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Overview
'A book that is meant to be savoured and re-read' Renita D'Silva, author of The Forgotten Daughter
Japan, 1957. Seventeen-year-old Naoko Nakamura’s prearranged marriage secures her family’s status in their traditional Japanese community. However, Naoko has fallen for an American sailor and to marry him would bring great shame upon her entire family. When it’s learned Naoko carries the sailor’s child, she’s cast out in disgrace and forced to make unimaginable choices with consequences that will ripple across generations.
America, present day. Tori Kovac, caring for her dying father, finds a letter containing a shocking revelation. Setting out to learn the truth, Tori’s journey leads her to a remote seaside village in Japan where she must confront the demons of the past to pave a way for redemption.
Inspired by true stories, The Woman in the White Kimono illuminates a searing portrait of one woman torn between her culture and her heart, and another woman on a journey to discover the true meaning of home.
What Reviewers and Readers Say:
'Cinematic, deeply moving, and beautifully written. I so enjoyed this' Carol Mason, author of After You Left
‘The Woman in the White Kimono is an elegant testament to the tenacity of hope, even when the bindings of cultural and familial expectations are drawn so tight. I look forward to reading more from this talented author’ Kelli Estes, bestselling author of The Girl Who Wrote in Silk
‘A well-researched piece of historical fiction, loosely inspired by the military experience of the author's father, that shines a light on a dark chapter of Japanese history that will be unfamiliar to many readers’ Booklist
‘The Woman in the White Kimono is a powerful and heartbreaking literary novel; a lush and masterful exploration of the indomitability of the human spirit set against the backdrop of post-World War II Japan. Johns's exquisite and emotionally satisfying tale spans a cultural divide to marry a mother's courageous determination to protect her daughter at any cost with a daughter's quest for truth. I loved this book!’ Karen Dionne, bestselling author of The Marsh King's Daughter
‘Johns weaves together past and present in wonderful ways ... [T]his outing is richly-researched, moving and cinematic in feel. Toronto Star
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781789550702 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Legend Times Group |
| Publication date: | 07/15/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 288 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
ANA JOHNS worked over twenty years in the creative arts field, as both a creative director and business owner, before turning her hand to fiction. Born and raised in metro Detroit, she now resides in Indianapolis with her family. The Woman in the White Kimono is her first novel.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
America, Present Day
Even at night with half the staff, the Taussig Cancer Center ran as shipshape as its namesake. With Dr. Amon at the helm, I prayed my father could somehow weather the storm, but his lapsing health had me perched at his side, watching for signs.
Although I had the lights dimmed and the TV on mute, my father wrestled with sleep. Machines hummed, monitors beeped, conversations rolled like waves from the hall. Someone whistled.
"Whistling up a wind was risky," Pops would say about his days at sea. "It could summon strong gales and rough waters." The hospital wasn't his navy ship from the fifties, but with the improbable coincidence of sharing its name, I wouldn't snub the nautical superstitions. I found my feet and closed the door.
"What ..." Pops flailed his arms, causing the plastic IV lines to flap like ropes against a mast. "Tori?"
"I'm here, Pops." I hurried over, placed my hand on his arm. "You're at the hospital, remember?" He'd woken disoriented several times over the last week with shorter periods of rest in between. This had become our new norm.
He strained to sit up and grimaced with pain, so I placed a hand behind his upper back and lifted to work a pillow there. With both arms braced under his, I helped him shift, amazed how light he'd become. He'd joked that he was "half the man" but I didn't laugh. The truth was far from funny and the joke far from true. He was still my larger-than-life father.
I handed him the plastic cup of ice. He shook it to rattle the chips loose, then sipped on what had melted. One taste triggered the reflex – a static cough he struggled to clear. I took the cup, gave him tissues and waited for the fit to pass. With a final expulsion, he lolled back and closed his eyes.
"You okay?" Empty words, because of course he wasn't, but he assured me with a nod just the same.
Then he sighed, a deep, raspy breath, his words pushing through it. "Did I ever tell you about the famous blue street? It was the first thing I saw when I stepped off my ship in Japan."
"And the girl who liked your eyes was second, right?" I brightened, happy he was lucid and hoping he'd stay that way long enough to retell it.
"Well, I looked a little better back then."
"You look a little better now." He did. Color warmed his cheeks; his eyes were sharp and focused. His movement had improved. It was wonderful and discomforting at the same time. Dr. Amon said to watch for a "rally of improvement" right before Pops would take his final turn.
For my father, the last hurrah. And for me, a final story.
From the chair beside his bed, I leaned in and propped my chin under my fist. "So, you took one step, bent low to run your fingers over the reflective stones embedded in the street and ...?"
"And I stood up and there she was."
"Staring."
"Yes. And I stared back, saw my future and fell in love." Pops angled his head with a soft smile.
Even though it was the condensed version, I fell in love with that story all over again because it led to all the others.
"Every time I came to port, she would meet me there," Pops said. "But I was always coming and going. That's just how it was. We were two ships passing in the night like in the Longfellow poem." Pops wheezed a labored breath.
I reached for his freckled hand and squeezed.
"After the service, I was landlocked in Detroit and drowning in a bottle. But then I met your mama, and she saved me." His eyes locked to mine. "And here's what you need to know. Are you listening?"
"I am." I hung on every word.
"Mama was the love of my life, but before that life, I lived another. That's what I've been trying to tell you." His lips twitched.
When? When did he try to tell me? My mind raced through every moment of the last few weeks, trying to decipher what I'd missed. I didn't even understand what "lived another life" could mean. I wasn't sure I wanted to.
"It'd be easier if you just read my letter. I need you to do that now, okay, Tori? It's time."
It's time?
The swell in my chest was instant. It inflated behind constricted ribs and strangled my heart. I held the emotional bubble in place with shallow breaths, fearing it might burst. I couldn't move.
He reached over, patted my hand. "It's with my stuff. Go and get it."
I found his bag behind the restroom door, placed it on the counter and unzipped the top. With trembling hands, I rummaged through his clothes but froze as my fingers grazed paper. I pinched to pull the envelope free, then stood with it and stared.
The red ink. The kanji script. The creases and folds.
Walking back to face my father, our eyes met.
A dying man. A heartbroken daughter.
"Come here, sit down," he said. "It's okay."
But it wasn't. Because you couldn't take back goodbye. I wasn't ready to say mine, so I didn't want to hear my father's. I couldn't.
The back of my throat ached from the pressure. "I'll, um ..." I stepped toward him, then stopped, needing everything to slow down and take a breath, so I could, too. The stress of the last few months, the heartbreak of his slow decline, the unrelenting cancer, and now ... A lump rose in my throat as tears formed. I made quick steps to the door.
Pops said something, but I was already in the hall hidden from view. I covered my mouth and took long, deep breaths, trying to fight back the swell of emotion. How did we get to this point? We had researched treatments, applied every home remedy, arranged for a specialist, and it still wasn't enough. Confusion and guilt stacked heavy on my shoulders, and I wilted under its weight. I glanced at the envelope. In hindsight, I should have opened it on the day it arrived.
My father had been watching the game in his living room. "Tori, is that you?"
"Yes, it's me." I tossed my keys and his collected mail on the table, surprised he'd heard me come in with the TV so loud. "There's a letter for you." I leaned into the living room and waved it.
His eyes stayed fixed to the screen. Mine dropped to the empty suitcase still sitting beside his chair. He had yet to pack for the hospital and we were leaving in the morning. Although it was something of a miracle the specialist fit him in, I understood my father's lack of enthusiasm.
I hated cancer.
It ate away at more than just his body. It devoured his spirit, and that consumed mine. I had become desperate, a child at thirty-eight.
I left him to watch his game, one of the few things he still enjoyed, poured myself a cup of coffee, then settled in to sort the excessive amount of mail. It'd been bound with thick rubber bands and stuffed in his PO box as though he'd gone on a monthlong vacation and forgot to place his service on hold. Only he hadn't. It just slipped his mind to have me check it.
I took a sip of coffee and found myself gazing at the letter. Red Asian symbols stamped in every direction. Thick, red lines crossed through the address. Above it, English letters spelled out PARTI. Parti? I flipped it over. Flipped it back. It'd been folded more than once, the edge frayed as though it had caught in the automatic sorter; I was surprised it was delivered at all.
The investigative journalist in me itched to rip it open.
I held it to the overhead light. If positioned just so, I could make out the outline of a folded note and a cord of some sort. I shook it, but the envelope carried no weight. Turning it over, I smoothed out the folds, then caught sight of a familiar word smudged in the bend.
Japan.
The ink had bled from the J. I traced it with the tip of my finger. Who did my father still know in Japan? Stationed there in the navy, he told all sorts of exaggerated tales about his time overseas, but they were from some fifty years ago. There weren't any emblems or military insignia, so not an official reunion announcement. Maybe an unofficial one? He had played baseball while enlisted – even in Japan.
Once, the Seventh Fleet navy team challenged the Shonan Searex, Yokosuka's farm league, in an exhibition game to a sold-out stadium. Pops would place a cupped hand over his brow as if scanning the crowds whenever he talked about it. "Not one empty seat as far as you could see. Can you picture it, Tori?"
I always could.
The open-air arena, the perfect field of manicured green and my father, so young, so nervous, warming up on the sandy pitcher's mound.
"You can't imagine the noise," Pops would say. Instead of applause, colorful plastic bats thudded the backs of seats – thump-thump-thump. Cheer captains ran up and down the aisles, beating drums and shouting victory chants. Organized fan groups in designated sections sang personalized songs and shouted through megaphones. Pops said baseball in 1950s Japan gave a thunderous voice to a quiet culture.
Although the game was a friendly one, the promoted match against the USA carried heavy undertones. Pops said the Land of the Rising Sun wanted nothing more than to beat back the stars and stripes of the red, white and blue.
"I almost wished we'd lost," Pops always said. "My girl's family was up in those stands, and I didn't want to cause insult, especially before I'd met them."
It was always "his girl" when he told those stories. I never got her name. And if Mama was around, I never got those stories. If I asked about his girl, he'd shake his head, blow air from his inflated cheeks and say, "She was special, all right."
So was he. I adored him.
A man who drank fruit brandy like his Slovak father, swaggered like John Wayne and spun colorful yarns like no one else.
Although, with most of his stories, it was difficult to discern their truth. "What is truth but a story we tell ourselves?" Then he'd wink, tap my nose and leave me to dissect fact from fantasy. Something I was still doing.
But that letter from Japan – that was real.
"Tigers lost," Pops said, startling me as he shuffled toward the fridge. He opened it and stared.
"Do you want some lunch?" He needed to eat something. He was wasting away. At first, his trimmer figure gained compliments, but the admiration ceased when the weight loss didn't. Even his hands – the same ones that had once pitched in a sold-out stadium – had thinned to knobby bone.
He closed the refrigerator empty-handed, cinched the belt of his blue robe, then scratched the stubble on his dimpled chin. "No, I'm okay, thanks." He pointed to the envelope. "What's that?"
"I told you. You got a letter." I held it out. "It's from Japan."
He swiped it lightning quick, squinting at the markings. At once, his expression fell flat. Clasping the letter tight to his chest, he spun on slippered heels and left without a word.
I waited a few minutes before I followed.
He stood frozen, his gaze anchored to the envelope in the middle of his darkened room. Pinch-pleated curtains couldn't keep out the sun's prying eyes. Or mine. I nudged the door an inch or two wider. The breach gave way to long fingers of light that stretched across the room and tapped his shoulder. He turned, clasping a hand over his unshaven face to hide the unfamiliar expression. One as foreign to me as that letter.
One with tears.
CHAPTER 2Japan, 1957
Grandmother often says, "Worry gives a small thing big shadows." What if it were a big thing? The shadow that looms over me is thick and monstrous, almost alive.
I'm up before the sun to help Okaasan, Mother, with the morning meal of white rice, grilled fish and miso soup, but I'm not hungry. My belly's too full of worry.
I'm almost eighteen, and tomorrow starts omiai, my arranged marriage meeting.
At least now, with American ideals waging war on this ancient tradition, the introductions are the only part decided. The choice is mine with whom to marry. Of course, having the option and being allowed to make it are two separate matters. This is my challenge. One of many I face.
Taking the plate from Okaasan's hands, I bow to my father and brother as they enter the room discussing politics. A predictive conversation that flows from the United Nations and the independence of Japan to the dissociation from America.
Father is clean-shaven with short-clipped hair – a preference from his army days – and wears a dark Western-style suit to impress foreign traders. Since Taro is Oniisan, eldest brother, and works with Father, he dresses and acts just like him. A perfect imitation, except for his sharp tongue – which isn't held as prudent.
"Soon, Naoko, you will meet with Satoshi, and secure our future earnings," Taro says with a smug tone.
"A fated match," Grandmother adds as she shuffles in behind them. Her thin lips pull into a closemouthed smile, rounding out loose-skinned cheeks.
I met Satoshi years before, so I would know if we were fated. A forced match is more like it, and what of my future happiness? Doesn't love count? I place a cup in front of Grandmother and carefully pour her tea. "But first, everyone has agreed to meet my intended." I smile closemouthed in return.
A match to Satoshi is my family's strong suggestion.
A match to Hajime is my deepest hope.
"Chase two hares and you will catch neither," says Grandmother. This is but a single parable in her arsenal of many. She releases them like arrows, but instead of one, which breaks with ease, she slings ten to a bundle.
I'm braced and ready for more when Mother steps between us like a shield. "I think for tomorrow's meeting with your Hajime we'll gather in the garden for tea and proper introductions. That may be best, yes?" To avoid my father's questioning eyes, my mother fixes a wayward strand that has worked loose from her bun.
Everything about Okaasan is neat and pretty. She's dainty with a thin frame and long hair the color of soot used to make sumi ink. She keeps it wrapped tight at the base of her neck and skewered with long pins of jade.
I gave a slight bow, grateful for her intervention. Before the war interrupted Father's import and export business, he'd been a king of an empire, and our home had many servants, including gardeners. Now we struggle without help. We struggle in general, as everyone does. So, to utilize the garden means much preparation and work. Mother declaring its use for Hajime's unwelcomed introduction quiets the discussion for now.
Okaasan knows what is at stake. Maybe everything.
Satoshi's father, a powerful buyer for Toshiba, is my father's most important client. This makes me valuable bait. If Satoshi is hooked, my family will reap the rewards in steady monetary gains to ease our burdens. If I refuse and cause disgrace, he could cast my family's business aside, doubling our load.
There is only one way out.
Hajime must be flawless for tomorrow's introduction to be considered a viable choice, and Satoshi must find me ill-suited and choose another. That way, his family will suffer no shame and mine will not suffer the consequence. My family's fortune will continue to rebuild on its own merit and I will have a marriage built on love.
This is my plan.
In the struggle of stone and water, water eventually wins. Since my family's mind is set like stone, I must persist like water to change it.
"I'll be late, Okaasan," I say, ignoring the tightening in my chest. "Since I'm missing traditional dance club for the next few days, I'll need to stay after school with Kiko to practice." It's only half a lie since it is a rehearsal. But instead of dance with Kiko, it's preparation with Hajime.
Kenji, my little brother, races in and lands with a thump on the floor cushion, rattling dishes and startling Grandmother.
He is nine and too cute for his own good. Bright eyes and long dark lashes allow him to get away with everything, even bad manners.
I cast a stern look. Kenji sticks out his tongue.
With everyone present, we say, "Itadakimasu" – "I gratefully receive" – but my head remains low as I ask for additional blessings. Please let tomorrow's meeting be perfect so Hajime's lack of significant family name won't shame ours or add weight to Satoshi's prominent one.
Yes, a belly of nerves, but a heart filled with hope.
* * *
The school day inched forward like a snail, slow and labored. Even now, waiting for Hajime at Taura Station, it drags. As I step from the train platform, the afternoon sun bounces off steel rooftops, blinding me. I squint from the glare, seeking Hajime's face among so many. Where is he? I'm eager to practice.
American men in uniform eat while walking past. Hajime will not make such rudimentary mistakes. We have been working on etiquette to impress my family. Never walk and eat. Sit to show respect for the time and sacrifice it took to plant, harvest and prepare. The Americans don't seem to notice or care that everyone shields their eyes from their lack of courtesy. Everyone except for Hajime. He cuts right between them.
He's dressed in a white T-shirt and tan trousers. With his fine hair – the shade of cast-iron – slicked back and worn high, and the deep dimple in his chin, he looks like Elvis or a movie star. Maybe James Dean. We're both crazy for all things modern. I wish I could have changed from my uniform. At least my ponytail sits high on my head in the popular Western style.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Woman in the White Kimono"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Ana Johns.
Excerpted by permission of Legend Times Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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