Chapter 24

24

A few days later, I’m on my way to an official appearance at a nearby hospital. We sit in the car, Mariko rattling off instructions and bits of information. “Princesses Akiko and Noriko will be there,” she says.

Tokyo whips by. Since it’s an official imperial visit, the stoplights have been programmed. No red lights. No breaks for me. I can’t seem to catch my breath. It doesn’t help to know my cousins will be present. Every story needs a villain. I just wish mine didn’t come in double.

“Their mother was supposed to attend. She’s an honorary member of the board. But she is … indisposed,” Mariko says carefully.

No need to say more. Princess Midori has been bludgeoned in the press. Once a famous soap opera actress, she struggles now with her role as princess—the expectations are too much. The Imperial Household Agency calls it an “adjustment disorder.”

“Ah, sō desu ka,” I say. Yes, I see.

Mariko calms a little at my use of Japanese. “Your accent is improving.”

“Arigatō,” I reply.

It only takes a second or two for her to wind back up again. “You’ll cut the ribbon with the twins, then tour the new maternity ward while handing out blankets to the new mothers and babies. Remember to keep your hands still. No picking at your nails.” Mariko nibbles on her lip. “I confirmed the color of the ribbon, white. The carpet will be blue. Nothing should clash with your outfit.” I’m wearing an orange dress and cream pillbox hat. “Perhaps we should practice waving again?”

This conversation is doing my head in. “Mariko.” I frown at her.

Her frown equals mine. “Izumi-sama.”

“Relax.”

She doesn’t exactly do my bidding, but she does settle somewhat, long enough for me to enjoy the rest of the three-minute ride. I focus on Akio in the front. A night ago, I found a folded airplane on my pillow, a note on the wing.

Staring at the clouds

I find it impossible

To walk, to run … to stay

How to remain grounded when

I am always filled with sky?

I’d replied yesterday, tying my poem to a little piece of cake and handing it off under the guise of the chef wanting Akio’s opinion on a new dessert recipe.

Born a foreigner

I carry two halves with me

Loose skins I pull on

To go places and don’t fit

Like apple pie and mochi

Too soon, my musings are cut short. I’m out of the car, being escorted through the back entrance into the hospital. Dozens of royal handlers surround me—a mass of men in black and navy.

The ribbon cutting goes off without a hitch. Cameras flash. It’s the whole shebang—the imperial press club, mainstream press, and hospital publicists. I smile robotically, keeping my distance from the Shining Twins. Noriko whispers out of the side of her mouth, “Cousin, your dress is so bright. Good for you. I could never pull that off.” Akiko follows up with, “I love how you can just wear anything.”

Quickly afterward, we’re ushered into the new ward. Already, there are a few patients, though I suspect they’ve been planted there. The new mothers and babies look way too good—combed hair, cashmere robes, pink-cheeked babies swaddled tightly. Hansani has a little sister. A bonus baby, her parents call it. The months after her delivery, Hansani’s mom described herself as feeling like warm garbage. She admitted more than a dozen times to forgetting to put on underwear. Also, she pees when she laughs. I didn’t want to know that, but there you go. I cross my legs whenever I see her.

Curtains separate the beds. For each mom, there is a tiny, pinkish creature in what looks like a clear Tupperware bin on a rolling rack. I don’t know. I’m sure there’s a medical term for the cradles housing the tiny humans. The Shining Twins are ahead of me, distributing bears with overlarge eyes. I’m on blanket duty, handmade and crocheted by the empress and her lady-in-waiting coven. A photographer, Mariko, Mr. Fuchigami, and Akio trail me.

I stop and chat with a woman who looks slightly older than me. She gave birth two days ago and isn’t quite up and around. She knows a bit of English. I know a bit of Japanese. We meet somewhere in the middle. She wants to know what it’s like to be a princess. I dress it up a little, but keep it politically correct. I speak about my love for Japan. Her baby sleeps soundly nearby. I’m about to gush all over the infant when a shout splits the air.

A baby in the next curtain over wakes and cries. Then, another baby wakes. Soon, they’re all keening. Then, a clatter echoes. Gunshot? I don’t know. Everyone scrambles. Chaos ensues.

Without thinking, I throw myself over the baby in the Tupperware bin. My nostrils fill with the scent of baby powder. My heart beats like a hammer inside my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. A body covers me. Hands curl over mine. “Stay down.” It’s Akio.

Seconds tick by. The silence is loaded. Slowly, I raise my head. One by one, people wake from their stupors. A camera flashes. Not a good time for pictures.

“I said stay down,” Akio hisses. His words skirt against my neck. I’m all too aware of how he’s pressed against me.

“I think we’ve established I don’t follow directions well,” I whisper. Akio’s hold tightens and I am contained. I manage to turn my head, though. All at once, I see it. Another imperial guard has someone on the ground, knee in his back, one hand like a pair of cuffs around his wrists. It’s one of the new fathers. I recognize him from two curtains ago. His eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep. Behind him is an overturned cart of blankets. The Shining Twins make a sound. They’re farthest away from the cart, shielded behind two imperial guards.

Mr. Fuchigami holds up his hands and speaks. I don’t catch everything, but I do hear the word jiko—an accident.The new, sleep-deprived dad must have knocked over the cart.

At this, Akio slowly releases me. He exhales tightly. Another picture is snapped. The room comes back to life. The new mother beside me bursts into tears. Hormones plus near-death experience equals not a great combination. I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. Between the sobs and hiccups, I can’t make out a word. She is mixing Japanese and English. Finally, she settles on her first language.

I cast a glance at Akio. He’s closest to me. My hands are shaking, but he’s steady. “What is she saying?” I ask.

Akio listens for a moment. She’s repeating the same thing. “She’s thanking you. You went to save her son before yourself.” His voice drops and he says quietly to me, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Of course I should’ve,” I volley back.

He stands there and exhales slowly. The tension eases from his body. “You’re right,” he says voice measured, deliberate, soft. There’s a glint in his eyes, unguarded and affectionate. “My mistake. I won’t forget again. You lead with your heart.”

I eye her warily. Wish I had x-ray vision. What’s behind her back? Another schedule? More gloves to fit? “I’m super tired.”

“This will only take a moment. I promise.” She drops her voice to a highly persuasive purr.

After a moment, I ease the door open and she ducks in. The door slides closed with a click. Mariko walks the perimeter of the room, positioning herself in a way that I can’t see what she is holding. “Papers don’t come out tomorrow, but there’s been quite a bit of chatter online about your hospital visit.”

My stomach churns. “Do I need to sit down for this?” My father’s disappointment after the wedding comes back to me.

“Maybe.”

“Mariko.” My voice carries a warning tone.

“Fine,” she says and whips a piece of paper from behind her back. She hands it to me. It’s a printed news article from The Tokyo Tattler. “I sneaked it in.”

There’s a picture of me cutting the ribbon, then another of me thrown over the newborn bassinet, Akio against my back. Still can’t tell if it’s good or bad. Based on Mariko’s enthusiasm, it’s probably okay. “This will take me a bit to translate.”

Mariko makes an exasperated sound. “I’ll read it to you.” She plucks the paper from my hands. “Her Imperial Highness Princess Izumi attended the Tokyo Metropolitan Children’s Medical Center’s new maternity ward today. It hallmarked the princess’s first event since returning from holiday in Kyoto.” She goes on, breathless. “Joined by Their Imperial Highnesses Princesses Akiko and Noriko, the new princess cut the ribbon on behalf of the imperial family. She sported a lovely orange A-line dress.” Mariko grins at me, proud of her outfit choice. She focuses back on the article. “A bit of excitement happened during the tour of the maternity ward. While handing out teddy bears and blankets, a new sleep-deprived father tripped over a cart and sent it clattering. ‘I thought it was gunfire! It was very scary,’ Sadako Oyami, our own Tokyo Tattler reporter on the scene, said. ‘Everyone ducked for cover,’ she explains. Everyone except for the HIH Princess Izumi, who threw herself over a newborn baby, protecting him.” Mariko waits a beat. Beams at me.

I do need to sit now. I stumble back until I find the edge of the bed and slump down.

She clears her throat, continuing. “Careless of her own life, the princess sought to protect the precious new life first. This is in contrast to her cousins, Princesses Akiko and Noriko, who shoved their imperial guards in front of them.” Mariko stops and takes one overexcited breath. Her cheeks are flushed. She is dreamy-eyed. This is what gets her excited. Good to know. “They compare you to the empress after the 1923 earthquake!” The empress rolled up her sleeves and laid bricks for a new school. She refused to leave until the town was fed, the children safe. There is a famous picture of her hugging a mother who lost her son, both of their cheeks coated in dust. “They end with calling you our very own royal.”

Words fail me. Mariko seems to know I need a private moment. She places the article in my lap, then glides out the door. When she’s gone, I pick it up. I rub my thumb over the last sentence of the article. It’s not the royal part that warms me. No, it’s the other two words. Very own, it says. Very own. Yes. That’s me. A true daughter of Japan.