As I’ve mentioned previously, I’m a contributor to SHAKEN: Stories for Japan, a most awesome anthology that just came out.

This is really and truly an awesome anthology, not only because of the 20 short stories themselves, but because the proceeds from sales will go entirely toward Japanese tsunami relief efforts, i.e., we all pitched in and did this for free, peoples, and (speaking for myself, at least) would do it again in a heartbeat. :)

Now, for #SampleSunday, I’m posting a sample of my short story “Cherry Blossoms” from the book. I hope you enjoy it.

Cherry Blossoms
by Debbi Mack

Cynthia Goldberg wasn’t what people expected. People named Cynthia Goldberg didn’t come with smooth golden skin or haunting dark, almond-shaped eyes. However, Cynthia Goldberg had these attributes because her mother was Japanese and her father, an American Jew.

Strictly speaking, Cynthia’s father wasn’t terribly Jewish. He was an atheist, who had lost faith long ago. Cynthia pondered how easy it was to lose faith in things one believed in blindly as she emerged from the Smithsonian Metro Station. She strolled down Independence Avenue toward the crowd. People swarmed around the cherry trees along the Tidal Basin in Washington, D.C. It was a sunny, but cold, day in March 1994. Workers were taking advantage of the annual display of pink blossoms arrayed against the clear blue sky. Having spent many years away from her childhood home, she’d forgotten how beautiful they looked.

Cynthia clutched her coat against the breeze and crossed Raoul Wallenberg Place, pointedly ignoring the nearby Holocaust Museum, which had opened last year. Surely, she had more than enough death on her own plate. She plunged into the throngs of people, burying the thought far beneath her consciousness.

Death. The word rose like a bubble. Thoughts of death led inevitably to thoughts of fire. Explosions. Massive explosions. Mushroom clouds. Vaporization. The destruction of thousands of people. Buildings destroyed. Senseless destruction. Lives lost. All for what? To end a war? To win a war? To stop the bad guys? Were the Japanese the bad guys? What did that make her? She was American. Well, she was. She had the papers. Cynthia jerked to a halt. She placed a hand to her head. Her heart was pounding and she gasped as if she’d just run a marathon.

Cynthia glanced around her. No one seemed to notice. Slowly, she breathed in and out. She gazed at the cherry blossoms and thought about how they made her think of pink popcorn as a child when her father used to bring her here. Back in happier days.

Grief welled up and her eyes dampened. “For Pete’s sake,” she said, swiping them with the back of her hand. She smiled and figured I must be getting hormonal or something. She turned and continued to walk until she reached a point along the promenade with a view of the Jefferson Memorial, where she stopped and looked out over the water. Her thoughts drifted.

Her father. There was a subject. He’d brought her to this place every year for the cherry blossoms. He’d say, “Your mother came from the country that gave us these pretty trees.” He sort of skipped the part about being in a big war with that country, but Cynthia would learn about that soon enough.

She learned it from watching old movies in which American soldiers kept shooting at Japs.

She learned about it from kids at school who made fun of her eyes and called her “rice cricket.”

She learned from Tora, Tora, Tora that what we had was a lack of communication.

She learned from Doctor Strangelove that there’s no such thing as a perfect fail-safe when a nuclear option is employed and retaliation is administered in kind.

Cynthia grew up self-reliant, the product of a single parent household. However, as was usual with Cynthia, the circumstances weren’t as expected. The parent was her father, since her mother died giving birth to her. Cynthia was bright, excelling in math and science. After graduating top of her class from a private school, Cynthia had her pick of universities. But she chose to stay in D.C. as she was considering following in her father’s footsteps and studying physics. Besides the nation’s capital was a place of great opportunity for young people in the 1960s. Change was in the air. The possibilities seemed endless. So while many of her peers joined the Peace Corps or protested for civil rights and against involvement in the Vietnam War, Cynthia stuck with the program and hung around.

Then one night, Cynthia came home early from a get-together with friends. She’d told her father not to wait up. At the party, she developed a headache and left early.

Cynthia let herself in the front door. Before she could announce her arrival, she heard her father yell, “How dare you!”

What? Who is he talking to?

Cynthia eased the door shut and crept deeper into the foyer. The voice sounded like it had come from the kitchen.

“Don’t take that tone with me.”

Another man. Cynthia tried to place the voice.

“So,” her father said. “How much do you want?”

“Money? Who says this is about money? In this town, power is better. Cooperation can be better still.”

“I might have known this would be about your permits.”

The other man interrupted her father and the two spouted a line of words that tangled together to become indecipherable. They halted abruptly and silence fell upon the house.

Cynthia froze. One step and the floor would creak. Feeling light-headed, she realized she’d neglected to breathe for God knows how long. Drawing breaths in and out her mouth, she continued to monitor events transpiring in the kitchen.

“Look,” her father said, sounding almost conciliatory. “Let’s talk about this, okay? More coffee?”

“Sure. But what’s there to talk about? I have proof that could ruin your career, not to mention turning your relationship with your daughter to shit.”

What the hell? These words were the first to run through Cynthia’s mind. Who was this man to threaten her father? What did he know? What was this about?

“I’ve always wanted to explain the truth about her mother, but the time never seemed right.”

What the fuck? Now Cynthia had a few questions for her father, as well.

“I think it’s safe to say it’s time. The fact that I can prove you had your daughter’s birth certificate forged and that she was actually smuggled into this country illegally, in order to pass her off as a native born American citizen.” The man chuckled. “Well, good luck, Charlie, if you think that information can be made public and you can keep your high-level security clearance and cushy career working as a Beltway bandit.”

Time stood still. Cynthia had no thoughts. She felt dizzy and realized she’d forgotten to breathe again. This must be a dream. This must be a nightmare. She waited to wake up, but didn’t.

“Yes, well, I think as two mature adults we can discuss this rationally,” her father said.

“And just wait until she hears the part about her mother!” The other man laughed raucously.

Cynthia’s belly tightened. Her mother …

“For that remark alone, you deserve what you’re getting.” Her father’s voice was grim.

“What do you mean?”

“Goodbye, Robert.”

“What?”

Silence. Then, choking sounds. A gasp. A thud. The crash of porcelain hitting the floor and breaking. The scrape of a chair being pulled back from the table. Footsteps. The sounds of busy work. Cleaning up the scene of a crime.

Cynthia felt numb. Cynthia had no idea what to do, where to start, how to feel.

Think, Cynthia, think. Her brain kicked in. This man raised you. He’s trying to protect you. He’s always been there for you. He loves you. Go to him. Get his side of the story.

Placing one foot before the other, Cynthia walked into the kitchen. A man sitting at the table had fallen face down, hands sprawled to each side. Coffee dripped off the table onto the pinkish-white vinyl floor. Her father had his back to her. He grabbed a paper towel and turned to wipe up the mess. His eyes widened.

“Cynthia!”

####

Okay, that’s it.

If you want to know what happens next, you’ll have to buy the book. :)

It’s only $3.99 on Amazon. (click right there, please!) And, don’t forget, it’s for a really good cause. :-D