Foxfire (An Other Novel) by Karen Kincy

I wonder if my phone died.
    “Are you still there?” I say.
    “Yes.” Mom draws in a slow breath. “That woman lured you there?”
    She didn’t lure me. Well, there was foxfire involved, but I went of my own free will.
    Out loud, I say, “I wanted to meet her.”
    More silence.
    “Your mother is very upset,” Dad says, as if I couldn’t tell.
    “I’m not upset,” Mom says quickly. “Not about that.”
    But I know that every time I talk about my biological parents—my biological mother, really—Mom laces her fingers together so tightly her knuckles turn white, and she speaks in this tight, crisp way, like she’s biting off her words. I can imagine her doing it right now, and Dad putting a hand on her shoulder to comfort her.
    “Octavian,” Mom says, “I hope you know that your father and I will always support you when you want to learn more about your biological parents. It’s perfectly natural.”
    That’s what she always says, often enough that it sounds like a script. But in private, when I’m not supposed to be listening, she talks about things totally differently. One night, when I was maybe eight or nine, she was whispering a little too loudly in the hall.
    I already tried to explain things to his teachers. He wasn’t given a chance at a normal childhood. Not for the first six years of his life. That woman raised him like an animal. That woman didn’t even teach him how to dress himself. If they can’t recognize the consequences of such neglect and abuse, then to hell with them.
    “Hello?” Mom says. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes,” I say. “Sorry. I was thinking about what you said.”
    “Tavian.” Dad clears his throat. “Now would be a good time to focus on your future.”
    “My future?” I say, stupidly, since I already know where this is going.
    “While you’re in Tokyo, you should use your time to do something productive. Talk with your grandfather.” Dad’s voice is brisk, like he’s on an international conference call. “I already told him about your interest in graphic design, and I’m sure he would be more than willing to find a place for you in the company.”
    The company being the family hotel business, the reason why Dad has such a cushy job with their U.S. division.
    “I will,” I say, too tired to argue.
    Maybe I’ll be able to sit behind a desk for eight hours a day, five days a week. Maybe I can make art for a living. If creating logos and marketing pieces for a hotel counts as art …
    “Oh!” Mom says. “Will you get out for Christmas Eve?”
    “It’s Christmas Eve?” I say dully. “I forgot. Not feeling very merry right now.”
    “Not until tomorrow,” Dad says. “We wish you weren’t in the hospital, but it’s the best for your health.”
    “Right,” I say.
    “Get some sleep,” Mom says. “You sound exhausted.”
    “Well, it looks like I’m going to be stuck in bed for a while,” I say, trying to joke about it.
    Mom sighs, but I can tell she’s feeling slightly better.
    Sure enough, I spend Christmas Eve in the hospital while the doctors find absolutely nothing new. Gwen stays with me, reading passages from her book on yōkai out loud. My head swims with visions of strange-skinned demons and beautiful women with hideous secrets. I’d forgotten about the sheer number of Others who live in Japan, coexisting with humans for centuries, even millennia. Why do I feel like I don’t belong?

    They finally let me leave on Christmas night. Tsuyoshi and Michiko treat me and Gwen to dinner. We go to a restaurant wedged between two concrete buildings, totally boring on the outside, totally vibrant on the inside. Red paper lanterns cast a warm glow over low tables where people perch on cushions. The menu promises all sorts of tofu delights. Tofu is a kitsune’s best friend. As evidenced, of course, by kitsune udon , a fantastic soup of chunky noodles loaded with deep-fried tofu. You can guess what I order.
    “Better than hospital food?”