“Many times. Did he really drink the blood of a carp?”
Etsuko nodded. “I have no idea if it helped him, but it surely did no good for the carp.” Ruth had to laugh. “The doctor prescribed remedies, but it was not he who saved his life. Taizo was nursed back to health by a woman—a midwife friendly with Taizo’s family. In those days there were no such things as nurses in Japan, only midwives. But they often knew as much as doctors did, and this one came over almost every day for six months—applying warm poultices and hot mustard plasters, making sure he had fresh air, feeding him nourishing soups and broths—until the winter fever passed.
“When he was well enough to leave the house, he went to the midwife’s home to thank her for all she had done. But when her mother answered the door she declared, ‘I have no daughter.’ Taizo persisted, and she admitted that her daughter had left because she was … ‘unclean.’ The last thing this mother said to her daughter was ‘Never come back. And die quickly.’”
“My God.” Ruth flinched at the cruelty. “She—she had leprosy?”
Etsuko nodded. “She must have contracted it from one of the women she had midwived. Back then, there were no leprosy laws in Japan and no public hospitals that would take them; it was not uncommon to see homeless lepers wandering from town to town, living hand to mouth. Your father searched for her, but it was fruitless. Years later he learned that she had died at Kaishun Hospital in Kumamoto-ken, a private sanitarium for lepers opened by an Englishwoman, Hannah Riddell. He never had the chance to thank his benefactor for what she’d done for him.”
A tingle of intuition ran up Ruth’s spine as she asked, “This woman—what was her name?”
Etsuko said, “Her name was Dai.”
Of course, Ruth thought. Of course.
“Taizo felt he owed her a debt he could never repay—until he read about the Kapi'olani Home. And so we found you and named you Dai to honor her.” She squeezed Ruth’s hand. “I know you found your father’s ideas about honor difficult to understand. But you owe your life with us to that sense of honor.”
Tearfully, Ruth embraced Etsuko. “I understand now,” she said softly. “I understand, Okāsan.”
They sat there, interlocked in their love and grief for Taizo, until Ruth pulled away and asked, “So what should I do? About my … Hawaiian mother?”
“She is part of your life, Ruth. She gave you life. Call her back.”
“What if she asks to come here? How would that make you feel?”
“I am secure in the knowledge that I am the mother of your heart,” Etsuko said, smiling. “But she is the mother of your blood. She deserves to see what a fine woman you have become … if that is what you wish as well.”
“I wish I knew what I wished,” Ruth said. “This is so … overwhelming.”
“It is your decision, butterfly,” Etsuko said gently. “But I have never known you to make a bad one.”
* * *
That night, while Donnie and Peggy were in the living room listening to the music and adventure from Gene Autry’s Melody Ranch, Ruth closed the door to the bedroom she and Frank shared and told him everything. He read Rachel’s letter and was as stunned as Ruth was by Rachel’s admission and by the history Etsuko had revealed. His first thought was “What about the kids? Are they going to—” He couldn’t bring himself to complete the sentence.
“She said it wasn’t hereditary. But I’m going to call Dr. Higuchi tomorrow and ask him what he knows about leprosy.”
“That’s good. Jim was an Army doc, he might’ve encountered this. Ask him whether it’s safe for us—and the kids—to be around her.”
“I called her a leper.” Ruth felt ashamed. “She sounded hurt. But that was the only word I knew.”
“You couldn’t know. This is beyond the experience of most people.”
“What do I do, Frank?”
He smiled. “I think that may be the first time you’ve asked me that since we’ve been married. You don’t usually have trouble figuring that out.”
“I do now. I feel so … confused about this woman. For years I’ve been angry at her, at my hapa half, but when we spoke I couldn’t help marveling at how alike we sound. And there was such longing and sadness in her voice—”
“You don’t have to decide right away. And you don’t have to commit to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Ruth nodded. If only she knew what she wanted to do.
* * *
It took her several days to assimilate all that Dr. Higuchi told her about Hansen’s disease; she even went to the public library to read whatever she could find about Moloka'i and Father Damien. There wasn’t much other than a couple of biographies of Damien, and she was impressed by the courage of this man who had given his life to help people who had been forgotten, abandoned. But the graphic descriptions of the physical effects of leprosy—tumors, disfigurement—made her queasy, anxious. It took more days to work up her nerve, but that Sunday Ruth again dialed Rachel’s number in Honolulu (though a few hours later).
This time Rachel answered it on the first ring:
“Hello?” The fear and anticipation in her voice was palpable.
“Hi,” Ruth said. “It’s me again.”
Simultaneously they said, “I’m sorry—”
Simultaneously they laughed.
“You first,” Ruth said.
“I’m sorry if I alarmed you last week,” Rachel said. “I’m sure it was enough of a shock, hearing from me, much less the rest of it.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long to call back,” Ruth said. “I guess I panicked a little. My first thought was for my children; what it might mean to them.”
Ruth heard the barely concealed delight in Rachel’s voice: “How many children do you have?”
“Two. Peggy’s eight and Donald is ten.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“My doctor says you’re right, leprosy isn’t hereditary,” Ruth said. “But that children are more susceptible to it.”
“Did he also tell you that you don’t get it from casual contact? From touching someone, or breathing the same air they do?”
“Yes. But he did say that children are more susceptible.”
There was a pause as Rachel seemed to consider her words. “Ruth, it’s you I want to see. I’m willing to do it under any conditions you name. If you don’t want me near your children, I won’t go near them.”
Ruth ginned up the courage to ask, “How … bad … is your leprosy?”
“You mean, am I disfigured?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Rachel said candidly, “My right hand is deformed. And my feet. Other than that, my main complaint is neuritis.”
Dammit, Ruth thought, why do I keep putting my foot in my mouth like this? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound … tactless—”
“It’s all right. Not many people know much about leprosy. Even in Hawai'i it’s something most people would prefer not to think about.”
There was a long silence, and then Ruth admitted, “I used to wonder about you. Who you were. Why you…” She paused. “I think it’s only fair to tell you. I love my okāsan, my mother. I loved my father.”
“Of course you do. They raised you. Raised you well, to judge by what I’ve heard. I’m not trying to replace anyone in your affections, Ruth.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“Just what I said in the letter. To see you.” Here Rachel’s voice caught. “You were the only baby I ever had, and you were taken from me after less than a day. If someone had taken Peggy or Donald from you right after they were born—if you hadn’t seen them in thirty years—what would you want?”
Ruth heard and was moved by her words, but even more clearly she heard Rachel’s voice. It was a voice that sounded like family.
“We’re not rich,” she told Rachel. “I can’t afford to come to Honolulu.”
“I don’t expect you to,” Rachel said, sounding relieved. “I have savings. And Social Security—I worked at the Kalaupapa Store for almost twenty years. The government paid for my food, housing, and clothes, so I’ve got a few dollars in the bank … and a list of places I want to see before I die. But nothing as much as I want to see you, Ruth.”