closed the door. “Okay. Anything else?”
I tried to think.
“Is it … Carlos? Did you guys have, like … a fight or something?”
“Carlos?” I glanced at her foggily. “No. But he didn’t answer the phone.”
“But you did call him?”
“Yes. Mia didn’t answer either.”
She wisely restrained her eyebrows. “Something at work?” she ventured.
“No.”
Kyoko shook her head as if lost, drumming her dark nails on the tea bottle. “Okay … something at … home?”
As I raised my eyes to her, looking lost and shell-shocked and even guilty, something inside her seemed to understand.
“Your parents?”
“My mom.” I couldn’t say any more.
Kyoko opened and closed her mouth then guided me to the register. She paid for the tea and spoke to Mrs. Inoue, who worried over me with crossed arms. Mrs. Inoue gave me a bag of ginger candy, wrapping her hands around mine. She dropped in some senbei rice crackers for good measure then accompanied us to the door.
I suddenly reached out and hugged her, something I had never done. Japanese generally don’t hug.
She patted my hair in a motherly way, muttering something soothing in Japanese with her wrinkled lips.
Maybe I’d come for that reason. Maybe, for just one moment in my addled brain, I wanted to reach out for two things I suddenly could not obtain: a mother who acted like one—and a mother who was still alive.
“Do you want to go home or come to my place?” Kyoko held open the door for me.
“Your place.” I couldn’t stand the idea of going back into my bedroom and seeing that phone again.
Our taxi stopped at Kyoko’s apartment. She flipped on the light and seated me on the sofa with a blanket and a bowl of
mikan
—small, deliciously sweet tangerines packed with flavor. They reminded me of those ancient Bonkers candy commercials where huge fruits suddenly crash through the ceiling when you ate one.
I gently tore off the soft mikan skin, pressing the pieces against my nose to inhale them. It made Kyoko’s living room smell less like carpet and incense and more like summertime. If they made a perfume scented like mikan, I’d wear it. In fact, maybe I could just wear the peels like a necklace or something. I rehearsed the Japanese phrase I’d use at the perfume counter to ask, “Do you have bottled mikan?”
I was making no sense. I popped a section of mikan in my mouth, and the intense burst of sweet, tart citrus flavor seemed to bring me out of my fog.
“She was only forty-nine,” I said in a small voice, dropping my head into my hands.
Kyoko came from the kitchen with two glasses and stopped short. “What do you mean ‘was’?”
“I mean, how could she do that? I should have been there, and she should have waited for me. I mean, how do I know thosedoctors actually tried to help her? I should see the records! If I sue, I’ll sue big-time. You can help me with all your legal know-how. It’s their fault. Completely.”
I didn’t touch my tea. Condensation frosted on the side.
“Come on—forty-nine? People don’t die of brain aneurysms at forty-nine. People live to eighty. Or nowadays, ninety, with all our medical care. What about longevity? Vitamins? She was healthy. This shouldn’t have happened.”
Palpable sorrow glowed in Kyoko’s dark eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
I barely heard her. The dam had broken, and the tidal wave curled up, ready to slap. Just like Hokusai’s famous painting.
“Maybe those freak friends of hers took too long to call the medics. Or the ambulance. Maybe it didn’t get there fast enough. They took the wrong road, or got stopped by traffic, or … would that be the city’s fault? Maybe somebody poisoned her! Help me, Kyoko! You’re the legal one. Who can I sue?”
I blabbed on for about five more minutes, and Kyoko graciously didn’t try to stop me. When I finally sagged against the sofa and sipped my tea, she clumsily patted my shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Ro-chan. I
I tried to think.
“Is it … Carlos? Did you guys have, like … a fight or something?”
“Carlos?” I glanced at her foggily. “No. But he didn’t answer the phone.”
“But you did call him?”
“Yes. Mia didn’t answer either.”
She wisely restrained her eyebrows. “Something at work?” she ventured.
“No.”
Kyoko shook her head as if lost, drumming her dark nails on the tea bottle. “Okay … something at … home?”
As I raised my eyes to her, looking lost and shell-shocked and even guilty, something inside her seemed to understand.
“Your parents?”
“My mom.” I couldn’t say any more.
Kyoko opened and closed her mouth then guided me to the register. She paid for the tea and spoke to Mrs. Inoue, who worried over me with crossed arms. Mrs. Inoue gave me a bag of ginger candy, wrapping her hands around mine. She dropped in some senbei rice crackers for good measure then accompanied us to the door.
I suddenly reached out and hugged her, something I had never done. Japanese generally don’t hug.
She patted my hair in a motherly way, muttering something soothing in Japanese with her wrinkled lips.
Maybe I’d come for that reason. Maybe, for just one moment in my addled brain, I wanted to reach out for two things I suddenly could not obtain: a mother who acted like one—and a mother who was still alive.
“Do you want to go home or come to my place?” Kyoko held open the door for me.
“Your place.” I couldn’t stand the idea of going back into my bedroom and seeing that phone again.
Our taxi stopped at Kyoko’s apartment. She flipped on the light and seated me on the sofa with a blanket and a bowl of
mikan
—small, deliciously sweet tangerines packed with flavor. They reminded me of those ancient Bonkers candy commercials where huge fruits suddenly crash through the ceiling when you ate one.
I gently tore off the soft mikan skin, pressing the pieces against my nose to inhale them. It made Kyoko’s living room smell less like carpet and incense and more like summertime. If they made a perfume scented like mikan, I’d wear it. In fact, maybe I could just wear the peels like a necklace or something. I rehearsed the Japanese phrase I’d use at the perfume counter to ask, “Do you have bottled mikan?”
I was making no sense. I popped a section of mikan in my mouth, and the intense burst of sweet, tart citrus flavor seemed to bring me out of my fog.
“She was only forty-nine,” I said in a small voice, dropping my head into my hands.
Kyoko came from the kitchen with two glasses and stopped short. “What do you mean ‘was’?”
“I mean, how could she do that? I should have been there, and she should have waited for me. I mean, how do I know thosedoctors actually tried to help her? I should see the records! If I sue, I’ll sue big-time. You can help me with all your legal know-how. It’s their fault. Completely.”
I didn’t touch my tea. Condensation frosted on the side.
“Come on—forty-nine? People don’t die of brain aneurysms at forty-nine. People live to eighty. Or nowadays, ninety, with all our medical care. What about longevity? Vitamins? She was healthy. This shouldn’t have happened.”
Palpable sorrow glowed in Kyoko’s dark eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
I barely heard her. The dam had broken, and the tidal wave curled up, ready to slap. Just like Hokusai’s famous painting.
“Maybe those freak friends of hers took too long to call the medics. Or the ambulance. Maybe it didn’t get there fast enough. They took the wrong road, or got stopped by traffic, or … would that be the city’s fault? Maybe somebody poisoned her! Help me, Kyoko! You’re the legal one. Who can I sue?”
I blabbed on for about five more minutes, and Kyoko graciously didn’t try to stop me. When I finally sagged against the sofa and sipped my tea, she clumsily patted my shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Ro-chan. I
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