Mazie K. Hirono - Heart of Fire: An Immigrant Daughters Story

As with all memoirs, the dialogue in this narrative has been re-created from the authors best recollection and characterizes the spirit and substance of conversations rather than the precise words that may have been spoken.

In one of my most vivid childhood memories, I am sitting on the curb next to the bus stop with my older brother, Roy, waiting for our mother to get home. Three nights a week, after she leaves her day job as a typesetter at a Japanese-language newspaper, she goes to work as a server for a caterer downtown. Roy is eleven and I am nine. Most days after school, we play in the street and climb trees with boys from the neighborhood until late, and then we wait at the bus stop. A soft evening breeze cools our flushed faces as we sit chewing wads of wax candy, pleasantly tired from our games. In the tree branches above us, roosting sparrows ruffle their wings, their chatter mingling with the occasional rumble of passing cars. I think how different the night noises are here in Hawaii, compared to the stillness of evenings in rural Japan, where I was born.

Roy and I jump to our feet at the sight of our mothers bus turning onto Kewalo Street. We crowd around the door as it opens, knowing Mom will be the only passenger getting off at this hour. On this night, when Mom steps off the bus, she stumbles and steadies herself with a hand on Roys shoulder. She pauses, closes her eyes, and sucks in a deep breath. She looks pale and worn, and I realize shes not feeling well. I watch her face closely as Roy and I walk slowly beside her to the white clapboard boardinghouse where we live together in a single small room.

As soon as we are inside, Mom changes out of her white servers uniform and climbs under the sheets. She lies sideways across the mattress the three of us share, feet hanging off the side, careful to leave space for Roy and me. She refuses the bowl of rice that I have saved for her dinner and turns to the wall, a tiny moan escaping her. I touch her face. Her skin is on fire. I gather her clothes from the top of the dresser, where she has neatly placed them, and find that the cloth is soaked through. I try to appear calm, but Im frightened. Roy stretches out next to our mother, watching her sleep, his forehead creased. I can tell hes worrying, too. Not knowing what else to do, I walk to the communal washbasin at the end of the hall, carrying Moms uniform. Barely tall enough to reach the sink, I stand on a small step and drape the white cloth over the wooden washboard. I set about scrubbing the sweat stains from her clothes, working vigorously to distract myself from the fear that makes me feel hollow at the center. Mom has only one white servers uniform and will need to wear it again for her next shift, later in the week.

I know how hard my mother works to keep us afloat, and I have already begun looking for ways to help her. Every day during the school year, Mom leaves two quarters on the table for Roy and me to buy lunch. A couple of times a month, she adds a dime for each of us. Roy always spends his dime, but I drop mine into the slot of a metal baseball piggy bank that Mom gave me. It is a cheap thing she picked up for a few cents, but I treasure it. In the evening before bed, I shake it, pleased by the jingle of coins. Some nights, I open the piggy bank and arrange the dimes in ever-lengthening rows on the floor, enjoying the simple fact of them.

One evening a few weeks before, I shook my piggy bank, anticipating its jingle. But it made no sound. I had to buy food, Mom explained when she arrived home later that night. Where my saved coins had been, there was now only the heaviness of her regret. It chased my own disappointment away instantly. It had taken me many months to save those coins, but I understood that Mom had needed them. A few days later, she pressed a new coin in my palm. She folded my fist around it, smiling at me ruefully. The cool metal in my hand felt like a kind of promise as I pulled my piggy bank from under the bed and dropped the dime into its slot. Hearing its lonely clink, I knew there was nothing else to do but to begin saving again.

Now, I rinse Moms uniform and hang it to dry on a communal line in the yard. By the time I get back to our room, Mom and Roy are both snoring softly. I sleep fitfully that night, alert to Moms every movement and sigh. Im half-awake when she rises before daybreak as usual, dresses quietly so as not to disturb us, and leaves for her day job at the newspaper. After shes gone, I lie there, staring into the darkness. Beside me, Roy rolls onto his back and softly exhales.