Silent Honor (33 page)

“My aunt says it's a bad age. It must be,” she said charitably. And then she smiled, keeping an eye on Tami's still form. She hadn't even stirred in an hour. “I think I'm lucky I have a little boy,” she said. But he couldn't help wondering how lucky she really was. Everyone in camp knew she wasn't married, and having a baby here and no husband to take care of her afterward seemed anything but lucky. But he would never have dared ask her anything about the baby's father, and what had happened. He could see from the few times he'd seen the child that the father was Caucasian. But she had had no visitors, and she seemed to have no plans for marriage.

But as they sat quietly together, talking about their families in Japan, Tami stirred and began to cry. Eventually she got so bad they decided to send for Tak and Reiko. And since he was still there, Tadashi volunteered to get them.

They came running to the infirmary, and sat for hours, watching Tami slip away from them, but by morning she fell into a deep sleep, and the fever broke unexpectedly. It was a miracle. There was no explanation. She had been sick for longer than anyone in the camp, but she had survived. Her father just sat at her bedside and sobbed as he looked at her and kissed her hand, grateful that she had been spared, and that tragedy hadn't struck them. He was so undone that Hiroko took him home, and left Reiko with Tami. But as soon as she got home, and helped put Tak to bed, she could see, from looking at him, that something was wrong with her baby. She had left him with Sally. But he felt hot to her touch, and he was crying and restless. And when she tried to nurse him, instead of guzzling her milk as he always did, he refused to take it, and whenever she moved him, he cried out, as though something hurt him.

“How long has he been like that?” she asked Sally, looking worried, but the teenager only shrugged and said she thought he was fine the night before. “Are you sure?” she asked, and Sally admitted that she wasn't. She said she thought he was asleep, and hadn't really checked him. And Hiroko forced herself not to snap at her cousin. Instead, she scooped him up, and went back to the infirmary with him, to see the doctor. Toyo was only four months old, and probably too little to survive if he got meningitis.

But as soon as the doctor saw him, she felt her heart stop as she heard his words. Toyo had contracted the much-dreaded meningitis. They put him in isolation, just as they had Tami, and Hiroko sat with him, never leaving him for an instant. The fever got worse, and he cried piteously. She could tell from touching him that his little neck was stiff, and all his limbs ached. And her breasts were aching and hard as rocks, while he refused to nurse, and she sat and cried, holding him, praying he would survive, and wondering for the thousandth time if she should have told Peter about their baby. What if he died and Peter never knew him, or about him? Even the thought of it was beyond bearing.

Reiko came and sat with her night after night. Tami was much better by then, eating, and talking and playing. They said she would go home in a few days, but poor Toyo only got worse as Hiroko cried and held him. She never left him for an instant, and would let no one else touch him. And when she couldn't bear it anymore, she lay on the floor next to his crib and slept on the tatami someone had brought from home and put there.

“You can't go on like this, Hiroko. You have to go home and get some sleep,” Reiko insisted to no avail. Sandra, the old nurse who had been there the night he'd been born, had come to see them several times, and tried to get Hiroko to leave too. But no one could convince her to leave her baby.

The doctor came and saw him several times a day, but no one could change the course of destiny, or stop the disease that racked him. All they could do was wait and see what happened.

Tadashi came by to see them several times too. He brought her tea, or water, or sometimes a piece of fruit. And once he brought her a flower, but he could see how distracted she was, and ravaged by grief. She knew she wouldn't live another day if her baby died. And she sat praying for him day after day, and silently talking to Peter.

“How is he?” Tadashi whispered one afternoon as he came in from the main ward to see her. As usual, it was hot and dusty outside, and there had been a lot of complaining in the camp. Tule Lake had just officially been designated a “segregation” center, and six thousand “loyals” were going to be moved out in the next two months and sent to other camps while nine thou-sand “disloyals,” or high-security risks, were being moved in, which meant that the camp would be more crowded than ever. And tighter security measures were going to be set up. Tanks had already been placed beyond the fence, and soldiers brought in as guards. People were not pleased as they watched higher fences going up, with more barbed wire. The delusion of freedom was long gone and getting worse now. But Hiroko knew about none of that as she sat with her baby.

“I think he's worse,” Hiroko said miserably, and looked up at Tadashi as she declined an apple. She just couldn't eat, except when she absolutely had to, so she could still feed her baby, who occasionally nursed a little. But the doctors couldn't do anything for him, nor could his mother.

“He'll be all right,” Tadashi said to her, with a gentle hand on her shoulder, and then he disappeared again, and that night she sat alone and sobbed, as she was convinced her baby was dying. Hiroko was alone in his isolation cubicle, when Tad came back in and watched her. He was afraid to intrude on her misery, but he didn't want to leave her alone either. He had had a married sister Hiroko's age, and she had died two months before, having a miscarriage, and he missed her. And in some ways, it made him feel closer to Hiroko.

He sat down silently next to her finally, and just sat there watching Toyo with her, and not speaking. He was the sweetest little boy, and as they watched him, his breathing grew more and more labored. He was fighting for each breath, and gasping through blue lips, but they had no air tubes to use, no oxygen, for fear it would explode. There was nothing they could do to help him. Hiroko just picked him up and crooned to him as she cried and tried to hold him upright. And Tadashi gently sponged his little face with cool water. He had lost weight in the last few days, and he didn't even look like the little Buddha he had been.

And then suddenly, as she held him, he stopped breathing completely. He had a look of surprise at first, as though he were choking on something, and a moment later, he went limp in her arms as she gasped and stared at him in total panic. But before she could say a word, Tadashi took him from her, and lay him on the tatami, and began massaging his little heart. He was blue by then, and Tadashi knelt over him, and began giving him artificial respiration. He breathed for him methodically as Hiroko knelt beside them and keened for her baby. And after a moment, there was a little sound, and then a cry, and a gurgle. His color improved a little bit, and they bathed his forehead again as the baby watched them. And then Tad went to get a small tub with cool water, and together they bathed him. And in the morning, at last, his fever had broken. The baby looked better than he had in days, and Hiroko looked ashen. She knew they had almost lost him, and it was Tad who had saved him.

“What can I say to thank you?” she asked him in Japanese, her eyes filled with tears and gratitude. Without him, Toyo would have died, and she knew it. “You saved my baby.”

“God saved your baby, Hiroko. I just helped. So did you. That's all we can do here. We are only helpers.” But without him, Toyo wouldn't have been here. “You should go and get some sleep now. I'll watch him till you get back.” But as usual, she refused to leave her son. And Tad went home to get some rest, and came back for his shift at five o'clock, with Reiko. She had heard what had happened the night before from some of the nurses, and she thanked him, and a little while later, he went back to check on Hiroko. He had a proprietary feeling now about Toyo, and he was pleased to see the baby looking pinker than he had in days, and gurgling at his mother.

“You made a miracle,” she said with a tired smile, but her hair was disheveled, and stuck to her forehead. It was warm in the small cubicle, and she kept fanning herself, and he saw that her eyes were very bright as he talked to her, and she seemed very nervous.

“You need to lie down,” he said, sounding like a medic. “You're going to get sick yourself if you don't get some rest.” And he meant it. It amused and touched her when he sounded firm with her. Although they had worked together before, they had become friends in the course of Tami's illness, and Toyo's. She hadn't even seen the little girl since Toyo had gotten sick. She had never left him.

But when Tad came back later that night, Hiroko looked worse, and she seemed very restless, and he said something to Reiko when he saw her.

“I think she's exhausted. You should make her go home before she collapses.”

“Any suggestions? Beat her with a broom handle?” Reiko said with a tired smile. They had a lot of sick kids on their hands, and they had had a case of polio that morning. An epidemic of polio would have devastated the camp, and they had the child in another building. “She won't leave that baby.”

“You're her cousin. Tell her she has to,” he insisted, looking young and determined, as Reiko shook her head.

“You don't know Hiroko. She's very stubborn.”

“I know. So was my sister,” he said sadly. They were so much alike in some ways. Hiroko even looked like her at times.

“I'll talk to her,” Reiko said, trying to appease him, but when they both went back to Toyo's cubicle, they found Hiroko with her blouse open, looking as though she was blazing with heat, fanning herself, and talking to someone who wasn't there. Reiko realized immediately that Hiroko was speaking to Peter. Hiroko looked at them and started to speak Japanese to them, and thought they were her parents. And she kept talking about Yuji. Reiko took one look at her and hurried to get the doctor. And Tadashi talked to her quietly in Japanese as she stood up and began to walk toward him. She looked incredibly beautiful, but confused, as she talked to him in English and said she was sorry she hadn't told him about the baby. And just as she reached him, he caught her as she slid slowly to the floor. She was unconscious instantly. And as soon as the doctor came, and found Tadashi kneeling next to her, cradling her head, he examined her and said she had meningitis.

But this time the miracle was harder won. Toyo had to be weaned, and he was unhappy about it, but he was still recovering, as his mother grew worse each day, and eventually slipped from unconsciousness into what looked like a coma. They gave her what medications they had, but her fever blazed, and she never regained consciousness. And after a week, the doctor told Reiko it looked hopeless. There was nothing they could do for her. She lingered for another week, as they were more and more convinced she was dying. In fact, whenever the doctor examined her, he was always surprised she was still with them. Tadashi looked grief stricken each time he came by to look at her, and even Sally cried, regretting all the horrible things she'd said to her, and the arguments they'd had. And Tami was so upset, Reiko was afraid she'd have some kind of relapse. She wouldn't even eat once she heard how ill Hiroko was. Only the baby was unaware of what had happened.

And Hiroko looked as though she had disappeared, she'd lost so much weight, as she lay on her cot in the infirmary, and Tad watched her. He had worked double duty for the past two weeks, in the hope of doing something useful for her. He barely knew her, but he didn't want her to die like his sister.

“Please, Hiroko,” he whispered, as he sat watching her, sometimes late at night when no one else was there. “Please, for Toyo.” He didn't dare say “for me.” It would have been too presumptuous. And then, finally, late one night, she stirred, and began to murmur in her sleep again. She was calling for Peter, and then she started to cry and talk about the baby. “It was so hard …” she kept saying. “I couldn't do it…. I'm sorry. … I don't know where he is now.” But Tad knew what she was talking about. He understood, and he gently took her warm hand in his own and held it.

“The baby's all right, Hiroko. He's fine. He needs you. We all do.” He had fallen in love with a woman he barely knew, at first only because she looked like his sister. They were all so lonely, and so confused and so tired. And he was tired of the warring factions. He hated not having been able to join the army. And he was sick of the No-No Boys complaining and making trouble, and of the others complaining about them. And most of all he was tired of living behind barbed wire in a country he loved. And she didn't deserve to be there either. None of them did. But they were here anyway. And she had given him a ray of hope. She had seemed so pure and so alive and so giving, until she fell ill, and he almost lost her. “Hiroko,” he whispered her name, but she didn't speak again that night, and when he came back in the morning, she was worse. It was endless. And he knew the doctors were right. She was dying.

Reiko and Tak were with her that night when he came back to the infirmary to work, and they had a Buddhist priest with them. He was talking to them and shaking his head and telling them he was sorry. And as Tadashi saw him, he thought she had died and his eyes filled with tears, but Sandra saw him.

“Not yet,” she said softly.

The others left after a little while, and he went back to her partitioned cubicle to see her. He wanted to say his own good-byes to her, although he scarcely knew her. At least he had saved her baby for her. It was something. But now he wished he could have saved her, but knew he couldn't.

“I'm sorry this is happening to you,” he said sadly, as he watched her. He was kneeling next to her bed, and her eyes were like deep holes in her face, but she made no sound and no movement. “I wish you'd stay … we need a little sunshine here.” He smiled. They needed a lot of things, and she was one of them. And then he sat there for a while, already missing her, and a long while later, she gently opened her eyes and looked at him, not recognizing him, and asked for Peter. “He's not here, Hiroko….” And as she closed her eyes again, he wanted to stop her. What if this was the last time? What if she left now? “Hiroko,” he said in an arresting voice. “Don't go…. Come back here.” She opened her eyes again and looked at him.