back into the house.
“Lucy,” the man said. His voice through the door was muffled. “Lucy, are you there?”
Patty was sure she had never seen the man before in her life. Curiosity overwhelmed her better judgment, and Patty opened the door.
His expression changed to one of surprise.
“I’m sorry, I was looking for the home of Lucy Takeda.”
“You’ve found it. I’m her daughter. Patty.”
His surprise deepened, and then he smiled. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—please, forgive me. I’m a friend of your mother. Jessie Kadonada.”
* * *
He wouldn’t stay more than a few minutes. Patty offered him tea, coffee, a glass of water, but he kept looking at his watch.
“I really ought to get back on the road,” he said. “I have a long drive.”
He lived in Portland, he’d explained, and he was here on business. Patty thought it odd that he’d driven—Jay, who traveled for business two or three times a month, always flew, even if he was only going to Reno.
“Any idea when your mother might be back?” he asked.
“She got called away sort of unexpectedly. Was she expecting you?”
“Yes, we made tentative plans to meet. Of course, it’s possible I misunderstood....”
They looked at each other; Patty got the sense he was choosing his words as carefully as she was. She wanted to tell him that she’d seen his photographs in Forrest’s album, that she could see the resemblance between the shy boy and the man he’d become. But then she would have to explain how she had come across the album. Jessie didn’t mention Forrest; if he knew about the man’s death, he was covering it well. He really did seem like a man paying a casual visit to an old friend.
But it still seemed to Patty too coincidental that he had come to town only days after Forrest had been killed. Especially because now she knew that her mother had lied when she said they had lost touch. He knew where she lived; he knew details about her life.
There was something here that didn’t fit, and Patty didn’t want to let him go before she found it.
“Did you move to Portland right after the war?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light and conversational.
Jessie’s expression fell for a fraction of a second. “No. My dad took a job in Chicago. We left Manzanar in the spring of 1944. We were lucky, we got out a lot sooner than other people did. I finished up high school there, went to Northwestern, got my degree in business. I worked in Chicago for a long time. I only moved a few years ago, got a job offer I couldn’t turn down.”
“Oh.” Patty couldn’t think of anything else to ask, to keep him talking. “Well, I would be happy to give my mom a message, if you want.”
“Yeah, maybe I can catch up with her next time I’m in town. Have a drink or something.” Still, he didn’t move toward the door. “Patty...”
“Yes?”
“Just...” He cleared his throat. “Your mom is a very special lady.”
“Thank you,” Patty said, flustered. “I mean, you’re right, she is. Mr. Kadonada...sometimes, I feel like there’s this whole side of her that I don’t even know. She doesn’t talk about the past much.”
A pained expression passed over his face. “Don’t judge her for that. Please, Patty. The war changed all of us. None of us came out of it whole. But that doesn’t change the way she feels about you, it doesn’t limit how much she loves you.”
“How can you know?” Patty didn’t mean for her words to come out as harshly as they did. “You don’t know her anymore. You don’t know who she is now.”
Jessie shook his head. “No, I suppose I don’t. But I know who she was. Your mom was...well, she was perfect. Graceful, and funny, and beautiful, and kind. She got me through—if it hadn’t been for her, I don’t know if I could have survived.”
They were both silent for a moment, and then Jessie put his hand on the door.
“Thank you,” he said formally.
“I would be glad to give my mother a message for you.”
“It’s not necessary. I’ll call soon.”
As Lucy closed the door behind him, she felt as though she had failed to ask the right questions. If Jessie Kadonada knew something about Forrest, about his death and Lucy’s involvement, he’d kept it well hidden.
Patty paused in the short hall leading to the kitchen and looked back on her mother’s living room: the plastic-covered furniture, the carpet that bore