Page 45 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

Finally, I gather myself enough to say, “My father…I just—”

She gasps, the connections clicking together in her mind. “Oh, Ren.” So much compassion fills her voice that I don’t know what to do. It puts me in a state of fight or flight, like I have to get away from the feeling or destroy it. But apparently there’s a third option. Freeze, which is what I do, standing there dumbly. Violet takes a step toward me as though she’s going to embrace me. It’s enough to free me. I jerk away, and then she’s the one who freezes. “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

A crazy thought crosses my already scrambled mind. It might be okay to let her in. Hell, I feel like I’ve just been dragged over rocks. I’ve never felt so alone in my life, which is saying something. But I have to keep my head on straight. I have to remember who I am and who she is, so she can’t screw me up any more than she already has.

“I’m going to go,” I say.

“Oh.” She speaks barely above a whisper. “Of course. I understand.” Her hands fold together. Then she asks in the same tone, “Will I see you again? When you’re ready?”

Yes races like forbidden fire to the tip of my tongue. And not just one yes, a thousand yeses.

But I don’t say a single one.

Instead, I half shrug, half shake my head. She takes a breath. Then she crosses her arms. There’s a shift between us. I shove both my hands deep inside my pockets, hiding the pain it causes my shoulder. I should go. Except I can’t.

She leaves instead.

She leaves and I’m the one rooted to the dirt. The fire of the yeses floods down to my feet. They burn my soles, desperate for me to run after her. I don’t move. I watch as she gets smaller and smaller. Right before she disappears around the block, she pulls the ribbon from her hair.

I turn the opposite way.

Chapter Fourteen

Violet

July 1942

Dear Otōsan,

Everything works differently here. I don’t think I understand any of it. Last I wrote, I was hoping I might find a way to bring you home to us. Well, it didn’t work, at least not right now, but I’m going to keep trying. I won’t bore you with the particulars. Just know I’m trying to figure things out.

I guess everything has seemed so drastic here that I forgot I’m still just myself under it all. And I hoped I’d be better by now. A more mature and stronger sort of girl. I know you’d say, “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Violey-chan.” In fact, I can practically hear your voice. I can’t wait until I hear it for real. I miss you, Otōsan.

The drawing on the other side of this letter is of the god, Akira. For once, I drew him true to life without any ocean or exaggeration—not that he needs it! I’ve always drawn to escape life, but lately I don’t feel like I can. So for the first time, I wanted to draw in order to…I don’t know…face myself. Who I am. And who I hope to be.

Love you always,

Violet

“Konnichiwa!” I’m greeted by a chorus. I’ve reached my barrack after leaving Ren in the firebreak outside Akira’s apartment. My hair ribbon dangles from my hand. Mr. Kimura is outside with Mrs. Kimura, and they greet me. Mr. Kimura is nailing the lids of cans over the bigger knotholes in our barrack.

“Konnichiwa,” I say, struggling desperately to hide how upset I am. I leave them behind and go inside, heart heavy and steps slow.

Mama is sitting in a chair.

Terror replaces everything else. Mama never just sits.

“Mama? What’s wrong?”

“Violet.” Mama’s voice is thick with emotion. “Violet, we have letters from Otōsan!”

“What?” I rush forward and fall onto my knees next to her. Several envelopes are in her lap, covered in Otōsan’s handwriting. I almost cry at the sight. I throw my arms around her waist, and she holds me with Otōsan’s letters crushed between us. We pull back, laughing with happiness. In my pocket, the deer becomes warm and delighted. “There’s so many! Did they all get delivered today?”

“It’s a miracle,” Mama says. Her eyes are gems in her face, shining like sunlit obsidian. “A staff member brought them to me. Apparently, a lot of mail for the camp was waiting to be sorted at the Lone Pine post office branch and an official ordered someone to pick it up. I was waiting for you to open them. Here, here, sit.” She motions for me to sit at our makeshift table. “Wait, I have some food and drink.”

Mama bustles around. Plates appear by my elbows bearing rice cakes soaked in soy sauce, pickled fish, and tofu made from bean paste. I marvel. I saw Mama buy fish from the fish market held every other week in the laundry rooms and trade mending for homemade soy sauce, but I didn’t realize why. She was saving the treats for this very moment.

The letters sit on the table amid the dishes. They might as well be a dish, too. We might as well be having Otōsan’s words for dinner, because they will sustain our souls in the same way. Mama sits down and takes my hands. She prays over our food and thanks God for the letters. My hands are so antsy with excitement. I can hardly keep myself from snatching up the envelopes and tearing them open. Somehow, Otōsan figured out where we are.