Chapter Thirty-Two Ren #2
It sure as hell isn’t easy to watch him leave, the armed guard shoving him along from behind. You’d think maybe I’d be getting used to goodbyes at this point.
“Mrs. Hamada? Ren?” a WRA official calls to us from inside his office.
We go in. I barely manage to suppress a curse when I see Mrs. Ross standing there.
Same pearl necklace. Same fearful yet polite expression stuck on her face.
Different handbag, though. She’s also wearing a fur coat that makes her look like a Pomeranian.
“Good afternoon, Hamada family,” she says, her voice turning up too much at the end of her greeting.
She shakes Mama’s hand and reaches for mine.
I pause, but Mama nudges me. I grasp it, and when I meet her eyes, she gapes at me.
“My, you’re even taller than last time.” She addresses Mama. “Whatever are you feeding him?”
“Nothing,” Mama responds dryly, as though Mrs. Ross is infinitely stupid, which she probably is. “They provide the food.”
“Now, I do forget why I’m here. Silly me.
” Mrs. Ross’s high-pitched voice rings through the office.
“Mr. Ross calls me a birdbrain for good reason. My thoughts just fly away, flitter flutter!” Her fingers jump to her pearl necklace again, tugging on it.
“I understand the baby was born? I received a letter from here, sent on your behalf. It requested canned milk.”
She must be referring to the letter I rewrote and asked Violet to mail for me. But all I wanted was her to mail canned milk, not show up.
“Hai,” Mama says. “She was.”
“A granddaughter,” Mrs. Ross whispers almost to herself. She addresses us again. “And she’s…in good health, aside from the allergies? No infirmities? No polio or anything like that?”
“She needs the canned milk,” I say. “She needs it badly. The powdered milk bothers her stomach.”
“But she’s well,” Mama interjects sharply. “Very healthy, very fat. Looks white, too.”
What’s Mama doing? Mrs. Ross beams as though she’s won at baccarat. Mama’s eyes are narrowed, her mouth is tight, and she’s lying like her pants are on fire. Cosette is skinnier than a wet alley cat and it kills me every day.
“Wonderful! You’ve…named her?”
“Emi named her,” I say before Mama can respond. “Cosette.”
The way it’s going, Mama will probably tell her the baby is named Mary Sue.
“Cosette?” Mrs. Ross sniffs in confusion.
Her fingers twist the pearls on their string.
I wish it would break. I wish those damn white pearls would bounce all over the office floor.
“Oh, my. I was wondering if the name might be…foreign…but I wasn’t expecting it to be—now then, what exactly is that? ”
“It’s very fancy,” Mama says. “It’s very elegant. It’s French, from Les Misérables.”
“Cosette Ross,” Mrs. Ross tries out the name and it almost makes me choke.
Ross. Cosette’s last name is not Ross. It’s Hamada.
Or is it? My mind stumbles. I’ve never thought about Cosette’s last name.
Because she’s Emi’s baby, and as such she’s ours.
“I would certainly love to meet her. To be frank, I would like to take her home.”
“Home?” I demand.
“Mr. Ross can ensure it. He was terribly upset to learn I’d been communicating with you, but I’ve worked on him, and he’s warmed to the idea.
We have a room perfect for a nursery in our house in Pasadena.
I don’t mean to be boastful, but Cosette”—she can’t help but wince at the name—“will want for nothing. We have a huge backyard with gardenias and a tree for a swing. When the time comes, she’ll attend the finest private schools.
Did I mention Mr. Ross went to Harvard? As a legacy, she’ll not only be able to attend but would meet a husband of the highest pedigree.
I’m getting ahead of myself. I only wish you to understand. ”
“We understand plenty.” I don’t bother keeping the harshness out of my voice.
“I would compensate you,” Mrs. Ross says quickly. “You’ve lost everything and will need money after the war. It’s the least we can do. We are prepared to offer a very significant sum.”
“We don’t want your bribe,” I scoff.
“No, no. It’s not a bribe. It’s merely a token of gratitude and an attempt to cover the time and effort you spent caring for her until this point,” Mrs. Ross says.
She pauses, and her hand closes entirely around the strand of pearls before releasing it again.
Each one reflects a pinpoint of light. Looks like a pupil.
Makes it seem as though Mrs. Ross and her pearls are watching me.
“We will think about it,” Mama says. Fire blazes through me. Her arms are crossed. Long, fake gold earrings swing from her ears and gold bracelets encircle her wrists, her armor on full display.
“Ah, well. Please do let me know. We’d like to fetch her as soon as we can.” Mrs. Ross trails her gaze over to the window and the barren, wintry camp outside. “This is no place for a baby, you must agree.”
This is no place for anyone, I want to retort.
When we leave, Mama walks fast. With my longer legs, I easily keep pace with her. I’m burning with anger.
“What’s wrong with you?” I demand. “Why do you want to give Cosette away when Emi did everything she could to keep her?”
“Think, Ren.” Mama is emotionless. I’d think she didn’t care a bit if not for her pace. “Mrs. Ross is right. America is going to win the war, and we’ll get out of here. Then what? We have nothing, don’t you realize that?”
“We don’t have nothing. I’m working. I have a job.”
“That lady and her family are wealthy. Cosette’s life will change if she’s with them. She’ll be white. Do you know how valuable that is?”
“She won’t be white,” I protest. “You can’t change what someone is. She’ll always be us, too. We can’t let her go.”
“Stupid boy. It’s best for her. We must do what’s best for her and for us. She can go live a happy life and won’t think twice about it.”
“Mama…” I come to a stop. I think Mama might keep charging on. That she’ll leave me standing here.
Everything is upended. Mr. Nomura and Kai are gone.
Mama wants to give Cosette away, and I don’t understand why, and I’ve never understood anything.
My head hurts. My thoughts are agitated.
We’re both upset. I take a breath. Might be bizarre reasoning, but if I’m ever going to ask her about Papa, I might as well do it now, when she’s already pissed off. “Mama?”
“Nani?” she stops but her eyes are stony, like they only see a blank wall, nothing more.
“Papa is dead, isn’t he?”
“Hai.” There’s no hesitation or guilt in her response. Her voice is as stony as her eyes. My stomach tangles in knots and there’s a lump in my throat.
“Why didn’t you tell Emi and me? We thought he might come back.
” I thought he might come back. My mind created a million scenarios where he did, and every time I left the scenarios it hurt.
I’m not shocked Mama kept it a secret. Hell, she wants to pack Cosette off without knowledge of who she is or where she came from.
Mama buries her hurts, hides her scars, swallows her secrets.
“It wouldn’t help.” She gathers her coat around herself and raises her chin.
One hand dips into her pocket and she pulls out the Lucky Strike box.
Her bracelet slips in and out of her sleeve as she knocks one out, puts the box back, lights it.
Takes a long drag. Lifting her head, her eyes are no longer stony but bright, as bright as the fake glass jewels she wears.
Kai calls me a dragon but she’s the true dragon.
Breathing smoke, covered in jewels, fearless no matter what.
I don’t know if she’s the strongest person I’ve ever known or the most hurt—or if there’s not much difference between the two.
“It’s all right, Mama,” I say. “And it’s going to be all right. We aren’t going to give up Cosette. We’re her family. She needs us.”
There’s a sudden break in Mama’s face, the sort you see when the rare Los Angeles rain clouds crack open like eggs to mist the streets. I think she might cry. She takes another long drag on the cigarette.
“I’m not a good mother,” she says. Her eyes flash with brilliant defiance. Like Kai at the doomed uprising. Like Emi when Mama told her to get rid of the baby. Like Violet finding her way through every defense I put up to find me under all the layers of bullshit.
“Hey, I’m proud to be your son.” I mean it.
We Hamadas are a mess. We always have been.
But we’re stubborn and can handle getting kicked while we’re down.
Not many can say that. We do what we can, in the ways we know how.
“All you have to do is try. If you can’t always try, it’s all right. But just try sometimes.”
Mama is still. Then she gives a nod, the cigarette perched between her dry, lipstick-stained lips.
“As long as she doesn’t call me Obāsan,” she says. “I look too young to be a grandmother. I don’t want people knowing. We will say I’m her aunt.”
I let out a laugh. Mama smiles.
We walk on, and she doesn’t rush anymore.
Canned milk arrives a few days later, sent from Mrs. Ross. We write back. Tell her we aren’t letting her take Cosette. I imagine she’ll stop sending the milk. But, despite what I assume, packages of canned milk postmarked from Pasadena continue to arrive.