The cab stops in front of Miyajima Mansion, an apartment building surrounded by orange flowering plants and trees sagging with pink blossoms.

A door swings open, and a little girl runs out, shouting, “Oka-san!”

That’s one word I know. Mother.

Yuka holds the girl, who looks to be three or four years old. They chat excitedly back and forth, faces close.

Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe the child used some familiar version of “aunt” or “cousin.”

“This is Reina,” Yuka says. The girl looks at me. “Reina, this is Maxine. Say hello, Reina. And this,” she points behind me, “Yoshio.”

I turn to see a man standing in the doorway. He looks very neat, dressed in pressed slacks and a button-down shirt.

“Oh, hello,” I say, stepping toward him, my hand outstretched. “Maxine, Yuka’s friend.”

“Yoshio,” he responds, taking my hand. “Yuka’s husband.”

The air is thick, the sun scorching my neck. Yoshio smiles as though he knows he’s a surprise.

“May I please have a drink of water?”

“Yes, certainly. Come in.”

I almost forget to remove my shoes. I stumble out of them and onto the hardwood floor of the airy apartment. Yuka’s the one to get me water, and it’s clear she’s familiar with the house, the exact cabinet to open for a glass. So this is the simple, bank-teller, parent-caretaking Yuka.

Reina sits on a pillow next to me and hands me a cloth clown doll.
“Domo,” I say, accepting the doll.

“Ronald McDonald,” says Reina, unsmiling, her black page-boy hair framing her face.

“Yes,” Yuka says, handing me the water and smiling. I look into Yuka’s eyes, hoping for some recognition, some clue about how she’s feeling or how she’s expecting me to feel. She smiles at me then sits next to Reina.

So this is Yuka’s family. A husband and daughter. In Hiroshima, City of Water. I watch the water sparkle in the glass, trying not to stare at Reina and Yoshio. An irrational thought seizes me: Did the water come from the river we crossed over to get here? Is it safe?

“Let’s have beer,” says Yoshio.