Chapter Fourteen Violet
Chapter Fourteen
Violet
Dear Otōsan,
Everything works differently here. I don’t think I understand any of it.
Last I wrote, I was hoping I might find a way to bring you home to us.
Well, it didn’t work, at least not right now, but I’m going to keep trying.
I won’t bore you with the particulars. Just know I’m trying to figure things out.
I guess everything has seemed so drastic here that I forgot I’m still just myself under it all.
And I hoped I’d be better by now. A more mature and stronger sort of girl.
I know you’d say, “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Violey-chan.
” In fact, I can practically hear your voice.
I can’t wait until I hear it for real. I miss you, Otōsan.
The drawing on the other side of this letter is of the god, Akira.
For once, I drew him true to life without any ocean or exaggeration—not that he needs it!
I’ve always drawn to escape life, but lately I don’t feel like I can.
So for the first time, I wanted to draw in order to…
I don’t know…face myself. Who I am. And who I hope to be.
Love you always,
Violet
“Konnichiwa!” I’m greeted by a chorus. I’ve reached my barrack after leaving Ren in the firebreak outside Akira’s apartment.
My hair ribbon dangles from my hand. Mr. Kimura is outside with Mrs. Kimura, and they greet me.
Mr. Kimura is nailing the lids of cans over the bigger knotholes in our barrack.
“Konnichiwa,” I say, struggling desperately to hide how upset I am. I leave them behind and go inside, heart heavy and steps slow.
Mama is sitting in a chair.
Terror replaces everything else. Mama never just sits.
“Mama? What’s wrong?”
“Violet.” Mama’s voice is thick with emotion. “Violet, we have letters from Otōsan!”
“What?” I rush forward and fall onto my knees next to her.
Several envelopes are in her lap, covered in Otōsan’s handwriting.
I almost cry at the sight. I throw my arms around her waist, and she holds me with Otōsan’s letters crushed between us.
We pull back, laughing with happiness. In my pocket, the deer becomes warm and delighted.
“There’s so many! Did they all get delivered today? ”
“It’s a miracle,” Mama says. Her eyes are gems in her face, shining like sunlit obsidian.
“A staff member brought them to me. Apparently, a lot of mail for the camp was waiting to be sorted at the Lone Pine post office branch and an official ordered someone to pick it up. I was waiting for you to open them. Here, here, sit.” She motions for me to sit at our makeshift table. “Wait, I have some food and drink.”
Mama bustles around. Plates appear by my elbows bearing rice cakes soaked in soy sauce, pickled fish, and tofu made from bean paste.
I marvel. I saw Mama buy fish from the fish market held every other week in the laundry rooms and trade mending for homemade soy sauce, but I didn’t realize why.
She was saving the treats for this very moment.
The letters sit on the table amid the dishes.
They might as well be a dish, too. We might as well be having Otōsan’s words for dinner, because they will sustain our souls in the same way.
Mama sits down and takes my hands. She prays over our food and thanks God for the letters.
My hands are so antsy with excitement. I can hardly keep myself from snatching up the envelopes and tearing them open.
Somehow, Otōsan figured out where we are.
Finally, the prayer concludes. Mama picks up the first letter. Her hands shake. She opens it and abruptly rises to her feet, a hand over her heart.
“Mama!” I say. “Mama, what is it? What does it say? Is he all right?”
“He’s been cleared, Violet. He’s been cleared to come home.
Thank you, Jesus.” Her eyes don’t just shine.
They dance. I know mine are, too. I jump up, unable to sit still, and we embrace again over our table.
My heart brims with happiness. I feel as though there’s a wave at my back, cresting me forward, my body unified with the frenetic force of nature.
A heartbroken thought passes through my mind. I’ve received joyful news about my father just as Ren has received devastating news about his. It tempers me, knowing he’s suffering.
“Sit, sit,” Mama continues. “We must see when he’s coming. Maybe he’s on his way already.”
We return to our spots still holding hands, our breaths coming fast and enthusiastic. Mama lifts the letter again. Her face drains of joy. Her fingers briefly tighten on mine.
“What’s wrong?” The question comes slowly from my lips. Everything is supposed to be okay. We’ve gotten the best news possible. I don’t want to know.
“It’s…” She trails off and wordlessly hands me the letter.
I grab it, desperate to read it. It’s lengthy but the only thing I see is tiny rust-colored dots staining the page.
Otōsan must’ve been coughing while he wrote to us.
“Pneumonia,” Mama whispers. “It’s back. Look, read this part.
He isn’t well enough to travel. The doctor says the trip will be too dangerous.
He’s in the prison hospital and must stay there until he’s well enough to leave. ”
“He says he’ll be all right and that he’s already on the mend,” I say, scanning the letter, so panicky for Otōsan to be okay that I believe what he’s written—that he’s slightly unwell, only missing us terribly.
Numbly, I set the letter down. Mama picks it up.
In an even tone, she reads it aloud. I listen.
Otōsan’s love pours from it, and I can hear his voice in the phrasing of each sentence.
But worry hangs heavy between Mama and me, coating the letter with our fear.
After we finish reading it, we read the others.
Every envelope is a treasure chest, and every word is a jewel.
From them, we are rich. Or we should be.
Neither of us says it.
We know he’s very sick. Nothing would keep him from us otherwise. I put my hand in my pocket and hold the deer. I’ve asked it to bring Otōsan home. It hasn’t. In my mind, I ask again. The question doesn’t seem to come from my head. It comes from my soul.
But, deep inside, I know. It’s up to me. The only thing I can do is find a way to free Akira so he can grant me a divine favor.
It’s my only hope.
That night, my mind races, my thoughts diving around Mr. Kimura’s slow, loud snores like a horse around barrels. I think about Akira. I must figure out how to free him.
I wish I knew more about him. Otōsan told me many stories about the yōkai, but none involved any characters called Akira.
I sit up. My cot creaks loudly. Summer moonlight streams into the barrack window.
I reach for my sketch pad and flip it open, positioning it toward the light to see.
The graphite shines as moonlight catches on the thin lines.
I stare down, looking at the different images.
Each one contains a sea. Each one contains a monster.
But none of the stories jog my memory about how you might free a god.
Slowly, I close the sketchbook and lie down.
Straw prickles my skin through the ticking.
Eventually, sleep comes for me, and I surrender to it. When I dream, though, I dream only of Ren.
The next day at school, I dig through a box of books, which have been brought by a Quaker named Mr. Nicholson.
They are donations from Vroman’s Bookstore and will be taken to the library, which Mrs. Hata runs.
There’s a total of seventeen books. Seventeen books for ten thousand people—and two of them are Farmers’ Almanac.
I sigh in frustration. A child bumps into me, making me sigh again.
I can’t wait until the formal school opens in the fall and the classes are properly segregated.
I’m supportive of little kids learning their colors, but I’m most definitely not okay with hearing them do so while I work on calculus.
“Is there something you’re looking for?” Mrs. Hata asks, watching as I frown at the different covers.
“Oh…” I feel like she wants me to say I’m looking for some sort of great literature.
“I was wondering if there’s a book on Japanese yōkai.
” I’m a bit self-conscious. I can’t imagine monsters populating her imagination.
She stands primly near me, leaning over my shoulder in teacherly fashion.
I try to give it an educational spin. “I like mythology.”
However, Mrs. Hata doesn’t seem displeased. “Japanese yōkai…Hmm, perhaps I might ask Mr. Nicholson if he can find one for you. It might be easier for him to locate one on Greek mythology. A lot of cultural myths have similarities, though. Perhaps you’ll still enjoy it.”
It’s true. Just as there’s the myth of doomed Orpheus trying to save Eurydice from the underworld, there’s the equally tragic myth of Izanagi trying to do the same for Izanami.
It doesn’t help me, though, because I need specific information.
“Mrs. Hata, out of curiosity, is there any lore you know of about freeing a god who has been trapped somewhere?”
“Well now, that’s a fascinating question, Violet.” Mrs. Hata is intrigued. “I would think it would be through a ritual or correlating cure of some sort. When Prometheus was bound with chains by Zeus and pecked at every day by an eagle, Heracles had to kill the eagle to free him.”
“I suppose the ritual would depend on the god,” I slowly deduce.
“I suppose it would,” Mrs. Hata agrees.
So I need to learn exactly who Akira is. He’s told us his name, but that’s all I have. Most gods have titles—Akira didn’t share his. He’s so proud, I would think he’d love to.
“Have you ever heard of a god or spirit named Akira?” I venture.
“Akira?” Mrs. Hata asks. She frowns. “I must say, it doesn’t ring a bell for me. It’s not a name I’ve ever heard of in folklore or mythology. Though, of course, there are millions of yōkai. It would be impossible to know all their names.”