There’s a new care package in the entryway, the padded envelope covered with bright red apples. My mom buys these envelopes in bulk from the teaching supply company where she gets her festive bulletin board trimmings and Way To Go! stickers. She has been an elementary school teacher since before I was born. She’s a natural. She knows how to talk to children so that they listen, and how to listen to them so that they feel heard, how to cultivate their strengths and make them feel unique and loved, each and every one. She has been teaching for so long that her voice, trained to project over the din of children, can’t be turned down. And her entire wardrobe was chosen to appeal to kids, from her seasonal sweaters to the zoo that is her jewelry box.
I tear the envelope open and riffle through the contents, pulling out two packs of gold star stickers, two ballpoint pens, two boxes of Annie’s organic mac-and-cheese, and two tubes of Tom’s natural toothpaste. There is also a copy of Prevention magazine, dog-eared to an article on the fertility-damaging properties of cigarettes. I open a card with a picture of Virginia Woolf looking down her own tall nose. “Share the goodies with Carolyn,” she wrote in her perfect penmanship, each letter made to be copied by kids. “Hugs, Mom.”
Over the phone last spring, I broke the news to my mom that I had a girlfriend and that we were moving to Japan together to teach English. I hoped that this second piece of news would soften the blow of the first. She’d told me many times that she hoped that I would become a teacher too, that the job had brought her so much joy. “Is this forever?” she asked in a voice that was small and brittle, unfamiliar and awful. I told her that it was only for a year, pretending not to know what she was really asking, holding the phone away from my ear so that I wouldn’t have to listen to her cry. When I was little, I used to give her love tests. Would she still love me if I cheated? Robbed a bank? If I murdered someone? She always said yes without missing a beat. “I’d be very sad and disappointed, but I’ll always love you.” I suddenly realized that I’d given her one of these love tests, and that I was feeling the sting of her disappointment for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” she cried, “but I wanted to see you get married and have children.”
“I can still have those things,” I said. I felt like I had swallowed broken glass and was trying to talk around it. “Lots of gay people have kids,” I managed.
“Have you always known?” she asked. “Because I thought you were in love with Luke. I still don’t understand what happened between you two.”
Luke was my high school boyfriend. We went to college in different states, but we always got back together in the summers. He had four brothers and two sisters, and I liked the chaos of his family, the way I could get lost in the shuffle. He liked my home for the opposite reason, because it was quiet and he was taken seriously, and because he liked my father. Luke wanted to be an engineer, and the two of them would spend hours talking about their ideas, sitting hip to hip on the couch, sketching on graph paper. Luke was one of the people who noticed that something was seriously wrong with my dad. That’s how he put it when he refused to come over anymore. “It’s too depressing,” he said. “You might be able to pretend like nothing’s wrong, but I can’t.” At the time, I was glad to spend more time at Luke’s, to have somewhere else to go, to get away. But after my dad killed himself, I couldn’t be in the same room as Luke anymore. When he came to my father’s memorial ser vice, I refused to talk to him. Later, when he flew out to New York, I wouldn’t even let him upstairs. I finally told him that I had a girlfriend, that I’d never really been attracted to him. He left me alone after that.
“Is this about your dad?” my mom asked on the phone. “Are you so angry with him for killing himself that you’re turning your back on all men?” I lashed out and told her that this was the one thing in my life that wasn’t about my dad, the one thing that was just mine. I said that I wished she could be happy for me, happy that I’d found someone to love, and who loved me too. “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed in me,” I said, “but I’m just trying to get on with my life. I hope you can get on with yours eventually too.” The next time I flew out to San Francisco, there was a Gay Pride bumper sticker on the back of her car. She was wearing a rainbow-striped pin on her denim vest, and she had a key chain to match. She looked more like a lesbian than I did, and I felt a little uneasy. “You know, this might not be forever,” I said.
“So it’s a choice?” my mom asked me.
“I guess,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“Because if it’s a choice, if you’re not gay”—in spite of her props, the word was obviously hard for her to say—“then why would you choose to make your life harder than it already is?”
“Hi,” Carolyn says, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. “What did your mom send us this time?” She takes the envelope from me, reaches inside and pulls out a red fleece garment that looks like a giant version of the footie pajamas that I wore as a kid, except that instead of having two legs, it’s just one big tube with arm holes.
“It’s a sleep sack,” I say. “Does my mom think I’m still two?”
“Your mom sends the best stuff,” Carolyn says.
“Are you kidding?” I say. “I’ve never seen anything less sexy in my life.”
“Who cares?” she says. “It looks warm.”
“You can have it,” I say.
“Thanks.” She takes it from me and heads back upstairs, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Ever since the cat died, things between us have been even more strained. After we buried Amana’s body at the edge of the river, we went back home and she collapsed on the futon in our bedroom, crying as she stroked the pillow—still matted with Amana’s fur—while I stroked her arm. I asked what would make her feel better. “We could go for a walk on the beach,” I suggested. “We could take a drive or go to the baths…”
“I don’t want to take a bath,” she said. “I don’t want to do anything.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I just want to help you feel better.”
“I don’t want to feel better,” she sobbed. “I’m sad, and I want to be sad, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course not,” I said, lying down beside her. She cried like a small child—openly, unembarrassed, snot streaming from her nose—and I thought of how young she’d been when her mom died, how a part of her had been forced to grow up right then and a part of her probably never would. She rolled over and I spooned her, tucking my knees into the backs of hers and holding her close. “That boy killed our cat,” she kept saying, “and we’re going to have to keep seeing him every single fucking day.” Looking out our window, at the drawn blinds covering Haruki’s, I wondered if he was inside. “I’ll bet that’s the last time Ogawa-san returns our trash,” I said. “If I’m right, it’s almost worth it.”
“Almost worth it?” she choked.
“Of course not,” I said. “I was just joking…”
She flipped over and I noticed that her breath smelled funny, like the rotten water in a vase holding the slimy stems of an old bouquet, or the stale mouthpiece of a telephone.
“Why aren’t you sad?” she asked me.
“I am sad,” I said. “Of course I’m sad.”
“You don’t seem sad.”
“Just because I show my feelings differently—”
“I used to think that you were afraid of them,” she said. “I used to think you held them in so tightly because they were so intense. I thought you’d buried your sadness deep inside of you where you wouldn’t have to feel it all the time. I got that. But now I’m starting to wonder if you have any feelings. Maybe you’re just cold.”
“If you think that,” I said, “then you don’t know me at all.”
I left her in the bedroom and went downstairs where I lay on the brown vinyl couch, hoping that she’d come down after me, but she didn’t. “Our cat is dead,” I said in a soft voice, trying to trigger the appropriate response, the wave of grief, the cathartic col
lapse. I was reminded of the hours and days and weeks after my dad died. Over and over I had to remind myself that he had committed suicide, that he was dead, and over and over I’d forget, and remembering was a shock every time. I had a hard time crying, even at the memorial ser vice, where my mom cried enough for both of us, accepting comfort from anyone who wanted to give it, weeping on the shoulders of near strangers. Like Carolyn, she kept asking if I was sad. Wasn’t I sad? Of course, I said then too. I could tell that she wanted me to be sadder, or more transparent in my sadness, to share it with her, split the pain. But “sad” was a pathetic little word, too small to contain what I felt. I was a shattered windshield: one tap and I’d collapse. The whole world had been pulled out from under me and I was still waiting to fall. I had wasted tears on so many silly things. How could I cry for this too?
It was starting to get dark when I heard the beep-beep-beep from in front of our house. I opened the front door and saw Haruki’s bulky frame bathed in the red glow of a miniature forklift’s taillights. Its steel jaws were clamped around our refrigerator, holding it suspended in midair like the time machine in New Horizons. “What are you doing?” I asked, but the boy ignored me as usual. I tapped him on the shoulder and repeated my question in Japanese, but he still didn’t answer, so I punched his arm, my knuckles sinking into his doughy flesh. “Are you crazy?” I asked, punching him again. “Go away!” But he just stood there while his grandfather lowered the refrigerator until it was level with our entryway. Mister Ogawa got out of the cab and he and Haruki proceeded to move the Amana back into our genkan, pushing and shoving until the refrigerator stood right where it had before, on the darker blue square of carpet. Haruki got on his knees and reached behind the machine to plug it in, Ogawa-san opened the door and the ceiling light flickered on. Inside, it was spotless and odorless. Not only had they fixed it, they’d cleaned it. There was no sign of the dead cat, not a single hair. That was the last time Ogawa-san brought our gomi back.
It’s snowing out, and so cold that we eat dinner in the bedroom, sitting at the kotatsu, our thighs roasting under the electric coil while our upper bodies freeze.
“I can’t even remember what warm feels like,” Carolyn says, hugging her bowl of soup. “I had to cook in mittens. I almost lost a finger when the knife slipped.”
“I’m so sick of the cold,” I agree. “It’s all anyone talks about.”
“Sorry to bore you,” she says, setting her soup down. Lately she’s so sensitive.
“You’re not,” I say. “I keep having the same conversation with the vice-principal. It’s cold. It is cold. Isn’t it cold?”
“Well it is,” Carolyn says. “It’s hard to talk about anything else.”
When I asked Miyoshi-sensei once why Japanese houses aren’t insulated, he said that gas is very expensive here. I pointed out that insulation—like sweaters for the walls?—is relatively cheap. He told me that Japan is an ancient country, that people had been living with the cold for so long that it had become a source of pride to endure it. But everyone here spends a fortune on electric blankets, carpets, and tables, none of which do the job; kerosene is messy, and to prevent headaches you have to leave the windows open, which defeats the whole point; and everyone talks constantly about how cold they are. Maybe that’s the point, I think as Carolyn and I face each other in silence, our breath hovering in the air like empty cartoon talk bubbles. Maybe they’d rather be cold than warm, and have a guaranteed conversational standby.
I pick up my soup, take a sip, and accidentally bite down on a piece of hard carrot.
“You don’t like it,” Carolyn says flatly.
“I do,” I say. “It’s delicious, but my teeth are killing me.”
“You have to go to the dentist,” she says, reprising another conversation we’ve had many times. “Ignoring the problem won’t make it go away.”
“I don’t know where the dentist is.”
“Just ask Miyoshi-sensei.”
“Okay,” I say. “Can you pass me the soy sauce?”
“You never talk about him anymore.”
“I never see him anymore.” I didn’t tell Carolyn what happened with Hiro. She was the one who wanted an open relationship, and I figured that if it didn’t lead to anything, there was no reason for her to know. Besides, it was just a kiss. To change the subject, I tell her about Keiko, how she invited me to her art class, how I thought I was going to be drawing with the kids but instead I had to pose for them. “At first I was horrified,” I say, “but it turned out to be really fun.”
“Big surprise,” Carolyn says with a snort.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Admit it,” she says. “You weren’t horrified. You loved being the center of attention, having those kids draw your picture. It’s how I got you in my bed, remember?”
“Of course I remember,” I say, trying to take her teasing in good fun. “Anyways, Keiko’s great. She’s a little messy, not into rules, with this weird, dark sense of humor. We even snuck cigarettes together in her classroom, smoking out the window like teenagers.”
“Sounds like your perfect match.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, “but I do like her a lot. She invited me for dinner one evening this week.”
“Really?” Carolyn jabs at her rice. “Did you ask if I could come?”
“Um, no,” I say. “I mean, she doesn’t know about us.”
“Of course she doesn’t.”
“How about if we invite her over here next time?”
“So that I can cook for both of you once you’re already best friends? Pretend to be your roommate? Sounds fun.”
“Come on,” I say, reaching for her foot under the table. She lets me massage it for a moment, closing her eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to bring me along the first time you went to a new friend’s house for dinner.”
“Fine,” she says, pulling her foot back. “I’ll remember that, if I ever make a friend of my own this year.”
“You will,” I say. “It just takes time.”
She gets up and clears the barely eaten food off the table. I follow her downstairs and watch her dump her grilled eggplant with sweet miso glaze into the trash. She tells me that she’s going to get the kerosene from the car. Only now do I remember that I was supposed to stop at the gas station to refill the jug on my way home from work. She slams the door as she returns to the living room with the empty container.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I completely forgot.”
“Yeah,” she says. “You also forgot to tell me that you wrecked our car again.”
“It’s not really our car,” I say, and the look on her face makes me wish I could suck the words back in. “I mean of course it’s our car, but since you don’t have a driver’s license, and I paid for it…”
“I paid the key money for this place,” she says, “so I guess it’s not really our home.”
“Yes it is,” I say. “Come on, Caro.”
“Is it?” she says. “Because it doesn’t really feel like it.”
She goes upstairs and I sit on the front stoop, smoking in the snow, my ashes blending in with the falling flakes. Carolyn was right when she said that moving together to Japan, living together for the first time here, would put too much pressure on our relationship. I thought that by crossing the Pacific together, our lives would broaden, but instead, they shrank. Here we have only each other for comfort, for consolation, for conversation, for sex, for everything. And sometimes being lonely together is worse than being lonely alone. Still, I can’t imagine being here without her, and I worry that when we go our separate ways, I will feel halved.
Upstairs, she is lying facing the wall, her back to me. The covers feel icy when I crawl under them, but I don’t pull her to me. There is a large gap between us. She is wearing the red fleece sack that my mom sent me, with her arms tucked inside. She looks warm.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
daijoubu: (ADJ./ADV./N.) safe; all right; okay
When I wake up, the whole world has been transformed. The roofs are buried, each shingle capped with a white copy of itself. The road is a white river, while the river has been narrowed between stacked white banks. I listen to the soft fizz of the snowflakes pelting the river, the water rushing toward the ocean, the wind whistling through the branches of the trees, knocking clumps of snow to the ground. Mrs. Ogawa is outside as usual, wearing a high collared flannel nightgown under a down vest, emptying a kettle of steaming water into her koi pond. I imagine the carp frozen in place, tails beginning to flicker as the ice thaws. She catches me watching her and I raise my hand in a greeting. She holds up her own and we stand there for a moment like good neighbors.
Earlier this morning, I had just gotten out of the shower when Miyoshi-sensei called. Hearing his voice on the other end of the phone made my own tangle up in my throat. He said that he had a letter for me, that I should stop by the high school to pick it up on my way home from the elementary school. “It’s not gomi letter,” he stressed. “It’s something else.” He could have faxed it to me at the elementary school, I thought, but didn’t point it out. I thought maybe he was just looking for an excuse to see me in person. Maybe the letter was a pretext, or he was finally going to address in writing what he couldn’t say in person. I wanted the day to be over with already, so I could see him and find out.
The highway has been plowed. The road is scraped clean, a narrow chute between banks pushed to either side of the rice fields, which are buried in snow, the glittering white peaks shifting like dunes as the wind blows. Every time I pass a driver coming from the opposite direction, we each glide to a stop and squeeze against the banks, bobbing our heads at each other. You first. No, you. It takes forty minutes to cover ten kilometers, and I’m late by the time I coast into the elementary school parking lot, where Koji is standing all alone, wearing his yellow hat.
If You Follow Me Page 15