Outside, the bright June sunlight caused every object to cast sharply defined shadows on the ground. The people at the crosswalk seemed disgusted with the heat. As they waited for the light to change, they fanned themselves with their handkerchiefs or their hands. On the bus, the air conditioning had felt good at first but started to wear on me. Now I was wishing for the heat and getting annoyed at the bus, crawling along at a snail’s pace.
I couldn’t get the girl’s question out of my head. What happened to the baby? All this time the question had remained buried in my heart. Now that that closed door had been pried open, I had to face the unanswered question. I pictured my family waiting for the baby in our dimly lit house.
When we first heard the baby’s cries, no one smiled. My mother looked like she was going to cry. My father looked furious, with frown lines stretched across his forehead and around his lips. The sliding door to the back room opened, and the midwife came out with the baby in her arms. Gray and covered with slime, the baby cried feebly.
—Doesn’t look like an American, does it? said my father.
The comment brought a flash of relief to my mother’s face, and that made me feel relieved, too. But not for long.
—Must’ve been one of those sons-of-bitches here on the island! my father spit out.
The look of relief vanished from my mother’s face, and from my face, too. My father climbed down from the front porch, put on the US army boots so ill-suited for him, and headed out the front gate. His comment had pierced my heart like an iron-tipped arrow. If I touched it, blood would’ve gushed from the wound. My mother took the baby from the midwife and called out in a loud voice, as if to encourage herself and my sister:
—What a cute baby! Now, let’s get him washed!
Then she started washing the baby in warm water. I could see that she was fighting back the tears as she held the baby in her trembling hands. Suddenly, we heard a noise from the back room, and all eyes turned to the white hand on the sliding door.
—Oh, my baby! My newborn baby!
My sister had crawled to the doorway and was reaching out with her slender hand. A smile covered her sweaty face.
—Don’t move! shouted the midwife. You’ve got to lie down!
But my sister didn’t seem to hear. Suddenly, the baby started to wail. My mother had been about to hand him to my sister, but the cries seemed to jolt her to some realization, and she pulled the baby to her chest.
—This is so painful! cried my mother. To have to go through such misery!
With the baby still in her arms, she broke down in tears. As if on cue, the midwife grabbed my sister from behind and dragged her back into the room. My sister no longer had the strength to resist, but we could hear her feeble cries coming from the dark room.
—My baby! My baby!
Moved to tears, I wiped my face with my handkerchief. But the scenery outside remained blurry. The bus turned, and sunlight came streaming through the window, bringing some warmth to my cheeks and shoulders. The glare hurt my eyes, but I left the curtain open and basked in the sunlight. Even now, whenever I recall my sister calling out for her baby, I have trouble breathing. The light burned red against my closed eyelids. It must’ve been to avoid such light that my sister remained confined to the back room. No, it wasn’t the light. She was avoiding the villagers’ stares and whispers—and their groping hands, stomping feet, and wagging tongues.
Whenever I brought my sister her lunch in the back room, she was usually lying in the corner with a blanket.
—Sayoko, here’s your lunch! I would call out to the curled up figure.
—Thank you, she’d say, turning toward me.
But she wouldn’t get up to eat. I’d leave the door open and hurry back to help my mother in the kitchen, in terror that my father might say something. My two brothers, who still hadn’t entered elementary school, would always whisper. If they ever accidently got too loud, they’d immediately look over to my father, to gauge his reaction. During my time on the island, I lived in constant fear of my father’s explosions of anger. No, that fear continued even after I left. The dirty looks and whispers of the islanders haunted my entire family—not just Sayoko. That’s why there was no respite from my father’s anger.
Looking back, I could understand why he was so angry. His daughter had been raped by US soldiers, yet he’d been completely powerless to do or say anything. In frustration, he turned his anger against himself. But even though I now understood, I still couldn’t forgive him for taking his anger out on his family just to distract from his own pain. Twenty years had passed since my father’s death, yet when I recalled those days lived in terror, worrying about every word spoken and every step taken, in constant dread of another outburst, the anger welled up from inside me. And when I recalled how he mistreated my sister, I felt something tearing inside my chest, and anger and grief pouring from the wound. Sometimes, the anger was so intense that I became terrified of losing control.
I could still picture the scene clearly: my father storming out the front gate with the crying baby in his arms; my mother and grandparents scolding my kicking and screaming sister as they held her down; and my two brothers and I huddled together in the kitchen. I could also vividly recall my feelings: the hatred I felt toward the neighbors spying from the gate; the hatred I felt toward my mother for scolding my sister; and the murderous rage I
