Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (35 page)

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Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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57
M
addie tried to follow orders, but ultimately found it impossible. She simply couldn’t spend her day lazing in bed despite Kumiko’s overprotective warnings. The holiday was making her too restless. Christmas had passed with ripples of sadness rather than tides, but New Year’s Eve was a different story. Given nothing to do but dwell on the anniversary of her parents’ accident would plunge her into self-pity, deep and devouring as quicksand.
In a tent of a dress, she waddled out of her room. Her belly ruffled a potted plant on a hallway table. Two weeks until her due date and still she hadn’t adjusted to her expanded circumference. She wondered how women bearing twins ever fit through a doorway.
Outside the kitchen’s lace-curtained window, patches of snow dotted the ground. The sun, pinned to a clear blue sky, reflected off a pair of shoveled mounds. They sparkled like polished diamonds. It was early January, yet the house smelled of lemon oil and springtime, a result of Japanese tradition.
“We call ‘Osoji,’ ” Kumiko had explained. “Start year free of past. Old dirt we not keep. Must have clean spirit, begin new.” Maddie had assumed she meant this only figuratively until she assigned a list of chores to be divided among herself, Emma, Mr. Garrett, and even Ida, who insisted on participating to prevent Maddie from lifting a finger.
Make that a swollen finger, same as her ankles. Nevertheless, there had to be some way she could contribute; she was pregnant, not incapacitated.
“Put down the broom and step away,” Ida declared.
Maddie tightened her grasp on the handle. She had barely swept two square feet below the kitchen sink. “I was just going to—”
“Nope.”
“But I—”
“Hand it over.” Ida extended her palm, her ponytail as sleek as her raised eyebrow. “Come on, little mama. Don’t make me pry it from ya.”
A standoff. Over a broom.
With a groan, Maddie gave in.
“That’s more like it.”
Maddie folded her arms over her bosoms—those too were swollen—and leaned back against the cutting block. “There has to be something I can do.”
“Well, I can think of one thing.”
Maddie perked.
“You can kick back and relax. That baby’ll have you running from here to Kingdom Come. So you best enjoy the quiet time while you got it.”
As Maddie blew out a sigh, a rhythmic thumping descended the stairs, along with a rustling sound. Emma appeared from around the corner dragging a bulky plastic sack. She stood up in her cuffed jeans to stretch her back while Yuki growled at the bag.
Ida rested her hands on her hips. “I hope Stanley hasn’t got you clearing out dead bodies.”
It took Maddie a moment to register the reference to Mr. Garrett, though the growing familiarity between him and Ida hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“They’re just some of his old clothes,” Emma replied with a smile, “and Sunday dresses from his wife. He said your church would find a better use for them than the moths and dust mites in the attic.”
“Oh,” Ida said softly. “Oh, I see.” She seemed to understand what it must have taken for Mr. Garrett to give up Celia’s special garments.
“What should I do with them now?” Emma asked her.
“How about you separate them into piles for men and women?”
Maddie chimed in, “I can do that,” and she started for the bag.
“Whoa, now,” Ida said.
Maddie turned, exasperated. “For goodness’ sakes, I’ll do it sitting on the couch if you want.” Sifting shirts and skirts wasn’t going to break her.
“I suppose that’s fine,” Ida said finally. “So long as Kumiko agrees.”
Was she kidding?
Ida answered by pointing toward the back door. “She’s out hanging sheets.”
“Unbelievable,” Maddie muttered. She waddle-marched from the house and into the crisp winter air. Wooden clothespins secured white walls of fabric to the laundry lines. But no sight of Kumiko. Pulling her sweater closed, she called out, “Mrs. Moritomo!”
Maddie rounded the sheets and found her seated at the picnic table Mr. Garrett had built in the fall. It was the same week he’d added a tire swing to an oak tree for Emma.
With a pensive look, Kumiko held wrinkled pages in her hands. A plated candle burned atop the table. Maddie suddenly felt intrusive.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Maddie lingered for a couple seconds before turning to go back.
“Time for fresh start.” Kumiko spoke just loud enough to halt her. “Say good-bye to past. We start over,
ne?
” Her gaze remained on what appeared to be a letter scrawled in intricate Japanese characters. A letter from Kensho, Maddie realized.
The
letter.
At the table, Maddie sat on the damp bench. She took care to leave a cushion of respectful space. She glanced from the stationery to the flame, comprehending Kumiko’s intention, the struggle of the task she faced.
“Maybe it’s not about starting over,” Maddie offered. “How can we really break from the past? It’s what made us who we are. The people we loved, all the laughs, even the tears. Those things will always be part of us.” As Kumiko’s eyes rose, Maddie reflected on the evolving chords of her own life. “It’s like in music. You can’t just cut out the hard notes, or the piece wouldn’t be whole. So, maybe what it’s really about is ... moving on.”
Kumiko’s attention slid back to the pages. They were tangible reminders of an alternate path that would forever remain a mystery.
Suddenly, the baby wiggled, and Maddie grabbed her side. It wiggled again and again, in a pattern of dance steps. A solo conga line.
“Baby okay?” Kumiko fretted.
“Oh, yes.” Maddie laughed. “It just likes to jitterbug on my ribs.” At Kumiko’s befuddlement, she clarified. “The baby likes to move around a lot.” Without knowing she was going to, Maddie asked, “Would you like to feel?”
What a foolish question. Kumiko wasn’t one for such a personal act. But then, to Maddie’s amazement, she tentatively reached out and touched her fingertips to the rounded bulge.
“Over here.” Maddie guided her palm to lie flat over the usual area of movement. They waited there until the baby gave a stomp.
Kumiko gasped, covering her mouth with her free hand, and a smile spread her lips. “Same as Suzume,” she said. “Always here, she
pon-pon.
” She tapped her own side, accompanying the sound effects of an internal pounding.
“Suzume?” Maddie asked. “Was that your baby’s name?”
Kumiko’s smile lowered but only halfway.
“Hai,”
she confirmed. “Suzume. Meaning is ... sparrow.”
Instantly, the images of Kumiko’s paintings passed through Maddie’s mind—a beautiful, solitary bird robbed of a chance to fly.
Now understanding, Maddie replied, “It’s a lovely name.”
Kumiko gave a nod. As if the mention of her child fed her strength, she angled back toward the candle and squared her shoulders. One by one she let the fire crawl over the pages until Kensho’s letter had shriveled into ashes.
The scent reminded Maddie of being at the cave near Manzanar. A mix of ashes and snow. Of Lane’s arms around her, and the sound of a creek, its water changing, searching, adapting. Like all of them.
Kumiko blew out the flame. Time to go inside, time to move on. When she started to stand, Maddie followed—before a pain pierced her stomach. She doubled over, felt a ripping low inside. A scream flew from her throat.
What was happening? It was too early. The baby wasn’t due yet.
Kumiko held her under the arm and yelled something toward the house.
A series of cannonballs shot through Maddie’s body, tossing her into a heap on the cold, stiffened grass. The sprinkling of snow had turned red—red from blood.
“I’ve got you.” It was Mr. Garrett’s voice, his arms lifting her, then carrying her inside. He unfolded her onto the couch. Beneath her, she felt the fuzzy texture of a blanket, yet she couldn’t stop shivering. She concentrated on the impossible calmness of Ida’s tone.
“Go fetch the doctor,” the gal said, launching Mr. Garrett out the door. “Emma, gather up towels, sheets, anything of the like. I’ll heat some water.”
The three scurried away as Kumiko slid a throw pillow under Maddie’s head. Blood continued to flow. Dark thoughts began to spin. Would her death be the cause of bringing Lane home safely? Provide the purpose in his life he was searching for?
The world grew foggy, clouding all but a single plea. “Promise me,” she said as Kumiko knelt beside her. “Promise you’ll take care of the baby. If I’m not here,
please
promise me... .”
Kumiko’s eyes widened and her lips pressed together. With trembling hands, she placed a cool rag on Maddie’s forehead, and she nodded.
58
L
ane clenched his garrison cap at his side. He’d never been summoned to the commander’s tent before. The trip felt strikingly similar to a visit he’d once paid to the principal’s office; a week of custodial chores for sticking gum under a desk had reinforced his illusion of justice.
“Morning, Captain,” he said, stepping inside with a salute.
Berlow’s shiny head didn’t rise in greeting. Seated at a small table, he continued studying a map covered in penciled arrows and circles.
Just the kind of exchange Lane needed today. With Maddie past her due date, he had bigger concerns to occupy his time. Like whether they were now the parents of a beautiful boy or girl.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
The man grunted around his unlit cigar and waved a hand to release Lane’s salute, his manner as austere as ever. Since that night in the meadow, back in October, Lane had been praised and welcomed by their entire unit. With the exception of Berlow. Not even saving the captain’s life had forged a bond.
Lane surveyed the room, looking to solve the riddle of this man. Yet no answers lay in his personal space. Despite being stationed in an island CP, the Marine kept a Spartan tent. You could bounce a bowling ball on his perfectly tucked cot.
“So, had a chat today with Major Paulsen,” the captain said at last. Reclining in his chair, he laced his fingers over his chest.
“Yes, sir.” The response seemed expected.
“Talked about you and what you’ve been doin’ here,” he said. “And about your father.”
“My father?”
The topic puzzled Lane. Why would they be—
Shit.
His detainment.
Lane should have anticipated this. Various organizations were known to investigate backgrounds of the MIS. The Counter Intelligence Corps, for one. Their undercover spies were rumored to be everywhere, hunting saboteurs, exaggerating offenses. After a year without being questioned, though, he figured the connection to his father had been lost in a file.
“He’s still being held by the DOJ, isn’t he?” Berlow’s tone made the question rhetorical.
Lane confirmed with a nod, and it occurred to him that perhaps the captain had known all along, that the CIC had even put him in charge of watching Lane. And now Berlow had gathered enough info to send the “suspect” packing.
In hindsight, saving the guy might not have been the wisest move.
“My father isn’t guilty,” Lane began to explain.
“That, son, is none of my concern.”
At the utter indifference, Lane squeezed his hat tighter.
He’s no less a patriot than any man in this company,
he wanted to shout. In his gut, he’d always known the goodness of his father, the devotion to his family and country.
The thought delivered a trace of guilt from having ever doubted him.
Berlow pulled the cigar from his mouth. His fingers removed a speck of tobacco on his tongue and flicked it away. “When the major asked about you, however, I put in a good word. Don’t know it’ll help your pop. But there you have it.”
That was what Berlow and the officer had discussed? The status of Lane’s father wasn’t grounds for discharge?
Considering the usual treatment by the captain, his sudden support didn’t make sense.
Doubtful, tentative, Lane replied, “This is unexpected, sir.”
Berlow appeared surprised by the reaction, the lack of gratitude maybe. He rolled his cigar between his fingers. “Look. I admit, I’m not a fan of anyone being assigned to my company who isn’t a Marine. We’re trained to think the same, act the same. Outsiders add danger to that system. My job is to protect those boys, return ’em to their mamas in as good of shape as they came.” He shed a breath, shifted in his seat. “That being said ... as Army guys go, well ... you did all right.”
Lane felt a sensation in his chest. A tingling of pride he almost didn’t recognize.
“Point is,” Berlow said a bit sharply, “Major says you’ve been ordered to HQ in Sydney. I don’t know how the hell we’re supposed to get anything useful out of any POWs here with no one to speak their language. But that doesn’t seem to be the brass’s damn concern... .” The rest faded into a mumble as he replaced his cigar.
A transfer back to Australia wouldn’t have been arranged on a whim. With the impressive progress Allies were making in the Pacific, reams of Japanese documents would have been captured. Vital translations or officer interrogations could be waiting.
“When do I leave?” Lane asked.
“Jeep will pick you up at o-six-thirty.”
Tomorrow? He’d be returning to civilization tomorrow?
Lane found his contributions here of value, but he’d had his fill of living like Tarzan.
“Thank you, Captain.”
The man grunted. “Dismissed,” he said, and returned to his map.
 
Lane ventured back to his quarters, envisioning what lay ahead. Real showers and actual mess halls. Streets and buildings, air thin enough to breathe. And Dewey, his pal and college roommate, stationed there in Intelligence. What a time they’d have catching up, shooting the breeze. Just like old times.
Then he thought of TJ, and the fact they’d still received no word. “Old times” without the guy were hard to remember, the future even harder.
Lane curbed the idea. He forbade himself from imagining the worst. This was a day of celebration, wasn’t it? A day Maddie would appreciate. Although he hated to leave his new buddies behind, a handful in particular he’d gotten to know, the safety of his new station would bring her relief. That in itself brought him comfort.
He was picturing Maddie’s delight as he entered his tent. The discovery of a gift on his pillow hitched his breath. A post! From Illinois! Clerk must have dropped it off. If the fella were still around, Lane would have hauled off and hugged him.
He tore into the envelope, unable to contain his excitement. He got as far as the greeting when he stopped. The handwriting wasn’t Maddie’s. He turned to the last page to identify the sender.
Ida. The gal from the farm. Why would she be writing to him?
Tamping his trepidation, he flipped back to the beginning. He sank onto his cot and read the woman’s message. The further he got, the more his mind scattered, a reflexive defense against the razor-sharp words.
Maddie ...
Labor ...
Baby ...
Complications.

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