Paper Wishes (6 page)

Father does not have a plate.

“Would you like me to get you some food?” Mother asks.

“I'll eat in a minute,” he says. Father rests his hand on his chest. Then he pulls an envelope from the inside of his shirt.

“A letter from Keiko,” he says, handing it to Mother.

Mother reads quickly. “No,” she says, and passes it to Ron.

Ron reads slowly.

“Father,” he says. “I cannot.”

“This will prove that you are American,” Father says.

“Why must I prove it?” Ron asks. “I know what is in my head and in my heart.”

Father and Ron stare at each other.

Many others at our table stare, too. When they see that I notice their stares, they look away.

Father leaves the mess hall.

He does not eat rice and chicken with us. He does not drink his hot water.

“Mother,” Ron says.

“I understand,” she says. “I do not wish it either.”

I am curious, but I can be patient.

After we eat, Mother returns to the kitchen to finish her work shift.

“Keiko suggests I join the army,” Ron whispers. “There are rumors that soon the army will welcome those of us who are living here. Keiko says that if I join the army, I will be free to leave this place. But what kind of freedom is that? Should I fight for the army that imprisons my family?”

It is like old times. Ron tells me what Mother and Father do not want me to hear.

Ron hands me a slip of paper.

“This is for you,” he says.

“Dear Sister,” it reads. “I know you are a comfort to Mother. Study and learn so that one day you can live with me and go to college. Keiko.”

Once, I wanted to live with Keiko and go to college.

Now I just want to go back to the island.

 

JULY

For many days, Miss Rosalie and the other teachers have been preparing us for the Independence Day celebration. Some students learn poems. Some students learn songs. I make a banner. The older students will recite part of the Declaration of Independence.

On Independence Day, everyone gathers in the open space on the other side of the classrooms in Block 7. Ron says there are plans to build an auditorium in that open space.

Mr. Warden is there.

My island neighbors from Block 3 are there.

People from all of the blocks are there: students, parents, grandparents.

I think I have never seen so many people in one place before.

Miss Rosalie told us that there are now almost ten thousand people living in this prison-village.

Ten thousand people with hair and skin like mine.

Ten thousand people with Japanese names like mine.

Students line up in front, facing the parents and grandparents.

I stand next to Kimmi.

Mr. Warden motions to one of the teachers to begin.

The teacher nods and a high school student steps forward. “Salute!” he shouts above the crowd.

All of the students salute.

But I feel nervous when I see that some adults in the crowd do not salute.

“Pledge!” the high school boy shouts.

Students recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

But I feel nervous when I see that many adults in the crowd do not pledge.

Maybe they do not know the Pledge of Allegiance.

Or maybe they do.

Mr. Warden must not see them, though, because he doesn't leave his spot. After the pledge, he reads a speech from a paper. But the wind starts to blow and dust fills my ears, so I cannot hear his words.

*   *   *

After the ceremony, school is dismissed for lunch and the crowd shrinks. We go back to our own blocks. Back to our own barracks. Ron walks me to lunch, the wind pushing our arms and legs toward the mess hall.

On the other side of the road that separates Block 3 from Block 9, some men huddle in the shadows of one of the barracks. These men are city men, not from our island.

Ron sees me staring.

“Come,” he says. But then he stops and looks.

I see what he sees: some of the wild boys from his class are lurking on the edges of the men in the shadows.

“Go to lunch, Manami,” Ron says.

My stomach tightens. I do not want to leave Ron alone with these men and the wild boys.

Ron gently pushes my back. “I'll be there in a minute,” he says.

I walk as slowly as I can, looking over my shoulder at the shadow group.

As Ron nears them, I see a man give a paper to one of the wild boys. The paper gets crumpled and shoved into his pocket.

I am too far to hear Ron's conversation with the wild boys, but I hear some words: Lunchtime. Go to the mess hall.

I am relieved when I see Ron walk away from that group, a few of the wild boys slinking behind him.

*   *   *

The wind has not stopped blowing for more than a week.

It is heavy and hot and dry. Island winds can be heavy, too, but they are cool and wet. Island winds coat my face with tiny beads of water. This wind pelts my face with dust. It glues my eyelashes closed until Mother presses a warm, wet cloth on my eyes to clean the dust away. It powders my hair until Mother brushes the dust free with her long, strong strokes. It layers my tongue and throat. Too much for Mother to clean out. Not even two cups of hot water from the teapot can clean it out.

But just below the howl of the wind, I can hear another sound. It is not quite a whimper and not quite a growl. It is something in between. Yujiin is out there in the dusty wind. I hear him when I walk to the water pump in the morning. I hear him when I sit in the garden. I hear him when I wait at the mess hall for Mother.

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.