Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  I walked her through the house with Christie in my arms. Memories poured back, momentarily making me forget my ache for Japan: The bedroom floors that Tim and Adam polished after taking up the carpet. The kitchen full of autumn blooms where Becky taught me to make sweet tea. The living room where we spent the last moments of her unborn baby’s life, laughing, and the front porch where I’d sat with Adam in the twilight.

  “What do you think?” I ran my hand across the smooth, cream kitchen walls. Adam and Tim had stripped Mom’s hideous brown ‘70s wallpaper, and the paint still smelled new.

  “Where’s your stash of oversized belt buckles and cowboy hats?”

  “My what?”

  “Hold on.” Kyoko moved things around on the counter. “There must be a spit cup here somewhere.”

  I rolled my eyes and sat down at the table, which was still scattered with lace and marigold petals. “So why didn’t you call me? I could’ve met you at the airport!”

  “Yeah, sorry. I know it’s rude to show up out of the blue, but I had a few days off, plus two Japanese holidays … so I just bought a ticket and came.”

  She gazed around the dining room, apparently trying to reconcile herself with the fact that she’d indeed entered the South. “I can always camp out at Best Western if you need some space. I’ll ask for that room you had overlooking the train tracks.” She rubbed sleepy eyes, smudging her dark makeup. “Or I can stay at the Stonewall Jackson Hotel.”

  “Stonewall Jackson? You’re making it up!”

  “Wanna bet?” Kyoko slapped a printout in my hand. “Hey, you’re the one who lives here. Not me.”

  I jerked the paper closer. “It looks nice!”

  “It actually does.” She bent her head to see. “I can ask for the Dixie Suite. They serve grits and pigs’ feet in the morning, and a free ticket to the Civil War reenactments—complete with mugging.”

  I instinctively circled my side with my hand where the skinhead had kicked me with his boot, requiring lots of ice and pain medication. Then Kyoko’s words registered, and I smacked her with the paper. “Don’t be ridiculous! You’re staying here.”

  “You sure? Because I don’t want to intrude. Seems like you’re pretty busy here, cow tipping and whatnot.”

  I ignored her. “I’ve missed you.” I hugged her again, and she glowered. Got up and played with my refrigerator magnets.

  I forgot—Japan and the American South had two very different rules of physical contact. Southerners hugged. Whacked. Tackled. Gave noogies. A lot. And Japanese … well, bowed, standing a foot apart and trying desperately to avoid eye contact.

  Kyoko sat back down and gave me an awkward pat on the head, messing up my hair. “Yeah, I’ve missed you, too, Ro,” she said with as warm a smile as she could muster.

  Ro. No one else in the world used that nickname for me, made up of the last syllable of my name butchered in Japanese. Even the Japanese honorific, -chan, she sometimes tacked on the end reminded me of achingly beautiful Tokyo days.

  “How long can you stay?”

  “Can you put up with me for seven days? I know, I know. I’ll smoke outside. Dog and allergies and house on the market.”

  “A week? That’s it?” My smile collapsed. I don’t know what I’d hoped for, but seven measly days? I wanted to soak up Japan from Kyoko, crab that she was, like osmosis: The office jokes. The subway. The sparkling city lights. I wanted to pretend I’d never gotten fired for plagiarism and board the plane bound for Tokyo by her side, never to return.

  “Well, a week’s all I’ve got, bucko.” Kyoko yawned, stretching. “Take it or leave it. And if you leave it, give me my cream puffs back.”

  “I guess my choices are limited.”

  “Smart woman.”

  “Coffee? Tea?”

  “Tea’d be great.”

  “Hot or cold?”

  “Please don’t tell me you’ve got that sweet iced-tea stuff in your fridge.”

  “Nope.” Because Tim and Becky drank it all when they came over to watch NASCAR.

  Kyoko relaxed. “Hot then. Maybe it’ll help me sleep.”

  And so we sat over steaming teacups, catching up on the news. Or trying to. I couldn’t describe Becky and Tim or Faye without sounding ridiculous. My prayer either … or Mom’s journals and the decision I made that would change me forever.

  Oh boy. Those would take another hour. Maybe another day.

  When we were both awake and Kyoko’s shouts didn’t wake the neighbors.

  But I listened, cradling the teacup Japanese-style: one hand on the base and the other on the rim. Covering my teeth chastely with my hand when I smiled or laughed. I still did that out of habit. And bobbed my head in thanks and bowed to store clerks, too, but not quite as much anymore.

  At least I’d stopped trying to pay for things with my cell phone or drive on the left.

  I played with a stray rose petal while Kyoko blabbed about her new stories, how our nemesis Nora Choi blundered an article, calling the prime minister’s wife “First Lady,” and the fashion crimes of Yoshie-san, the office helper.

  “What else?” I begged. “Tell me more! Tell me everything!”

  “The same.” Kyoko shrugged. “Not much changes.”

  “What can you possibly mean?” I set my teacup down hard enough to wake Christie. “Every single day something changes in Japan! The maple leaves turn red. They write new advertising jingles or create another TV drama. A new coffee flavor at Starbucks or a sandwich at McDonald’s—like the Bacon Lettuce Burger.” I swallowed hard. “And I’m missing it!”

  “They don’t have the Bacon Lettuce Burger here?”

  I gasped. “Of course not! It’s a Japan original! Like the breakfast hot dog. I loved those.”

  Kyoko grimaced. “You’re the only one I know who’s ordered the breakfast hot dog.”

  “Yoshie-san did. I saw him eating two of them one morning.”

  “Oh, and he makes it all right? I’ve seen that guy buy live beetles from a vending machine. He said they were pets for his son, but I think otherwise.”

  “Does Dave miss me?” I asked after a long pause. After bawling—and cursing—me out in my hotel room once he discovered I’d copied, Dave hadn’t spoken another word to me. Most of us AP employees crept around the office in fear even though duly employed, so imagine fired! By Dave! I shuddered.

  “Dave wouldn’t miss his own mother. But in his own strange way, yes, I think he does.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, he blew his stack at first. Everybody stayed out of his way while he stomped around on the warpath, but he eventually got over it.” Kyoko leaned forward and softened her voice, fingering her skull ring. “But you know what, Ro? He never gave Nora politics. He put her on the military beat and divided politics between Kaine and me. He knows she’s not cut out for it like you were. Well, are. Still.”

  “Thanks,” I said softly, not quite believing Kyoko just complimented me. Kyoko rarely handed out praise; I hoarded it like the last drop of soy sauce in a care package.

  “So, what did you do with your dumb rock?” she asked abruptly, apparently realizing she bordered on affection. She nodded curtly in the direction of my left hand.

  “Oh, that.” I twisted my fingers over the empty space on my ring finger. “I sent it back to Carlos by mail. In a padded envelope. With the price on the outside and no insurance.”

  Kyoko blanched. “You did what?”

  “Can you believe he actually got it? He had to pay one hefty tax though. I can’t imagine.” I smiled in spite of myself. I probably should have retaliated … uh … behaved with more dignity, but what’s done is done.

  “Girl.” Kyoko stared at me. “And I thought rearranging his Azuki page to make him a Brazil fanatic was clever.”

  Everybody in Tokyo ditched Facebook in favor of Azuki, its Japanese twin.

  I managed a grin. “I wish I could’ve seen his face. Nationalistic Argentinean snob.”

  “Tell me about i
t.” Kyoko laughed into her tea. “Carlos is one lame-o if I’ve ever seen one. Sorry, Ro, but it’s true. You deserve better than him.”

  She switched topics with lightning speed. Her specialty. “So what’s your middle name? You promised to tell me.”

  “I never promised that!”

  “Peabody?”

  “Keep trying. And guess female names.”

  “Hey, you never know.”

  I stared down at the yellow-green liquid in my teacup, reflecting the glass light fixture overhead. Carlos’s name still stung a little. “Have you … seen him since then?”

  “Who, Peabody?”

  “Carlos.”

  She glared into her teacup and then at me. “I was afraid you’d ask.”

  “Well, have you?” The question leaped into my throat, and I trembled, looking away. Carlos had done me wrong and not thought twice, but the thought of his cologne made my pulse speed up a notch. His gorgeous face and dark eyes. Sharp Italian suits.

  Beyond his good looks, I’d … well, loved him. Or thought I did. I turned my teacup around on the dish, trying to blot out the bitter ache that rose with his memory.

  She snorted. “In person, no. Thankfully. But apparently he’s modeling shirts or something now.”

  “What?” I jerked my head up.

  “I know. I was taking the subway to Nakameguro when, bam! There’s Carlos’s ugly mug right over the subway door. Sheesh.” She rolled her eyes. “Japanese companies’ll slap just about any foreigner on ads these days.”

  “Yeah.” I tried to chuckle as if it didn’t bother me. “Is he still with … Mia?”

  Kyoko gave an exasperated sigh. “As if I would know! Honestly, you’re better off without him. Let him go!” She gave me a fierce look over her teacup. “Little liar! I wish he’d go model subway tracks for a while.”

  She sipped in angry silence. Either he still loved Mia and Kyoko refused to tell me, or she really didn’t know. I decided to drop it.

  “I have let him go, Kyoko. It’s over. It’s just hard to put the past to rest sometimes.”

  “Well, do it! Find a farmer or something.” She jabbed at her teacup with a spoon. “Carlos didn’t love you, Ro. I don’t know how else to put it, but there it is.”

  “I know.” I avoided her eyes.

  “You do? I thought you bought all his drivel about … Never mind.” Kyoko waved it away. “Well, at least you’ve come to your senses.”

  “I’m not sure I even know what love is, Kyoko.” I poured some more tea from my black Japanese teapot. “I’m confused.”

  “Well, earth to Ro. It wasn’t Carlos.” Her voice softened just a touch, probably to keep me from bursting into tears again. Kyoko eschewed tears as ardently as affection.

  “Yeah.” My tea shimmered, wisps of steam floating heavenward. “It’ll take me some time to figure out what love really is, you know? I’m thinking differently these days.”

  “Here we go. Your new Bible-thumping spirituality.” She stared at the ceiling. “You gonna give me a gospel tract now?”

  I tried to laugh like she did, pretending to go along with the joke. Then quickly picked up my teacup and turned Kyoko’s own split-second subject change on her. “So what’s the techie scene in Akiba? Anything interesting?”

  I knew it would occupy her mind. And it did. For the next hour and a half.

  I couldn’t sleep with the long day clogging my head. Shane, Ashley, Kyoko, Carlos. All roiling in my exhausted brain like a Japanese typhoon.

  I tossed on the pillow, eyes staring up at the shadowy wallpaper. Christie curled up next to me in a warm, fuzzy ball against the blankets. I know, I know. Dog hair. Pets. Real-estate rules. Blah, blah, blah. I put newspapers down, okay?

  But I needed her to stop crying that pitiful little whine from her box as much as I needed her warmth. Her quivering back pressed tightly against the crook of my elbow. Her quiet, steady breath to fill the tremors of worry in my stomach.

  I had a feeling. A little, nagging, uneasy feeling about why Kyoko had come without warning. Right after I got kicked by a skinhead and told her I’d started reading the Bible and the Harlem Globetrotters came to The Green Tree. Which they did. But Kyoko didn’t believe a word of it.

  She thinks I’m losing it, and she came to see if her assumptions from a few weeks ago are true. Maybe to get me help.

  I blinked up into the dark ceiling, feeling torn in two directions. As much as I regretted it, my life no longer converged with Kyoko’s in Japan’s cherry-blossom splendor, wending our way through subway crowds to the shiny granite steps of the AP office building. Up, up, and up to awards and glory and tomorrows.

  In Staunton, Virginia, I found no glory. Just hard, painful starting over. In small-town, rural nowhere—the last place on earth I’d expect. Just like Adam’s amputee brother Rick, a war hero, grunting against agony to learn to walk again.

  And then there was Adam. Who, yes, drove a pickup. And hauled mulch and pruned shrubs to help care for Rick. Giving up the life he wanted for something better.

  And somehow greater.

  My eyes flickered to Mom’s journal and Bible on a side table, their gentle lines comforting even in the dark.

  Some things, I guessed, went beyond explaining. Kyoko would have to see for herself.

  And when she finally figured things out, back in her cushy office chair in Tokyo, I wouldn’t be around to hear her bawl me out.

  Kyoko’s snores wheezed from Mom’s bedroom—a guest room now, while I claimed Mom’s extra bedroom as mine. I eased slippered feet into the kitchen, the sky shining a dull cloudy gray through the curtains. A chill sank through the house; cold rain had spattered during my early morning run through Crawford Manor’s empty neighborhood streets.

  Christie stretched, toddling across the shiny floor like a ball of smoke.

  I glanced nervously at Kyoko’s closed bedroom door then scribbled a note. An addendum to my detailed instructions to take Christie out two hundred times an hour, don’t let her eat the kitchen chairs, and so forth. I tucked it on the counter so she could find it after she’d had some tea—to minimize the impact and improve her mood first.

  She’s going to hate you, Shiloh!

  Or maybe jet lag will take over, and she’ll never figure it out.

  I hesitated then kissed Christie good-bye and left her in the laundry room with her rubber chew toy. Floor well-papered with newspapers, and everything bite-able out of reach.

  While Christie whined at the laundry-room door, I grabbed my purse and sunglasses. Slipped on bone-colored Jimmy Choo heels at the door, another beautiful remnant of the life I no longer had.

  And backed out of the driveway, Bible on the passenger’s seat.

  Chapter 6

  The church rose over the hills like a glimpse of sun, exactly as MapQuest predicted. I pulled into an empty parking space and turned off the car. Just sat there, wondering if I’d lost my marbles—like Kyoko already thought—by coming here. Mom had probably parked this same car, in this same parking space, and only a few irretrievable months separated us.

  The sun hid again, and bitter wind tossed scarlet and brown leaves across the rain-wet parking lot. I shut the door and pulled my delicate sweater tighter around my soft ivory dress, the wispy bow trailing from my waist. Never in a million years did I guess, when I bought this combo at a trendy boutique in Shinjuku, that I’d wear it to a church.

  I accepted a bulletin at the door, the whiff of pungent coffee spreading warmth throughout an otherwise chilly foyer lined with photo-scattered bulletin boards. A man’s voice slipped through the sanctuary door—along with pale light from the stained-glass cross, dappling the carpet and wooden pew backs. Spilling nearly to my feet.

  I slipped into the sanctuary with a faint squeak of the door, streaking those expensive heels with luminous color as the sun dazzled for a moment in the round glass. There, in the very back: a space on the blue-cushioned pew between a blond couple with a toddler gobbling fistfuls o
f Cheerios and an older African-American woman in yellow, all with plenty of room between us.

  I wonder where Mom sat. I wonder what she wore. My heart pounded as I sat down, dropping my purse and Bible and glancing around the large, airy sanctuary. Globe-shaped lights suspended from a vaulted wooden ceiling, its shiny beams a homey, comforting golden brown.

  The sanctuary retained a crisp coolness, despite the warm lights and rows of people, but I unwound my scarf and placed it in a soft pile over my purse. I wrinkled my nose, smelling new carpet and a hint of flowers from the altar. Chrysanthemums. Golden orange and sweetly pungent. I knew their smell.

  I dropped my head, fingering a ring and trying not to think about the yellow spider chrysanthemums that covered Mom’s casket, tendrils quivering in the summer breeze.

  The man in front—who wore khakis and an open-collared shirt, not the full suit I expected to see at a pulpit—stepped down. Piano and violin music streamed, and I groped for Mom’s Bible, turning my head from side to side to catch someone’s movements.

  No, I need a hymnal, not a Bible to sing, right? But I saw none, except a blue book tucked in a pocket of the pew in front of me. Nope. Another Bible.

  People stood, and I followed them. Should I try to find a hymnal? Should I sing? What should I do? My clenched fingers, white on the bulletin, relaxed as the yellow-clad woman pointed to the overhead screen, on which song lyrics suddenly appeared. Oh. Easy. Okay. More modern than I’d expected.

  As the music swelled, I forgot my nerves. Simply listened. And, for the first time in my life, hesitantly opened my mouth and sang with the others. About Jesus. How He died for our sins, and He is everything we need.

  Strange words, but enchanting—calling my name in the same beautiful tone as Mom’s journal. Wrapping around my heart like warm arms, filling the empty spaces.

  All of a sudden, I needed Faye, my second mom. Needed Becky and Tim. I should have told them to expect me. Should have … I don’t know. Done more than throw on a dress.

  “Excuse me,” I whispered to the woman in yellow. “You don’t happen to know Tim and Becky Donaldson, do you?”