Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  “Have you told her?”

  “Not exactly. We’re talking about Kyoko here, Jamie! Case in point: Remember when the Harlem Globetrotters showed up at The Green Tree?”

  “Are you kidding? How could I forget a five-hundred dollar tip?”

  “Well, Kyoko refused to believe my story until Jerry showed her the autographed photos last Sunday at the restaurant. Becky still thinks the photos are staged.”

  “Becky? That’s funny.” Jamie giggled, throwing away a handful of used register receipts. “That’s the first night you called me to help out at The Green Tree. No way I could forget that.” Her voice softened. “I’m still amazed you thought to call me. We hadn’t even known each other that long, but I really needed that job.”

  “And we needed you at The Green Tree.” I poked her playfully. “Jerry was pulling his hair out.” I chuckled. “And I’m equally amazed you came. And stayed. Now there are two of us Bible thumpers under Jerry’s nose.”

  I shot her a smile, proud of Jamie’s stalwart convictions and fearless faith. She practically sparkled. God had used Jamie to give me a push—no, more like a flying kick—in His direction.

  “Well, I wouldn’t peg you for a loony.” Jamie shrugged, mirth tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Unless … Has Kyoko read about Western State?”

  “The old ‘lunatic asylum,’ as they used to call it?” I giggled. “Right here in Staunton? Well, that certainly didn’t help my case any.”

  Jamie laughed back, squatting under the counter for more foam coffee cups and straws. When she stood, though, arms full of stuff, her smile had faded. “Kyoko knows you better than that, doesn’t she?”

  “You’d think so.” I moistened the rag and ran it over the now-smooth counter. “But to her, my life is so ludicrous she can’t believe it’s reality.” My mouth straightened into a line. “Fitting, huh?”

  Jamie leaned against the counter and turned to face me. “Even if she did think that, she still came. She cares about you.”

  “Really?” I ran my hand through my hair, confused.

  “Of course. I don’t know anyone who would fly across continents just to see if I was okay.”

  I started sweeping up crumbs from the bake case, wishing those espresso brownies and lemon bars didn’t look so good. Lunch had vanished ages ago.

  “She’s special, Jamie. Even though she doesn’t believe anything I do and probably never will. But I feel torn in half. Just like this cinnamon bun. Part of me there. Part of me here. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  I removed the bun chunks with metal tongs and cut it in little pieces for people to taste test. Unfortunately for me, eating broken goodies was against regulation. Otherwise there’d probably be a lot more severed cinnamon buns.

  Jamie set a little dish of toothpicks on the counter for people to eat the cinnamon bun remains. “Well, this is probably the time you start to find out who you are, Shiloh.”

  I glanced back at Chloe, who dawdled in the kitchen, taking her time getting something out of the cabinet. Banging her head to whatever emo tune played on her iPod. Right or wrong, Chloe struck me as a wannabe. A rude, annoying wannabe. But Kyoko was real. Enigmatic. Deep. Unique. The woman who wrote about gruesome homicides without batting an eyelash got emotional over silly ‘80s romantic movies. Who rejected Carlos immediately based on his heart, not his looks—unlike dozens of women.

  I puffed out my chest proudly as I thought of her, wearing her scary black garb all over Tokyo, no matter what people thought.

  “But the one thing that separates us now is our beliefs. And I feel that gap growing every single day.”

  Jamie looked up at me, biting the edge of her lip.

  “What?” I crossed my arms.

  She shrugged, avoiding my gaze as she put the tongs away. “I hope this isn’t out of place, Shiloh, but do you think your mom might have felt the same way about you?”

  I sucked in my breath. “Mom?”

  “That she loved and admired you, but you didn’t see eye-to-eye about faith?”

  It was far more complicated than that, but Jamie did have a point. I turned my back and straightened a plate in the bake case. “Maybe,” I muttered.

  “Well, did she ever do anything to reach out to you anyway? To show you she cared despite your differences?”

  I felt myself bristle, the way I always did when anyone talked about Mom and our past. Mom hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to make herself friendly to me until the last two years, but by then it was too late for me. Her efforts failed anyway. Still, I closed my eyes and saw the shrink-wrapped mini pecan pie she’d sent, dangling there in my bedroom—where I’d skewered it to my corkboard with a thumb tack. The one effort on her part that eventually made me cry for the first time in years.

  I swallowed hard, hoping the customers milling around wouldn’t order. But they did, getting a cold drink from the glass case and an espresso brownie. Jamie rang them up, head bobbing with laughter of some polite shared joke, while I heated their brownie slightly in the microwave. Stuck a plastic fork on the side of the plate.

  “Mom was … Mom,” I said, when the couple sat at a table out of earshot. “We never had many good times together. But in her last two years, she tried to show me how she’d changed without interfering. She sent me packages, like little pieces of her life to enjoy if I wanted them. And if I didn’t, at least she’d tried.” I picked at a chip in the counter. “At least that’s what I got from her letters. The ones I … uh … actually read.”

  Jamie didn’t say a word. Just stood there, leaning against the counter with a triumphant look in her eyes.

  “What?” I glanced up.

  “You just said it.”

  “Said what? About sending me packages and trying to—” I broke off, realizing what I’d just blurted. “Okay. I get it, Jamie.”

  “Do the same for Kyoko. Don’t intrude or require her to believe the way you do. Just show her that you value her and be yourself. Yourself with Jesus.” She poked me with a straw. “There’s a big difference. She’ll notice it.”

  “Do you think that’ll be enough?”

  “How could it not be?” Jamie’s dark eyes met mine. “God will give you opportunities to say something more if the time is right. He’ll let you know. But most of the time, you just show His love. And knowing Kyoko, she’ll accept whatever you can give.”

  “I hope so. It’d be a lonely life without her.”

  “Just like your mom must have thought,” whispered Jamie, patting my shoulder. “But now she’ll always have you. For eternity.”

  I lifted my gaze to Jamie, hardly daring to believe her words were truth. “I want that. With Kyoko, too, and it seems so impossible.”

  “Then tell God that. That’s what praying’s all about. It isn’t about having the right words or formulating something beautiful or convincing. It’s about meeting Him exactly where you are, doubts and all. Wants and all. Sins and all. And remembering that it’s His job to do the impossible.”

  “He already has.” I stared out the glass doors, remembering the first time I’d breezed through them—so outwardly confident and yet so broken inside. Me with my top-of-the-line Japanese cell phone that wouldn’t even work in Virginia.

  “That’s His miracle. He transforms all of us into something beautiful if we let Him.”

  At the word transform, I immediately thought of Beulah’s butterfly comment. But try as I might, I couldn’t imagine Kyoko as a butterfly. She was too dark and cranky. Maybe a bat instead.

  “Okay, Jamie,” I said as two middle schoolers giggled up to the counter. “I’ll try. I’ll talk to God about Kyoko, and I’m asking you to join me.”

  “My pleasure,” she replied with a smile.

  The sky turned icy blue and then violet, and I actually turned on the heat during the long drive home from Barnes & Noble in the snappy, starry night. Cool had shifted, for good, to breath-snatching cold. Time to exchange my preppy Japanese summer uniform of crisp s
kirt and button-up shirt for the fall/winter version: patterned tights, wool skirt, and sweater. And of course, like millions of Japanese girls, I lived in knee-high boots.

  I hugged myself in the brisk chill and ran inside, breath misting, looking up at the clear moon over a black-purple landscape: the lone bright globe over darkened fields and houses.

  “Tadaima!” I announced happily, unzipping my boots and stepping into soft slippers. “I’m home!”

  “Okairi!” came Kyoko’s voice from Mom’s bedroom, returning the greeting. “Welcome home!”

  I found her bent over stacks of stuff, trying to fit it all into her suitcase. There in the suitcase lid lay Christie, curled in a fuzzy ball.

  “Kyoko! You let Christie within sneezing distance!” I scooped up Christie. “Aren’t you afraid of vermin? Disease? Whooping cough?”

  “Dogs don’t get whooping cough. And I didn’t say she could go there. She just did.”

  Still, Kyoko hadn’t moved her. I smiled to myself and kissed Christie’s head, sitting down on the bed among Kyoko’s piles. “So you’re really leaving?”

  “Unless you want another waitress at The Green Tree. And believe me, I wouldn’t be as nice as you guys are to some of those weirdos who come in there. Rednecks give me the creeps!” She shivered. “And those whiny, bratty preteens? Give me a break!”

  She’d be fired on her first day of Starbucks duty at Barnes & Noble. Maybe even arrested.

  Kyoko’s return ticket lay on top of her socks. Narita Airport, it read, making my throat swell. “Be happy you’re going back, Kyoko. I’d give just about anything to go with you.”

  She didn’t say anything. Just folded a pair of dark jeans and stuffed it in a corner of the suitcase, picking a stray dog hair off the suitcase lid and dropping it in the trash with disdain.

  “Shrimp burgers, green tea, Shibuya … they’re all yours.” I buried my face in Christie’s fur and tried to blot out the rising pain that filled my chest. “They’d be mine, too, if I hadn’t made such a stupid mistake. Enjoy them, Kyoko. For me.”

  Kyoko picked at a tiny blob of lint on a sweater, a strange look spreading across her face. Finally she cleared her throat. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Ro,” she said, not looking up.

  “About what? Japan?”

  “Um … yes. Actually.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m … well … Ro-chan, I’m not going back to Japan.”

  I stared at her as if she’d announced her engagement to Shane the cop. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not going back to Japan.” Kyoko finally looked up at me with moody black eyes.

  “What are you talking about?” I snatched up her return ticket. “Of course you are!”

  She grabbed it back and scowled. “Yes, brainiac! I have to go back now! But I’ve asked Dave for a transfer. I’m ready to move on.”

  “Move on? From Japan?” For the life of me I couldn’t comprehend what she’d just said. “Why, did you get fired?”

  “No, nutcase! That would be you!” She smacked me on the head with her ticket. “I’m in fine shape with Dave. But I’m just ready to leave Japan. I’d like to go home to California and then move on to somewhere new. Maybe Europe.”

  Kyoko’s words made no sense, like her diatribes about obscure ‘80s bands and how nobody today knew anything about music. “What are you saying, Kyoko?”

  “I’ve had the Japan experience. And I’m over it.”

  I swallowed a couple of times, trying to find words. “How,” I finally choked out, “can you want to leave Japan? How?”

  She stared at me with what appeared to be real concern. “Stop looking like you’re going to cry, Ro-chan! Really! It’s just a job! A country! I know you loved it there, but I have to break it to you that not everyone feels the way you do about Japan. For some people it … well, it’s not home. It’s not the best fit.”

  She put a hand gingerly on my arm, a move totally against her personal creed of affection-equals-death. “You really are crying! For Pete’s sake, Ro! It’s me who’s leaving, not you!”

  “You can’t leave Japan!” I sniffled while Kyoko hastily hunted for her Tokyo-street-side-ad tissues. Most of hers, of course, read Kinoko Records. She patted (read, “pounded”) me awkwardly on the back.

  “Don’t you know I’m going back? As soon as I can find a job and get a different visa, and …” I sniffled.

  “Ro.” She said my nickname almost in a whisper, and I turned. “Do you have a job yet?”

  “No, but I’m working on it. I’m applying for some openings.”

  “Well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but finding the right job takes time. I know you want to go back and things to be the same. But they’re not. Life goes on.”

  Her words cut, and I flinched. “But Japan is where we …”

  “Where we what? Worked our tails off and ate disgusting sea creatures and crammed ourselves into dainty Japanese clothes that wouldn’t fit a rag doll?”

  “We met there. Granted, I hadn’t really known you for that long, but it matters.”

  “So what? It’s not like I’m going to disappear and not speak to you anymore. I just won’t be falling on the floor screaming about the stupid Japanese trash system. Do you know how many times I’ve put the burnables in the nonburnables bag and the glass out on the can day and …” She flopped back down on the bed. “No more! From now on I’m building a bonfire right in front of the apartment and throwing everything in it!”

  “I won my awards in Japan,” I went on, barely hearing her. “I sort of … found myself.” I sniffled, twisting a corner of the tissue packet.

  “No, you found Carlos.” Kyoko stuck out a corner of her lip in a contemptuous expression. “Who encouraged you in your shop-’til-you-drop mania. He was so full of himself, Ro! Both of you all dolled up and stiff like robots.” Her eyes lit up. “Hey, have I told you that Japan’s inventing these microscopic robots that can actually go into people’s veins, and then …”

  I stared at her, tears still streaked on my cheeks, and Kyoko threw up her hands. “Okay, okay! Forget it.”

  “Did you think I was full of myself, too?” I eventually managed, afraid of her response. “Or just Carlos? Tell me the truth.”

  “A little.” She attempted a smile. “But … I don’t know. Not really. You just seemed like that Trinity woman, trying to hide something. I just couldn’t ever figure out what it was.”

  She turned her head sideways and peered at me. “Funny thing is, you don’t seem like that anymore.”

  How ironic that Kyoko should say that, sitting right here on my mom’s empty bed. All the remnants of Mom’s life, from her bedroom mirror to her carved wooden trunk, shouting back “Change! Redemption! Freedom!” I reached, hands shaking, for another tissue.

  “I shouldn’t have told you,” Kyoko muttered, stiffly hugging her knees. Obviously not used to my new demonstrations of emotion. “I just thought you’d want to know. So you wouldn’t be totally shocked and commit hara-kiri or something equally stupid.”

  Japanese ritual suicide? I choked back a laugh. “I’m just starting my life again, Kyoko. How could I do a thing like that?”

  “Starting your life again?” Kyoko’s eyes jerked up.

  “What I mean is that … well, I’ve …”

  “You’ve what? Bought a pig farm? Or wait, don’t they do turkeys and stuff here in the Valley? Spill it.”

  I wiped my eyes and balled up the tissues then picked up one of Kyoko’s black-and-silver spiked belts. Which, now that I looked at it, never should have passed airline security.

  “And don’t you start shredding straws like Trinity.” She shook a finger at me. “You can’t hide from me, Ro.”

  “Fine.” My voice came out quivery but strong. “Since you told me the truth, I’m telling you, too. I’m a Christian, Kyoko. You can say what you want, but I’m not backing down.”

  Chapter 9

  No one spoke. The clo
ck ticked on the bedside table, and Christie stretched and groaned softly in her sleep.

  Kyoko let go of her knees and folded her Van Gogh’s The Scream shirt with exaggerated slowness, not meeting my eyes. I imagined her mirroring its famous image, hands on gaping cheeks. Instead her voice sounded dead. Cold. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes.”

  “A Bible thumper.”

  “Yes.” I leaned forward for emphasis, bracing myself for the big brawl that would certainly erupt any minute. The tirades on imperialism and organized religion and who-knows-what. Knowing Kyoko, she’d bring the ‘80s and punk rock into it somehow, too.

  Kyoko tossed the shirt into the suitcase and turned to face me. “I know.”

  My hard stance faltered. “What? You know?”

  “Yeah.” She brushed back shiny red-purple-black hair that had fallen into her face. “And I know you went to church on Sunday, too.”

  “I did.” I crossed my arms to hide my trembling. “I’m in love with Jesus, Kyoko. You can say I’m crazy. Say whatever.”

  Kyoko gave a derisive snort and looked away.

  “What? You’re not going to yell at me to come back to planet Earth and get a life?”

  “Would it make any difference?”

  “No.” I jutted my chin out. “But at least I’d know how you feel because I don’t want to …” I shrugged, trying not to come off too harshly. “To hurt you.”

  “Hurt me?”

  “By changing my life. Being different from what I used to be.” I picked at the belt again. “I care about you, Kyoko. A lot.”

  “Well.” She grabbed another shirt with red Rolling Stones lips and tongue protruding. “You certainly are different these days.”

  “I know. Crazy, right?” My eyes filled with unexpected tears, and I reached for a pair of dark, silvery jeans and helped her fold. “Surrounded by rednecks and wackos. ‘Getting religion.’ Scrubbing gunk off restaurant tables.”