If Only

by Carole Geithner

  Ow owwwww, texts Nicole. Even quiet Lena texts, Yea baby! Eliana, Juliette, Nicole, and Lena all want details, but I just want to talk about it with Clare and Joci, not the whole world. Even though I hate to have to wash the kiss off, my beauty consultants, Clare and Joci, tell me that pimple prevention means I have to wash my face thoroughly. I close my eyes and relive my first kiss before turning on the faucet.

  My heart is swirling and twirling as I try to fall asleep. What a sweet kiss. What a sweet boy. Ahhh . . . I want to kiss him again! But when might the next time be? Will I have to wait until a high school dance? What will it be like when I see him at school? Am I supposed to text him or wait for him to text me? Joci and Clare both think I should text him if I haven’t heard from him in twenty-four hours. Clare offers to get his cell number for me from her brother, who knows Alex’s brother.

  Neither of us texts the other the whole weekend, but when I see him at school on Monday, we smile at each other, and say, “Hey,” at the same exact moment. Then he looks down, and I look past him to see if anyone is coming. His eyes go to my binders and he asks me what I’m doing this summer.

  “My dad and I are going to Japan. What about you?”

  “Going to camp in Vermont.”

  “Cool. I love Vermont.”

  “Well, Japan sounds more cool.”

  I can’t think of anything to say. We stand there in silence. A happy, awkward silence.

  The bell rings, and I reluctantly say, “Well, I have to get to class. See ya.”

  The electricity follows me down the hall all the way into the science room.

  Graduation

  Our last tests are finished, and all that’s left is graduation. I can’t help but wish that Mom could be in the audience. I know Dad will feel so alone in the sea of happy families.

  The election results are posted in the front hall, and Alex won as one of the reps. I’m so happy for him. Connor won for VP, because most people, including the teacher who runs the student government elections, had no idea he wasn’t going with the rest of us to our high school. Instead of having another election, they decide to bump up the runner up, and that person is . . . Nicole!

  We spend most of the last day signing yearbooks. My crush signs: “Have A Good Summer (HAGS) in Japan. Yours till submarines have screen doors, Alex.” The submarine thing is kind of random, and there’s no reference to our amazing kiss, but I’m not going to mention it, either. Not that I don’t think about it a million times a day. I write: “HAGS. See you next year. XOXO, Corinna” in his. I think long and hard about how many XOs to write, and I don’t even notice when Ms. Carey stops in front of me to say hi. She has to call my name to get my attention.

  After school, I clear out my binders, tossing huge piles of papers into my garbage can. I read over my English essay from last September, trying to decide what I should do with it, when Dad appears in the doorway to my room.

  “Corinna, I was thinking you might like to pick out a piece of Mom’s jewelry as a graduation present. Something from her. What do you think?”

  “Um, yeah, sure. That sounds good.”

  I return to the essay I was reading, but he’s still standing in the doorway.

  “You mean now?”

  “Why not?”

  We walk into their room and I plop myself on their comfy bed. He brings over the oval jewelry box and puts it in front of me.

  “You think there’s a certain thing she would want me to have?”

  “I think you should pick something. We didn’t talk about it, but I know that it would make her happy to have you wear something of hers.”

  “Well, how about this hideous pin! Who gave her that? Or maybe this ancient-looking necklace?”

  “Ever the clown, Miss Corinna.”

  “You really don’t care which thing I pick?”

  “No, it’s your choice.”

  “This is hard.”

  I finally choose a silver chain with a round pendant that has characters on it. Maybe Chinese or Japanese? I don’t know what it says, but I imagine it says something wise and good.

  The Westhaven Middle School graduation ceremony is a mix of excitement and sadness. Something is missing, though. Duh. But Dad’s here, all dressed up and holding pink roses for me. Gigi and Pop Pop couldn’t come, and I didn’t invite Grandma and Bapa. I’m still mad at them for lying to my mom.

  We have to stand in alphabetical order, so I can’t be with Joci and Clare during the ceremony. I’ll have to get a picture with them afterward. The principal says something about the loved ones who aren’t able to be here with us, which is nice of him, but it does make me choke up. I look up at the ceiling to keep the tears inside my eyes instead of on my cheeks, chin, and dress. The class speaker lists a bunch of memories from shows we put on, field trips, major weather events, the principal’s broken arm, the mold growing on the library ceiling and walls after the huge leak, the successful book and used-clothing drives, and our Earth Day celebration. Yasmine is a few seats away, looking kind of watery-eyed, too. I wonder if she’s listening to the class speaker or if her mind is on the Marines and her dad.

  After the official ceremony, we move outside for the party. Miss Beatty, wearing a beautiful flowered dress and a warm smile, walks up to Dad and me.

  “I’m so proud of you, Corinna. And I know your mom would be proud of you, too.”

  I swallow hard and smile at her. “Thanks, Miss Beatty,” I say, feeling sad that she won’t be my teacher anymore.

  Everyone is taking pictures with their friends and families. I see Alex with his family and I wave to him. I sure hope his divorced parents don’t fight on his special day. He nods and smiles and looks gorgeous. Dad turns to Nicole’s mom and asks her to take our picture, which brings tears to my eyes. We hug each other after our photo shoot. Somehow, we get through it.

  Preparations

  It’s time to focus on getting ready for our big trip. I’m excited, but kind of sad that we can’t also go to Bethany Beach like we used to every other summer since I can remember. We didn’t go last summer, either, because Mom was way too sick. Dad says we’ll probably go back next summer. I hope we can rent the same house we rented with Mom. Maybe by next summer it won’t feel so totally strange to go there without her. But maybe it will.

  I hang out with Joci and Clare before they leave for their sleepaway camps. I’ve never been too interested in sleepaway camp even though my friends love it. Dad loved it, too. Mom and Aunt Jennifer also went to an all-girls camp in Maine where they sang all kinds of crazy songs about this moose. They used to sing the moose songs together at Thanksgiving and Christmas, which made it seem like fun, but I think I would get homesick.

  Dad spends tons of time going through the old guidebooks Mom had on Japan. She had checked or underlined certain things or folded over pages, which gives him some ideas of where we should go. But those books are really old, so he ended up buying a new one. He tells me he chose hotels that, according to the guidebook, are ones where “tiny bit of English spoken.”

  Dad asks me if I think we should call or visit Mom’s homestay family while we are in Tokyo. Both of us feel really shy about it since neither of us speaks any Japanese. We decide we should be brave and try to see them if they’re in town. Mom would want us to. I’m going to let Dad do all the talking.

  It’s so strange to be going to Japan without Mom, but I pack the quilt, which means a little tiny part of her will be with us.

  The day of our trip is busy with last-minute packing and measuring out scoops of dry dog food for every day we’ll be gone. I dread dropping Maki off at the dog boarder’s house because I always worry that he’ll think we forgot him or don’t love him. We’re halfway to the dog boarding place when I realize I forgot his food and monthly heartworm medicine, and we have to turn around to go home to get them.

  “We’re going to miss the flight!”

  Unlike me, Dad stays calm. And he doesn’t forget our passports or tickets. Good thing I
wasn’t in charge of those.

  The flight over lasts forever and ever. I have to stop looking at my watch because it’s so discouraging. We are lucky that there are lots of movies to choose from. People are sleeping and watching movies at all different times, so that’s kind of weird, and the lady next to us seems to be watching some comedy and is laughing way too loudly. She has no idea just how loud she is because she’s wearing those clunky headphones. She’s annoying because of her noise, but also because she’s sitting in Mom’s seat.

  When we finally arrive at Narita Airport, it’s the next day on the calendar because of the long flight and the time change. We take a fancy bus with lace headrests straight to our hotel, and although there might be cool things to see, I’m too tired to keep my eyes open. The hotel lobby is filled with flowering tree branches in a huge arrangement called ikebana, according to the hotel lady, but our room doesn’t seem very Japanese. I guess I was expecting it to have colorful origami decorations or silk kimonos on the walls.

  Because of our jet lag, we wake up really early, but we already have an early morning plan. We’re going to the biggest fish market in the world, called Tsukiji. It’s pronounced TSOO-KEY-JI, and it opens at four in the morning. The subway seems overwhelming with ticket machines to figure out, so we take a takushi (which means taxi). I reach out to open the taxi door. The driver wearing white gloves starts saying something very fast in Japanese. I’m confused. Then the door starts swinging open by itself. Mom never told us that the drivers get really mad if you try to open the door. Maybe it’s a new invention since her time here.

  When we get out at Tsukiji, we’re surrounded by hundreds of stalls selling all kinds of stuff. Dried fish that looks like wood, tea in every size container, vegetables, some of which I recognize and some of which I don’t, pots and bags of chopsticks and knives, and tons of seaweed. The seaweed makes me think of Maki at home, boarding, without us. Inside the big white building are stacks of Styrofoam boxes, and rows and rows of booths selling fish. Unlike the workers who are all wearing tall rubber boots, we’re wearing sneakers. We try to avoid the puddles of fishy water on the floor, but you also have to be careful not to get hit by the guys whizzing by in mini motor-carts, yelling “abunai” or something like that (which must mean “look out” or “danger”). That’s another thing Mom could have told us. I’m busy staring at a gazillion kinds of fish, crabs, eels, and other bizarre creatures, but these guys are working on a deadline and they’re not going to slow down for tourists like us.

  The whole place smells fishy. After a while, we head to the exit and find a row of noodle stalls. Men in blue overalls and blue boots are slurping their steaming bowls of soup and noodles, which look delicious. Dad points to a picture menu to help him order our food. We struggle to control the long noodles with our chopsticks. The noodles hang from our mouths and dangle into the large white bowls, the steam filling our nostrils and making our noses run. We are surrounded by noisy slurpers. Dad and I look at each other and burst out laughing at the sound effects. Then we pump up the volume of our own slurping to fit in.

  Even with the guidebook, we don’t know the Japanese customs, so it seems like we’re doing things the wrong way almost all of the time; where to rest your chopsticks, how to pay at a restaurant, or what to say when you walk into a store. I quickly learn to wear socks and shoes, not sandals, because when you go into some restaurants, you have to take off your shoes. My feet get filthy from all the city walking and I can sense the hostess’s disgust as I walk on the delicate straw mats with my grimy gray feet.

  We get lost five to ten times a day in Tokyo, but we also find some of Mom’s favorite places.

  “Sumimasen (which means ‘excuse me’ and is our best phrase), can you help me find the Meiji Shrine?”

  Trying to communicate is exhausting. Sometimes people pretend not to hear us or understand us, but other times they are incredibly helpful and we do a whole nodding routine with a mix of English and Japanese. We try all the foods we remember Mom talking about, including the things she didn’t like, just to see if we agree. We do! Bean-paste ice cream is just not our cup of tea. We eat some things that contain various unknown substances, like an omelet-type thing with paste inside. The bright green-tea ice cream is surprisingly decent. There are also some pretty hilarious signs that are written in English for visitors like us. My favorite so far is: For RESTROOMS GO BACK TOWARD YOUR BEHIND. Excuse me!!

  On August fifth, we find our way to the Asakusa Temple. It has a beautiful gate, but once we get inside the grounds, it’s really crowded and filled with tacky souvenir stands. I pick out a few things for Joci and Clare, thinking they might like some of the silly stuff. Dad and I were both expecting a quiet, peaceful place where we might be able to light a candle or do something spiritual on the anniversary of Mom’s death, but this isn’t it.

  “Do you think we should look for a garden or park, Corinna?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “I brought some of Mom’s ashes. I thought maybe we could scatter some here.”

  I’m surprised to hear that he brought them, and I start worrying about him spilling or losing them. After consulting our guidebook, we decide to go to Meiji Jingu. The shrine is really peaceful and the land around it is filled with beautiful trees and open spaces. We find a pond filled with bright orange and white fish, called koi. They’re pretty and the pond is peaceful, but the idea of putting her ashes here doesn’t feel right to me. I’m sure it doesn’t feel right to the fish, either.

  “Dad, how can we visit her if her ashes are here?”

  “Well, I only brought a little bit in this Ziploc bag. The rest are still at home. I don’t know. Maybe we should wait.” He returns the ash bag to his pocket.

  I tell myself to breathe slowly and deeply.

  Are we ever going to feel ready?

  Before we leave the little temple near the pond, I make a wish that next year will be easier. And I pray that Mom will stay a part of my life forever.

  The Ishibashis

  Dad was supposed to write to Mom’s Japanese family before our trip, but he never got around to it, or maybe he dreaded it so much he “forgot.” Luckily (or unluckily), they answer their phone. Dad’s half of the conversation goes like this:

  “Hello, this is Daniel Burdette.”

  “Daniel, Sophie’s husband.”

  “Sophie, yes, Sophie.”

  “We are in Tokyo and would like to meet you.”

  “Yes, in Tokyo now.”

  “Yes, today, today we are in Tokyo.”

  “Can we see you?”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Okay, Tuesday at twelve o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “The Almond? What’s the Almond?”

  “I’ll ask the hotel. Okay, the Almond at twelve on Tuesday. Thank you.”

  Dad puts the phone down slowly.

  “I think we’re supposed to meet them at something called the Almond on Tuesday. I hope the concierge knows what the heck that is.”

  The hotel concierge, whose English is pretty good and who has been super-helpful to us, explains that the Almond is a coffee shop with a huge pink sign in the middle of the big intersection in Roppongi, which is near our hotel. She also explains that because the addresses are so poorly marked in Tokyo, even the locals use landmarks like big pink signs instead of regular street addresses.

  Miraculously, we find the pink sign and wait next to it for some Japanese people to come up to us. There are hundreds of people ignoring us, but eventually, a little Japanese couple comes up to us, holding our holiday card with the picture from two years ago, and they bow. Dad and I stick out our hands, they bow again, then we do both. After all the bowing and shaking, they both ask, “Where Sophie?”

  All of a sudden, I realize that they have no idea. I feel a stab in my stomach. How are we going to explain? Their English is only a little better than our nonexistent Japanese. We do our best with charades, trying to show “death” in the middl
e of the sidewalk along the super-busy Roppongi Dori. The crowds are like the Fourth of July crowds on the Mall in Washington, DC, when you can barely move and you’re sweaty, thirsty, and you just want to go home.

  After using every hand signal for death we know — finger across the throat, finger gun to the chest, sword to the stomach — and repeating the word “cancer” over and over, they seem to get it. Maybe they think she died by suicide. Their faces are like stone, with that gray look and everything. No one knows what to do or say. My mind starts thinking about who else doesn’t know. What a weird thing to have people think she’s still alive.

  Once we get through the death part, we have to do more charades about what we’re going to do. Go to a restaurant or to their apartment? Turn around and say good-bye? We end up following them to their apartment in near silence. We walk in and take off our shoes to join theirs at the step. Then I notice the low table with floor pillow “seats” is set for five. Mrs. Ishibashi tries to put away the fifth setting without us noticing. She serves tonkatsu, a deep fried pork thing, with rice, some kind of pickles that look like orange stones, and seaweed salad with mini-minnows. She keeps pushing the plate toward me and saying, “Doozo, Doozo” (which I’ve learned means “please”). What am I going to do with the pickles and minnow salad? Neither she nor Mr. Ishibashi turn their backs for a second, so I can’t put it in my pocket or put it on my dad’s plate. Dad’s not making eye contact with me. I panic. Should I be rude and leave it on my plate or try to swallow it, gag, and risk vomiting? I decide I have to be rude and leave it on my plate.

  We eat in almost complete silence. It couldn’t be more awkward if we tried. I’m shifting around on my pillow, trying to get comfortable, hoping it will be over soon. It’s hard to imagine Mom feeling comfortable here, but she always said she loved them and they took such good care of her. Dad has a fake smile frozen on his face. Mr. and Mrs. Ishibashi keep nodding and saying “Doozo, doozo” many more times. Mom should be here. If she were here, this wouldn’t be so painful.