Love & Other Natural Disasters

by Misa Sugiura

  I give Willow a hug and tell her how incredibly amazing this is, then leave the shop and go back to work. As I set up the next entry on my tablet, I experiment with gnashing my teeth, which, it turns out, is neither as dramatic nor as cathartic as it sounds. And then the strangest thought surfaces. I wish she hadn’t said anything about “if things were different.” I wish she did want to break up (well, “break up,” ugh). I’d still have to suffer the exquisite agony of unrequited love, but at least I’d be free to consider other relationships. Not that there are other relationships to consider. For example, Dela’s already dating Arden, so it’s not like she’d be a realistic option. Hypothetically. I don’t actually want to be with Dela, obviously.

  I don’t know how much more of this up-and-down I can take. All this scheming isn’t as fun as it used to be.

  28

  I DIDN’T SEE DAD WHEN HE ARRIVED THIS morning because he went straight to Baba’s, so I left my origami session with Dela early today to have dinner with him. I felt bad about bailing for the second day in a row, especially after Dela rescued Baba last night, and I offered to bring a bunch of origami home with me, but Dela refused. “No offense,” she said, “but I think it’s safer if you don’t.” And she smiled, just a little.

  Dad meets me at the curb, and when I get in the car, he hands me an envelope, saying, “From Mom.” Inside, there’s money and a note that reads, Buy yourself something beautiful to wear for the gala! ♥ Mom

  “Wow,” I say. It’s a lot of cash.

  “Hmm?”

  I show Dad. I see his mouth tighten for a split second, but then he smiles and says brightly, “That’s nice of her.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “If she wants to buy my compliance, I’m not above taking the money.” It slips out before I can stop it, and I feel guilty immediately, which isn’t fair. She’s the one trying to bribe me into approving her ill-advised life choices, from her purchase of an ugly Släkt twin bed frame (admittedly partly my own fault since I refused to participate in the choice) to her cohabitation with a prematurely balding hipster ten years her junior. I know I’m being judgmental and ageist, and I don’t care.

  “Nozomi. Be. Nice.”

  “I’d be nicer if she’d stop doing stuff like this.” I wave the envelope at him. “Like it’ll make up for her acting all, ‘Oh, I’m on a journey of self-discovery!’ and expecting me to be okay with it.”

  “Nozomi,” Dad says again sternly. Though I notice he’s trying to hide a smile.

  “I’m just saying. It’s true.”

  “She loves you.”

  “Yeah, well. Love isn’t always easy,” I say. It’s one of his favorite things to say, and I’m beginning to understand why.

  This time he laughs outright. “That’s true.”

  Dinner conversation at Baba’s is breezy and pleasant, probably because we’ve all agreed not to bring up anything that could upset her. We talk about Max’s battle against the bugs in the software he’s rewriting, and whether Glass Cube is art. Baba, Max, and I say no; Dad and Stephen say yes. “It’s a statement about art,” Stephen explains.

  “Then call it a statement. Don’t call it art,” says Max.

  “It’s both, which is why it’s so fascinating.”

  “Sometimes,” says Baba, “an artist has the idea, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t make it. Maybe this is a same thing.”

  “Artists rarely capture their original visions perfectly—at least, that’s what artists say,” says Stephen. “But I think Glass Cube does it pretty well.” He goes off on a rambling lecture about art and perception, and Baba announces that she’s bored and starts clearing the table.

  After dessert, Dad shows us a couple of boxes of Jiji’s old clothes that he found under the bed in his old room. He asks Baba to pick her favorites, and she chooses a cashmere cardigan and a Hawaiian shirt. She tells us about her honeymoon with Jiji in Hawaii, where Jiji bought the shirt, and how they had tried surfing, and she’d gotten up on the first try, but he’d fallen and fallen, and how he’d laughed the whole time. The cardigan was the first fancy gift she’d ever given him, and he’d worn it during his final days at home in hospice care.

  “You should save those,” I tell her. “I bet Jiji would like that.”

  She looks confused. “Of course I’m saving,” she says, and folds them carefully and puts them back in one of the boxes.

  “No, I mean make sure to put them somewhere special so they don’t accidentally end up getting donated with the rest of the stuff,” I say—and then I realize my mistake.

  A brief but intense argument with Dad and Stephen ensues, ending with Baba calling them thieves and stalking out of Dad’s room and into hers.

  “Nice one, Zomi,” says Max. I give him the finger.

  “What did she think we were going to do with it all? Put it back?” I ask Dad and Stephen. “I can’t believe she even held on to all those clothes for as long as she did. It’s been, what, ten years since he died?”

  Dad sighs. “Try to be kind, Zozo.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. But it’s so frustrating. I don’t understand why she refuses to accept the inevitable. She got lost yesterday. How much clearer of a sign does she need that she can’t go on like this?”

  “How would you cope in her situation?” Dad asks.

  Not for the first time, I try to imagine how it would feel to forget where the silverware goes, or how to get home from the grocery store, and to know that I would forget more and more and there was nothing I could do to stop it. As always, it’s terrifying. But now, instead of shuddering and shoving those thoughts away and feeling sorry for Baba, I stick with it. How many times would I have to search for the silverware drawer before I’d finally ask my son to make little signs to help me remember where it was? How many times would I tell myself, “So I got lost this one time. Next time I’ll remember how to get home,” before I stopped trying to go out alone? What if I forgot that I’d gotten lost the last time?

  “Okay,” I say. “I get it. But if I knew how much everyone was worried about me—if I knew that my being stubborn was hurting other people—I bet I’d listen.”

  Stephen smiles sadly. Of course. Baba was willing to hurt Stephen for years so that she wouldn’t have to accept that he was gay.

  “It’s so unfair,” I say.

  “I know, honey. But I’ve learned that if she can’t accept the truth, then we have to accept that truth and work with it. It doesn’t mean we give up trying. It just means we do what we can with what we’ve got. It’s just the way love works sometimes.”

  “Is it, though?” I persist. “I thought love was about accepting each other. I thought it was about facing hard facts together.”

  “Are you saying that Baba doesn’t really love you? Or me?” asks Stephen.

  That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

  “And if you’re unwilling to accept Baba the way she is—or Mom the way she is—do you really love them?” says Dad.

  My mouth drops open. “That’s not fair.”

  “I know,” he says. “Love rarely is.”

  29

  I LOVE THE CONCEPT OF DELA’S TANABATA Pavilion and I know it’s going to look beautiful when it’s finished, but the fact is, folding a thousand wishes is really tedious. Some days, I look at my tiny pile of cranes and butterflies and feel like I haven’t made any progress at all, compared to the towering pile of wishes that Dela has transcribed. I’ll finish folding a wish and turn to find that she’s added three or sometimes even four more to the stack. It feels like I’m Mickey Mouse in “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.”

  I have to admit, though, things have improved lately. Dela finished transcribing a few days ago and has been folding cranes and butterflies with me ever since, so production has sped up considerably. In fact, today will be our final day of folding. I can hardly believe it, but I almost feel sorry that it’s ending. Dela’s as peevish as ever, of course, bu
t ever since the night she rescued Baba, these after-work torture sessions have turned into something kind of . . . dare I say fun?

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m excited to be done. I’ve even made plans to go out with Willow this evening—just for coffee, to celebrate the end of this ordeal. She suggested it when I happened to tell her about today being the last day of folding, and I immediately said yes. Am I being pathetic? Maybe. But I need something to make me feel better after hearing about the wild success of Operation Make Arden Wish She Never Left. Plus, she asked me, and it wasn’t for show or anything. And I keep thinking about that unfinished sentence from the morning after Hawk Hill: “If things were different between us . . .” It has to mean something.

  “Look at this cat one,” Dela says, and shows me a wish she’s about to fold. It says, I wish for Houdini to come home. “It’s so sad.”

  She opens the list on her laptop and points me to an entry where someone has attached two photos. One is a clumsy crayon drawing of a black blob with whiskers, and the other is a sweet-faced little boy holding a black cat.

  I picture a four-year-old boy gripping a crayon in his chubby little fist, coloring that blob, his beloved Houdini, and dictating the message to one of his parents. I wonder how long Houdini’s been missing, if he’s still alive, and if that little boy stares out the window every night, certain that because he put his wish into the wishing website, he’ll see Houdini leaping down from a tree or darting from behind a parked car, and trotting up to the front door. I hope that one day Houdini will return, but I feel an indescribable sadness because the odds are stacked against both of them.

  “He might, though,” I insist. “You never know.” And despite the odds, this is what I will believe. Houdini the cat might come back. Because you never know.

  Dela frowns. “He’s probably already been run over by a car.”

  I gasp. “How can you say that? You’ll jinx it if you say things like that! Take it back.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Take it back, Dela. That poor boy is depending on you. You’re like the . . . the keeper of his hopes and dreams. You know that. You can’t just dismiss them because you think the odds are bad. That’s not your decision to make.”

  A long—but not uncomfortable—silence follows while I stare her down. At last, she says grudgingly, “Fine. I take it back about the stupid cat.”

  “Say, ‘This wish is hereby reinstated and restored to its full power. Houdini the cat has not been run over by a car and will return to his family in good health.’”

  Dela stares at me in horror. “I’m not saying that.”

  “Say it.”

  “No.”

  “Say it!”

  “No! It’s completely absurd.” But she’s laughing, so I know I have her.

  I fix her with a ruthless stare. “Say it.”

  Finally, she caves. “Fine. What do I have to say, again?”

  I tell her.

  With a sigh so deep I could swim in it, she says, “This wish is hereby reinstated and . . .” She looks at me for help.

  “Restored to its full power,” I prompt her.

  “Restored to its full power,” she recites obediently. “Houdini the cat has not been run over by a car and will return to his family.”

  “In good health.”

  “In good health,” she repeats. She folds her arms and cocks an eyebrow. “Okay?”

  “Perfect,” I say with smug satisfaction. “You’re glad you took it back. I know you are.”

  Dela juts her chin out defiantly, and slowly, deliberately, turns her back on me—but not before I see her press her lips together to hide a grin.

  “Come on,” I say. I lean over and nudge her with my shoulder. “Admit it. You’re glad.”

  She nudges me back. “Maybe. A little bit.”

  She doesn’t take her shoulder away, but leans in a little, and I’m just beginning to register the pleasant pressure of her shoulder against mine when she looks at me from under her eyelashes, and a jolt of heat zips through me, along with a vision of what it would be like to kiss her—just like the other night—and I get this heady wave of a feeling that if we stay like this for much longer, I might try to make it happen.

  Stop it, Nozomi! What are you doing?

  Luckily, Dela seems to realize something’s off as well, because she jerks away at the same moment that I do.

  It must be all of this pent-up, pushed-down desire I have for Willow—I’m sure it’s practically pouring out my ears. It must be clouding my judgment.

  I hope Dela didn’t see something in my eyes and get the wrong message. That would be the worst. Because what if she decided she liked me back, and broke up with Arden to be with me? That would leave Arden free to return to Willow, and then where would I be?

  “Hey, you wanna go out for coffee or something afterward?” Dela says abruptly. “To celebrate being done.”

  “Ohhh, I’m sorry. I, um. I already have plans with Willow.” I don’t know why I hesitate to tell her. No, I do. It’s because now that I think about it, I do want to go out and celebrate with Dela. We’ve been working together for so many days now, it makes perfect sense. I hope she doesn’t feel too bad.

  “Oh. Okay, no problem. Just thought I’d ask,” she says, and she’s very nonchalant and cool about it, so I guess I haven’t hurt her feelings. Good. Only you’d think Dela would be a little disappointed. I mean, I am. Not because of that weird little whatever-it-was that I felt just now with her, of course.

  Seriously, though. What was that, and where did it come from?

  Wait. I think I know. I’ve been so discouraged about how well Willow and Arden are doing that I’ve started to give up. Despite all the pep talks I’ve been giving myself, despite the fact that I just told Dela not to throw dreams away simply because the odds were stacked against them coming true—I’m losing hold of my own dream. I’m starting to give up.

  If things were different . . . How much do I want the end of that sentence to happen? Because if I allow myself to get dragged down and distracted, it won’t happen for sure.

  I can’t give up. I promised myself I would never give up. Willow is the one I’ve wanted since the beginning, right? If I want my dream to come true, I have to stay focused on her. I have to believe I can make this happen.

  30

  DELA LEFT TEN MINUTES AGO, AFTER HAVING given me a little origami star on which she’d written thank you. I thought it was sweet, given our rough start, and I told her that. She laughed, and we had a moment where we almost hugged but didn’t, and off she went.

  Now I’m in the bathroom, where I stopped to do my makeup for my date with Willow. I’ve just finished applying mascara the way Willow taught me while we were waiting for the cable car—primer, wait; first coat, wait; second coat—and my lashes look incredible. I’m happily batting my perfect eyelashes at myself and pulling out my lipstick when she calls to cancel.

  “I cannot believe them,” she says. “I was literally walking out the door and they’re like, ‘Where are you going? You have an appointment with your college counselor in half an hour.’”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s okay.” I look in the mirror at my work. All that effort for nothing. Despite what I told myself not thirty minutes ago, I feel my heart start to sink. I want to stay focused and positive, but the universe keeps testing my resolve. It’s like every good thing that happens with Willow comes with an unpleasant twist that ruins it. It’s like eating brownies with walnuts—if you hate walnuts, which I do. If only she’d cancelled a little earlier. Then I could at least have gone out with Dela.

  “No, it’s not okay, Nozomi. They keep saying they told me, but I know they didn’t. And now I have to bail on you, and that’s not fair to you. And I really wanted to see you.” She sounds flat and dejected. “I had a present for you and everything.” A present? There’s a positive thing to focus on. My heart drags itself out of the pit of despair, sprouts a tiny pair of wings, and starts fighting its way up
ward.

  “You can give it to me tomorrow,” I say.

  “It won’t be the same.”

  “No, but I’ll still be so happy,” I assure her.

  “Okay,” she says. I can hear the energy seep back into her voice. “I can’t wait for you to see it. Oh, and! To make up for bailing on you tonight, what if you come to my house for a couple hours on Saturday before Arden’s birthday party? Does that sound good to you?”

  Well, yeah. I’ll trade a couple of hours in a coffee shop for a couple of hours in Willow’s bedroom any day. Another positive.

  Though of course, we’d still have to go to Arden’s party afterward. Where, presumably, she’ll be thinking about Arden and not about me.

  “Sweet!” Willow says, then adds, “We’re going to have so much fun.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Focus on the positive, Nozomi. She hasn’t mentioned making Arden jealous.

  Wait, that’s odd. That is a positive. A real one.

  “Seriously, it’s like I told you, Nozomi. I’ve grown so much because of you. I feel like I’m so much more . . . me. In fact, I think you might be the best thing that’s happened to me all summer.” Her voice is soft and sincere.

  That’s a pretty strong positive, I’d say.

  By the time we hang up, I feel like hope has made a comeback, even if I’m still having to construct it out of scraps. But they’re pretty good scraps. Enough to convince me that I have a fighting chance. Enough for me to commit myself to my plan one last time.

  Okay, Nozomi. Eyes on the prize. Let’s do this.

  31

  “MAX. I WILL EXPLAIN IT TO YOU ONE MORE time,” I say slowly, as if to a small child. “Willow gave me this very nice lipstick that she wants me to wear to Arden’s party tomorrow night. Which she is going. To put. On. My. Lips. It is symbolic. It is subliminal. Everyone knows that lipstick equals kissing.”

  “Everything you just said makes me embarrassed to be sharing DNA with you. And if everyone knows, then it’s not subliminal, is it?” Max says as he smushes a pot of hot Rice Krispies treats into a pan. They’re the only thing he knows how to bake. Which I guess is one more thing than I know how to bake. If it’s even baking.