§ § § -- December 22, 1996
At six o'clock Kazuo had to leave for the hotel to begin work, and he told Katsumi to come for breakfast in a couple of hours or so. She agreed and set about changing her clothes, wondering now what was going to happen. They'd sat and talked for some time; though they were in love, they still disagreed about Haruko. Katsumi tried to see it from his point of view: his doctor had told him he couldn't have children due to some illness, and he must have taken it so completely to heart that he couldn't, or wouldn't, see the distinct resemblance between him and Haruko. Katsumi remembered wistfully that, when Haruko had been born, she had been overjoyed for the baby's resemblance to Kazuo, for to her it meant that she had a reminder of the man she'd fallen in love with, a living keepsake of those sweet and beautiful days with him.
She was still wondering what would make him believe when Haruko awoke and ran into the main room to greet her mother. "We came back, Mama!" she exclaimed. "Why?"
"Your father stopped us," Katsumi told her. "I think he wants us to stay, but I'm not sure. Hurry and dress, Haruko-chan—we are to have breakfast at the hotel where he works, and I'm sure you're hungry."
"I hope they'll have something good to eat," Haruko said, face brightening with anticipation. "But no fish, Mama-san." She made a face.
"I'll tell them not to give you fish," Katsumi assured her, smiling. "Hurry now."
At the hotel, just before eight, Katsumi waited in the restaurant vestibule, scanning the dining room and wondering if she might catch a glimpse of Kazuo. It looked as if all the tables were occupied, but after a few minutes the maitre d' appeared and showed her and Haruko to a table. They didn't have to wait long before a short, skinny fellow approached them. Katsumi had to work at not staring at him; he was liberally freckled over every square inch of skin and had hair of a shade of red that should more properly have been called orange. Haruko, too young to know better and having never seen hair of that color before, gaped at the waiter in fascination.
The red-headed waiter got a good look at them and came to an abrupt halt, his eyes narrowing suddenly for just a moment before he adopted an officious tone. "What can we bring you for breakfast?" he inquired. "I can recommend trout or salmon, maybe some cod. And the little girl might prefer tuna."
"No fish, please," said Katsumi politely, wondering why the condescension from this man. Was rudeness so easily tolerated in western countries? "I will have rice, and my girl have rice also."
"I'm sorry, there's no rice. I can bring fruit," the waiter said.
"Yes, fruit, please. You not make rice?" Katsumi asked hopefully.
The waiter shook his head sharply. "No rice, sorry," he said. "I'm sure you'd rather have something Japanese for breakfast though—after all, I can tell you wouldn't be used to western food, from your speech." He sounded smug, Katsumi thought, though she missed some two-thirds of what he was saying. "We have fruit or fish…no rice."
Haruko, having finally lost interest in the waiter, had been staring at the menu and now held it up to Katsumi, pointing at a photo. "Mama-san, I'd like to have this," she said earnestly. Katsumi peered at it; it was a picture of a plate containing pancakes with bacon and sausage. "It looks good."
Katsumi giggled. "Those flat cakes are very large," she said, like her daughter using Japanese.
Haruko tilted her head pleadingly. "Please, Mama, I want this. There's a boy over there and he's eating it." Haruko's gaze shifted to a nearby table, where a pregnant Asian woman sat with a boy about Haruko's age. Katsumi noticed that the boy was eagerly wolfing down a short stack of pancakes, just as Haruko had said.
"All right," Katsumi agreed indulgently and turned to the waiter. "My girl have this dish in picture," she said, pointing at the photo.
The waiter's eyebrows shot up and he smirked, but shrugged and wrote down the order. "And you, ma'am?"
"You say no rice, so I have fruit," Katsumi said.
"Okay, fruit it is," said the waiter. He left, and Katsumi frowned after him, wondering why he had such an attitude. Since he worked here, Kazuo probably knew him, and he might be willing to tell her. She looked around the dining room while they waited, till her attention was snared by Haruko, who was intently watching the boy with the pancakes. It was inevitable that he'd notice her scrutiny, and when he did, he stuck out his tongue at her. It was coated with bits of pancake, and Haruko wrinkled her nose.
The boy's mother noticed. "David James Omamara, that's rude…not to mention disgusting," she said. "Don't do that again—especially not with your mouth full."
The boy swallowed. "That girl was lookin' at me, Mom," he protested.
"Let her look," came the response. "She wasn't hurting you." She looked around and noticed Katsumi watching and trying to hide a smile. "I'm sorry about that."
"They are children only," Katsumi offered, letting the smile bloom.
"True." The woman laughed. "You're from Japan, aren't you?"
"Yes, first time away," Katsumi said, hoping her English was up to the conversational effort. "I am Katsumi Nishimura, and my girl, Haruko, here. My…my man, Kazuo, here he is…chef. We come stay here with him."
"Oh, you're Chef Miyamoto's wife?" the woman said, surprised. "I had no idea he was married. Welcome to the island. I'm Camille Omamara, and this is my son David. My husband Jimmy is the hotel manager."
Katsumi had time for no more than a smile when the waiter returned with a plate of fruit. "Your fruit, lady. The pancakes will be a few more minutes." Without waiting for a reply, he left.
Camille, who had seen what happened, snorted. "Just your bad luck to get Wilbur," she muttered. "Don't pay any attention to him…he can be a jerk." At that moment David let out a loud burp and she turned sharply to him, while Katsumi wondered what a "jerk" was. "David James…what do you say?"
The boy rolled his eyes but said, "Excuse me." At the same time the waiter, Wilbur, returned with a plate which he put in front of Haruko. She beamed happily and stuck her fork into one of the pancakes, pulling off a chunk and taking her first bite, then nodding vigorously at Katsumi.
Katsumi grinned and filled a small plate with fruit, prepared to enjoy her own breakfast. Haruko seemed to take a great liking to everything on her plate except the bacon, of which she took one bite, made a face but swallowed anyway, as if afraid to waste the food. Katsumi raised her eyebrows. "What's wrong?"
"That meat tasted strange, Mama," said Haruko with a shrug. She ate a bite of sausage and grinned. "That's better."
Katsumi laughed and glanced across the way at Camille and David, who were close to finishing; then there was a choking noise from Haruko and she turned back, noting her daughter's suddenly pale face. "Haruko-chan, what is it?"
"I feel…" Haruko muttered, then sucked in a breath before slumping back in her seat. Her head lolled to one side and her body convulsed; then everything she'd eaten came back up, with no warning at all. Katsumi cried out in alarm and leaped to her feet; nearby diners saw and muttered, some in annoyance, some in revulsion. Camille jumped up as well, but her reaction was one of sympathy.
"Poor kid. Gosh, what happened? David," she said, twisting her head to address her son, "go get Dad, and hurry." David scrambled out of his chair and eagerly fled the dining room. Haruko, barely conscious now, lay limply in her chair while Camille and Katsumi, stepping around the mess, got a good look at her and realized that the situation was more serious than just a child getting sick. "What did she eat?" Camille asked urgently.
"She have this," Katsumi said, terrified, pointing at Haruko's plate. "She see your boy have this and she want same."
Camille surveyed the plate. "Pancakes, sausage and bacon," she murmured, then scowled and peered more closely at it. "Hey, that's not bacon. What the heck…?" By this time three other waiters, including Wilbur, had gathered around and were working at cleaning the mess on the floor. Wilbur was complaining to his co-workers and not being very discreet about it, and Camille thumped him on the shoulder. "Hey, you," she said, "since you have such a problem with this, suppose you go back and find the master chef."
Wilbur peered up at her and scowled. "Lady, this isn't your problem," he said.
Just then David came back with his father in tow; they were in time to overhear. "It might not be her problem, but it's definitely yours," Jimmy said. "Get Chef Miyamoto."
Wilbur knew authority when he heard it, at least, and promptly obeyed. Jimmy took in the scene and asked in amazement, "What happened?"
"You shoulda seen it, Dad!" David spoke up eagerly. "That girl was eatin' pancakes and sausage, just like me, and she had a bite of bacon, and then she barfed all over the place! Wow, she sure messed up the carpet!" He stared in awe at the floor around Haruko's chair.
"David," Camille groaned in rebuke and turned to her husband. "Something's wrong with the little girl. She must've had a reaction to something she was eating—and I noticed that this 'bacon' on her plate isn't bacon at all."
"What?" Jimmy said, leaning forward to get a look at Haruko's plate. "Good Lord," he blurted, "those are anchovies! What the hell's going on here?"
Wilbur and Kazuo joined them then, just as Jimmy sent one of the other waiters off to call an ambulance. Haruko had lost consciousness altogether and was audibly wheezing with every breath; Katsumi was in a tearful panic. Kazuo took in the scene and asked what had happened; Camille quickly summarized the situation.
Before Kazuo could react, Jimmy demanded, "Why are there anchovies on this plate? This was supposed to be bacon!"
"Anchovies!" Kazuo echoed, stunned.
Wilbur said, "It was a substitution. Don't all Japanese eat fish? We were outta bacon anyway, and I didn't see the harm."
"Anchobi! Iie!" wailed Katsumi, and Kazuo stepped hurriedly around Wilbur to turn her around so she faced him. She had recognized the English word, as the Japanese word was nearly identical.
In Japanese Kazuo said urgently, "Tell me, Katsumi, what happened to Haruko?"
Relieved for someone who would understand her, Katsumi cried, "She wanted this for breakfast, so that man with the orange hair brought it to her. We never saw that meat before, and we didn't know. If those are anchovies, then that's what made Haruko ill. She is allergic to all fish. Now she might die!"
Kazuo turned immediately to Jimmy and rapidly explained this to him in English; Jimmy nodded. "We've got paramedics on the way," he said, then glared at Wilbur. "What was that you said a minute ago? 'All Japanese eat fish', was it? I don't know what your problem is, buddy, but we've already had some complaints about you, and this is the most serious mistake you've made yet. Well, it's your last, because you're fired. Get out."
No one watched Wilbur slink away; instead, Camille tried to comfort Katsumi while the other two waiters continued to clean the mess and Jimmy sent David out to the lobby to watch for the ambulance. But Kazuo, going over what Katsumi had said, froze and stared at the unconscious child being cradled in her mother's arms. Haruko was allergic to fish? It was highly rare for this to happen to a Japanese, a people for whom fish was a dietary staple; but it did occur now and then. He knelt beside Katsumi and draped an arm around her shoulders. "It'll be all right," he assured her. "Haruko won't die, I promise."
David came racing back into the dining room, yelling excitedly, "The amb'lance is here, Dad, they just came! Here they come!" The paramedics, bearing a stretcher, took charge, while Katsumi hovered frantically over Haruko, following them out.
"Wow," said Camille, exhaling loudly. "I think that's a little more excitement than I expected on a Sunday morning."
Jimmy nodded and noticed Kazuo. "You okay, Chef?" he asked.
Kazuo swallowed. "I'm sorry, Omamara-san, but…you see, that child is my daughter. I…I wouldn't ask, but…"
"Go, by all means," Jimmy said immediately. "Explanations can wait till later."
With a breathless thanks, Kazuo ran from the room and straight out of the building, without even slowing down till he had reached the hospital. Katsumi was in a chair in the waiting room, still looking terrified, and he went straight to her. "Kazuo," she gasped and finally burst into sobs, falling into his arms.
"It's going to be all right, Katsumi, I promise," he soothed her. "Listen to me. I know. They'll take good care of Haruko and she'll be just as good as new." He tipped her face up so that she met his gaze. "You see, I too am allergic to all fish. I can't even prepare fish dishes unless I am wearing rubber gloves. You're right: Haruko truly is my child. She inherited her unfortunate allergy from me, and I wish to apologize."
Katsumi's tears turned to watery giggles. "Oh, Kazuo, how can you apologize for a thing you couldn't control? But…I didn't know you were allergic to fish…"
"Do you mean to tell me that not once, in all the times we were together, you never noticed that not a flake of fish ever passed my lips? And here I thought you knew me." He was grinning. "It runs in my family, and I have never yet known any others, except a few non-Japanese, who have exhibited this allergy. I don't know how it happened, but I can see that I truly did father your daughter."
"I always knew you were her father. There was never another man, and from the time she was born, she looked like you," Katsumi said. "But I had no idea that she would have to reveal her allergy to fish to prove to you that she's your child." She gave him an impish little smile. "Since you're here, perhaps you'd better ask a doctor to examine you, because I think the one who cared for you during that illness was a quack."
They both burst out laughing and hugged each other tightly, evoking smiles from the staff at the admissions desk, and sat down to wait for news of their daughter.
§ § § -- December 23, 1996
Following the quiet Japanese-style wedding late in the afternoon, Kazuo and Katsumi dropped in on Roarke and Leslie just after supper on Monday evening. "We can never thank you enough, Mr. Roarke," Kazuo said, speaking for both himself and Katsumi. "This truly was a fantasy come to life for me. We'll bring something back for you from our trip." They were taking a honeymoon journey to Japan, bringing Haruko along with them.
"Oh, that isn't necessary," Roarke protested, smiling. "We're just glad to know that you two are so happy together."
"But there's one thing you might want to consider while you're gone," Leslie said. "I talked about this with Father, and he's in agreement. We've been thinking it might be nice to have authentic tea ceremonies in the Japanese teahouse, and we were wondering if Katsumi might be interested in a position as hostess there. She'd have full charge of arranging the ceremonies, choosing the right tea and china and everything else, and she could work on weekends and during school hours so that she could be home with Haruko otherwise."
Kazuo grinned. "It sounds good. Katsumi…" He turned to her and repeated Leslie's words in rapid Japanese; Katsumi lit up.
"I take job, yes…domo arigato." Katsumi beamed at Leslie. "So glad we are friends."
"Me too," said Leslie, a little embarrassed but happy all the same. "Incidentally, I heard from Camille about what happened in the hotel yesterday morning. She said Jimmy fired that waiter. Where'd he end up?"
Roarke smiled. "He's cleaning restrooms at the casino," he said, and they all laughed. "Have a very safe and pleasant journey, and we'll look forward to your return."
Leslie watched them go. "It's my understanding that Haruko's going to be in the same class with Camille's son," she remarked. "Knowing David, I have a feeling that she'll never be allowed to forget being sick in the hotel dining room." She and Roarke traded rueful grins and got back to work.
Next up will be a whimsical little piece distantly inspired by at least one skit I remember seeing on the show. Roarke's about to hear a lot of job complaints: if we don't believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny, then why should they believe in us?