Fifty Words for Rain
Asha Lemmie
PRELUDE
Kyoto Prefecture, Japan
Summer 1948
The first real memory Nori had was pulling up to that house. For many years afterward, she would try to stretch the boundaries of her mind further, to what came before that day. Time and time again, she’d lie on her back in the stillness of the night and try to recall. Sometimes she’d catch a glimpse in her head of a tiny apartment with lurid yellow walls. But the image would disappear as quickly as it came, leaving no sense of satisfaction in its wake. And so if you asked her, Nori would say that her life had officially begun the day she laid eyes on the imposing estate that rested serenely between the crests of two green hills. It was a stunningly beautiful place—there was no denying it—and yet, despite this beauty, Nori felt her stomach clench and her gut churn at the sight of it. Her mother rarely took her anywhere, and somehow she knew that something was waiting for her there that she would not like.
The faded blue automobile skidded to a stop on the street across from the estate. It was in the traditional style, surrounded by high white walls. The first set of gates was open, allowing full view into the meticulously arranged courtyard beyond. But the inner gates to the house itself were sealed shut. There were words engraved at the top of the main gate, embossed in gold lettering for all to see. But Nori could not read them. She could read and write her name—No-ri-ko—but nothing else. In that moment, she wished she could read every word ever written, in every language from sea to sea. Not being able to read those letters frustrated her to an extent she didn’t understand. She turned to her mother.
“Okaasan, what do those letters say?”
The woman seated beside her let out a stifled sigh of frustration. It was clear that she’d been a great beauty in her day. She was still gorgeous, but her young face was beginning to reflect the toll life had taken on her. Her dark, thick hair was bound behind her head in a braid that kept attempting to unravel. Her soft gray eyes were cast downwards. She would not meet her daughter’s gaze.
“Kamiza,” she answered at last. “It says Kamiza.”
“But that’s our name, isn’t it?” Nori chirped, her curiosity immediately piqued.
Her mother let out a strangled giggle that made the hair on the back of Nori’s neck stand up. The driver of the car, a man Nori had never seen before this morning, shot them a startled glance in the rearview mirror.
“Yes,” she responded softly, eyes alight with a strange look that Nori’s limited vocabulary did not have the means to name. “That is our family name. This is where my mother and father live, child. Your grandparents.”
Nori felt her heartbeat quicken. Her mother had never before made any mention of relatives or family. Indeed, the two of them had drifted along in solitude so long it seemed strange to Nori that they could actually be anchored to a tangible place.
“Did you live here once, Okaasan?”
“Once,” her mother said dryly. “Before you were born. A long time ago.”
Nori scrunched her face up in a frown. “Why did you leave?”
“That’s enough questions now, Noriko. Get your things. Come.”
Nori obeyed, biting her lip to refrain from inquiring further. Her mother did not like questions. Every time Nori asked something, she was met with a disapproving glance. It was better not to ask. On the rare occasions Nori was able to please her mother, she was given a dry half smile in return. Sometimes, if she was especially good, her mother would reward her with some candy or a new ribbon. So far, in eight years of life, Nori had a collection of twelve ribbons, one for each time she’d been able to make her mother happy.
“It is good for a woman to learn silence,” her mother always said. “If a woman knows nothing else, she should know how to be silent.”
Nori stepped onto the pavement, checking to make sure she had all of her things. She had her little brown suitcase with the straps that were fraying apart and her purple silk ribbon tied around the handle. She had her blue satchel with the silver clasp that she had gotten for her last birthday. And that was all she had. Not that Nori thought she needed much more than that.
For the first time since she’d been roused at dawn that morning, Nori noticed that her mother was not carrying any bags. The woman stood as if her pale pink satin slippers were rooted to the unnaturally white sidewalk. Her bright eyes were fixed on a spot Nori could not follow.
Nori took note of what her mother was wearing: a short-sleeved, baby blue knee-length dress. Tan stockings. Around her neck she wore a petite silver cross with a little diamond in the center. She had her hands clasped in front of her chest, so tightly that tiny blue veins had become visible beneath the delicate skin.
Nori reached out a hesitant hand to touch her mother’s arm. “Okaasan . . .”
Her mother blinked rapidly and unclasped her hands, arms falling to swing limply at her sides. Her eyes, however, did not move from their perch.
“Noriko,” she said, with such unusual affection saturating her tone that it left Nori in near disbelief, “I want you to make me a promise.”
Nori blinked up at her mother, doing her best to look pretty and obedient and all that her mother would have her be. She would not spoil this moment with her clumsy tongue.
“Yes, Okaasan?”
“Promise me you will obey.”