A Thousand Stitches (3 page)

I'm making my husband dust, Akiko thought. Was this the hand I held as he lay dying? The hand he wrote me letters with? The hand that held mine as the plane landed at Narita?
So what if it's an unseemly public display of affection?
She could hear him whispering in her ear.

When Akiko stopped grinding, Junko looked up and saw tears brimming in her sister's eyes. She chose that moment to launch an old family favorite. “Remember the time Farmer Kiriyama got drunk and almost drowned in the rice paddy?” Akiko shook her head, trying to will the tears away. Junko kept grinding and continued, spinning the story out, embellishing and elaborating the saga of the Kiriyamas, as tears spilled down her sister's face.

Slowly, Akiko was drawn into the details of the misadventures of their childhood neighbors and recovered enough to join in, “No, you're not remembering it right. The father only lost
one
of the boys in the train station in Matsuyama, not both of them.”

As
the afternoon light was fading, Akiko's hand slipped again and again a piece of bone landed on the floor. As they crawled about looking for it, Junko grumbled about how stubborn her brother-in-law always had been and how he was
still
being difficult. Junko found the bone under a corner of the rug. She held it up and sat back on her heels. “Now how do I get my own old bones up off this damn floor?” They laughed and helped each other up. When they were back in their chairs, Akiko's laughter turned to tears. As Akiko cried, Junko made more tea. By the time they finished the tea, Akiko had recovered and they began grinding again. They worked in silence until nine o'clock.

Junko said, “Okay, now we have ashes—or at least something more like powder than chunks. What about the
suribachi
and
surikogi?
”

“Put the ashes in here, and give it to me. And put both of the
suribachi
and
surikogi
in the box your set came in, and wrap the box in this,” Akiko said, reaching for a faded indigo
furoshiki
from the drawer below the shelves of the china closet.

After Junko poured the ashes into the drawstring bag, Akiko stood, wrapped the box in the white
furoshiki
from the crematorium, and returned the ashes to the china closet. She then reached up to the top shelf and took out two crystal tumblers and Sam's single-malt scotch. “This is not a beer occasion.”

As Akiko was putting the tumblers and the scotch on the table, Junko, struggling with the box said, “It won't work. The two sets are too big.” Akiko took the two
suribachi
from her sister, wrapped them quickly in the indigo
furoshiki
and smashed them with two sharp slams of the hammer. She shook the pieces out of the
furoshiki
into the box and wrapped the box in the indigo cloth. “Please pour,” she said to her sister.

Two days
later Akiko was due at her volunteer job at the tourist information office's kiosk. She left very early, carrying the indigo
furoshiki
, and got off the bus at the Castle, several stops before the train station. The cherry petals had just fallen from the trees. She walked through the pink carpet on the path from the Castle keep to the garden, enjoying the tattered scraps that were all that remained of the beauty of the blossoms. She regretted not seeing them the week before in full flower, but knew that she wouldn't have been able to bear the noisy, drunken crowds. She went slowly from the garden out to the street and decided to walk down
Otemae-dori
to the station, even though she knew it would take her twice as long as it should. She had lunch at a coffee shop a block from the station, grateful to sit and rest her tired feet and aching knees. She arrived at the kiosk by one.

Ichikawa-san
was struggling with a tall blond couple who had come from the Castle and wanted to know how to get to Kyoto and climb Mt. Hiei by the end of the day. When Ichikawa-san saw Akiko, she stammered, “Ah, here is Mrs. Imagawa. She lived in America. She can help you.”

The young Germans began telling her what they wanted in their almost perfect but heavily accented English. Akiko smiled and reached for a train schedule as she walked into the kiosk, where she slipped the
furoshiki
under the counter, out of sight. After she finished explaining the schedules, she and Ichikawa-san stood and waved goodbye. “I'm surprised they didn't want to see Kyoto and climb
Mt. Fuji
by the end of the day,” said Akiko, with her public smile still in place.

Ichikawa-san was still giggling when a group of businessmen entered the station. They were coming from the White Heron Grand, Himeji's best hotel, across the street. The three Japanese hosts had a tall, beleaguered-looking American with them. Akiko guessed that he had been treated to a fancy lunch of unfamiliar foods and forced to drink more than he was used to in the middle of the day. Her guesses were confirmed when one of the group urged the others towards the information counter saying, “Come on, we can't let Samueruson-san leave Himeji without seeing the most beautiful castle in Japan,” repeating this in broken English.

Samuelson, thinking no one heard him, muttered, “But I already
saw
it—from the train.”

“Do you have anything in English?” the youngest of the Japanese demanded.

Akiko told him she did but made sure she handed the English language pamphlet directly to the American, telling him, “It's called the White Heron Castle, and it really is considered the most beautiful castle in Japan. We Japanese like to make lists and rankings of things. This one won the most beautiful castle category. Everybody agrees.”

“Oh,
thank you.
This day has been a bit much. We were on our way to Osaka, but my hosts decided we had to get off the train here for lunch.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“We were visiting a fish farm site on the other side of the Inland Sea. Outside Matsu—Oh, I forget.”

“Well, it was probably either Takamatsu or Matsuyama.”

“The first.”

“Good luck getting to Osaka.”

“Thanks. I think I'll be okay if I don't have to drink any more.”

“You'll be fine, and the Castle really is lovely. I bet they pile you in a taxi and give you the grand tour before you catch the train again.”

“Thanks. Did you live in the States?”

“Yes, Columbus and San Francisco.”

“I'm Pete Samuelson. I'm from Cleveland.”

“Say hello to Ohio for me. My sister loves the Good Morning Ohio joke that I'm sure you've heard from this group.”

Samuelson laughed, “
Oh, yes!
I'm so glad we met you.”

Impatient with all the English, the oldest of the three Japanese businessmen asked Akiko if they had time to see the Castle and still make the three-o'clock
Shinkansen
bullet train to Osaka. When she answered affirmatively, they hauled Samuelson out into the taxi line and folded him into the front seat of a cab, the three of them climbing into the back.

When they were gone, Ichikawa-san said, “It was exhausting just watching them and trying to answer their questions. I hope that
gaijin
is okay.”

Akiko laughed, “He'll have great stories to tell when he gets home.”

On
her way home Akiko got off the bus at the Castle, entered the garden, and went straight to the far corner, where a bamboo screen hid equipment. She found the gardener there, as she thought she would.

“Imagawa-san, can I help you?” he asked. “Did one of your foreign tourists lose something?”

“No, Higuchi-san, I have a favor to ask.” Akiko nodded in the direction of the branches and twigs stacked against the back wall of his work area. “Now that the cherry blossoms are gone, and we have fewer visitors, I know you'll be burning everything from your spring pruning. Would you please add this to the fire?”

“Of course, Imagawa-san. Is there anything else I can do?” he said, accepting the
furoshiki
with both hands.

“No, but thank you. I truly appreciate it.” Akiko smiled with gratitude and turned to leave. As she walked away, she made herself think only about Higuchi-san, and how hard he worked to keep the cherry trees healthy and blossoming spectacularly far into advanced old age. She retraced her steps through the beautiful complex passages that were the result of his meticulous work, left the Castle grounds, and headed for the bus stop.

Berkeley, 1999

The second day
she brought the photograph and they sat together at lunch looking at it. The day before all he could do was look at her scars—one cut across the bottom of her chin like an upside-down scimitar and the other slashed from the forehead across her right eyebrow and past her eye to her cheekbone. It had taken him a while to hear what she was saying. Finally, he realized that she was laying claim to him, reminding him of the Peters School in Pacific Heights.

Now, relaxed on the grass, they were looking at their childhood. “See, Gen, you're standing behind me,” said Lynn.

“I remember the day this was taken,” he said. “My dad had been called out to the hospital before dawn, and I gave my mom a really hard time about the shirt she wanted me to wear. But now, looking at the photo, I don't know which of us won the argument. I don't know if the shirt I'm wearing is the one I loved or the one she wanted me to wear. It was so important at the time, and now I can't remember.”

“And can you believe that one little girl could own as many purple and pink items of clothing? Look at how I had dressed myself. My mom was too lenient!”

As he fingered the photo, Gen remembered more. How the photographer was pleased by the sunlight that had flooded the schoolyard when the clouds unexpectedly parted. “Now,” he had said, “we have our chance, even if just for a moment. Smile everyone.”

The kids stood straight and smiled, and then laughed along with their teacher when the photographer added, “That means you too, Mrs. Arthurson.”

Gen had been keenly aware that he had been standing behind Lynn, looking down at her blond hair spread out below him. He had even reached out quickly to touch the curls at the back of her head. Joey Trista standing beside him hadn't noticed, and Lynn hadn't felt it, but, both guilty and pleased with himself that he had been so bold, Gen had been delighted to know that her hair was as soft to the touch as it looked. His hand tingled as he looked at her now; the same soft curls shone around her, lit by the sun behind her.

They spent the rest of their time that day sketching the basics of the missing years; they filled in the details slowly in the days that followed.

Her brother Bobby had been driving on the bright, sunny winter afternoon of the accident and had escaped injury. “He says he doesn't feel guilty, and it absolutely was the other driver's fault,” said Lynn. “But he decided during the summer after the accident to go to Berkeley rather than Cornell. I think he's still reassuring himself that I really am okay. He came to the hospital every day, helped Mom nurse me once I got home, and helped me get through the physio. But even with everything that happened, it really wasn't a bad year. I learned a lot about how wonderful it is to be alive and to know that you're really loved. And I don't mind being a high school senior a year late. My friends didn't know what to do with me last year.”

Gen told her about the International School in Yokohama and how he had ended up there after a half year at his local school in Kamakura proved to everyone that he didn't fit in after four years in San Francisco. And he explained the idea of
ronin
—masterless
samurai
—and how he was one because he had failed his entrance exams.

“It happens all the time in Japan. And with my background it was no big surprise. The usual thing is to just postpone going to university for a year.”

“Bobby says it's called a gap year in England.”

“I guess,” he said. “But
ronin
aren't supposed to leave a gap. They're supposed to spend the year cramming.”

“Gen, do Berkeley High classes that are far too easy for you count?”

“Probably not,” he laughed. “But coming back here was the best thing I've done this year.”

After
that second day, they sat outside every day, sharing their lunches. Lynn brought salads with ingredients from her mother's garden and Gen brought rice balls. He and Yuko, his Japanese-American host mother, made them in the morning for Yuko's husband, Dave, and for each of the three young kids, as well as for themselves. Yuko was determined to train him so he could astonish his own mother when he went home. Dave laughed the first morning he found his wife and Gen in the kitchen patting the balls into shape. “Now that I know you want to learn how to cook, Gen, I'll get my mom to teach you how to make rugguleh when she comes to visit at Christmas.”

Gen and Lynn made a game of guessing about the lunches every day. He was eager for figs, kiwi, and avocado, and she wanted rice balls with black sesame seeds or
shiso
leaves. She claimed she was conducting an experiment to determine if she preferred the
shiso
fresh or dried.

One day when she teased him about his
ronin
status, he told her the story of the Forty-Seven Masterless
Samurai,
trying to explain that every school child in Japan knew the story. Lynn was lying on the grass and had started out laughing when he began the story but fell silent as he described the stalwart dedication of the
samurai
as they planned to avenge their lord and told of the snowy night, when, having waited patiently for more than a year, they were finally able to achieve their goal, and how, having finally done so, their own lives came to an end.

“But your story will have a happy ending, Gen,” she said, rolling over and holding his gaze with her wide green eyes. “You will pass the exams, and after school in Japan you'll come here, just as your dad did, and work at UCSF. It's your fate. You have all of your dad's connections, and mine. Remember, I know lots of doctors at the hospital too.”

Sitting in the weak autumn sun and listening to Lynn, Gen decided that he wouldn't go back to Japan at the end of the semester. He would stay the entire school year and then go back, take his time, cram as much as he had to, and take the exams again at the beginning of the year after next.

Lynn started gathering their things. As he moved to help her, he said, “Yes, that's what I'll do.” She was kneeling on the grass, pushing lunch boxes into her knapsack. She turned and smiled at him, but didn't say anything.

He was surprised at how calm and confident he felt, happy that he was able, finally, to let the burden he had felt since he failed the exams just slide off him. Her smile invited a response, but he couldn't summon any words, and as he stood with dirty napkins in his hand, Gen thought they would never be sufficient for the task of describing how he felt.

Lynn started through the trees and across the school's lawn. He trailed behind her. As the dappled sun fell on her, her light hair glowed and faded, glowed and faded.

When she turned to see if he was still behind her, he shuddered. All he wanted to do was touch her. His second-grade longing for the girl with the beautiful hair was still there, but now desire was all through him, in his very marrow, and spreading up and over the surface of who he was. He wanted the young woman before him in a way he had never before wanted anyone or anything. This second revelation chilled him, sobered him, and brought him to a halt. Yes, he thought, words are far too small and shabby for this.

“We'll be late, Gen, if you don't get a move on,” she said, her voice low. She turned away from him again and took a few more slow steps through the sun, the shade, the sun, the shade.

When he fell into step beside her, she was no longer smiling. She looked at him fully, inviting and accepting what he felt as he looked at her. What she had to say was just a simple statement of fact. “Yes,” she said, “we do belong together.”

At
the end of September, Lynn proposed the trip to Point Reyes. “It's the best time of the year. It'll be sunny, not the usual fog.”

Gen thought he remembered a trip to Point Reyes years before when one of his father's colleagues from the hospital in Yokohama came for a visit, but Lynn told him they weren't going to the beach with the lighthouse and promised him the hike she had in mind would be special. They chose the day, a weekday in mid-October when they would be free, thanks to a teachers' conference.

Gen
awoke very early that Tuesday morning. He went down the dark stairs and headed to the back of the house. He had discovered the early morning magic of the kitchen his first week with Dave and Yuko, when he was still jet lagged. The day Yuko found him there they had agreed that the morning light was special, and their lunch-making ritual dated from that sunny morning.

Gen didn't know if Yuko also knew how special it was to watch the room fill up with light as the dark of the night and the ambiguous shadows of the early dawn receded. Once or twice he had wondered if she had left him alone with the growing light, waiting until the room was new-day bright before she walked in. He loved being in the midst of the change; it was calm and dramatic all at once. Change that launched the day and promised the future. It began gently, with the faintest of light, and ended gleaming and glorious.

He sat at the table, witnessing it again. The first light slanted across the room from the east window, catching the faucets and making them shine. It inched up and set aglow the flowerpot, the
raku
tea bowl, and the ceramic bird on the windowsill above the sink.

By the time Yuko stepped into the kitchen, the sun had swept through the room. The light was on the edge of ordinary: the red bowl filled with shining green apples had just finished blazing and its radiance was slipping away into the unseen sheen of everyday.

“Good morning, Gen. I think something special for today. You are here to help, aren't you?”

Lynn
drove, navigating I-580 with confidence. After they crossed the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, they passed the grim bulk of San Quentin, swung along leafy Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, and swept up and over the pass to the forests and hilly grasslands of West Marin. Gen read off the names, hesitating over some of them: Tocaloma, Olema, Bolinas. Lynn explained that the Miwok Indians had lived in the area, long before the Spanish arrived. The names were just about all that was left of the Miwok, layered in with all the saint names the Spanish left behind. “Actually,” Lynn said, “some of those Miwok names sound Japanese to me.”

Gen rolled them around on his tongue and said, “Well, maybe Olema. It could be a Japanese name, but it would come out as O-ri-ma.” As they drove on and the deserted, narrow two-lane highway crossed wide pastures, he continued, “I like the idea of the Indians walking here. Now that we're away from the city, you can begin to imagine it.”

The road abruptly turned to gravel. A plume of dust trailed behind them as they arrived at the Palomarin Trail Head parking lot. Lynn chose a space in the shade at its edge. Gen got out, stretched, and breathed in the sharp, clean air and the tang of the ocean. He smiled at her across the top of the car. “I'm ready,” he said. “Bring on the adventure.”

They walked across the parking lot. “Alamere Falls Trail,” Gen read on the sign. “Four miles. Shouldn't be bad.”

“We'll see,” she said, as she climbed the steps up to the trail itself. “Bobby has brought me here before, but we've never gone all the way because of the fog. It should be good today, and most of the trail is not too hard.”

At the top of the stairs, they started on the trail, through a fragrant grove of eucalyptus. Just past the trees, they brushed against bushes with perfect, waxy white berries. When Gen stopped to take a picture, Lynn laughed, and said that this was just the first of many beautiful things to photograph.

In what seemed like just a few more steps, the trail emerged from the woods and they were on a ridge above cliffs; the ocean rose up to meet them.

“Gen, look at this. The sun is shining for us, and so is the ocean,” she said, smiling. They stood next to each other, feeling the breeze on their faces, delighting in the sky and the ocean. The beautiful wide Pacific lay before them, its stripes of colors merging to the blue that met the ­horizon.

Gen gazed at the shining expanse, aware that he was a tiny thing at the edge of great power.
Vast, but not endless. Far away on its other side is the other half of my life. I will, I will make the two parts come together and stay together.

The trail was easy going. When Gen said so, Lynn told him again, “We'll see.” After about twenty minutes, two groups coming the other way passed them, everyone smiling with the shared pleasure of a perfect sunny day. Soon afterward, they reached a small, deep lake surrounded by high, forested banks, its ripples shining in the sunlight. Gen stopped and stood still. The blue waters are so inviting, he thought, drinking it in
.
He imagined the Miwok swimming here and wished he had brought a bathing suit.

But Lynn had no interest in dawdling. “Let's go,” she said. “We have a lot more to see.” They descended a bit from the dense green around the lake, and the trail again approached the coast. The day was so clear and bright that Gen could see the hook of Point Reyes extending into the ocean to the north and west, with the lighthouse at its tip. The trail slipped back into the woods. After about another half hour they came to Pelican Lake, where the ocean was again visible beyond the quiet blue waters.

For the rest of the hike, the sound of the ocean accompanied them through the quiet of the woods. They inhaled the heady combination of the smells of the salt water and the Douglas firs. Lynn commented on the plants and flowers along the way; Gen snapped more photos. They found a perfect specimen of foxglove. Gen's picture captured the dramatic contrast of the purple markings inside the delicate white of the bell-shaped flower.

Gen put his camera away and grumbled good-naturedly as the incline of the trail increased, and Lynn once again said she thought great things were in store for them. “We're now farther along than Bobby and I were ever able to go,” she said. “The best really should be ahead of us.”