Don and Peggy, no longer keiki but adults in their early twenties, were on break from school and were equally happy to see their tūtū. Each was eager to tell her about their lives and studies.
Over supper, Rachel noted idly that though Ruth filled her plate with yams, string beans, and other vegetables, she was avoiding the main course. “Ruth, aren’t you having any of this delicious ham you’ve cooked?”
Ruth sighed. “I’m afraid not. Lately I’ve been trying not to eat meat of any kind. I’m not squeamish about cooking it for others, but growing up on the farm I could never understand the difference between dogs and cats, who we treat as pets, and cows and chickens, who we see as food. First rule of farming: never name the livestock. I never did eat chicken at home.”
“True,” Etsuko confirmed.
To avoid wearing Etsuko out, houseguests were carefully scheduled: on Christmas Eve, Ralph, Carol, John T., and Susan visited; on Christmas Day, it would be Horace and Rose’s family. Etsuko loved seeing the joy in the children’s faces as they opened their gifts; she even enjoyed listening to Bing Crosby’s velvet voice sing “Silent Night” and “White Christmas” on the hi-fi.
She was unable, of course—and unwilling, in any event—to join the Haradas at Christmas Day services at their church. Ruth stayed home to look after her and Rachel kept them company.
Sitting in the living room beside Etsuko, Rachel said, “Kenji never cared much for Christmas himself. He knew I liked it and was always happy to eat a Christmas turkey”—Etsuko laughed—“but that was about it. He wasn’t a devout Buddhist either, but I do know he didn’t believe in God, much less a Son of.”
Etsuko nodded. “Buddha teaches us that nothing in the universe is permanent, so there can be no immortal soul and no everlasting God.”
“But Kenji did believe in an afterlife.”
“The Pure Land, yes. Amida Buddha opens the path to that realm. But that is only a way station to one’s next rebirth.”
Ruth entered, a bit dismayed at the morbid turn in the conversation.
“Only karma survives death,” Etsuko explained. “If the karma has been one of good actions, as set out in the Eightfold Path, it will result in a better rebirth; if the karma has been one of bad actions, a lesser rebirth. What survives is not a soul or personality but karma. Think of it as a candle flame, which, in dying, lights the flame of another candle. Its light is reborn.
“This cycle of death and rebirth is called samsara. But the ultimate goal is enlightenment, or nirvana, which means ‘extinction.’ When you achieve nirvana, your karma has no further need for existence.”
Ruth said dryly, “There’s a cheery thought for a Christmas morning.”
Etsuko shrugged. “It is not meant to cheer, butterfly; it is what it is. But I am not so prideful to think I have led a perfect life and will achieve nirvana after I die. I will continue on the great wheel of samsara.”
At that, Ruth suggested they see what was on the great wheel of the television dial, and they watched TV until Etsuko eventually dozed off.
Rachel, gazing at her with a sorrow that Ruth shared, said quietly, “She tires so easily. She was always so full of life and energy.”
Ruth nodded. “I’m so glad she got to see Honolulu again, while she had the strength. And Chinatown, and our old home.”
“She’s a remarkable woman,” Rachel said. “Kenji and I couldn’t have wished for a better mother to love our akachan.”
* * *
As winter gave way to spring, Etsuko’s stamina diminished and she became so short of breath that Dr. Higuchi prescribed the use of an oxygen tank, kept beside her bed. Ruth took to sleeping on a futon next to her in case she needed help. Once Etsuko woke in the middle of the night, gasping for breath; Ruth jumped up and put her oxygen mask on. Gratefully Etsuko took in the air, but it was terrifying for Ruth to see her mother struggling to breathe.
In midsummer, Ruth wrote to Rachel:
Christmas seems so long ago. When you were here she was lively, still eating at the dining table. All that winter she asked whether the bird of paradise had bloomed yet, but it never did. I think she’s hoping that if the crane flower blooms, she might reap some of its legendary longevity. Even I’m praying for it to bloom, hoping it might inspire her to keep fighting.
Oh Rachel, this is so hard. When Papa died it was sudden and distant, like a bolt of lightning. This is slow and invisible, like gravity dragging her down each day. It breaks my heart to watch.
By October Etsuko was almost totally bedridden. She could barely consume more than a few bites before feeling full. Her feet became swollen with edema and her once-fine features became puffy as her face took on more fluid. Ruth became adept at turning her over in bed to prevent bedsores, and perhaps once a week Etsuko would allow her or Frank to put her in a wheelchair and take her into the backyard for some fresh air. The bird of paradise was lush with leathery, bluish-green leaves, but the only other growth was a purplish basal sheath that stubbornly declined to bloom.
Etsuko was mortified when Ruth would give her a sponge bath, but she was also grateful for her tender ministrations. And she felt the need, on a morning when she was having less trouble breathing than usual, to tell her that.
“Dai,” she said softly, faintly.
“Yes, Okāsan?”
“You have been a gift to me,” she said, smiling, “and a joy I never dared dream of after the doctors told me I could never have another child.”
“No, Mama. You were the one who gave me the gift. The gift of a home, a family, and love.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, butterfly. I have since the moment I saw you. And I am so proud of the woman you have become.”
When Frank came home he looked in on Etsuko, who was asleep, then joined his wife in the kitchen. “You look exhausted,” he told her.
“I’m fine,” she said. “She’s not going to die in a hospital. Not like Papa.”
Frank thought that might not be up to her. But he just nodded.
The next morning, Ruth rose early. Her mother was still sleeping with no apparent discomfort, so Ruth slipped quietly out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She stood by the sink washing off fresh oranges to squeeze for juice, when she happened to look up and out the kitchen window.
In the garden a fire-red flower was opening in the dawning light.
Ruth raced into the backyard. The bird of paradise was magnificent. From the boat-shaped sheath a long-stemmed flower had emerged, flame-red with a blue arrowlike tongue. It did, in fact, look like a crane.
Frank saw her in the yard and joined her. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Sure took its own sweet time.”
Ruth grinned and hurried into the house to announce, breathlessly, to her mother: “It’s bloomed!”
“What?” Etsuko said in disbelief.
“The bird of paradise—it’s beautiful!”
Etsuko’s face lit up with an excitement Ruth hadn’t seen in months. “I want to see,” she said, sitting up. “Take me out to see it!”
Ruth and Frank got Etsuko into a bathrobe and then her wheelchair. Ruth wheeled her out of the house and down a wooden ramp Frank had built over the back steps, then to the garden. Etsuko was thrilled by what she saw.
“Ohhh,” she said softly, “it is beautiful. Like the ones in Hawai'i.”
Ruth pushed her wheelchair close enough so that Etsuko could reach out her hand and just lightly graze the delicate, bright orange blossom.
Etsuko’s smile was nearly as bright.
Ruth and Frank were willing to stand there as long as Etsuko wanted to, as long as her strength held out. Finally she said, “I’m ready to go in now.”
“We can come out again later,” Ruth said.
Etsuko nodded, still smiling.