Free The Samurai's Daughter by Sujata Massey Page B

stored in memory. I had worried about Hugh’s presents for a long time, and I gave him the new Bryan Ferry CD and an antique traveling gentleman’s desk that I’d gotten at auction with my mother a few days before.
    The things I received were all nice. My parents presented me with a huge set of engraved stationery—perhaps a hint that I should write more—and Manami shyly presented some bath saltsfrom Hakone. From Hugh, I received The Rough Guide to Scotland with a tartan G-string tucked inside that my mother blithely assumed was a bookmark. It was just as well.
    â€œThe private present comes later,” he whispered in my ear before we sat down to breakfast. But when would there be time? It was off to Grace Cathedral after breakfast for the morning service. Hugh went eagerly—he’d grown up in the Church of Scotland, which was practically the same thing as Episcopalian, which my mother was. My father professed to follow no religion, like most Japanese, but over the years, attending occasionally with my mother, he’d made quite a few good friends at Grace. Manami went out of tourist curiosity. I had to confess I was the only one there who went out of duty.
    While the choir sang in a single, ethereal voice about the arrival of Christ, I stood silently in the midst of them, thinking that I felt more at home at the Yanaka Shrine in Tokyo. The shrine was Shinto, part of Japan’s ancient worship of ancestors and nature. Not God. A couple of Sundays a month I’d take myself through its faded crimson-orange torii gate and perform the ritual of washing my hands, clapping them twice, and then disappearing into myself for a few moments. Yes, I thought of my parents, and my grandparents before them, even though this was not our ancestral seat. I thought of everyone I loved. Overwhelmingly, though, the miracle of the shrine was its proximity, the fact that it was part of my ordinary life. It reminded me that I’d reached the goal I’d aspired to since childhood—living in Japan. That was what I wanted more than money or love.
    After the service ended and people had dispersed, we walked the cathedral’s famous labyrinth—a giant carpet woven with a medieval design of curving paths that people moved along in prayer, sometimes stopping to kneel. It was a copy of a real outdoor labyrinth in Chartres, France; Hugh had actually been there, and was describing it to my mother. My father stood at a spot where he could gaze out beyond Grace’s heavy doors into the gray San Francisco day. I moved slowly along the carpet’s path to the center, lost in thought.
    If I loved Japan, how could I support Hugh’s suit? Yesterday, I’dbeen so moved by Rosa’s story, and so excited by idea of the class action. I wanted justice for the comfort women and slaves—that was without question. But Hugh’s work would create tension in my social circle. I would still have my good Japanese name, but I wouldn’t be a samurai daughter anymore. Instead, I’d be an enemy of Japan Inc.
    Manami wanted to buy postcards at the cathedral’s gift shop, so we went downstairs and then finally back out to the car.
    â€œDoes it feel like Christmas?” my mother asked as my father steered us all back to Pacific Heights.
    No, I thought. The day is gray and depressing and feels like a portent of more bad days to come.
    â€œRather!” Hugh said cheerfully. “It rains in Scotland. The only thing I’m missing is the bogs, but perhaps if I get a good close look at the Bay later on, that’ll do it.”
    â€œHave you called your parents yet?” my mother asked.
    â€œActually, no. I’ll do it right away when we get back—they’re nine hours ahead.”
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    On the short but hilly ride home, my anxiousness slowly turned to nausea. The backseat of the Infiniti, sandwiched between Hugh and Manami, was the wrong place for me. And my mother was