Teruko

A short story from Floating Shore by Sally Ito

This story from my 1998 collection of short stories titled Floating Shore was recently translated into French by Jean-Marcel Morlat and published in Traversees, Mai-Juin issue 2025.

Photo by The Cleveland Museum of Art on Unsplash

Teruko arrived at the Shimadas' at four o'clock Sunday afternoon. She took the bus from the hospital. The doctor there had looked at her eye and said the bleeding was bad. "Stay lying down for a few days or the blood will clot and possibly damage your vision," he said. Walking out of the hospital with a wad of bandages pressed to her eye, Teruko fished around in her purse for some money. There was only two dollars — not enough for a taxi. Then, luckily, she noticed the bus. It was one that headed straight towards the Shimadas' house. Teruko got on it immediately. She did not want go back to the group home where she worked. Antony was still on shift.

They had fought about the grocery money— it was always something trivial that they fought over. As usual, they had gone downstairs where no one could hear or see them. They always fought in the spare room with the hot water tank. He had pushed her hard this time, so she pushed him back.
And then he hit her in the eye.

He had yelled something at her in Chinese. He always slipped into his mother tongue when he got angry. But Teruko never slipped into Japanese when she fought with him. She was better at English than he was.

"You spoil rich Hong Kong boy don't know how to spend money!" she said when she shoved him. "Especially when it's not yours!"

That was when he hit her. Perhaps, she thought to herself, she had deserved it.

***

Teruko rang the doorbell at the Shimadas'. No one was at home. They're at church, Teruko remembered. She went into the garage and fetched the spare key. Then she opened the door and walked in. She headed straight for the bathroom to look at herself. The purple swirl on her puffed eyelid was mesmerizing the colour of spring irises. She touched it gently, her fingers sinking into the painful bed of swollen colour.

The doctor had given her painkillers. She took a couple and lay down on one of the Shimada children's beds. There was no use alarming the family by lying conspicuously on the couch in the living room. Betty-chan's room was good enough. Teruko curled up against Betty's stuffed panda. Teruko's head throbbed, but despite the pain she fell asleep.

Mrs. Shimada looked at the eye carefully.

"It's terrible, just terrible, what he did," she said. "Can you see?"

"It's blurry," Teruko mumbled. Little Betty had crawled onto the bed and was staring right into her face.

"Well, you sleep here tonight and stay here as long as you need to," Mrs.
Shimada said.

Teruko nodded. She had explained to her aunt what had happened.

"Is Teruko sleeping here?" Betty said, looking up at her mother.

"Yes," Mrs. Shimada replied. It was decided. Teruko would sleep with
Betty in her bed.

That night Betty woke up crying. Teruko raised her head groggily. She had wrapped her arm around Betty's waist.

"Black! Black thing!" Betty cried.

"Sshh," Teruko said, tightening her grip. But Betty squirmed her way out and ran towards her parents' room. Teruko fell back into a deep sleep, unaware that Betty had left.

Mrs. Shimada made Teruko move to Betty's sister's room the next day.

"You sleep on the floor in Sharon's room," she said.

Teruko nodded. She took her knapsack full of clothes and carried them down to the basement where Sharon had her room. It was cooler there. There was a poster of an English garden on one wall. On the other wall was Sharon's Japanese fan collection. She had meticulously pinned each one up to form a pattern

Mrs. Shimada pulled out an extra mattress and laid it on the floor by
Sharon's desk.

"Teruko, what are you going to do?" she said as she made up the bed.

"I don't know," Teruko said.

"Well, are you going back there?"

"I don't know," Teruko said again.

"What did they say to you?"

"Who?"

"The group home people."

"They said I could go to the police if I wanted."

"What did you say?"

"No, I said, no."

Mrs. Shimada stopped making the bed. She stood upright and looked at
Teruko.

"You and Antony, are you—"

"No!" Teruko said sharply. "That's what they say to me, too."

Mrs. Shimada resumed making the bed. She sat on it and motioned to Teruko to sit beside her. Taking her hand, she said, "If you want to talk, tell me, I am listening."

Teruko nodded, but she had nothing to say.

***

Sharon came home from school and found Teruko in her room. She had been asleep for a couple of hours but was now awake reading Sharon's old magazines. Sharon sat beside her on the bed.

"Oh, you're staying with me? That's nice. Betty-chan has nightmares and then wakes everybody up. That's probably why Mom moved you here. You can help me with my sewing project," Sharon pulled out a pattern packet from her bag.

Teruko sat up and looked at the packet. It was for a blouse. There was a fuzzy black hole in the middle of her sight. She shifted the packet to her left and stared at it from the corner of her eye.

"Which one?" she said, pointing to the two blouses on the front.

"That one— I've got to pick the fabric tomorrow."

"Yes, that's a nice one. I like that one, especially the sleeves."

"Yeah, the sleeves are going to be the hard part."

"I can help you."

"Really?"

"Sure." Teruko opened the packet and took out the pattern sheet, laying it on the bed. The black dot persisted like the darting of a fly, jumping from one pattern shape to the other as Teruko arranged the sheet on the bed.

"Hey, is your eve all right?" Sharon said. She lowered her head and looked straight at Teruko's down-turned face.

"It's fine, just fine." Teruko answered. She flicked her head to the side. It was the only way she could see Sharon's face.

***

Mr. and Mrs. Shimada sat with Teruko late that night after the children had gone to bed. The table had been wiped clean. There were three cups filled with green tea. For a long time no one spoke. Finally, Mr. Shimada shrugged his shoulders. “I'm sorry, Teruko, I can't do anything. My English is so poor, anyway. And who's going to listen to a sushi chef?"

He took a long sip from his cup and then remarked, "Who made this tea?
It's bitter."

Teruko nodded meekly. She got up to fetch the hot water from the
kitchen.

"There's nothing we can do really, neh? Shikata ga nai, neh?" Mrs.
Shimada said, turning to her husband.

"I don't want you to do anything," Teruko called out from the kitchen.

She came back and poured hot water into Mr. Shimada's cup. "I never asked you, did I? Besides, I don't really care."

"Still, we feel we have some responsibility..." Mrs. Shimada said.

"People hit each other, so, it's a fact of life," Mr. Shimada said. He shrugged again.

"A fact of life," Mrs. Shimada echoed.

"Are you going to talk to the fellow in charge?" Mr. Shimada asked. "That director fellow?”

Teruko looked down into her teacup and did not answer.

”Well?”

"I don’t like him. He won't believe me or anything I tell him. He'll just believe whatever Antony says."

Mrs. Shimada sighed and said, "English is so hard. People never understand what you say to them. They already have their own ideas in their head and have made up their minds before they listen."

***

The director's office was spare. There was an old wooden desk with scratches on it. In front were two chairs for clients. Hanging on the wall above the director's chair was a large wooden crucifix. Teruko fixed her gaze on it when the director walked in.

"Teruko," he said. "How's your eye?"

He bent over to look at it. The swoop of the director's face into Teruko's
vision made her blink.

"It okay," Teruko said.

"So," the director began, "we have a problem here. I know we shouldn't have let you stay at Grace House. Christina had told me you were unhappy there."

"I ask move three times," Teruko said sullenly. "You no listen."

The director did not speak. He drew his hands together on the empty desk. Clenched them as if in prayer. Finally, after a long silence, he spoke.

"You can call the police, press charges, you know. We have let Antony go."

"Go where? He no go any place. He must back Hong Kong."

"Yes, we know that."

"Where he go? He got no money. What about visa?"

"Teruko, don't worry about Antony. We have to talk about you."

Teruko closed her eyes. She didn't want to talk.

"I forgive Antony," she said. "I forgive him."

The director cocked his head. "You do, do you?"

"Oh, yes," Teruko said. She found it hard to look at the director. The black dot in her sight blotted out his face.

"Perhaps you should go into counselling," the director said.

Counselling? Teruko thought. For what?

"You have to talk to someone about this experience. You want me to make an appointment at the Catholic Counselling Centre for you?”

"No," Teruko said. "I don't want it."

She stood up to leave.

"Someone told me you were beaten as a child," the director said.

"Who say that?" Teruko said sharply.

"Someone. Is it true? It might explain your reaction to this problem
why you're not facing it as you should."

Teruko looked at him blankly. Who had told the director such a thing?

Was it Christina? Angela? Frederick? Had she ever told anyone that her father had beaten her? Once, maybe. They were talking about books, and it must have slipped out how her father had hit her because she read too many books instead of being useful. But what did that have to do with what happened with Antony?

"Perhaps you think this is normal — that it's your fault."

Teruko looked at the director.

"Not my fault! You understand? Not my fault!"

The black dot in her eye bounced fitfully in front of her. Teruko suddenly
hated the director.

"You don't understand what I am saying. I'm telling you that if you've experienced this before, your attitude might be part of the reason why Antony hit you."

Part of the reason? Was this true? Teruko knew better. She had seen the signs. Antony's short-temperedness. The way he threatened. The way he threw things. That's why she had asked to be moved. Asked three times. She knew, too, the way she talked, how sharp her words, and how even though she knew better, she said things to his face he didn't want to hear. She knew it was coming and yet she had to say the thing. Was she so stupid and stubborn to have ignored the obvious? What was wrong with her?

Sudden, angry tears formed in Teruko's eyes.

The director went over to comfort her.

"There, yes, now cry, let it out."

"Please," Teruko said. "Leave me. I want alone. Go away."

The director left the room.

Teruko let herself cry for a few minutes longer. What was she crying for? Nothing could be done. The director just wanted her to cry and now she had done it. She stopped and looked up at the wall. There was the crucifix and, right in the middle, the black hole.

Sharon took out the fabric she had bought and showed it to Teruko, who was lying on the mattress. She had been there all afternoon, since she had seen the director that morning. She sat up.

"Oh, very pretty. It will match nicely with that skirt you wore to church
Sunday."

"You think so? Will you help me?"

"Sure."

Sharon pulled out the pattern packet and handed it to Teruko.

"You have to take the pattern and lay it on the fabric," Sharon said.

Teruko opened the packet and began pulling out the beige pattern sheet.

"You cut the pattern out," Sharon explained, pointing to the outlined
squares and curved shapes etched in blue on the beige sheet.

"Oh?" Teruko said. The black dot in her eye became a point tracing the pattern line on the beige paper.

Sharon got a pair of scissors. Teruko took them and began cutting out the patter. The shapes and lines were different from the ones she knew in Japan. The shapes seemed all so symmetrical here. A triangle for the sleeve. A diamond for the front bodice. Teruko worked slowly, meticulously cutting down the edges of each shape. The black dot moved smoothly down the lines she was cutting. Teruko knew she shouldn't be straining her eye, but she could not help but concentrate on the task at hand. She needed to concentrate on something.

The next day Sharon came home upset. Teruko had laid out the pattern all wrong on the fabric. She had pinned the pattern shapes every which way, without design or plan, closely packed to one another. Sharon had not realized this was wrong. Now the teacher wanted her to do it again.

Teruko was puzzled. She had only done it the way she had always done
it in Japan.

"Let me try again," Teruko said. She looked at the picture on the back of the packet and saw how it was supposed to be done.

"No!" Sharon grabbed the packet from Teruko's hand. I got to do it. It's my project. I got to do it myself. That's what the teacher said."

"I'm sorry," Teruko said. She did not know what else to say. What was she going to do? She had hoped to help Sharon sew the shirt, but Sharon was going to do everything herself.

***

For the next several days, Teruko lay in bed. In the evenings, she would get up and help Mrs. Shimada prepare dinner for the children. After dinner, Mrs.
Shimada would help the children with their homework and then go to bed early so that she could be up before the children to make their lunches. Teruko would stay awake until Mr. Shimada came home late at night. While she waited, she made barley tea, mugi-cha, getting out the large brass teapot, pouring the barley seeds into the water and boiling it till it frothed and bubbled. She would wait for it to cool and then pour the mugi-cha into a large glass pitcher that Mrs. Shimada had received as a wedding gift. Mr. Shimada liked mugi-cha and would drink it after his bath. Teruko would read magazines until she heard the back door open and then she would get up, run the hot water for Mr. Shimada's bath and get a glass of mugi-cha ready for him.

"Teruko," Mr. Shimada said one night. "Have you gone to the doctor yet?

"No." Teruko handed Mr. Shimada his mugi-cha.

"You better go, neh. You still have that black dot in your eye?" Teruko nodded. She would make an appointment tomorrow.

"Teruko, did Maki-chan talk to you?"

Maki-chan was the name Mr. Shimada called his wife. But he never called Teruko, Teru-chan, like Mrs. Shimada and the children did. Not even Teruko-san. Just Teruko. The way the people at the group home called her.

"No," Teruko lied. Mrs. Shimada had talked to Teruko many times about God. She assumed that was what Mr. Shimada was referring to.

"God-" Mr. Shimada began, "God knows everything. He knows your suffering. He knows your heart, Teruko."

Teruko hung her head. She knew about God. She heard about Him all the time in the group home. How He loved the children and the poor and the suffering. That was what the home was for-- the children. The grown-up children who had trouble speaking, their hands and wrists curled up to their bodies, their tongues hanging out of their mouths and their eyes looking everywhere but at you. You looked after them because God loved them. Died for them.

Teruko remembered the crucifix in the director's office. The slim, emaciated figure of Christ pinned onto the cross, his head hanging down to his chest. How unlike the Buddha on his lotus, transcendent and peaceful. If she could choose gods, whom would she choose?

"Kami-sama wa subarashii. God is wonderful," Mr. Shimada said. "Sometimes, when my life is hard and difficult, I remember that God is love and that comforts me."

Teruko nodded. The Shimadas had become Christians after they came to Canada. Life was hard in Canada. People turned to religion when things were hard.

The doctor shook his head.

"I don't know about that black dot. It might just be permanent. It should
have healed up by now."

"Thank you," Teruko said. Permanent. The word echoed in her mind.

"Do you have someone to take you home?" The doctor said, worried.

"Yes," Teruko lied. She was going to meet a friend for lunch at a noodle
house in Chinatown. That was good enough. She would tell Sachie what the
doctor had said.

Teruko got her prescription and headed downtown to the Happy China Gardens. Sachie was waiting for her. She had changed her hair to a stylish bob and was wearing new earrings.

"How was it? The doctor" Sachie said. Her earrings jangled, sharp glints
of light flashing off them.

"That black hole is still there. He said it might be permanent."

"That's awful! You have to tell the director. What about Antony? Where
is he? Does he know what he's done to you?"

Teruko shrugged her shoulders. "Nanni mo dekinai yo. Nothing can be
done."

"So what are you going to do?"

Teruko shrugged her shoulders again. She was concentrating on the menu. She wanted number six— egg noodle with pork. It came with bean sprouts and three slices of barbecued pork.

The waiter came, and they ordered.

"So you cut your hair, neh?" Teruko said. "It looks very nice."

"I know. Clara did it. You know what? Clara's thinking she might want to open her own shop, and she wants me to be her partner. Isn't that a great idea?"

"But you're still in hairdressing school."

"I know, silly, but after that."

Teruko smiled. Sachie moved like lightning with everything she did.

They had met in an English class at the college they were studying at in Japan.
Sachie had always wanted to go abroad. She had relatives in Canada and had visited them when she was in high school. When she found out Teruko had an aunt in Canada, she became Teruko's friend, talking to her about Canada even though Teruko had never been there.

"Canada is so free. Japan is so... so narrow," Sachie once said. "Everyone is so narrow-minded. You can't do what you want. You have to do what everyone expects you to do."
It was Sachie who suggested they go to Canada together. Now, almost a year and a half later, she was going to hairdressing school and was thinking of staying of staying permanently. They had both started out working at the group home, since it was the only place they could find work with their limited English. But Sachie had stayed only a few months. She went to night school and improved her English.

"Teru-chan!" Sachie's voice broke into Teruko's thoughts.

"Huh?"

"What are you going to do?"

Teruko did not answer. She looked down into the now-empty bowl of noodles to the small pool of broth at the bottom. She couldn't tell if the dark spot on the bottom of the bowl was pepper or the black hole in her eyesight.

"Neh, Teru-chan? You don't know, do you? You never know what's coming next. You just let things happen to you. You can't do that here, do you know that? This is Canada. You have to make things happen. You have to make choices, decisions."

Teruko lowered her head. It was true. Things just happened to her. Like
being hit in the face.

"You're just the same way you were at home." Sachie complained. "I
can't do anything for you now. I can't. I'm too busy."

Teruko smiled uneasily. She remembered how in Japan she had sat paralyzed at her desk at the travel agency where she worked, wondering if she should go to Canada. She hadn't said anything to her boss.

Finally, it was Sachie who had called her boss and told him that Teruko was going to Canada. The tickets had been bought already. When the boss confronted Teruko, she tearfully admitted it was true. She was let go at once.

"Warukatta wa neh. I'm sorry." Sachie apologized later on in the plane.

"But I had to do it. I wasn't sure if you were serious about coming."

Teruko remembered looking out the plane window and thinking that, yes, she was glad she was going. The sky outside was midway between morning and night. It seemed endless, deeply endless. Teruko felt herself on the edge of a floating abyss between two worlds she did not know. She felt vaguely hopeful, but even still, a little sad.

***

Mrs. Shimada and Teruko were doing the dishes. They were standing by each other at the sink. Teruko was washing the large, glass pitcher that the mugi cha was kept in. She would boil some more tonight for Mr. Shimada.

"You know," Mrs. Shimada began, "Shin-chan told me you serve him
mugi-cha every night and that you run the bath for him."

Teruko nodded. The water was very soapy, and Teruko's fingers slipped
against the glass.

"He said to me, 'Remember before the children were born when we lived in Japan how you used to do that for me? Get the bath ready for me and then afterwards we'd have mugi-cha on the balcony and look at the stars? Natsukashi yo. I remember it so fondly.' he said. Every night, right? You give him mugi-cha?"

Teruko picked up the pitcher and was about to move it to the drying rack when she felt a sharp bump against her side. The pitcher slipped out of her hands and fell onto the floor with a crash. The noise was loud and hard.

Mrs. Shimada looked at the broken glass and then looked at Teruko.

"You can't stay here anymore, Teruko. You must leave." Teruko. Not Teru-chan.
Mrs. Shimada left the kitchen. Teruko looked at the broken pitcher. It lay on the ground, scattered in pieces large and small, asymmetrical bits shaped like diamonds and triangles. She went and got a newspaper and pulled apart the pages. And then she began cleaning up. Slowly, piece by piece, she wrapped the broken glass in the newspaper, making sure the sharp edges were covered. There were the headlines and photos, creased and crumpled, folded against the broken glass. And sometimes there was a large wet blotch on the paper that came from her eyes. Unwillingly. Always unwillingly. These tears.

***
That night, Teruko packed her things. She wondered where she would go.
Maybe she would phone Sachie and ask if she could stay there for a while. She couldn't go back to the group home. It had been six weeks now since Antony had hit her and the black spot in her eye was still there.

She wondered what it would be like to see that way for the rest of her life.

Where is Antony now? she remembered Sachie asking. Antony. Teruko closed her eyes and a warm flush came to her cheeks. Antony and she had held hands once. They had gone to the park together, with Emily in her wheelchair. No one had seen them but Emily, who laughed and clapped, her eyes rolling up towards the sun.