Eventually, Mrs. Ishibashi gracefully gets up and says, “Sad, sad . . . ne. Sorry . . . ne.”
“Yes . . . sad,” her husband says in agreement.
I’m desperate to pee and I can’t hold it any longer, so I ask, “Bathroom?”
Dad tries to be helpful and adds, “Toilet?”
I find it down the short hall, and when it’s time to flush, I’m faced with a bunch of buttons with Japanese characters on them. None of them have pictures that I can recognize. I take a guess. Two seconds after I press the middle one, water starts shooting straight up in the air and all over the little room. I press the same button, thinking it would turn it off. Then I press another, and that turns on some other noise. I quickly go out to get help. I wave to them to come, feeling totally embarrassed. Mrs. Ishibashi covers her mouth with her hand, and I can’t tell what her expression is. She then goes in and pushes something to make it stop. No one is laughing. I probably ruined the walls and floor. I can’t tell what they’re saying to each other in Japanese.
We don’t know any Japanese words other than “hello,” “thank you,” “excuse me,” and the names of some kinds of sushi, which obviously are not much help in this situation, so I say, “Sorry. Very sorry. Sumimasen. Arigato.” (Which means “thank you.”)
When Dad and I are finally out on the street by ourselves, we break down in giggles. What else can we do?
Aiko
At night, we get a call in our hotel room from Aiko, the Ishibashis’ daughter. Dad is in the bathroom, so I answer. In very proper English, Aiko says, “Good evening. I am Ishibashis’ daughter. My parents told me you are in Tokyo. They said Sophie did not come with you. They are worried about her, and please may I show you Kyoto.”
“Sophie, my mom, she died from cancer.”
Somehow, the words just come out of me. Then I put my dad on the phone.
Two days after Aiko surprises us with her call, we board the Shinkansen, also known as the Bullet Train. Arriving at Kyoto Station at 13:49 along with thousands of Japanese travelers, we look for the big Sony clock that Aiko had described. I’m worried we won’t be able to find her, even with a meeting place, but I never would have guessed that we would stand out as if we were tall basketball players with red hair and blue skin.
“Hello, Burdette-san.”
“Hello, you must be Aiko.”
“Yes, welcome to Kyoto. I am so happy to meet you both.”
She bows and shakes hands simultaneously, as do we.
“So, you must be hungry. Shall we drop off your luggage before lunch?”
Dad tells her, “We ate a lot of those sweet tofu rice things on the train.”
“Oh, yes, the inari. They are tasty, ne? We call them ‘food of the foxes.’”
“Foxes? Why?”
“Inari is the name of the rice god. The fox spirits guard the rice god. We offer inari to the foxes to honor them.”
“Oh, wow. I never ate fox food before.”
We take a takushi, again with white-gloved driver and automatic doors, to our miniature hotel. The Uemura Guest House is so delicate-looking, it looks like it’s made out of paper-thin wood. A lady in a colorful silk kimono greets us at the doorway.
“Irashimase,” she says in a high-pitched, singsongy voice. Aiko translates that into “welcome.”
While bowing and saying “Doozo,” she motions to the maroon plastic slippers lined up at the step just inside the door and we switch into them. Aiko comes in with us to translate, and she answers something complicated sounding in Japanese. The kimono lady keeps bowing and saying, “so, so.”
She shows us to our room, which is practically empty. The floor is covered with straw tatami mats, the kind I saw at the restaurant when I horrified the hostess with my dirty bare feet and at the Ishibashis’. I’m not sure if we’re supposed to keep on the slippers or go barefoot this time. Dad and I both look at Aiko’s feet for guidance.
The view from our window is of the most beautiful Japanese garden. In the center of the room is a low square table, with a tray containing tiny towels and blue-and-white robes. Next, the kimono lady shows us the bathing areas. There’s a tiny toilet room that has its own pair of slippers just outside the door. Across the top of each toe is written TOILET. I sense another slipper rule, and I start worrying I’ll cause a second flood.
Aiko points out the bath door signs, which each have a Japanese character on them. One is for woman; the other is for man. I try to memorize the shape of the woman character.
“First, you wash with soap in this area with the buckets. After you are clean, you get in the hot water and enjoy the ofuro.”
“The what?”
“Ofuro, the hot bath.”
It’s hot and muggy, so I can’t imagine wanting to get into the deep steaming bath.
“Doozo,” says the kimono lady, who shuffles down the hall with quiet slippered steps.
“When you take the baths tonight, please bring the towel and enjoy the yukata.”
“Say that again?”
“The blue-and-white robes. You close them left over right.”
“Left over right? Why does that matter?”
“Right over left is only for the dead.”
“Oh . . . great,” I mumble. Dad and I look at each other.
We walk to the subway, and I get more and more sweaty. Aiko doesn’t seem to be sweating at all. The Kitano Line is crowded with people going to the Ryoanji Garden. An English sign is posted at the gate: FINEST ZEN TEMPLE. It’s refreshing to see a sign in English. Inside, there’s another English sign: ROCK GARDEN MIGHT REPRESENT ISLANDS IN THE SEA OR A TIGRESS SWIMMING WITH HER CUBS. I can’t see a tigress, but I do see perfectly geometric carved sand with some rocks arranged in it. Maybe those are the islands or cubs. It’s really beautiful, and definitely mysterious. After walking around in silence, I ask Aiko, “Is it always crowded?”
“This is a famous temple, but it is more crowded this week because it is Obon.”
“What is Obon?”
“Obon is the festival of dead ancestors.”
“There’s a festival for dead people?”
“Yes, we welcome back the dead during Obon every year. Families come to tend their graves.”
“We don’t have a grave yet for my mom.”
“Oh, I see.”
Dad explains to Aiko that we haven’t felt ready to do that yet.
“Would you like to see a cemetery here, to see how we do Obon?”
Dad nods and I say, “Um . . . I guess so,” wondering if Aiko is going to tell me ghost stories like Olivia or think we’re weird for not having a grave yet.
The cemetery is filled with gravestones, people, and smoke. Men and women are sweeping and pouring water on graves and placing little drinks and flowers next to the headstones. Some of them have decorations made out of vegetables with wooden skewers sticking out of them to look like animals. The smell of incense is so strong it makes me start coughing.
“The incense smoke helps the dead find their way to come back and visit,” Aiko explains. “And the vegetable horses help the spirits travel home quickly. The vegetable cows help the spirits return feeling relaxed.”
“Dad, do people pour water on graves in the U.S.?”
“I don’t know, Corinna. I haven’t spent any time in a graveyard since my grandparents died when I was a little kid. Look at the little bundles of rice and fruit on that one . . .”
“Aiko, does everyone in Japan do this for their dead relatives?”
“Yes, but if they live far away, they might do it at a shrine in their apartment.”
“People have shrines in apartments?” I ask.
“Yes, most people do. That way we can still talk to them and welcome them in our daily life.”
“Do you have a shrine in your apartment?”
“Yes, for my grandparents. I have a little area with their photos, and I light incense and offer rice or flowers to them. When I need to ask them for advice, or if I want to te
ll them happy news, I light the incense, clap my hands, and then spend time with them.”
“What does the clapping do?”
“It’s another way to call them when you need them, along with the offerings,” Aiko explains.
“Do you keep their ashes there, too?”
“Yes, some people do that,” she replies, which I think is her way of saying she does.
“Dad, do you think we could bring some incense home with us?”
“Sure, that sounds good.”
I don’t know what I think of the clapping, but maybe I’ll experiment with that part. I have a lot of things to tell Mom about our trip, not to mention that I now know her big secret. We get more and more drenched with sweat, and I am desperate for a drink. We pass a bunch of vending machines, and I search for something recognizable, or at least with a bit of English to guide me. I choose the Kirin Melon Cream Soda.
“Aiko, can you tell me a story from when my mom was living with you and your family?”
“Oh, yes, certainly. Sophie stayed with us in Tokyo when I was sixteen. She was my American big sister. I only knew a little bit of English then, but we laughed a lot. I asked her lots of questions about America and she asked me about growing up Japanese. We shared our dreams, too. I knew I wanted to be a teacher, but I wasn’t sure about getting married and having kids. She was certain she wanted many children.”
“Oh, wow, that’s sad, then . . . that she only had me.”
“But you are so wonderful and she was so happy and loved you so much. She wrote that in the holiday card every year. That she was so happy you were her daughter.”
My throat tightens, and I don’t say anything out loud.
Home
The days in Japan went fast, but the flight home seems even longer than the way over. At least this time we don’t have someone getting drunk or laughing like a hyena next to us. It’s interesting how sometimes time goes so slowly, like when you’re in pain or in math class, or having lunch with people who are in shock because they just found out your mom is dead and you don’t speak the same language. Other times, it goes fast or just regular. Even though Dad and I have endless hours trapped next to each other on the plane, I can’t manage to find the right moment to ask him if he has more stuff to tell me about Mom. He hasn’t brought it up even though he probably read Mom’s notebook before we left. I’m exhausted and try to sleep.
Maki is so happy to see us when we pick him up. I can tell because he pees on my shoe while wagging his tail like crazy. We can barely get the front door open because the mail is piled up. Most of it is junk mail, but I am psyched to see that I got a ton of camp letters from Clare and Joci. There’s also one from Aunt Jennifer.
Dear Corinna,
I hope you had a great trip with your dad. I can’t wait to hear about it. I’m writing you a letter instead of an e-mail because what I want to say is extra important. Your dad told me that you now know about how Grandma and Bapa used a sperm donor to help them have a baby. Your mom was so mad at them for hiding that information from her, but I really think she finally forgave them. I honestly believe they did it because they felt it was best — best for the family, best for her. Bapa was and always will be her dad. They followed their doctor’s advice and really thought they were doing the right thing. I also think that in this day and age, people share a lot more information with each other and they probably would have made a different decision if they were faced with it today. Talking about difficult, touchy subjects has never been easy in our family, and I know your mom had some of that difficulty, too. Maybe that’s why she loved her music so much — it gave her a comfortable and beautiful way to express her feelings. I hope you will forgive Grandma and Bapa. I know they want to stay close and connected to you. They love you and your dad very much. Family connections are so important.
I hope this helps.
Love,
Aunt Jennifer
Biting my lip, I refold the letter. Then I fold it some more and keep on folding it until it fits into my palm. I’m glad she wrote, but I hadn’t known that Dad told her that I knew, and I’m still not clear if he told Grandma and Bapa. As I walk upstairs to get out of my stinky airplane clothes, I start to smile a little. I’m really glad she wrote me that letter. I place it in my desk drawer under the pencil tray and hop into the shower. It feels great to get clean after all those hours of traveling and breathing airplane air. While I’m in the shower, I start thinking about what Mom would say about this. About me knowing, about Aunt Jennifer’s letter, about me being mad at Grandma and Bapa. I think she would probably say something like:
“Corinna, they screwed up by not telling me, but so did I. I should have told you. I wish I’d told you. I hope you can forgive them and me. And more than anything, I want you to know how much I love you. You are my darling Cori, and I miss you.”
I wake up at three A.M., just like I did when we first arrived in Japan, which gives me plenty of hours lying awake to start thinking about ninth grade — new school, new year, harder math, lots more kids. I worry about finding my way around the huge school and being late for classes. I wonder if I’ll see Alex at orientation and if we’ll kiss again when we say hello. Dream on, Corinna. I also wonder if Alex will still be wearing his orange shirt all the time, or will it be the year of the blue shirt? I brought back some cool Japanese notebooks with umbrella designs on the covers to remind me of our trip when I’m struggling in math. Maybe Alex will be in math with me again.
* * *
It’s the day before school starts, and Dad’s gone out to buy food for our school lunches, which is a good thing. I’m getting up my nerve to light some incense. I haven’t developed the best match-lighting skills, because I’ve always been scared of getting burned, but here goes.
I drop the first match, managing to burn two fingers and the white paint on the mantel. The second match is more successful, and I place the incense on the metal toaster-oven tray so it won’t burn the wood. I need to find one of those incense holders for next time. I’m not sure if I should talk to the incense or to the flowered ginger jar, but I decide the jar makes more sense. Then I remember to clap, like Aiko told me she does when she is talking to her ancestors.
“So, Mom, Japan was awesome. Thought you’d want to know. We got to meet your famous Japanese family. Aiko showed us some really cool stuff. She told us about Obon and welcoming the dead, so that’s what I’m trying to do now. I hope you know you’re welcome anytime. I also hope you know how much I miss you. . . . You know how you worried about not knowing your donor father’s health stuff? Well, I’m worried about that, too. Like if he and you had cancer, what does that mean for me? I hate not being able to talk to you about stuff like that. . . . Dad’s doing a good job, but it’s not the same as when you were here. I hope you don’t mind that we sometimes laugh and have fun. I don’t think you would, but I don’t want you to think we’re not missing you. Because we are. This last year has been really hard.”
Then the phone rings and breaks my concentration. I don’t know if I should answer it or ignore it. I decide to ignore it, but the loud irritating sound ruins the moment.
“Well, talk to you later, Mom. I love you.”
Later in the afternoon, I go back to the mantel and continue the conversation.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me again. Do you like the quilt I made? I’m putting it under your ginger jar while I talk to you. High school starts in three days and I’m already in the middle of soccer try-outs. I’m kind of looking forward to school and seeing my friends. But I’m scared, too. I guess that’s normal. I hope you won’t be too mad that I’m dropping band. I want to take ceramics instead. I’m definitely glad it’s a new year, not more of last year. What a difficult year that was. Difficult is an understatement, right? It’s still hard when the subject of mothers comes up. It’s still a jab to my heart. But the jab is a little bit less painful. Even though I’ll still be ‘the girl whose mom died,’ it’s not quite so recent or so raw. It still hu
rts terribly and I miss you every day, but the hurt isn’t such a bottomless pit. It’s an invisible tattoo that’s a part of me, but it’s not all of me.”
On the first Tuesday of September, Dad pulls into the staff parking lot on our first morning of going to the same school. I’m relieved to see Joci walking into the main entrance and I call out to her.
“Wait up, Joss.”
Then I turn to Dad, who’s trying to gather all his papers and stuff that exploded out of his briefcase onto the backseat during the drive.
“See ya, Dad.”
His head is still inside the car, but I think he’s smiling.
Even though the trip was great, it feels fantastic to be back and have time to hang out with Clare and Joci again. I’m so lucky to have them. Clare understands so much without my having to explain. And Joci’s a great friend in so many other ways, even after all those hurts and misunderstandings. I really hope we have a better year together. Sometimes I worry that Joci and her mom will decide that they’d rather go shopping without me. What if Joci and I have another falling out? Then I wouldn’t get to see her mom. I can’t let that happen. What if Dad gets a girlfriend? What if it’s Deborah? I’m definitely not ready to think about that.
Dad does seem more himself, but he continues to listen to the Beatles and he’s still kind of quiet and sad. We’ve had some pretty good dinners. The chicken is moister than I’m used to. He might even be a better cook than Mom was. He hasn’t tried to make any Japanese deep fried pork tonkatsu or minnow and seaweed salad. We’re even having a few more laughs around here. I think the trip was really good for him. For us. I hope we’ll be okay. I think we will.
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