Love & Other Natural Disasters

by Misa Sugiura

  “Okay, I’m sorry. No more Arden talk,” she says. Finally. Though at least she’s not so clueless that she doesn’t even notice when she’s breaking her promise. “Have you ever had a drunk hookup?”

  “This girl Helena,” I hear myself saying, maybe because I’m so glad to have the spotlight back on me instead of Arden. “I thought she was so hot, and I was afraid to talk to her until I got wasted at this party and—” Wait. Maybe I shouldn’t tell this story. First of all, it’s about Past Me, Beige Wallpaper Me—the opposite of the self-confident, sophisticated me I’ve been working so hard to become. Second, I don’t want to dig into all that humiliation in front of Willow and reveal Past Me in all her misery.

  “And what?” says Willow. “What happened?”

  “Oh, we hooked up, obviously. And . . .” I try for the truth. “And it was kind of a disappointment.” I try to say what happened next and find I can’t do it. “She was the worst kisser,” I lie. “Way too much tongue.”

  Willow shudders and makes a face. “Blech.”

  The best lies contain an element of the truth, though, so I layer it in and spin it with my new, confident attitude. “Then I overheard her talking later and she had the nerve to say that I wasn’t pretty enough for her. Can you believe it?” Ouch. Even with the spin, it still stings.

  “What a bitch!” says Willow with genuine outrage, and I’m surprised by the relief that floods my body. I realize just how desperately I wanted her to react this way, and how nervous I was that she might say something horrible, like, I can see her point. “How could she say that about you? You’re so pretty! Plus you’re sweet, and smart . . .” She trails off and looks closely at me, glances at her phone, and then at the line for the streetcar, and says, “I’ll be right back.” Then she dashes down the street.

  Five minutes later, she’s back, brandishing mascara, and—I squint at the package—something called mascara primer. “Makeover time!” she sings. “This is just cheap crap from Walgreens, but it’ll do for now. I’m going to make you look so good—not that you don’t already look great, obviously. But when I’m done with you, Helena’s going to be so sad she let you go, she’ll cry herself to sleep for a week.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell her that Helena doesn’t follow me, so she won’t see any photos I might post, but I’m certainly not going to turn down a makeover, especially since the first one got cancelled by the Golden Gate Park caper. So I do a little squee and allow Willow to transform me into a vision of beauty.

  Willow works quickly and efficiently. I can’t help wishing Max could see us. This is turning out well after all. She has me reapply my lipstick, and asks me for my eye shadow—luckily, I’ve taken to carrying it around with me just in case, for moments exactly like this. She considers it for a moment and instructs me to close my eyes.

  “I’ve been thinking of applying to cosmetology school for next year,” she says as I feel the silky little brush gliding across my eyelid.

  “That’s awesome!” I say.

  “Yeah. But my parents will flip. They want me to be a doctor.”

  I can’t help laughing. “Your parents really are an Asian stereotype.”

  “I know, right? My mom’s mad that I’m not taking multivariable calc this summer. Or doing the UCSF junior pre-med program. She keeps saying I’m wasting my true talents. And during the school year, my dad is always emailing my teachers to check on my grades and ask what I can do to ensure that I stay at the top.”

  I remember how she “forgot” to apply for that research internship; it all makes sense now. I’d push back, too. “Oh my god.”

  “Yeah.” She sighs and starts doing quick little brushstrokes, blending shades.

  “I bet you wish you had white parents,” I say.

  Willow giggles. “Ha! Not to stereotype, or anything.”

  “It’s our lives,” I say into the dark. “We should get to choose what we do with them.”

  I hear her sigh again, and she says, “Yeah, but here’s the thing. My mom grew up really poor. Like, her parents almost gave her away to another family. That kind of poor. And now I have all this opportunity, so of course she wants me to use it to become like, financially secure. Okay, open your eyes a sec.”

  “Wow.” I open my eyes.

  “Right? How do you go against that without feeling guilty?”

  She snaps the palette shut, takes the wrapping off the primer, and begins applying it to my lashes.

  “Do you think I’m being a spoiled little rich girl? Like, First World Problems, and all that?”

  I think about kids who’ve lost entire families to war and famine. Kids who don’t know where their next meal is coming from. Willow’s own mom. Even Dela, whose mom is dead.

  “Um. I guess?” I say. On the other hand, that doesn’t make her problems any less real, and that’s what I tell her as she brushes on my mascara.

  She smiles at me so tenderly that I feel a little internal quiver. “Thanks, Nozomi. You always know just what to say to make me feel better. Hey, here comes the trolley! Perfect timing!”

  Willow hastily shoves the makeup into her bag as the cable car disgorges its passengers. We watch the Muni workers guide it onto the turntable, grasp the railings on each end, and rotate it 180 degrees. We sit on the benches lining the outside of the trolley, just like I hoped we would, and smile at each other as the city goes by. You always know just what to say to make me feel better. No one’s ever said that to me before. I’ve been here for her just like I said I would. And she’s noticed.

  What has she done for you, though? I can hear Max saying. All she really cares about is Arden.

  She’s not my actual girlfriend yet, so she’s not obligated to do anything, I reply in my head. And she only mentioned Arden once. I think she’s allowed one story. She’s only human, after all.

  Anyway, she has done something. She did my makeup to make me gorgeous so Helena would be jealous, didn’t she?

  And I do look gorgeous. My eyes look bigger and brighter, and my lashes look long and thick and lush, just like the mascara ads say they’re supposed to. I tell her this and she laughs: “The magic of makeup!” At the crest of the hill, just before we begin the stomach-dropping descent toward the bay, Willow puts her arm around me and we smile, cheek to cheek, at our faces on the screen, and I drink in the feeling of our bodies touching. Then she says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?” and I nod, and when I feel her lips on my cheek, my eyes flutter shut on their own, and it feels so natural when my lips meet hers for a second kiss that when she pulls away and turns immediately to her phone, I feel like I’ve been slapped.

  “We look so good in this kissing one,” she says as she posts it with the caption, My ♥ “I know I promised I wouldn’t bring Arden up again, but she’s going to freak when she sees this.”

  “Mm-hmm,” seems like the easiest way to keep my voice from betraying me. That second kiss felt so real, even if the first one wasn’t. I wish she’d come to her senses and kiss me for reasons other than “Arden will be so jealous.”

  “Okay, okay,” Willow says, apparently reading my mind. “Ugh, I can already feel myself getting all stressy again. Whooo!” She shakes herself out, getting rid of those pesky Arden vibes. “Okay. No more, I swear.”

  It’s okay. It’s okay. I just have to be patient with her a little bit longer, since she clearly needs to process all of this before she can move forward. The best thing I can do right now is be a good listener. We’re at the point in the movie where the real connections are happening. The trust is there. The heat is there. The real kiss is just around the corner.

  I can feel it.

  Just around the corner.

  We snap a few more photos at the Hyde Street turntable and grab a Lyft to Hawk Hill, just north of the city in the Marin Headlands—the best spot for a Golden Gate Bridge photo op, according to Willow. The bridge glows in the setting sun, which casts a soft pink light on our faces as our hair blows in the wind. It’s gloriou
sly romantic, and as we stand with our arms around each other, posing for a photo taken by a nice tourist couple, residual heat from the cable car kiss surges through me and I feel like I have to try again. I can almost feel her lips against mine . . . Oh, what the hell. I’m going for it.

  “Hey, can I kiss you?” I don’t bother trying to keep my voice light and friendly.

  “Huh? Oh, sure, go ahead!” she responds as if I had, and offers her cheek.

  Oh. Okay. Cool, cool, cool. It’s still a kiss. I’ll make it quick. Just . . . a quick . . . kiss on the . . . but once I’m there, once my lips brush her skin, I can’t help lingering a little longer than necessary—maybe even a lot longer than necessary—breathing her in and allowing myself the tiniest of fantasies: when I pull away, she’ll turn, pull me to her, and kiss me back.

  “Aww,” she says with a smile. “Now me!” and gives me a peck on the cheek in return. Sigh.

  But! Wait!

  In the split second before she got all jolly and friendly, I looked into her eyes, and I’m pretty sure—I’m almost certain—I saw something there: desire. Real emotion.

  That friendly little peck? Maybe she’s pretending, too. Maybe she’s as nervous as I am.

  But the moment—if that’s what this is—doesn’t have a chance to bloom, because the tourist lady comes rushing over with my phone saying, “It’s ringing! Do you want to answer it?”

  I take it with a sigh. Our moment will have to wait, I guess.

  “Hello?”

  “Zozo, it’s Stephen. I’m so sorry to interrupt your date, but Baba’s missing.”

  Stay calm, I tell myself. Stay calm.

  I turn to Willow, who’s frowning down at her phone and texting madly, her thumbs flying.

  “Hey, um,” I say hesitantly. “There’s this, um, family emergency and I have to get back home.”

  “Hmm?” Willow looks up from her phone. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Did you say you had to get home?”

  “Family emergency,” I say again, and realize that this sounds like a made-up reason—the kind of thing you say when you want to bail out of a bad date, which is definitely not the case. So I add, “My grandmother has wandered off and gotten lost. Possibly. I need to go and be at the house while my uncles and my brother search the neighborhood.”

  “Oh my god, that’s awful!” she cries. “Come on, let’s get a ride.”

  As we wait, I look across the bay. Two hours. According to Stephen, that’s how long ago he called Baba to remind her he was taking her grocery shopping after work, and that’s the last time anyone knew where she was.

  Fog swirls in from the ocean like something alive, streaming down the hills and curling around the spires of the bridge. The rosy hues of twilight have faded to gray. Lit windows and streetlights are beginning to sharpen themselves against the dark settling over the city. And Baba is out there somewhere, lost.

  Stay calm.

  Once we get into the city, Willow says, “Hey, do you want me to come with you? Like to sit with you or whatever, for moral support?”

  “No, it’s okay,” I tell her. “You don’t have to.”

  The prospect of sitting alone in a quiet house with Willow by my side and offering me emotional support is tempting, but I’m not ready to drag her into the family drama. What if it turns her off? What if she thinks, Whoa, don’t want to get involved with all of that.

  “Okay, if you’re sure,” she says slowly. “Just let me know if you change your mind, okay? I’m serious.”

  “I will,” I assure her. I hope she doesn’t feel rejected or anything. She does seem really sincere about wanting to help, but I just . . . I can’t picture her in the middle of the chaos that’s unfolding right now.

  The car pulls up in front of Baba’s house, and Willow gives me a warm hug. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll find her. She’ll probably show up a minute after you walk in the door.”

  “Yeah, probably.” I give her a weak smile, and she waves and disappears as the car goes around the corner.

  I let myself into the house. It’s nearly dark now and the temperature is dropping fast, and there’s been no word from anyone for a good half hour. I imagine Baba wandering around out there, lost and scared. She’ll remember her address if someone finds her, right? Then I remember that Stephen once said she’s been going to the bank and taking out tons of cash lately, thinking she needs it to pay her bills. No one would mug a little old lady like her, would they? Please, Baba, be okay, I say to the window. Find your way back home.

  I can’t concentrate on any of my social media, and I don’t have Baba’s wifi password, so I can’t watch videos. I know it’s important for someone to be here in case she comes home, but I feel like I’m not doing enough. I try texting Willow, but she doesn’t answer, and I’m surprised by how lonely that makes me feel. Maybe I should have had her come and sit with me after all. I wonder what would have happened between us if Baba hadn’t gone and gotten herself lost.

  And then I feel guilty. None of this is Baba’s fault. Where is she? When is someone going to call?

  Out of desperation, I pull out a cookbook. Maybe I’ll bake some cookies to distract myself. That’s a good idea. People will appreciate having something warm and comforting to eat when they get back. With Baba. When they get back with Baba. I rummage around on the cabinet shelf labeled BAKING INGREDIENTS.

  Lucky for me, Baba has a chocolate chip addiction. I find four half-empty bags of chocolate chips, which should be enough for a double batch.

  I read the directions and get out all the ingredients. I mix up the dry ingredients like the recipe says to. Then it says to beat room-temperature butter with the sugar in a separate bowl until fluffy, three minutes. Then add the eggs, and then put it all together. That’s ridiculous. I don’t have time for all that nonsense. I dump everything in and turn on the mixer.

  The dry ingredients explode out of the bowl, which starts rattling violently and going ga-gunk, ga-gunk, ga-gunk like it’s alive inside and trying to work itself free so it can attack me. I shriek and turn it off, and as the silence and the flour settle, the doorbell rings.

  Maybe it’s the police, and they’ve brought Baba home. I rush to the door and throw it open to see Baba, thank goodness, and . . . Dela?

  I blink in surprise, and Dela blinks back. “Um. I found your grandma,” she says, and steps inside.

  26

  BABA PEERS AT ME AND SAYS, “NOZOMI, WHAT happened to you?”

  “What happened to me?” I echo in confusion. For a moment, I wonder if the worry has aged me or if the mixer somehow gave me a bloody nose, but then Dela, with a glint in her eye, gestures toward her face. I raise my hands to my own face, and my fingers come away white and powdery.

  “Oh. Uh. Baking,” I mumble, and close the door behind them.

  At that very moment, I get texts from Stephen, Lance, and Max, all with the same content: Late-breaking news! Dela has found Baba and should be arriving on the doorstep any second now!

  Lovely. Thanks for the update.

  “Are you okay, Baba? What happened?” I ask as Dela ushers Baba into the kitchen and pulls out a seat for her. Baba looks around, bewildered.

  “I didn’t leave it in this mess,” she says.

  “No, sorry, Baba, that was me,” I explain quickly. I don’t want her worrying that maybe she did leave it like this and doesn’t remember. “I was trying to bake cookies.”

  “Trying being the operative word, apparently,” says Dela as she busies herself pouring water into the kettle and pulling a container of green tea off the shelf labeled TEA.

  I ignore her. “Baba?” I ask again. “What happened? Where did you go?”

  “I went to the post office and the bank,” says Baba, immediately on the defensive. “But they’ve moved! They should tell people before they move,” she says with a frown, her eyebrows drawn as far down as I’ve ever seen them. “And they’ve changed the street signs. It’s hard to see in the dark which way to go.” />
  “Luckily, I happened to be in the neighborhood, so we walked back together,” adds Dela. “My dad left something here and I was coming to pick it up.” She holds my gaze for long enough to confirm that their encounter wasn’t just a wild coincidence, and I feel such a rush of gratitude that I almost hug her. Except how did she get roped into this?

  “He is a very forgetful man,” Baba says, shaking her head. She turns to me and says, “Every couple of days, he comes to get something he left behind. He’s lucky you are looking after him.” She chuckles.

  Dela smiles at Baba, and there’s a familiarity there that surprises me. “He’s incorrigible.”

  “It’s too bad you don’t like boys. You would make the good wife,” Baba replies, which doesn’t surprise me, and I can’t help bristling. Stop. Calm down. I’m supposed to be feeling sorry for her right now. But I still feel resentful and hurt, and when I see Dela, I’m embarrassed as well.

  “She’ll make a good wife no matter who she marries, man or woman,” I blurt out. “Because she’s smart and talented and she cares about people. Not because she can keep track of her dad’s stuff and make tea.” Dela’s cheeks turn pink. Mine are probably turning pinker.

  “You young people have your opinions. I have mine,” says Baba mildly. I have to stifle the urge to strangle her, despite her being a frail, lost old woman who is also my grandmother.

  I’m sorry, I mouth at Dela, who nods, her face a mask.

  I find the vacuum cleaner, and as I clean the flour and sugar off the kitchen floor, I wonder if it’s worth arguing with Baba, if she would even listen right now. It’s the same old calculation: what will it cost me to be my truest self around my grandmother? It’s so hard, and I’m so tired of making it. But tonight, I’m beginning to see another side: What will it cost her? Is it worth challenging her that way when she’s already struggling?