Dreaming water Page 7

  I was not as ready as Hana was. She hadn't grown at all that summer and remained the same height as a seven- or eight-year-old. In elementary school, where all her friends were taller, her height had been less noticeable; she blended in with the kids from the lower grades, so she didn't seem strange or out of place. But when I dropped her off at Jefferson Junior High — a large, new redbrick building in the neighboring township of Blue Haven — it was like throwing a young lamb to the wolves. She was so much smaller than the other kids, I was afraid she'd be swallowed up. Gangly adolescents bounced around, chasing each other across the lawn, swarming like bees toward the main building.

  Jefferson was the only junior high school within a twenty-five-mile radius, so students were bused in from all over. Hana's small-town safe haven with Laura and their elementary school friends was replaced overnight by all the bustle of a big city. Yet her independence surprised me, as it would so many times in the years to come. She walked straight toward the main building and never turned back. I sat in the car and quickly lost sight of her in the surging crowd, craning my neck and wishing I had walked into the building with her. I didn't drive off until I heard the anxious horn of another car waiting behind me.

  Thank God, Mrs. Aaron was right about one thing; Hana had no problems making friends. She liked the variety of teachers and new classes, and no longer daydreamed through them. "I dream at night now," she said, laughing, when Max asked.

  Before we knew it, new names filled the air during our dinner conversations. "Joanne loves the Beatles," or "Michelle doesn't get along with her parents," or "My English teacher, Miss Hughes, has assigned Romeo and Juliet." Max looked over at me and smiled. Hana's newfound happiness was a relief to us.

  Still, I suspected Miles had begun to worry about why Hana wasn't growing at the same rate as other children. So far, her yearly checkups hadn't shown any abnormalities except in stature, but even though Miles never said anything, I could feel the hesitation in his voice as he declared, "All's well." But I refused to acknowledge that hint of concern. I wanted only to believe that Hana was growing up a normal young girl.

  Then one afternoon Hana got off the bus in tears. "Those girls think I'm a freak," she mumbled to me when I'd finally gotten her to calm down and sit on the sofa.

  "What are you talking about?" I asked.

  She rubbed her eyes and blew her nose. "I heard some girls on the bus saying that I must be a midget since I'm still so short. That I'm probably not a dwarf since I'm too skinny and my legs are too long."

  A quick rush of heat rose through my body. I pulled Hana close, shocked to hear my unspoken fears suddenly put into words I'd never dared to think. They knocked the breath out of me.

  "Everyone grows at a different rate," I forced myself to say. "Don't listen to them. They'll soon see how much taller you are. Then they'll have to eat their words," I whispered between breaths, holding her tight and rocking her back and forth.

  "Promise?" Hana asked.

  "Promise," I answered, hoping that just saying the words aloud would make them come true.

  When Hana was a little girl, we used to play a game called Promise. "Finish all your homework and then you can have dessert," I'd say, or "Do the dishes and then you can watch television." "Promise?" she'd ask. "Promise," I'd answer. The promises I made to her were endless, but they never went beyond ones that I could keep. Everyday checks and balances. My daughter depended on these promises to find direction in her life, and it was my job to keep them. Now, for the first time, I'd felt uncertain. A shadow of doubt had crept into my heart, making me feel like a liar.

  "When we first came to live in Daring," I told her, "all the neighbors who weren't faculty friends kept their distance, as if your father and I were contagious. But we just ignored their prejudice, pretending we hadn't noticed it. We knew our being together was right, no matter what anyone else thought. And guess what? Three months later Mrs. Cramer, a neighbor from across the street, brought us a tuna casserole, to welcome us to the neighborhood. She said folks were a little slow doing things around here, and she apologized for their bad manners. I gave her a hug because I figured if there were one Mrs. Cramer, there would be others, too.

  "So you see, Hana," I said, "sometimes it takes longer for others to understand that however we look on the outside, we're all the same on the inside. One day at a time, sweetie," I told her. "Time marches on. Everything will be fine, just wait and see." Hana's beautiful dark eyes watched me, her skin still smooth as when she was a baby.

  "Promise?" Hana whispered again.

  This time I simply hugged her tighter.

  But inside I was horrified that Hana might believe she was a freak and furious at those heartless girls, whoever they were, for being so callous. It had been ages since I'd thought back to those early days in Daring, when Max was mocked and jeered simply because he was Japanese. Fifteen years ago I walked down the street two feet away from Max and didn't dare say anything. And despite Mrs. Cramer, we didn't feel Daring was our true home until Hana was born. We had a sweet new baby, and the world was finally changing. And now it was Hana's turn to stand tall.

  That was only the first of many times in the next few years that the cruelty of others would hurt her. I couldn't block all of the insults flung her way. I could only soothe her wounds with words that even I, as time went on, failed to believe.

  HANA

  Sticks & Stones

  Lately, the memories seem to burn in the back of my mind, like flashbacks in a movie, the projector flickering in a dark room with the volume turned up. Even now on sleepless nights, the stray, hurtful words still ring out loud.

  "Look, here comes one of the seven dwarfs," a boy's voice cracked in the Jefferson Junior High cafeteria. I gripped my tray tighter as I passed his table.

  "She's not a dwarf, stupid, she's a midget!" his buddy answered. I looked straight ahead and kept moving.

  "A Ching-chong Chinaman midget!"

  "I speak her language," another kid shouted. "Moo goo guy pan!"

  They all laughed.

  I remember the smell of the fried fish fillets, canned green peas, and applesauce, the roar of laughter and voices, the sudden, sharp pain in my stomach that made me want to throw up. I wanted to scream out at them that I wasn't Chinese, I was Japanese, and that they were too moronic even to know the difference, but I knew it would only provoke them more. I mumbled the words to myself, but no one could hear. Someone at another table made a farting noise, and there was more laughter. Without a word I walked quickly on, keeping my head bent low, wishing I could just disappear. Blood rushed up to my face. I set my tray on a chair and kept walking until I was outside the hot, smelly cafeteria, until the voices died away and I could take gasping breaths of fresh air, my heart pounding. "It's okay, okay, okay."

  The next morning, instead of my taking the bus, my father drove out of his way to drop me off at Jefferson. He said he had to pick up some papers, but I knew my mom must have told him about the bus incident. When he pulled up in front of the school, he said, "Have a good day, kiddo." He leaned over and kissed me on my forehead, then added, "Don't ever be afraid to be yourself." His eyes were dark and knowing. His words meant everything to me because he knew what it was like to be singled out from the rest. Instead of jumping out of the car, I turned back to him and blurted out in a tearful voice, "They think I'm strange here because I'm so short and I'm part Japanese."

  Max's hands rested on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry, Hana," he said, shaking his head slowly. "When will people learn?" he muttered softly to himself. Then he looked at me and asked, "What does your height and the fact that you're part Japanese have to do with who you are?" I could smell his sweet shaving cologne, see his dark tie rise and fall with each slow and steady breath.

  "It's what they see," I answered. Some boys had paused on the sidewalk by us, looking at my dad's Thunderbird. I didn't want to leave the car and gripped the door handle tightly, hoping to keep the rest of the world out.


  "What do you see when you look in the mirror?" Max suddenly asked, leaning closer to me. "You,"he said again, his voice smooth and calm.

  I stopped and didn't know what to say. At twelve years old, I saw a small, round-faced girl with long, black hair and dark eyes, who just wanted to be liked, even if I did look different from everyone else.

  He gave my hand a quick squeeze, and for that moment I felt safe in the Thunderbird with him. "I see an intelligent, lively girl," he said. "They'll miss out, Hana, because they don't know any better. All that really matters is what the people who love you think. And, most important, what you think about yourself."

  Then Max smiled and leaned over to kiss me again on the forehead. All morning, I tried hard to hold on to his quiet, thoughtful voice.

  "Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me." How many times did I whisper that children's verse to myself, rather than let those kids know how hurt I was by their ridicule and taunts? In a manner of speaking, I grew up at Jefferson Junior High School. I learned that, as much as I felt like just another kid, I wasn't. I was too small and looked too Japanese in a world where difference invited ridicule. I was reminded every now and then by boys and girls who didn't even know me. If that was a lesson in growing up, I should be ten feet tall now. It wasn't as if I didn't have any friends. There was always Laura, but she was still back in sixth grade at Daring Elementary. And Michelle, in my English and history classes, who got along with everybody. I didn't want to distress my parents more than I already had. But I was always a target for those kids who picked on anyone who was the slightest bit different.

  It wasn't just me but all the others like me, all the kids who didn't quite fit in. We were like castaways on a desert island, learning early on to fend for ourselves, even if it meant that some of us were alone much of the time. There was a girl in a few of my classes who didn't have it much easier than I did, but for very different reasons. Her name was Sheila Wells, and she was tall and stout with large features and a bad complexion. Almost immediately after she moved to Blue Haven and attended Jefferson, I somehow became less visible. It was a sense of freedom that I rejoiced in.

  But I felt bad for Sheila when I saw just how alike we were, how she kept her head bowed low to avoid eye contact with anyone else, hoping to will herself invisible as she walked down the drab, gray halls or through the crowded cafeteria. I could feel that same fear emanating from her, the silent words she chanted under her breath, "Please leave me alone."

  And still I didn't befriend her, despite knowing that she was intelligent and well-read. During lunch she sat off in a corner, eating and reading alone. I was afraid if I were seen talking to her that the jeers would get worse. Two misfits together would give them too much ammunition. It wasn't until I saw her one hot, muggy Saturday afternoon walking by our house that I first spoke to her.

  "Hi, Sheila." I raised my voice across the yard. It must have startled her, because she looked over at me wide-eyed, as if I was speaking a foreign language.

  She hesitantly lifted her hand to wave, and I think I heard her say "Hello," but a passing car drowned out her voice.

  I walked over to her, only to realize how ridiculous we must look together. At thirteen she was heavyset and already five foot eight, while I was a full foot shorter.

  "Where are you going?" I asked.

  She looked down at me. "To the library. To return these books." She tapped the black cloth bag that she always carried with her.

  "Anything you'd recommend?"

  She opened her bag and took out one of the books. "It's called Death Be Not Proud by John Gunther."

  "What's it about?"

  "It's a father's memoir of his son who's dying of a brain tumor."

  "Sounds sad," I said.

  Sheila nodded, "Yeah, it is. But it's also about his son's courage and humor in facing his death. So I guess it's about living, not just dying."

  "Well, maybe I'll read it sometime."

  Sheila smiled. "You'll like it, even if it does make you cry at the end."

  She had a nice smile, something no one at Jefferson would ever take the time to notice. We stood awkwardly in the warm sun for a moment in silence, our smiles slowly fading. My shirt clung to my sweaty back as I watched Sheila walk down the block. I almost wanted to follow and say something else to her.

  Back at school on Monday we were like strangers again. From the corner of my eye I saw Sheila approaching me, carrying a book in her hand, but I turned away quickly, as if to say, "Stop, go away!" She did. To this day I haven't forgotten how terrible I felt to have betrayed her, shying away from what might have become a good friendship.

  In the end, I was no better than those boys in the cafeteria.

  JOSEPHINE

  In Name Only

  My name is Josephine, which means "God shall add." I'm not sure what will be added, so I look up the masculine equivalent, Joseph, to see that it says, "God shall add a son." Both are less than inspiring. Lately, I've been fascinated with the meaning of names and places — the long and varied history that comes with each one. It sets people apart and gives them their individuality. I began studying the etymology of names a few weeks ago, though it may seem strange to other thirteen-year-old girls. During my lunch period, I whip out a book and start discussing the names of our classmates with my friend Annie. "Did you know that Robert means 'bright or famous,'" I say, choosing to unravel the mysteries of the most popular boy in our school. It makes perfect sense, how you can see this faint glow of light always surrounding him. Annie makes a sighing sound like she doesn't know what to do with me. "They'll think you're even weirder than you really are," she says, glancing over to a group of popular kids.

  "Thanks a lot," I say, knowing that Annie is really the one who fits into the weird category. She's so superstitious that she keeps an acorn in her pocket wherever she goes, explaining it brings good luck and ensures a long life. And she even went so far as to tell me that if you take a test with the same pencil you studied with, that pencil will remember the answers. As far as I know, it hasn't worked for either of us.

  My younger sister, Camille, can't understand why I'll spend hours reading everything from baby name books to history books searching for meanings and connections. It's a hobby of mine, I tell her. She looks at me and rolls her eyes. But I still let her know that Camille means "unblemished," like her smooth, fair skin and straight blond hair. She's beautiful and takes after my mother.

  I'm tall and skinny, with skin that keeps breaking out with angry patches of pimples that I can't help but pick at and, to top it off, I've just gotten braces to correct an overbite. My mother calls it the "awkward stage" that everyone goes through, but I bet it's a stage she skipped. I have my father's darker coloring and his chestnut-colored, wavy hair, which I usually tie back into a ponytail so it's out of my way.

  Instead, I've decided to identify my name with another story. I like to tell people that I'm named after Napoleon's wife, the empress Josephine, who also had dark, wavy hair, because it gives me an immediate sense of history, one much more romantic and exciting than my own. When it became apparent that Empress Josephine couldn't give Napoleon an heir to the throne, he divorced her and married Marie Louise of Austria, but not before buying Josephine Malmaison, a small estate near Paris. She lived there for the rest of her life, always trusting Napoleon and never doubting his love for her. When his heir was born, Napoleon brought his new son to Malmaison for Josephine to see. After all, she understood he needed a son to take over his empire. Napoleon had had no other choice but to divorce her, so she never stopped loving him, even begging to go into exile with him on the island of Elba, only to die before she received his response.

  My parents, Laura and John, have Camille and me, but we weren't enough to keep them together. I wonder if it would have been different if one of us were a son — an heir to the empire. My dad moved out and lives in an apartment a few blocks from us now. If I'd really paid attention, I guess I would h
ave seen it coming. Even when he was still living at home, they hardly saw each other. As a stockbroker, my dad always left the house very early, while my mom, more often than not, worked until very late at her law office. Somewhere along the line, they stopped long enough to look, only they didn't recognize each other anymore.

  "Where did Daddy go?" Camille asked the first night he was gone, almost nine months ago. She came into my room and looked young and scared.

  We're different, Camille and I, soft and hard, day and night. At least that's the way people see us. I'll readily admit, she accepts things at face value much easier. I tend to question more, probe beneath the surface before I can feel really comfortable with people or new situations. I thought I didn't feel anything after my dad left; after all, he lives within walking distance. But I began to miss the small, inconsequential, everyday things I never really paid attention to before — the low timbre of his laugh, how he was always checking to see if his tie was straight, and even the annoying way he pulled on my ponytail to get my attention. These are the things that have changed the most, even with weekend visits.

  I felt a sudden sisterly love and put my arm around Camille. "They're taking a break from each other." I repeated the words I'd heard them say.

  "So you think he's coming back?" she asked. Her blue eyes widened, and I could see she was anxious, just by the way her fingers played with a strand of her blond hair.

  I shrugged. "Maybe," I said. But deep down I knew he wasn't coming back. Unlike Napoleon, who still had feelings for Josephine, my parents are like two strangers who move quickly and silently around each other.

  Since my dad moved out, my mom's been acting kind of strange. For the past few months, all she's been talking about is taking us back to visit our godmother Hana in the Northern California town where she grew up. Camille and I have heard about Hana ever since we were little. Hana this and Hana that. You'll love Hana, my mother always says. There's a photo of them together when they were girls, around fourteen, not much older than I am, but it looks as if Laura's standing next to a much younger girl because of their height difference. Still, if you stare into Hana's eyes long enough, as I have done, you'll see that she's much older and wiser than she appears.