Speak of a man and his shadow will turn up.
Black outside. A solid blur of black. A wall of mountain behind. A man moving about out there would instinctively raise his hands to push his way through the dark.
Inside, lumps and shadows cast by the kerosene lamp. Twigs of frost to be snapped off in the morning, suspended from the seams where wall and ceiling meet. The drone of First Father’s voice from his chair in a corner of the shack.
I had heard the fates many times before, but he insisted that I pay attention when he picked up the palm-sized book with the red cover. He read back to front, top to bottom, starting with my older brother.
“Hiroshi. You are number-one son, born in the year of the monkey. You are a strong boy and you will grow up to be a strong man. Because of your fate, you will be skilled at whatever you choose to do.”
He paused, and I waited for Hiroshi’s intake of breath.
“But sometimes you will not finish what you set out to do, and this will make you angry with yourself. Remember that you should never marry a woman born in the year of the tiger.”
Hiroshi frowned, looked down at his already muscular arms and was momentarily quiet.
“Bin,” said Father, because I was always second. “You are youngest, number-two son, born in the year of the tiger. A tiger may be stubborn, but can chase away ghosts and protect. If careful, a tiger is capable of amassing a fortune.”
My brother and sister perked up, knowing what was coming next.
“But because your time of birth was at the cusp of the year of the rabbit”—he added this as if he’d sired a child who could not be helped—”you are destined to be melancholy, and you will weep over nonsensical things.”
Hiroshi and Keiko leaned back on the bench and hooted with laughter, as they always did. Father cleared his throat and ignored the interruption.
I remained silent and glanced over at Mother, who was making sushi from egg and rice. The outer wrappings, rinsed cabbage leaves, had been stored since fall, salted, folded and packed in a jar. If a leaf tore, it was expertly repaired with a patch from another leaf. When the rice was tucked in—not a grain wasted—she rolled the bamboo mat, the sudare, and sliced the sushi in bite-sized circles. She caught my glance and gave a quick nod that also meant, Pay attention to your father.
Keiko’s fate was last to be told, though she was middle child. But she was a girl.
“Keiko, you were born in the year of the rooster. You will be ambitious and work hard, but you must learn to trust. Even though you will want to tell people exactly what you think, you cannot be right all the time. Still, you will do well and you will earn respect.”
Keiko preened, with a frown. Her cheekbones flushed like matching purple bruises.
Did this moment take place during the first winter of our internment, 1942? No, it had to be later, when I was older—the third year, perhaps. We were in the camp five winters in all. We were sitting as close to the wood stove as we could position ourselves, bundled in layers of sweaters that had tumbled from Mother’s needles. Because new wool was scarce, she had unravelled sturdy fishermen’s sweaters so that she could reknit the coarse wool into smaller items. Pattern was of no concern, nor was colour. It was warmth that mattered. We were living in the mountains, after all, partway up the Fraser, the great river that defined our lives in the camp. We were inland, more than 150 miles from the river’s mouth and from the southern channels of the delta, where it spilled out into the Pacific, just north of the boundary with the United States.
Even farther from us was the west coast of Vancouver Island and the house Father had built with the help of his brother, our uncle Kenji. It was a fisherman’s house, propped on massively thick stilts. Stilts that Father had sealed, by himself, to prevent rotting, and that defended our family when tidal waters swept up the bay and drifted in soundlessly over a thin strip of barnacled beach between house and shore. But all the while, hidden undercurrents had been making their own incursions with the tides, in and around and under the house. The house from which we had been forcibly removed, and that none of us, as it turned out, would ever see again.
1997 The call from my sister, Kay, comes in the evening. Second call in a week.
“He isn’t dying, Bin. I want to make that clear. He sits in his chair, facing the door, as if he expects someone to walk through. He asks for you every time I visit. I’ve driven to B.C. twice in the past six weeks—it’s a long drive from here. But he won’t budge from his place.”
“First Father?” I can’t resist, though I’m not proud of saying it like that.
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”
“That’s what he is.”
“You still have anger.” She says this softly, but impatience is there, underneath.
“Don’t you?”
“Not about the same things. Anyway, I try not to hold on to it.”
I want to snap at her when she talks like this. I want to say, Get angry yourself, why don’t you. You deserve to.
“He’s old, Bin. Well, getting old. In his eighties, after all. I’d bring him here to Alberta if he’d agree to leave that tiny house of his.”
“But he won’t,” I say. “And since Mother died, he insists on living alone—or so you keep telling me.”
“You’ve never seen his house, because you refuse to visit Kamloops. In summer it’s stifling, take my word for it. Another month or so, and it’ll be scorching there.”
“Why doesn’t he go to the coast before the weather changes?”
“He won’t. Not even with his own brother, though Uncle Kenji has offered to drive him, countless times. Father just sits there staring at the door, or out the window at dry mountains.” She pauses and adds, “He needs to
