The Reunion
by Lucia Zhang | Grade 10| Scholastic 2022 | Flash Fiction | Silver Key
I enter the dining hall, my cane clicking with every stride as I plop down on one of the worn brown benches. Picking up my spoon, I stab at the sloppy blob of oatmeal. Then I glance around. Parents sit with children between them, words fluttering around like drowsy butterflies. The edges of my mouth curve down, my thoughts falling onto memories of my own two children and wife. Everyone faces the entrance as footsteps emerge. An American soldier marches in with a fist-sized copper bell. He raises it up. The bell sways back and forth before the soldier slams it with a metal spoon. A clear and powerful clang floods the empty hall.
“Attention! As many have heard from the news, the war is over and you’ll be dismissed from camp this week. Further information will arrive soon.” A wave of murmurs surfaces, spreading about like a wildfire.
“Are we really free?”
“What if our houses have been destroyed?”
“How will I face everyone?”
Their voices are drowned out as my shoulders sag. At least they have family. With a toss of my oatmeal-covered spoon, I grasp the handle of the cane leaning against the bench and hoist myself up, a crack emerging from my knees. My cane clicks to the left of me as I stumble forward, leading back to my room. I flip some bedsheets up, revealing a pile of crumpled sheets and a pillowcase stuffed with towels. I drag my slipper across the musty ground, drop my cane, and climb on my bed. What do I say in the telegram? Do I tell them how I feel or just the information they need? The answers are sucked into a vacuum as a sharp pain consumes me. I fall back onto my bed, into sleep.
A sudden shake startles me, “Wake up! They have the information! In the dining hall!” I blink. Almond-shaped black eyes stare down at me.
I lower myself out of bed and into my worn leather slippers, limping over to pick up my cane resting against the wall. Hobbling through the door, I shuffle towards the dining hall once again, pausing amidst the hallway, only heads full of black hair visible in front of me. I run my hand across the prickly surface of my head. Minutes fly by, hours follow, my legs shake and they almost give in.
“Next.”
I gulp, tired from weighing both outcomes. Will I be able to see my family again? Or forever be homeless?
They ask me for my name, age, DOB, all I remember, but it doesn’t feel right.
The soldier files through a stack, landing on one stuffed in the middle. “418 33rd Street Berkeley California?”
I hesitate for a second before nodding, rubbing my fingers together to squeeze out the sweat.
“Your house is…” He leans back in his chair, yawning. “Hmm…still there.”
My hands fall to my side, dropping the cane with my palms open. A second later, my mind struggles once more, with new worries flooding in. Will they still love me? Can they remember me? I pat my face, my fingertips scratching my beard, with flaky patches of skin falling.
I send a telegram addressed to my house.
“Leaving Santa Fe Friday. Arrive Sunday, 3 p.m. Love, Papa.” (1)
***
I flip to face the concrete wall, the bedsheets underneath me sliding around. My feet settle on the ground as I grip my cane, spine straightening. Slipping on the shabby suit I haven’t worn in years, I place my toothbrush alongside the bent slippers I first wore entering the camp into my suitcase. With every whistle of the train, Hayato and Haruka rush into my mind. They probably have English names now. I gaze out the window, the trees blurring together with the shadows of my own faded memories. The look on my son’s face as I moved the shadow-spoon puppet behind a white sheet. My daughter’s laugh as I sang in an unsteady, wavering voice. Watching them take their first steps on their very own two feet to their first steps on handmade stilts. A hidden worry trickles over as the fuzzy warmth flows away: Will I ever be happy again?
The train buzzes through Albuquerque, Flagstaff, and the Mojave. They’ve probably settled in. I try to picture them again, but blank faces appear. I slip my hand into my worn-out suit, grasping a family photo from five years prior. My oily black hair hides beneath a top hat, a little boy riding on top of my shoulders has his mouth wide open, eyes shut tight. A woman bearing a girl in her arms leans against me, wrinkles on the edge of her eyes seeping through the gaps of the girl’s silky hair blowing in her face.
But then I arrive in Berkeley. I grab my cane and case, pushing myself to stand up. How will they recognize me? I never had this cane before… What if they forgot when my train was coming? A minute passes, and my feet reach a train station’s platform in California for the first time in years. I glance up, three huddled figures, eyes shifting side to side. A woman with streaks of white hair stands in the middle with each arm around a child, the boy a head taller than the girl. Their circular eyes become almond-shaped, and the curve of their mouths lower into a flat line. I lean onto my cane, a small crack forcing me to stand upright once more. They stand motionless, looking up at me once before returning to their worn-out leather shoes, and finally, the woman whispers into the children’s ears, shoving them forward.
I set my suitcase down, leaning onto my cane, “Did you…” (2) the woman chokes on her words.
“Every day,” (3) the only words I can muster right now. Dropping my cane, falling down onto my knees, I bring them into my arms, “Hayato. Haruka. Hayato. Haruka…”
Their eyes stay glued to their shoes, unrecognizing.
(1) Julie Otsuka, When the Emperor Was Divine (Anchor: Knopf 2002), pp 93.
(2), (3) Julie Otsuka, When the Emperor Was Divine (Anchor: Knopf 2002), pp 94.
