“You worked for twenty years? How long were you at Kalaupapa?”
“Let’s see—I was sent there when I was seven years old, and I left last year, so … fifty-four years.”
Ruth was thunderstruck. Seven years old? Suddenly the contours of Rachel’s life seemed larger, and sadder, than Ruth had ever imagined.
But there was only happiness in Rachel’s voice now. “Ruth—mahalo nui loa. In a nutshell that means ‘thanks a bunch.’” Ruth laughed at that. “I’ll be in touch when I know my travel plans.”
* * *
That evening, after the kids had been put to bed, Ruth told Frank and Etsuko of her decision. “I think it’s best I meet her alone, away from the kids.”
“I agree,” Frank said. “How do you feel about this?”
“Afraid. Excited. Part of me can’t wait to see what she looks like. Part of me wants to drive the hell away, as far and fast as I can.”
“Hawaiians and Japanese have something important in common,” Etsuko noted. “We both revere our ancestors. In Hawai'i I was honored to hear long, beautiful meles—songs, or chants—joyously singing the history of an 'ohana, a family, going back twenty generations or more. It is like hearing a chorus of voices singing across time itself.
“You have a Japanese legacy, Dai, but our blood is not your blood, no matter how much we love you and you love us. You have songs to hear from your Hawaiian mother, and songs to be revealed, perhaps, of your Japanese father. I am excited for you. I cannot wait to hear the songs you sing back to us.”
Chapter 15
The Hotel Sainte Claire, built during the last great roar of the 1920s, was a lavish, six-story palace whose extravagant cost earned it the nickname “the Million Dollar Hotel.” It was still the finest hotel in San Jose, and Ruth had been frankly startled when Rachel wrote saying she would be staying there. Either her Hawaiian mother really did have money to spare or she was trying a bit too hard to show she did not need money from Ruth.
Ruth had never even been inside the hotel’s lobby before and couldn’t help feeling intimidated—both by the opulent Spanish Revival decor and by the fact that hers was the only nonwhite face there. The lobby was chiefly populated by businessmen in dark three-piece suits. In her sunshine yellow dress, Ruth felt like a canary among a flock of blackbirds.
She hadn’t anticipated being as nervous as she was. Even after their several phone conversations, none of this seemed quite real. She took the elevator to the sixth floor, then stood at the door to Rachel’s room—collecting both her thoughts and her composure—and knocked.
A few moments later the door opened and Ruth found herself staring into the face of the woman who had given birth to her.
Rachel was tall and slim, her broad face and amber skin resembling Ruth’s own. Her graying hair was styled in fashionable waves. She looked to be in her early sixties. She was quite beautiful, with warm brown eyes and a smile that, upon seeing Ruth, lit up her face like a sunrise.
Ruth’s smile was more nervous.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Ruth.”
Rachel’s eyes glistened.
“Ruth,” she said softly. “Oh my baby, you’re so beautiful.”
As Ruth blushed, Rachel reached out in an embrace. By Japanese standards, hugging a total stranger was well outside the norms of polite behavior, and Ruth couldn’t help tensing up as Rachel held her. Rachel seemed to sense this and let go before it became too discomfiting.
She took a step back, wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said with a smile. “I’m a blubbering old woman. Take me out and shoot me.”
Ordinarily this would have made Ruth laugh, but she had barely heard the words. Her gaze had fallen on Rachel’s right hand, which—as Rachel had warned her—was deformed, contracted into something like a claw.
It was true. It was all true.
Ruth felt suddenly unsteady on her feet. “May I … sit down?” she asked.
Rachel stepped aside. Ruth wobbled precariously on her heels and gratefully sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Can I get you some water?” Rachel asked with concern.
Ruth shook her head and took a few deep breaths. She looked at Rachel and said in quiet amazement, “You … really do have leprosy.”
Rachel seemed understandably puzzled. “Well, yes.”
With an embarrassed laugh, Ruth confessed that until that moment, “part of me didn’t quite believe you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh, but…”
She explained what Etsuko had told her about her Hawaiian mother having no choice but to give her up. “But I couldn’t help it, I’d still wonder. How you could have given me up. Why you didn’t—love me enough—to keep me.”
“Oh, Ruth,” Rachel said with a sigh, sitting down beside her.
“Please don’t be offended by this,” Ruth said, “but in a strange way … it’s almost a relief to learn that you have leprosy. To know that you gave me away because you had to, because you really didn’t have any other choice.”
“Nothing else in this world could have made me give you up.”
All at once Ruth felt self-conscious, having shared so much, so soon. She stood, smiling sheepishly. “Why don’t we go downstairs to the restaurant and get some coffee,” she suggested. “Or maybe something stronger.”
* * *
The gin and tonic she ordered in the hotel’s palm-bedecked atrium restaurant helped relax the tension in her body but did nothing to relieve the tension of the conversation. Rachel had ordered a Danish pastry and a cup of coffee. She took a sip. “So … your parents adopted you when you were five?”
Ruth nodded. “Mama always wanted a daughter, but after my brother Ralph was born she learned she couldn’t have any more children. So they decided to adopt a girl.” She did not bring up her namesake, Dai; she was still coming to terms herself with her okāsan’s revelations.
“Do you recall anything of Hawai'i?”
Rather than go into the few scraps of the past she recalled from her parents’ home in Honolulu, Ruth said, “I’m afraid not. My earliest memories are of Florin, our farm there.”
“What brought your parents to California?”
“Well, Papa always wanted his own farm. And in Hawai'i, I guess, there weren’t many opportunities of that kind for an Issei. You know what that is?”
Rachel smiled, nodded. “My husband was Japanese.”
Mortified, Ruth shaded her eyes with her hands. “Yes, of course he was. You had no idea you’d given birth to such an idiot, did you?”
But Rachel only laughed. “No, you’ve just either had too much to drink or not enough.” She sliced off a piece of pastry with her fork. “You were talking about your father?”
Ruth understood that Rachel was only trying to show an interest in her life, but her Japanese reserve made her hold back anything she feared would embarrass her family. So she omitted mention of the subterfuge on Uncle Jiro’s part that brought them to California and merely said that her father had gotten a lease on land in Florin. “I lived on our farm till I was eighteen, when I met Frank.”
She opened her purse and spread a fan of photographs on the table. She pointed to one of her husband. “That’s Frank.”
Rachel smiled. “He’s very handsome.”
“And this is Donald, and Peggy.” She pointed out photographs of Donnie in cowboy garb and Peggy posing shyly in a candy-striped blouse.
“As you can see,” Ruth said, “Donald wants to be Roy Rogers when he grows up. Peggy wants to grow up, period.”
Rachel asked, “May I…?” At Ruth’s nod she picked up the photos and, gazing at them, her smile blossomed with wonder and elation.
“They’re beautiful,” Rachel said softly.
“Thank you. I think so too, when they’re not driving me to drink.” Surprising herself, she asked, “Your husband. What was his name?”
Pleased, Rachel answered, “Kenji. Charles Kenji Utagawa.”