“Everyone’s case is different, but I’ve had other patients your age live up to another ten years.”
That sounded both reassuring—in ten years she would be eighty-five, a long life by any measure—and frightening. Ten years could go by in a flash.
Frank said, “Jim suggests we move your bedroom from the second floor to the first, so you can avoid climbing stairs.”
“And I’m going to take a leave from my job while you recover. Everything’s going to be all right, Okāsan.” Ruth squeezed her hand as her mother had done for her many times. Etsuko chose to believe her.
* * *
Only a week later, Ruth walked into her mother’s newly relocated bedroom—formerly occupied by Don—to find Etsuko tucking her pillows under the bedspread and smoothing out its folds. “Okāsan,” she said, “why are you doing that?”
“I have not forgotten how to make a bed, butterfly.”
“But you’re not supposed to. Remember Dr. Higuchi’s chart?”
The chart in question was a table of calories burned per minute for various daily activities: Washing & dressing was 2.6 cal/min; Washing face & combing hair, 2.5 cal/min; Sitting was 1.6 cal/min while Standing was 2.0, and Climbing Stairs a whopping 6.0–10 cal/min.
“Oh, that silly chart,” Etsuko scoffed. “Look at me, do I appear to be exhausted? Or in pain?”
“No, but you’re supposed to be avoiding chores like cleaning and washing dishes to conserve your energy for things you enjoy, like gardening.”
“I am not yet an invalid, Dai. I can make my own bed, wash my own dishes. As for cleaning, at Manzanar I must have swept out a lifetime’s worth of dust and sand in three years, so I am more than happy to retire my broom.”
Ruth smiled at that. “Good, we’ll have it bronzed. In the meantime, breakfast is ready. Did you take your diuretic pill this morning?”
“Yes, yes,” Etsuko said with a sigh, “and I was up at least ten times last night. Is this pill so necessary?”
“That’s the whole idea—flushing the sodium from your body.”
“A little too much flushing, in my opinion,” Etsuko muttered.
Ruth laughed.
After breakfast, Ruth left for the supermarket. “Promise me you won’t go do any gardening until I get back,” she asked.
“I plan on doing nothing more strenuous than sewing,” Etsuko said. “I need to finish the dress I’m making for Susan’s birthday.” Ralph and Carol’s daughter was turning three in two weeks.
“Thanks. I’ll be back within the hour, okay?”
“I will try not to die while you are gone,” Etsuko teased.
Ruth found her mother’s sense of humor taxing at times.
After her daughter left, Etsuko went to her bedroom to retrieve her sewing kit. The fabric for Susan’s dress—dark blue, patterned with white seagulls—was in the top drawer of her dresser. But the pattern she had been planning to use was not. She must have left it in the old shoebox in which she kept her patterns. It was probably still upstairs, in her old room.
She did not relish climbing those stairs any more than she did acting against her daughter’s wishes. But she needed to finish that dress in time for Susan’s birthday party. She could wait an hour for Ruth to return, but it irked her to feel so dependent upon others.
She took the steps slowly, keeping her hand on the banister, but with each breath she felt as if she were ascending Mount Fuji. When she reached the second floor she was breathless and rested for a moment.
The shoebox was indeed in her closet, but had been placed on the top shelf alongside boxes of Donnie’s old sneakers. Etsuko dragged over a chair, but the memory of her fall in the garden gave her pause. Should she wait until Ruth came home? No, that was ridiculous; she was here now, wasn’t she?
She got up onto the chair, standing there for a moment to make sure the dizziness did not return. When it did not, she reached up and took the box from the shelf. She felt a rush of pride and satisfaction—
And then felt a spasm in her chest, as if something had reached inside her and squeezed her heart like a sponge.
She gasped for breath—felt a shudder in her pulse—but the dizziness didn’t return and the spasm eventually subsided. She stood on the chair, breathing hard, then slowly got down. She waited, dreading another stab of angina—Dr. Higuchi had warned her of these and insisted he be told if she experienced one—but fortunately there was no further pain. She walked over to her grandson’s bed and lay down. After what seemed an hour but was probably only fifteen minutes, she got up, tucked the shoebox under one arm, and returned to the stairs. It was a long, frightening descent, but at the end she was merely out of breath, nothing worse. She gratefully lay down on her bed and fell asleep.
She woke when Ruth returned home with the groceries.
“Sorry. Were you taking a nap?” Ruth said as she paused by the room.
“Yes,” Etsuko said, as matter-of-factly as she could. “I felt a bit tired.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re taking Dr. Higuchi’s advice to heart.”
* * *
Over the next few months, Etsuko felt the occasional brief angina pain but told no one and simply endured it. Then one Sunday in the midst of church services she felt a spasm so painful that she cried out and fainted. Reverend Hojo called O’Connor Hospital as his wife hurried across the street to inform the Haradas. Within minutes Etsuko was being carried into an ambulance, which Ruth and Frank followed to the hospital.
After examining Etsuko, Dr. Higuchi came out of the ICU and told the Haradas, “She suffered a heart attack, but a relatively mild one. When she came to, she admitted that she’s been having chest pains for months but didn’t want to tell you.”
Ruth felt equal measures relief and anger. “She hid them from us?”
“You know what it’s like with the Issei—they endure the pain, they gaman. And she didn’t want you to worry.”
Reflexively Ruth began kicking herself—how could she not have noticed, not have known, that her mother was hurting?
“What’s her prognosis?” Frank asked.
“Generally good. We’ll have to keep her a few weeks for observation. I have her on Demerol, she’s in no pain; when she’s ready to go home I’ll prescribe digitalis as needed for angina. She should regain most of her strength, though she’ll have to be even more careful about exerting herself.”
When they went to see her, Etsuko seemed weak and contrite for concealing her pain from Ruth, who was careful not to show any irritation: “The important thing is you’re going to be fine.”
When Etsuko returned home two weeks later, still a bit unsteady on her feet, the first thing she wanted to do was check on the bird of paradise in the garden. She was pleased to see that it had sprouted several new shoots. “Perhaps it will bloom this fall or winter,” she said, and Ruth—happy to hear her mother looking forward to something—encouraged the notion.
When winter came, alas, there was no bloom on the plant; but the season brought something else, just as welcome.
* * *
When Rachel walked through the front door on December 23, Etsuko’s face lit up with pleasure. “Oh, Rachel! I’m so glad you could join us,” she said. Rachel wrapped her arms around Etsuko—and was shocked by how thin and bony her small body felt. This reminded her, disturbingly, of Sister Catherine as she lay abed in the Kalaupapa hospital. But Rachel didn’t betray her unease and said with a smile, “I’m glad to see you too, Etsuko.”
“How was your trip to South America?”
“It was wonderful. I brought pictures.” Rachel sat down beside her. “Thank you for inviting me to share your holidays with you.”
“My holiday is next week—New Year’s Day,” Etsuko said lightly, “but I have come to enjoy Christmas. Mostly for the delight it brings the keiki.”