents came from Germany. But so what? It’s wild to find out you were adopted, but it’s not as if you’ve suddenly become a differe
nt person. You’re no more Korean than I’m German.”

  Katy’s eyes widened. “We’re Korean?”

  “Like Jurōjin?” Luna asked.

  “Jurōjin’s Chinese, stupid,” Katy said.

  Her father shook his head. “You make it sound like nothing has changed. As though identity is a choice. It’s not a choice.”

  “But what has changed? You’re claiming something that played no part in your life.”

  Luna watched her parents, the rising pitch not yet touching their faces. She saw that Obāsan was watching them too.

  Her father sighed. “We’re not separate from our histories, Say; I can’t separate myself from my roots. To sever that connection would be calamitous. Why can’t you understand that?”

  Her mother, catching Obāsan’s eyes, shook her head apologetically. “Sometimes I think you forget what’s real in your life, what’s important in the here and now. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t understand. But you’re making a choice—you realize that, right?”

  “And you’re not?”

  They regarded each other, their faces neutral but joined by an invisible bridge, words Luna couldn’t hear passing between them. Their mother finally said, “You keep saying they deserve to know. Well, you’re right.” She turned to them. “Girls—”

  “Don’t—”

  “Your father’s not coming back with us tomorrow.”

  Luna stared at her father, his face still with disbelief.

  “Why?” Katy asked.

  “Are you going to stay until The Fall?” Luna asked. Fall was a big deal in their house, marking and regulating their life, which revolved around the school calendar.

  He rubbed his forehead. “Your grandfather is very sick. I’m going to stay for a while to help your obāsan.”

  Her mother made a snorting sort of noise. “Oh, that’s rich. Don’t lie to them.”

  “It’s not a lie.”

  “Is it because you’re Korean now?” Luna asked.