by Sarah Kuhn
It’s a good thing I’m so tired, or I’d probably be super nervous about it. Luckily, I’m totally calm. Totally.
My grandfather yells out my name again and I shriek.
Okay, maybe I am a little nervous.
“Just want to see if you are ready yet!” my grandfather yells through the screen.
We take the train to the convenience mart and Grandpa grabs a basket and starts running around, throwing things into it with glee. I smile, wondering if he wanted to come back because now that Grandma’s not with us to give him disapproving looks, he can load up on the mass quantities of snacks he requires.
“Ah, Kimiko-chan!” he cries, waving something around. I run to catch up with him. “Look,” he continues, “they still have the limited-edition Snickers! I will get you some to take on your return trip.” He sweeps an entire row of Snickers into his basket.
“I don’t need that much, Grandpa!” I say, laughing. “They’re delicious, but just a couple will do me.”
“No, no.” He shakes his head vehemently. “Save them up for later. You will need lots of energy at the fashion school.”
I smile, a warm glow blooming in my chest as Grandpa puts more Snickers in his basket and asks the checkout clerk for an extra bag as he’s paying. He separates out the limited-edition Snickers, tucks them into the extra bag, and hands it to me.
“For you,” he says, patting my hand.
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched.
We walk around Gion with our treats tucked under our arms and I feel a stab of melancholy when I realize this may be the last time we do this. I go home in two days.
But first I have to do my “very important errand.” My mission. My heart speeds up just thinking about it.
“Kimiko-chan?” my grandfather says.
I snap out of my reverie and realize he’s led me to one of the many shrines in Gion, an ornate compound of buildings with beautiful pillars of dark wood and rows of paper lanterns and flourishes of gold and scarlet.
“This is Yasui Konpiragu and there is something on these grounds I wish for you to see,” he says, uncharacteristically solemn. “First, we must pay our respects here, at the inner sanctuary.” He gives a little bow. I mimic him. “Now come with me,” he continues.
We walk out into a courtyard area and my grandfather quickens his step, eager to get wherever we’re going. I finally spot what he’s so excited about: a blobby structure covered in tiny strips of white paper. It’s about five feet high and there’s a big hole cut in the middle and the paper looks kind of like cartoonish fur. The whole thing resembles some sort of mythical creature: a headless woolly mammoth or maybe a very pale Snuffleupagus.
“This is the power stone monument of Yasui Konpiragu,” my grandfather says, his voice hushed. “It is supposed to be good for breaking off bad relations and initiating good ones. Many young people use it to wish for their romantic hopes and dreams.”
I try—and fail—to suppress the smile that’s creeping over my face.
“I thought it might give you luck in your important errand later,” my grandfather continues, giving me a heartbreakingly hopeful look.
“All right,” I say. “Tell me how this works, Grandpa.”
“I have already gotten a katashiro for you,” he says, whipping out a slip of white paper like the ones covering the power stone. “Write down your wish. Then”—he gestures to the big hole in the middle—“you crawl through the hole, reciting your wish as you go. You come back through the hole the opposite way, doing the same. Then you stick your katashiro on the monument—anywhere you like.”
Oh, man. Why have so many of my attempts at sightseeing involved cramming myself into tiny spaces? At least this one looks a little bigger than Buddha’s nostril.
“Hold this,” I say, handing him my bag of candy.
His smile widens and I feel a fierce stab of affection. He so wants this to work for me.
I pick up a pen on the table next to the monument, then pause. Hmm. What is my wish, really? Of course I have my fantasyland version, but I’m also okay if it goes the other way. The main purpose of my mission/errand isn’t necessarily romantic, I just want …
What do I want, exactly?
Finally, I write:
I want both of us to have our dreams and be happy.
I clutch the slip of paper in my hand and crouch down in front of the monument. My grandfather gives me an excited thumbs-up.
“You have got this, Kimiko-chan!” he exclaims.
I take a deep breath and crawl through the hole, chanting my wish under my breath. This hole feels positively roomy compared to the other one I’ve had the pleasure of shoving myself through. I make it to the other side with ease, stand, turn, and funnel myself back through the other way. Then, finally, I stick my slip of paper on the stone, right near the top.
“Excellent,” my grandfather says, passing me my bag of candy. “Would you like to have lunch—or dessert? We can eat dessert before lunch, as long as your grandmother is not around—”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Grandpa, but I really should be getting back—I want to make it to Maruyama Park before the market closes,” I say, genuinely regretful. Given my limited time left in Japan, I would love to have a few more extra desserts with him. But I do need to complete my mission.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he says, waving a hand. “I just thought … Ano …” He pauses, his eyes considering. We stand there for a moment, staring at each other, as if frozen in time. “There is something I have to tell you,” he says abruptly.
“Okay … ?”
“I …” He looks at the ground, then back at me. “I am the one who sent you the letter,” he finally says. “Inviting you to come visit.”
“I know,” I say, puzzled. “You signed it.”
“Yes, but …” He shakes his head, frowning. “What I mean is, eto … I sent it without telling your grandmother. She did not know. Until you accepted our invitation.”
“Oh.” Realization crashes through me. When I first arrived, my grandmother was so standoffish—and it wasn’t just because I paid her too many compliments or because I reminded her so much of Mom. It was because she never wanted me to come in the first place.
“I knew if I consulted her first, she would be against the idea,” my grandfather continues, his words coming out in a rush. “But I wanted …” A bit of his usual impish grin crosses his face. “I wanted to know you.”
“I’m so glad,” I say, my voice faint. I don’t trust myself to say anything more—my eyes are already filling with tears. This is why he brought me on this excursion. It wasn’t about Pocky or the power stone. He wanted to tell me the truth. “Um. So did Grandma forgive you? Because it seems like things have worked out okay.”
“Hai, hai,” he says with a chuckle. “It is easier to be against something when it is an abstract concept, a thing you cannot quite see, ne? But when you were standing right in front of her, a real person …” He beams at me. “I knew it would be all right.”
I want to hug him, but I don’t know if that will offend him—so we just stand there for a moment, smiling at each other.
“Kimi-chan,” my grandfather finally says. “When you return to the States, I know you will be very busy with school and other young-people things. But I am wondering … eto …” He hesitates, his gaze wandering.
“What is it, Grandpa?”
“May I write to you sometimes?” he says. He looks so serious. “And would you write me back and let me know how you are—how life is treating you?”
“Of course!” I say, my eyes widening in surprise. “I just assumed we’d keep in touch, Grandpa. These last two weeks have been …” I trail off. I can’t even put it into words. Finally I just say: “Arigato, Ojiichan. For everything.”
Grandpa nods, and he looks so relieved, my heart breaks. He really thought I was going to say no. “No, arigato to you, Kimi-chan. I will send you a first correspondence next week. I know how to use the email
.” He chuckles to himself, reverting to the Grandpa demeanor I’m more familiar with. “And the internet. That is how I found out when your spring break was—the Google!”
“Hey, Grandpa,” I say, as we walk back toward the train station. “You should consider using the email to write to other people, too.”
“I do,” he says proudly. “My friend Shin and I exchange weekly updates about the weather and what team is ahead in football. And sometimes I send your obaasan a message that just says, ‘Hi, I am in the other room.’ ” He cackles to himself. “She tells me to cut it out, but I know she secretly thinks it’s funny.”
“No, I mean …” I stop and laugh. “Okay, that is actually pretty funny. But I think you should try writing to Mom again, Ojiichan. A lot has changed over the years. I think she’d like to hear from you.”
“Mmm.” My grandfather’s eyes soften, but his sadness is tempered with the tiniest spark of hope. “Perhaps you could put in a good word for me?”
“I’m not sure how far my ‘good word’ will go at the moment,” I say. “But someone really smart gave me some good advice recently: If you want something, you have to say it out loud and to the correct person.”
“Hmm,” Grandpa says. “Who gave you this advice?”
“Grandma,” I say, laughing.
“Ah.” He smiles at me. “Then I agree, it is the best advice ever.”
The hour has arrived. I am about to go on my mission.
I’m nervous, but actually kind of excited, too?
Grandma helps me pack up the project I worked on all night into a nice gift box and wishes me luck as I head off to the train station. I wend my way through the now familiar environs of Maruyama Park, my package tucked securely under my arm, my heart beating a kazillion miles per minute.
It speeds up as I approach the mochi stand and goes into hyperdrive when I spot Akira. He and his ojisan are both working the counter, helping a long line of eager customers.
I reach the mochi stand and position myself off to the side, not wanting to interrupt. After a few minutes, I start to feel incredibly awkward. Some of the people in line are giving me funny looks, probably wondering who this random girl is and what she’s waiting for and why she has a gigantic box tucked under her arm. I shift from foot to foot and try to project a confident feeling—like, yes, I’m just standing here, what of it? I most definitely have a purpose, a mission, even if you don’t know what it is, Mr. Random Tourist Person, and I intend to—
“Kimi?”
I whip around to see Akira standing there, giving me a quizzical look.
“Oh, uh, hi,” I say, my face getting hot. Of course I’ve rehearsed this moment a million times in my head. Imagined the perfect speech I’d give. Pictured how he’d be gazing at me with surprise—but also affection, amazement, and appreciation for how cute I look. (I’m wearing my new pink blouse—the one I made with Grandma. And jeans and white ankle boots with fringy bits. I look very cute.)
For now, he just looks surprised. Also, really hot, which I didn’t anticipate but probably should have. Under his apron, he’s wearing the cool T-shirt with the abstract design on it—the one he was wearing the day we met. Tending to the mochi stand with such a big crowd is clearly hard work and his shirt is sticking to him various places in sweaty patches, especially his chest and those nice arms. My eyes linger and I very sternly remind myself to not get distracted by him the way I usually do. I’m on a mission, after all.
“What are you doing here?” he says.
“I brought you something,” I say, brandishing the gift box at him. “Something I thought you should have.”
He takes it from me curiously, examining it from every angle.
“Open it,” I blurt out. “I mean, if you want to.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face and my chest warms. Ugh. Focus, Kimi. Mission!
“Let’s sit down for a minute,” he says, gesturing to a nearby bench.
We sit and he opens the box with care, keeping the flat cardboard surfaces pristine. My eyes are glued to his face, waiting for his reaction.
“Wow,” he says, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. “It’s … wow.”
He sets the box on the bench and pulls the garment inside free, holding it up in front of him.
“Kimi,” he says softly. His voice has that sweet tenderness that always makes me blush. “Oh, Kimi.”
He can’t take his eyes off what I’ve made for him. I watch as he takes it all in: the old pages of medical texts I carefully soaked and treated and sewed together into a jacket. I cut it in a style inspired by the haori, so it’s loose and cool and he can wear it over lots of stuff. I used Grandma’s suggestion to reinforce it with another fabric, a light cotton I sewed the treated pages onto. And I made sure that plenty of the pages I used featured those ultra-detailed medical diagrams he’s so fond of.
“This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever given me,” he says.
He still can’t stop looking at it. He’s studying every detail.
“I know what it’s like to want to do something for your family,” I say. “To feel like they’ve worked so hard for you and you love them so much, you can’t imagine doing anything else.” I think of my mother’s exhausted face when I was younger, working hours on end and pulling me tightly into her arms at the end of the day. “But that doesn’t mean you have to forget what you want. Your ojisan knows what it’s like to have a big dream. And I think—no, I know—he would want you to have yours.” I lean forward, trying to get out what I want to say. “Spending time with you has given me so much courage, Akira. I love how much passion you have, how seriously you take things … and how you kept telling me to go after what I want.” I brush my fingers over the jacket, smiling at the diagrams I know he loves so much. “It’s totally scary. There are no guarantees. But when something speaks to your soul …” He finally turns and looks at me, but his eyes give nothing away. “You can’t give up on it. Please don’t give up on being a doctor, Akira. I know it’s what you want more than anything in the entire world. I know it speaks to your soul. And I just wanted to remind you of how you felt when you first discovered that.”
Something flickers in his eyes—I can’t quite tell what it is, but it seems like he wants to say a million things at once and isn’t sure where to begin. We gaze at each other for a few moments more and it feels a bit like those crackly silences we used to have with each other.
But it also makes that ache pulse around my heart again and I can only take so much. Anyway, I’ve accomplished my mission: I just wanted to get him to remember his dream—and to remember that because it’s important to him, it’s important. Simple as that.
So finally, I stand.
“Good-bye, Akira,” I say, squeezing his hand. “And thank you so much for the printouts and the Ebi Filet-O. I really appreciated them.”
I turn and manage to walk away before I start to cry. And when the tears begin to fall, I walk faster, motoring my way through Maruyama Park as quickly as I can. I pass by all the food stands, the gorgeous cherry blossoms, the fairy-tale bridge where Akira and I sat just last week. But it feels so much longer ago than that.
I’m walking so fast, concentrating so hard on getting to the train station, trying so much not to cry more, that I don’t hear my name being called until someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and a young woman in an all-black ensemble says something to me in Japanese, her eyes wide and urgent. I think I catch the word for “boy,” but I don’t understand anything else.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t understand …”
“Ah, English,” she says, switching over. “Ahhhh … boy? That boy. He is chasing you, I think?”
I turn my gaze to the spot she’s gesturing to, just before the bridge.
And there’s Akira. Running, out of breath, the jacket I made for him thrown awkwardly over his T-shirt–apron ensemble. He’s waving his arms over his head, apparently trying to get my attention.
He looks almost as ridiculous as he does when he’s dancing around in his mochi costume.
“Kimi …” he gasps out.
“Are you in danger, miss?” the young woman says, her eyes narrowing.
“N-no,” I stammer. “No, I don’t think so.”
Akira reaches us and the young woman gives him the stink-eye and nods at me.
“Please yell if you are in danger,” she says. “My all-female advanced kendo group is meeting just across the bridge and we will all come to assist you if you need.”
“Uhhh, that’s so freaking cool?!” I blurt out as she strides off. “I will totally do that.”
I turn to Akira. “Wh-what are you doing?” I manage, my voice faint.
He doubles over, out of breath, resting his hands on his knees.
“I am coming after you,” he wheezes out. “I have been—how do you say it? An ass that is bad.” He looks up at me. “And not in the good way.”
“Akira.” My explosive giggle escapes. I’m so overwhelmed with emotions, I don’t know what to do but laugh.
He straightens up all the way and locks his gaze with mine. “I am sorry about the other day,” he says. “When I said I couldn’t see you anymore. Kimi, I don’t want to do anything but see you. I just …”
“I understood,” I say gently. “I mean, eventually. I do know quite a bit about family obligation and such, remember?” I arch an eyebrow at him. “Although I think I also should take you to task for always just deciding these things. Like when you just decided not to kiss me.”
“That was partially your fault, too!” he exclaims. His lips twitch. “We have been over this. But Kimi …” He gestures to his jacket. “This is amazing. You are amazing.” He steps closer and cups my face in his hands. “You made me speechless. For a moment.”
“So are you going to talk to your uncle, to your family?” I say, leaning into the warmth of his hands. “About still going to school?”
“Yes,” he says. “But for now …” His face softens. “I already talked to Ojisan about needing tomorrow off. To spend time with you before you leave.”