“I’m not angry at you for asking,” I say, staring at the table. “But I’m angry at her for thinking it’s okay to talk now, after she left me for weeks to deal with all of this on my own. Because what kind of mother does that? My sister died, and I needed my mom. She’s my parent—my only parent—so she’s the one who should be teaching me things about real life. Like how to grieve, or how to stop missing Lea so much, or how to stop feeling like my sister deserved to live so much more than I do.”
“Oh, honey,” Aunty Ani says with a timid voice. “You both deserved to live. What happened was just a horrible accident.”
“I know it was an accident, but you don’t understand—Mom would never have left Lea. She would’ve cared more, because it was so easy to care about Lea. And Lea would’ve known how to comfort Mom back—they both would have been better together.” I’m shaking my head like I don’t understand, even though I sound like I do. Because I know everything I’m saying to Aunty Ani is true, but I also don’t know how it can be—how Mom could treat Lea and me so differently when we were both her daughters.
It’s not that I think she didn’t love us both, because I know she did. But Mom never remembered to care about me the way she cared about Lea. Because Lea was her baby, and I was her helper—the one who took care of Lea when Mom couldn’t be around.
And maybe it’s my fault too, for being sharp around the edges and not huggy-feely enough. I mean, people don’t love porcupines the way they love puppies.
Or maybe Mom resents me for surviving when Lea was the better daughter.
I cross my arms and dig my fingernails into my skin.
“I know I’m not always the easiest person to be around, but I never thought Mom would actively need to get away from me. I never thought she’d find more comfort in being alone than being with me. And I always thought Lea might’ve been her favorite, but I never had confirmation. I never knew for sure. And now I do.” I clamp my mouth shut and focus on my breathing.
Aunty Ani drags her thumb along the edge of her ceramic mug like she’s trying to find the courage to speak her mind. “Your mom didn’t leave you. Not the way you think she did. She didn’t send you here because she didn’t want you anymore, or didn’t care enough. She cared so much. That’s why—” Aunty Ani chews the inside of her mouth like she’s chewing on a secret. When she brings her eyes back up, they’re glistening with a sadness she’s been fighting to hold together. “Your mom checked into a clinic. A psychiatric hospital.”
I blink. “What?”
Aunty Ani pushes on. “She wasn’t doing too good, Rumi. She felt responsible fo’ the crash—fo’ killing one of her daughters and fo’ taking away your best friend. And she knew she couldn’t be a mother to you until she got help. Because sometimes that’s important—asking fo’ help. There’s no shame in saying, ‘I can’t do this alone.’ There’s no shame in saying, ‘I’m not okay.’ And your mom knew she couldn’t be any good to you if she was broken a thousand different ways. So she checked into the hospital to take care of her mental health, so that she’d be able to take care of you.”
I shake my head, my hair swaying back and forth furiously. “That’s not an excuse. She should’ve told me. She should’ve tried harder. Because I’m not okay either. I can’t do this alone. Or at least I didn’t want to, but there was no other option for me. Because Mom never gave me one.”
Aunty Ani nods solemnly. “I know. And I’m not saying your mom did the right thing by not talking with you, but I know she was trying to do the best thing for you. Grief is a monster—not everyone gets out alive, and those who do might only survive in pieces. But it’s a monster that can be conquered, with time. And your mom just needed some time.”
“She still should’ve told me,” I say.
“I know,” she says.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I don’t know how to forgive her.”
Aunty Ani tilts her head and lifts her brows. “Maybe you just need time, too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It’s too hard to write lyrics when I’m thinking about what Aunty Ani told me. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I need to talk about her—about Mom. But not with Aunty Ani, because she’s too . . . involved.
So I tell Mr. Watanabe everything instead, and he doesn’t tell me to be quiet. He just listens, with Poi in his lap and his head tilted back against his armchair. The piano record—the one that sounds like magic—spins beside him.
“You no can be mad at your muddah fo’ dat. You feel sick, you go see one doctor. Dat’s da rules,” Mr. Watanabe says finally.
I frown. “Mom’s not sick.”
He grunts. “Her mind feel sick, eh? Same same.”
“Well, you don’t get to check out as a parent just because you’re sick. Those are the rules. I needed her, and she didn’t pick me,” I say grimly.
Mr. Watanabe watches me carefully, unmoving. “Who you t’ink she pick, den?”
I swallow. Blink. Ball my fists together. “She picked Lea. She always picks Lea.”
“How’s dat?” he asks.
“Grieving Lea was more important to her than making sure I was okay.” I feel my heartbeat in my chest, and it hurts.
I expect Mr. Watanabe to feel sorry for me, or to agree with me, or to tell me my feelings are making him uncomfortable. I don’t expect him to say what he actually does.
“You no stay mad at your muddah. You mad cuz you like her all fo’ yourself. You act like one kid at da playground—you no like share.”
“That’s not true. Mom isn’t an object; she’s a person,” I say defensively.
“So you bettah start treating her like one. You not da only one dat feeling hurt—try t’ink about how she must feel to lose a child.” His eyes burn with memories. “Not so easy, you know, trying fo’ talk story wit’ everybody and trying fo’ act normal when nothing feels like normal—never mind trying fo’ take care of anuddah person. Sometimes it’s real hard jus’ fo’ get out of bed.”
“I’m not just any person. I’m her daughter,” I say, my face getting hot.
But he doesn’t flinch. He’s not worried about my ghosts being hurled at him because he already has his own. “Exactly. Dat’s why—why don’t you give her a break? Go at least talk to her. Because losing one kid hard enough—no need make her have fo’ lose two.”
“Jesus, Mr. Watanabe. I don’t know why I even bother coming over here,” I say, and I move to the back room and play the piano until lunchtime.
A memory
Mom and Lea are dancing around the room to “Bennie and the Jets” with wooden spoons in place of microphones. Mom can actually hold a tune, even though she always insists Lea and I are the musicians of the family.
They’re up on the couch, bouncing and waving their arms in the air, and I know I’m an asshole for not smiling and joining in, but I stay firmly planted on the armchair.
“Come on,” Mom sings, holding her hand out to me, with Lea giggling beside her.
“No,” I say flatly, turning back to my notebook. Lea and I are in the middle of a song—“Otter Northern Lights Twinkle.” She already wants to give up because the words are too hard, but I don’t want to quit on our song. I don’t want to quit on us.
“Come on,” Mom repeats. “We’re celebrating.”
“You’re celebrating. I’m going to have to make new friends at a new school halfway through junior year in a new city I don’t know anything about.”
“Ouch,” Mom says, clutching her heart.
Lea throws a pillow at me, and it hits my thigh. “Seriously, cheer up. This new job is going to be amazing. Mom will be home every night. You might even get a car for your birthday.”
“Okay, that’s maybe a little bit of a stretch,” Mom says with a laugh.
I’m scowling. “I don’t want a car. I don’t want to move.”
Lea rolls her eyes. “God, stop being so selfish. It’s not like Mom doesn’t deserve this�
�she’s worked two jobs since we were babies. Have some empathy.”
“I’m not selfish,” I shout, throwing the pillow back—it hits her in the face.
“Hey!” Lea yelps, her face twisting into a frown.
“Rumi,” Mom starts.
“Oh my God, stop picking on me. I’m allowed to not be happy about moving,” I shout, and then I’m on my feet and marching to the bedroom Lea and I have shared all our lives.
It takes Mom only about ten seconds to follow me.
She stops in the doorway, her hands clasped together and hanging in front of her like she’s ready to plead with me. My back is pressed against the wall and I’ve already pulled my pillow into my lap so I can have something to squeeze under my fists.
“Seattle isn’t that far away. You can still visit all your friends,” Mom says. She’s wearing her Target uniform and the same dark, sunken bags below her eyes that seem as much a part of her as this bedroom is a part of me.
She needs this job. I know she does. I’m not trying to be selfish—I just don’t like change. I look beyond Mom and at the posters and photos all over Lea’s wall. Her favorite bands, the pictures of the two of us, and one really good one of her and Mom.
The truth is, I never really felt like one of Mom’s kids. I felt like her helper—I felt like a second parent for Lea.
And if Mom’s around more, everything is going to change. Lea will have her real mother back, and Mom will get to be a parent to Lea, who’s still young enough to need one.
I don’t know where I’ll fit in our family.
“It’s going to be different,” I say.
Mom nods. “Of course it will. It will be different for all of us, but we’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it,” I say with focus. “I want us to stay the same.”
Mom watches me like I’m a peculiar kind of flower she hasn’t quite decided is poisonous or not. I don’t like the way it makes me feel.
“I’m not going to steal Lea away from you,” she says finally.
Salt starts to form in my eyes. I breathe through my nose to keep them from flooding over.
“You two are best friends. You’ll always be close, even if I am home more often,” Mom says softly.
“I know you think that makes me a jerk”—I burst into tears—“but Lea is all I have. When you weren’t here, and Dad wasn’t here, I just had her. And I know she’s your favorite, but—”
“What?” Mom interrupts, her eyes wide and brown. “Rumi, I love you both equally.”
“You don’t have to lie to me. I know Dad loved me better and you loved Lea better. Everyone has a favorite.”
“That’s not true. That’s not even a little true.” She takes big steps across the room and sits so she’s facing me. “Your . . . father,” she says like it tastes bitter in her mouth, “liked himself best. And I liked both of you more than him, and that’s the way it’s always been.”
I wipe a tear from my cheek.
When she speaks again, her voice is careful. “What makes you think I like Lea more?”
“You guys are always having fun together. She’s just . . . more lovable than me, and I know that and it’s fine, but still.” I shrug. “It sucks sometimes, seeing someone spend their whole life being coddled by the only parent they share.”
Mom’s laugh takes over the room like a firework, and then she’s holding my face in her hands and kissing me on the forehead. “You goof.” Mom shakes her head at me. “I always coddled Lea because you always coddled Lea. I thought that was our thing—taking care of Lea.”
“I took care of her because I had to. You were never around,” I say thinly, and when I see the hurt in Mom’s eyes, I wish I could take it back. I don’t mean to blame her—it’s just how things have always been.
“That’s why this job is so important. I’m missing out on too much. Maybe you’re missing out on things too,” she says.
I feel the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes and clench my jaw to force them away.
My voice is less than a whisper, and it clips when I speak like I’m so afraid of the truth I want to chop it up into tiny pieces. “I love Lea. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be jealous of her too. She’s better than me—a better singer, a better friend, a better teenager, a better daughter. I’ll always be in her shadow, and if she doesn’t need me to look after her anymore, what if she decides she doesn’t need me at all?”
“Oh, honey,” Mom says, taking my hands. “You’re too hard on yourself. And that’s my fault—for not being here to let you feel like you got a childhood too. I’m sorry if that meant you didn’t get time to be the baby. You’re one of my babies too, you know.” She kisses the side of my head. “And Lea will always want you around, because you’re sisters and you both love each other. Please don’t be jealous of her. You have no idea how much I love you two—I wouldn’t change a single thing about either of you.”
I swallow. “Even if I’m too much like Dad?”
She sighs and leans her forehead against mine. “You’re not like him at all. And if you ever want proof, all you have to do is look at Lea. The way you feel about her—he never felt it. He was incapable of feeling it. With anyone.”
I try to pick the best words, even though they feel muddied and incomplete. “What if Lea’s the only person I can ever love? Lea and you? What if I’m like Dad the rest of the time?”
Mom smiles. “Then we’re the luckiest two people who ever walked this earth.”
I wander back into the living room and find Mr. Watanabe in his chair.
“You’re right. I don’t like sharing Mom.” My voice cracks. “But that’s because I hardly ever had her when Lea was alive. She worked all the time. And she spent more time with Lea than she did with me, because Lea was like sunshine and golden retriever puppies and the perfect blend of sweet tea. And when Lea died, Mom should’ve been mine.”
I take a breath and the oxygen feels colder somehow. Even my nose tingles like it’s full of winter air.
“I’m mad Mom didn’t realize that. I’m mad she didn’t pick me on her own. And I want to be mad at Lea, too, for being so unrealistically perfect that I can’t be Mom’s first choice even when I’m the only daughter still alive.” I press my lips together tightly and wait.
Mr. Watanabe’s face falls into a frown, but he nods despite it. “I’s okay fo’ be mad. But i’s okay fo’ you stop being mad too.”
I raise my shoulders an inch. “When will that be? When did you stop being mad?”
He grunts. “When I found myself all alone—aftah my son died and my wife died and when I wen’ push everybody away.” He points his finger at me seriously. “You don’t wait dat long. You no let your anger drive you into solitude. Dat’s because one day you goin’ wake up and find your anger has been replaced wit’ loneliness, and i’s mo’ easy fo’ stop being mad dan it is fo’ stop being lonely. You understan’?”
“But is it too soon to be happy again? Because I feel like it is.”
“I’s neva too early to start fo’ live again. You jus’ make sure you talk wit’ your muddah. You have to make sure dat you both speak your peace. Because if you no can, all da hurt—i’s still goin’ stay inside, yeah? You have fo’ let it out.” He holds up his hands. “Grief is only a visitor, but it goin’ stay mo’ longer when it sees you hiding from it.”
I retreat to the piano room and play until my fingers blur and I can’t see the black and white of the keys—I only see movement.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I go back to work at the salon because Mrs. Yamada says the window is almost paid off, and I don’t see any point in dragging it out.
At the end of my shift, when I’m finished sweeping hair off the floor and bringing coffee to one of the women getting her nails done with Mrs. Yamada, I find Jae-Jae at the counter.
“I want you to cut my hair,” I say almost sternly.
She raises a glittery brow. “I can do it now if you want.”
I nod. “Yeah, okay. But . . . I want something else done. Something . . . specific.”
Jae-Jae flattens her lavender lips. “I like the sound of this.”
* * *
I knock on Kai’s front door, but Mr. Yamada is the one who answers. When he sees me—or rather, my new hair—he scrunches his face and shakes his head.
“For God’s sake, what is it with you kids always trying to get attention?” he barks before turning back toward the living room. “Kai! Door!”
Kai appears in the doorway and laughs with all the brilliance of the sun. “Wow, hapa.” He pauses. “Wait, wait. Summer, bird . . . blue?”
I grin—he gets it. Of course he does. I run my fingers self-consciously over the freshly chopped pixie cut that’s as blue as the sky. “I needed a change.”
He reaches out and pulls at one of the shortest pieces. “I like it. You look good.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets and lift my shoulders. “I feel like I need to stop hiding, or worrying, or whatever it is I’m doing most of the time. And, I don’t know, I thought cutting my hair was a good place to start.”
“Did you get rid of some of your emotional baggage, too?” he asks in bewilderment.
I scoff. “Emotional baggage? I—”
“Lost a sistah, I know, I know.” He rolls his eyes, laughing.
I shake my head slowly. “I seriously have no idea why we’re friends.”
“This is exactly why we’re friends. Because we don’t hold back with each other.” He shrugs.
I sigh. “Well, in any case, I wanted you to be the first one to see it. I thought you’d get it more than anyone else would.”
Kai grins, his eyes going back to my short blue hair. “This is going to take some getting used to.”
* * *
I go to Mr. Watanabe’s house next. When he opens the door he shouts, “Aye, lolo, whatchu do to your hair? You look like one ice cream cone.” And then he laughs and laughs and doesn’t stop until he’s sitting back in his chair with his eyes closed.
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