Rooted in Ash
It was a normal day, in late winter.
The sun kissed the horizon, breathing oranges and pinks across the winter sky as all the children ran wild in the small park. She smiled, chasing after the boy she liked on short legs and tagging him with a gentle touch on his back. Hiroto, the smartest and cutest boy in her class, giggled at being caught.
“I’ll get you back!” he called after her, but she didn’t wait to hear anything else. A competitive spirit was building in her, and she pushed her legs to run faster and faster away from him.
The game of tag continued for a little longer, the five-year-olds laughing under the darkening blanket above their heads. Soon, her mother came and whistled at the edge of the playground, and she skipped her steps until arriving at her mother’s side. Her mother ran a soft hand through her straight brown hair, before taking her smaller hand in hers.
“Let’s go home, I have supper waiting.” She loved the voice of her mother, so sweet and honey-like.
“Okay, Mama!”
She admired the birds flitting across the sky and even slipped her hand out of her mother’s to point at pigeons pecking at trash. Her mother nodded along indulgently, waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green to cross the street to their apartment complex. The little girl followed her mother, jumping from one white-painted block on the asphalt to the next.
The small apartment is cozy and heated when Hotaru enters, slipping out of her pink shoes and dashing toward the kitchen. Before she gets far, a warm soft hand grasps the back of her coat.
“Wash up first, Hotaru.” Her delicate hand runs through dark strands and Hotaru nods happily. Nothing can make her happier than her mother’s karaage, so she hurriedly pulls her coat off. Her mother smiles at her, delicate and pleasant, as she picks up a wrapped plate left on the counter. “I’ll be right back, I’m just going to drop this off downstairs.”
Hotaru hummed in reply, placing her coat above the touyo heater to warm it after a long day in the cold. She skips down the hall towards the washroom, mind focused solely on the warm meal about to be in her stomach in the nice warm apartment.
The faucet water is cold when it runs over her hands, but she dutifully scrubs at her fingers with the soap bar. The dirt beneath her nails proves to be especially difficult and it takes several minutes for her hands to be clean enough for karaage.
Considering it a job well done, Hotaru’s small palm wraps around the rather warm door handle so she can set the table before dinner. The door squeaks as it opens and a blast of dry heat causes her to squint her eyes. When she opens them -
An inferno engulfs the apartment, fire traveling down the hallway at a scary speed. The flames lick and lash at the walls like a living beast, a dragon coming to devour a scared little firefly. Hotaru screams and stumbles back, slamming the door in a panic.
The shower curtain rod slips from the wall with force, sliding across the closed door and into the door handle. Hotaru scrambles into the bathtub and watches in horror as tendrils of fire slip beneath the door and eat away at the wood.
“Hotaru! Hotaru!” Such a sweet voice mangled with the same fear coursing through Hotaru’s body.
Hotaru tries to call out loudly, but black smoke makes her throat hurt and her eyes sting. “Mama! I'm here!”
The fire felt so close, and Hotaru just wanted to be warm and eat warm food after a long day playing in the snow. Her hands, no longer clean, scrub at the tears dripping down her face. Fire claims the linen shower curtain pooled on the ground as it inches closer and closer to her.
Hotaru cowers in the corner of the bathtub - no one ever taught her what to do in this situation. They always told her about if she caught on fire, or how to avoid inhaling smoke, but she’s a cornered animal being hunted by a merciless predator. A predator that eats all.
The only thing she knows is that water extinguishes fire, so she wrenches the shower handle until cold water douses her from head to toe. It doesn’t matter, though, because the first still reaches her and her body burns.
She woke up screaming, the covers restricting her movement, and she writhed until her body was free of them. Her bones ached and her skin seared at every touch. The door to her room opened, lighting up her dark room, and warm arms cocooned her.
“Shhh…” Her mother soothed her, rubbing her back in circles, and she cried into her shoulder. She grasped at her mother’s shirt, fists of cloth grounding her in reality. “I’m here, shhh…”
“What happened?” Another figure stood at the door, silhouetted by the light, and the girl squinted her eyes at him. Who was he?
“Did you have a nightmare?” Her mother rasped, pulling her away from her arms to look into her eyes.
The light caressed the woman’s figure, illuminating her soft dark brown hair and light tan eyes. The little girl screamed, her throat ripping with the sound, and she shoved the woman away. She scrambled across the sheets, tears streaming down her face. The woman lunged for her, gripping her ankle, and she kicked as hard as she could.
“You’re not Mama!” She screamed, fighting as the woman, and now the man subdued her.
“Umeko! Umeko!” The woman cried, pinning the girl’s arms to her side, and brushing a desperate hand through her hair. “It’s okay! It’s me, Mama!”
“I want Mama!” The little girl shrieked, “You’re not Mama!”
“Michiyori, what is happening?” The woman sobbed to the man, and he hugged the woman and little girl tightly.
“It’ll be okay.” He whispered to the woman, and his finger dug into the little girl’s neck and she saw black.
“Umeko, do you know who I am?”
The doctor smiled warmly at her, and she shrunk back from their gaze. Hesitantly, she shook her head. The doctor nodded, writing something down on a clipboard, then pointed at the two adults behind her, “And do you know who they are?”
She shook her head again, and the woman behind the doctor buried her head in the man’s shoulder.
“Do you know who you are?” And the girl’s lip quivered because she didn’t know anymore.
She thought she was Hotaru, the five-year-old who would wake up any day now and go to the park to chase after the boy she liked. But she’s not - her eyes are the color of sand, not the dark brown she had grown used to, and her mother’s voice was raspy rather than honey-like.
“I don’t know.” The girl whispered, hands tightening into fists.
The doctor scribbled something down on the clipboard again and scratched her head with her pen. “Amnesia, then?” She hummed to herself. The girl didn’t know what that meant.
The woman behind the doctor hesitantly approached the girl on the table, kneeling and grasping her small hands in her own. Her tan eyes watered as she stared into the girl’s own.
The man behind her looked on, his arms empty from where the woman once was. He stares and stares, his eyes like a yawning void searching her soul. The little girl feels like his eyes are simultaneously stone and the deepest, darkest part of the ocean.
“You’re my Umeko, don’t you remember?” the woman pleaded, tightening her hands until the little girl’s hands felt numb. The little girl began crying because she didn’t remember.
She hates frogs — slimy, leaping frogs that wiggle in your hands like beating organs. She hates them with a passion her five-year-old brain can’t comprehend. All she feels is gross, hate, tear, get it away, get it away.
“It’s your favorite toy, Umeko.” The woman, her not-mother, says desperately. She holds the frog plushie before her, shaking it as enticingly as she can. The little girl — Umeko now — wrinkles her nose.
Her not-mother bites off a sob, falling to her knees and dropping the frog. “Why can’t you remember me? Am I such an awful mother?”
Somewhere in her little five-year-old heart, she felt sorry — sorry for who she wasn’t, sorry this wasn’t her mother. Mostly, though, she felt scared. Scared enough to scream and claw and carve her way out of this reality.
Instead, she says, “You’re not my mother.” And she might as well have carved her way out through the woman’s heart.
The woman shudders, choking on a bone-deep sadness, the taste of a lost child on her lips. Before her, she was nothing but a five-year-old stranger, a lost soul that wandered into the body of her child.
The little girl — Umeko, Umeko, Umeko — wraps her arms around herself, uncomfortable. She just wants to go home, to her sweet mother with the voice of an angel, and the tastiest karaage on their small table. Her stomach rumbles at the thought.
It’s embarrassingly loud, loud enough to grasp the woman from the edge of madness. Her not-mother straightens up as if remembering she still had a child to take care of.
A little uncomfortable, in a small voice, Umeko admits, “I’m hungry.” And then, thinking of her mother, she says, “I want karaage.”
Karaage is familiar, simple, something that her not-mother can work with. She smiles at her daughter, her daughter and not her not-daughter, and says confidently, “I can do that.”
Later, at the table, when Umeko takes a bite of the crispy, burnt karaage and makes a face, her not-mother laughs.
“Why don’t we go out to eat?” she suggests lightly, cheeks dusted pink at her poor cooking skills. Umeko grunts in interest because she’s still scared, but at least she won’t be hungry.
She doesn’t see that man again that day. The man who held her not-mother tightly at the hospital, eyes like stone.
It feels weird calling her mother — wrong, because she already has one far, far away under an orange and pink sky, calling her home after she played tag with the boy she likes. As the days go by, though, she gets confused about what to call her — she’s not her mother, but she treats her like a daughter. It feels like love, in the way she asks if she wants karaage and daifuku - in the way she replaced all the frogs and toads in her room and replaced them with cattle and cats. She wasn’t quite her mother, but she wasn’t quite not either. She was her not-mother. When Umeko called her as such, one could hardly tell it bothered her - except her smile was a little bit thinner, her eyes a bit more wet.
This love, but not love, was intoxicating in the little cocoon Umeko and her not-mother created. The little girl found herself humming and giggling along with the woman, who was so much harsher and rougher than her real mother.
“Not like that, not-Mama!” Umeko giggled, swatting at the woman’s hands when she pounded at the dough. “Our shokupan won’t be good!”
The woman chortled, her laugh coming in raspy breaths, because Umeko didn’t know the first thing about kneading dough, either. Instead of pointing that out, her touch became gentler and slower. “Is this better, little Ume?”
“Much better!” They kneaded in silence, the only sound being the slapping of shokupan dough and Umeko’s humming.
Once Umeko declared the dough properly kneaded, they placed it in the oven to cook. Her not-mother wasn’t entirely positive that was the next step, but they had spilled orange juice over the rest of the cooking instructions. She was sure it would be fine. Probably. Umeko insisted on dragging a stool to the oven, wanting to keep an observant eye on their food so the bread wouldn’t burn.
“Not-Mama?” Umeko said, swinging her feet back and forth. Her not-mother got that look on her face, the one that looked glad and miserable at being called not-Mama.
“Yes, my little plum?” Another stool was pulled up to the oven, the wooden legs squealing against the floor, and her not-mother slumped onto it.
Umeko didn’t know how to ask the question. It was something unvoiced, and she felt like even asking was breaking their little cocoon. An inexplicable fear clutched at her heart, squeezing with every pump, and she knew she had to ask or she’d die from not knowing.
“Who am I?”
The bread was looking dangerously brown.
“You’re my miracle, Umeko.” Her not-mother didn’t stumble and didn't hesitate. A cautious arm laid across her bony five-year-old shoulders, comforting and suffocating all at once. The little girl twisted to look at her, and something in her must have looked as lost and scared as she felt, because not-Mama smiled and asked, “Do you know why I named you Umeko?”
Umeko shook her head no, glancing down with a jutted lip, because she didn’t name her. She named other-Umeko - the not-Hotaru.
“There’s an old fairytale - Umekohime. It was my favorite when I was young. Every night, I begged my mother to recite it while I fell asleep. My father called it childish, but she did it until I was much older than I should have been.” Not-Mama laughs, her fingers stroking through Umeko’s hair. “It’s about a couple, who prayed and prayed for a child. No matter how hard they tried, the woman’s stomach never swelled.
One day, while the woman and man toiled in an orchard, the woman reached up to a tree and - “ not-Mama reached her hand out, hovering in the air, and pinched something invisible between her fingers. “-plucked a plum from a tree. Her husband asked her for a slice, and with a small knife in her pocket, she split the plum in half. And-”
Not-Mama reached over, pushing gently at Umeko’s shoulders to scare her, a wild smile on her face. Umeko let out a squeal, and then a joyful laugh.
“-out came a little girl!”
Umeko was still giggling as not-Mama smoothed her mussed curly hair from her forehead. She had a faraway look in her eyes, something starry and abysmal, unfathomable joy and sadness all tangled together. “They named her Umeko-hime.”
“My name is Umeko.” The little girl said in wonder - until she remembered it wasn’t her name and this wasn’t her mother. Instead, she cleared her throat and said, “What happened next?”
The woman startled from her reverie, and her cheek twitched with the force of her grin. Umeko could spot it for what it was - a fixture, a fake smile, and Umeko felt sad that she had been the one to put it there. “W-Well there’s a monster and there’s-”
“Chiyome!” The harsh yell startled Umeko, and she teetered dangerously on her stool. A small hand clamped onto the fabric of her not-mother’s shirtsleeve, steadying herself. “Don’t tell her that damn story!”
It was that man, her not-father. He had sequestered himself in his study since they came home from the hospital, and didn’t leave until Umeko was already asleep. She had gone days without seeing him, and he looked worse than she remembered. His face was covered in patchy stubble, and his sleep shirt was stained with grease and unidentified food. There was something wild and desperate in his eyes, but also something hard and unyielding - determined.
He stalked off with another word, her not-father. Umeko’s fingers tightened around her not-mother.
“It’s okay, little plum.” Her not-mother said, running her hand over her short brown hair.
Umeko didn’t think it was okay, not with the way her heart burned and her stomach plummeted. “He hates me.”
All at once, her not-mother swept her into her arms and slid to the floor. Her cheek pressed onto her curly head, arms tightening around her tiny body. Umeko felt so small, small enough to burst forth from a plum. Tears slipped down her round plum cheeks.
“Shh, he doesn’t hate you.” Her not-mother soothed, rocking them back and forth, “He wants to help - he’s been trying the past few days to bring your memory back, bring you back to us.”
Something ugly unfurled in Umeko, but not-Umeko, because she had no memory of them. They were strangers, and no memory would come back to her. It scared her, knowing she’d never be their daughter, and it scared her to think of what they would do when they lost hope. Unless she finds her way back home.
Umeko tiptoed down the hall of their small house, her feet silent on the wooden oak planks. She followed the sounds of their yelling, the feeling of poison rage emanating from that room her not-father locks himself in. Conveniently, the door is cracked this time.
Her not-father is in a chair at a large desk, his hands fisting torn shreds, and her not-mother towers over him on the other side of the tabled barrier. She’s snarling at him, her hands on the edge of the desk, nails carving grooves into the expensive wood.
“You aren’t even trying with her!” she accuses, something resentful coiling inside of her as she spits at him. “Not even trying for her!”
The chair her not-father sat in slams into the floor in his rush to stand, slamming a dent into the wall behind him. “I’m trying to fix her! To bring our little girl back!”
Umeko’s stomach plummets, because he knows, and when he can’t bring her back, he’ll kill her. She knows he will, with the way his stone eyes pierce her not-mother like craggy rocks under a cliff. All her not-mother has to do is jump.
“She’s not broken, Michiyori!” Umeko thinks she sees tears slipping down her not-mother’s face. “We just need time with her, and she’ll remember. That’s all it is — please just gi—”
“Why won’t you ask him?” The words are dripping venom, and there’s a feeling lingering in his voice — something that isn’t quite hate but could grow to be. “If you loved her, if you loved me, you would ask him.”
“Don’t,” her not-mother stutters, “don’t ask that of me. Not him.”
Her not-father shifts, once spiteful and bitter features softening to a desperate plea, “He could know something, Chiyome. He could help. I’ve looked everywhere else, I have. He could bring our little girl’s memories back, bring our little miracle back.”
Her not-mother is truly crying now, and she slumps to the floor as the fight leaves her. Any objections she had are gone now, with no energy to continue arguing, but she still says in a small voice, “Or he could break her like he did me.”
Stooping to his knees, her not-father cradles his wife to his chest, and all the fight has left him too. All the bitterness and acidic hatred has left them, and he presses a kiss to her head.
It’s clear to Umeko that they love each other — but she also thinks love must be ugly and complicated. Her other mother, her real mother, did not have a husband — Umeko did not have a father. She had never seen love like this, jagged and sharp and cutting.
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Her not-father says quietly into the sobbing woman’s hair.
And Umeko doesn’t think she wants to ever love like that.
“Where are we going, not-Mama?” Her not-mother’s hands were sweaty, and Umeko desperately didn’t want to hold her hand. As they weaved through the crowded streets, Umeko was loath to admit it was a necessity.
When her not-mother smiled down at her, it made her stomach flip and her throat clogged with anxiety. Wherever they were going, her not-mother didn’t really want to be there. The fight she spied on from the night before rings in her ears, unwilling to leave her mind.
“Not-Mama?” Umeko tugs her hand from her not-mother’s and stops walking until she notices. Her eyebrows tick upwards in question. “I want to go home.”
The woman bends down, grasping Umeko’s hand in hers again, and smiles reassuringly. “I know, my little plum. We just have to make a quick stop, and then we can go home, okay?”
It’s not very reassuring, though. The way her chin trembles as she smiles, and her hand feels so pliable and weak in Umeko’s. She doesn’t know where her not-mother is taking her, but she doesn’t want to go. She can’t go.
“I want to go home now.” Umeko squares her shoulders and raises her chin for a fight. She’s prepared to win.
Not-mother looks around as people maneuver them, many shooting annoyed frowns at them for the inconvenience. “Come, little plum. Don’t throw a fit here, it’ll be a real quick stop. And then we can stop for daifuku before going home, hm?”
The bribe fell on deaf ears. Umeko raised her voice, because her not-mother wasn’t listening to her, and she was getting frustrated. “I want to go home!”
“Umeko, enough!” Her patience had waned thin with the little girl, and she started dragging Umeko by her hand. And when Umeko digs her heels into the dirt, she throws Umeko over her thin bony shoulder.
Umeko kicks and screams and yells the entire way, telling her not-mother that she wants to go home, home, home. Her not-mother is surprisingly strong, her hand gripping Umeko even when the little girl tries to wriggle from her grip. The closer and closer they get to their destination, the tenser the woman becomes, and the louder Umeko screams.
Even when they stop, Umeko keeps kicking and clawing, trying to escape her arms, and her not-mother sighs in frustration. She shifts the little girl from her shoulder, into a tight cradle on her hip. Now able to see, Umeko finds themselves in front of a door of a traditional house.
“Be on your best behavior, Umeko.” Her not-mother says sharply, one of her arms caging her in and tightening ever so slightly. The other arm lifts and she tentatively knocks on the door.
For an agonizing few seconds, nothing happens. Silence hovers around them, and Umeko feels like her ears are plugged with cotton. Then, the door creaks open, revealing an old man with a cool, light brown gaze that reflects their own. He’s frail-looking, but with his presence comes an ominous pressure that feels suffocating.
“Chiyome, what do I owe this pleasure?” He seems unperturbed as if this was an expected outcome rather than an abrupt surprise visit.
“I need your help,” her not-mother clears her throat before adding, “Please, father.”
Umeko’s not-grandfather smirks, the scar on his face twisting grotesquely with the action. He moves to the side and the door creaks ever wider, “Come in, then.”
Umeko, on her not-mother’s hip, feels frozen and unable to get free as the two walk into the abode. Unbidden, Umeko wonders if they’ll ever walk out.