Grandmother

Grandmother was in the hospital for a week before Father called me. You have to come, he said. I’ll pick you up tomorrow. My heart dropped just a bit. It was serious. The last time Grandmother was in the hospital, I wasn’t even told until after a month when I came home to visit for the weekend. I think my parents chose to deliberately conceal such information from me, so that I could focus on my studies. As the first in my family to go to college, it was important for them to see me succeed, for Grandmother and Grandfather to know their little girl was making it, just as they had predicted.

I didn’t tell any of my friends at school I was leaving to go home because of my grandmother. For some odd reason, I thought Grandmother would get better once I saw her. The only people I told were the professors whose classes I was going to be missing. I took homework with me, just in case I got stuck in the hospital with nothing to do but watch Grandmother immobile on the hospital bed. They put in the tubes, Mother told me. Your uncle and aunts let the doctors do it. She shakes her head sadly and with obvious disapproval. Your Grandmother would have never wanted that. Since Grandmother couldn't speak, Youngest Uncle and Aunt 1 and Aunt 2 made the final decision without consulting the entire family. Now I couldn’t hear my Grandmother’s soothing voice that sometimes crack and her cough that she occasionally has because of her asthma. I never got to hear her speak again. She died, intubated and I watched her fade into a sleep she would never awaken from again.

Grandfather was angry at Father for not picking me up. She’s only waiting for her child, he berated his son. I know it, he said, I know she’s just waiting for Lucy. Father finally acquiesced and called me. Sometimes I blame my parents for not calling me sooner. Perhaps if I had been there, Grandmother wouldn’t have died. But Grandmother died, and there’s no use for blame.

My cousins still blame me though, for not calling them, for not letting them watch Grandmother draw in her last breath. I didn’t get to see either, tears form in my eyes; I could only tell them, I’m sorry.

Grandfather and I decided to spend the night with Grandmother. My family doesn’t believe in letting a family member stay in the hospital by themselves. It’s better if there’s someone else, someone familiar, Mother says. And ending up in the hospital brings out everyone that may have ever known you in your life to visit. And there’s a galore of food that is brought – fresh chicken broth, fresh rice, fresh water from home, fresh fruits. It's like a party sometimes with everyone crowded in the small room. The nurses don't like it when there's too many people, and sometimes have to come in to quiet down the crowd when the laughter gets too noisy for the other patients next door.

Grandmother died that night – the first and last night I was with her. I think somehow it was meant to be that way. That Grandfather was right. That Grandmother was only waiting for me. Waiting for me to see her one last time before she left. Her spirit couldn't leave her body until she said her final goodbyes to the people that meant a lot to her. To the people that still held a piece of her on earth.

I don’t like hospitals. I think of all the people who have died, of the spirits that can’t find their way to heaven, and I get scared. So scared that I sneaked in to use the toilet in Grandmother’s hospital room, even though we’re not supposed to. I hear my grandmother’s wheezing. And I think she’s in pain. I ask the nurse if there’s anything she can do to ease Grandmother's pain. No, she informs me. She looks at me with a little bit of sadness in her eyes, a little bit of compassion.

Grandmother’s mouth is dry so I take the little bottle of Vaseline Mother brought with her earlier that evening, and apply a layer of protective coating around her mouth, on her lips. How chapped they are, I think. I also apply some to her tiny feet and massage her feet as I do so. I remember how she loved it when my siblings and I brought water on New Year’s eve to wash her feet and Grandfather’s. As I poured the lukewarm water onto her feet, and started to rub, washing and massaging, she smiled warmly, hugely and blessed me. Let this year be a wonderful year for you child. May you have what your heart desires. She would say. And she’d put her tiny hands on my head, and her fingers would massage my forehead. Satisfied I did a good job, I took her feet, one by one, out of the water and with my towel on hand, dried her feet.

Grandfather was sleeping on the temporary bed the nurse had brought for us. I’m afraid you’ll have to do with the armchair, she said. I nodded and told her I didn’t mind. I’m probably not going to get much sleep anyway. It was 3 a.m., my butt cheeks hurt from the uncomfortable chair. I try to close my eyes and will myself to fall back asleep but cannot. I sneaked a peek at Grandmother, good, she’s still breathing it seems. I look at Grandfather and lovingly wonder what would happen to him if Grandmother died. The early morning nurse came in the room for her daily check. I didn’t pay her any attention, it was probably no different than when a nurse came in 2 hours earlier.

The nurse finishes checking Grandmother’s vitals, and proceeds to touch Grandmother’s feet. She frowns. She turns to me and with a sad voice, but concerned look, she tells me that I need to be prepared. Prepared for what? I’m confused and asks her for clarification. She tells me Grandmother’s temperature is dropping. See, if you touch her feet, you can tell how much cooler they are now. I rose from my chair to touch Grandmother’s feet. They were a little cold. Couldn’t we just put socks on her feet? I asked. The nurse shakes her head. She says, I want you to be prepared. Maybe you should call someone? With elderly people, like your Grandmother, sometimes, we don’t know when they’ll go. It could be two hours, two days, two weeks. We don’t know. But we do know they’re slowly dying. She left the room and I was shocked. My mind raced at a million paces. Do I wake up Grandfather? How can I tell him his wife is dying? How can I explain? Who do I call? What do I do? I walked around Grandmother’s bed and touched her face, her arms, her legs, her feet. Grandmother, what do I do? I tell her not to die, plead with her to get better. I’ll be a better Granddaughter I promise.

Finally, resolute, I call Mother and Father. 10 minutes later, they arrive, along with Second Uncle and his wife, and Aunt 1. Their arrival awakens Grandfather, who is surprised to see everyone there, and demands an explanation. I cannot bring myself to explain, and let Mother and Father do the talking. I must have still been in shock, because Mother sends me out to call my siblings. There’s only one phone in the room, and Second Uncle's wife is using it to call the rest of the family. I rush to the waiting room and leave messages for my siblings. I wasn't gone long, but as I walked back into the room, Grandmother had died, and everyone stood around her bed, crying and wailing. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. And I couldn’t, didn’t want to see Grandmother lifeless on the bed. I turned around and stepped out of the room. I sat on the cold floor and didn’t get up until Older Brother arrived.

It’s not my fault, I told myself then. I tell myself it’s not, even today. But sometimes, I wonder, if only I had been there earlier, had spoken with her, had been a better Granddaughter, a more loving Granddaughter, had spent more time with her, perhaps today she would still be with me. And though I have moments of self-doubt, of self-blame, I still remember the words she uttered to me when I was seven going on eight. I’ll come back to watch over you after I die. And somehow, that makes me feel better. Now I understand her words and appreciate her telling me this, loving me enough to come back to look after me, even after death.

Unattainable

I want to fall in love. I wrote in my diary. It was 1994 and I was a junior high student. That year was the year I dabbled with smoking. The year I flew with friends and skipped school to enjoy a day at the nearby park. It was the year of watching boys my age and giggling with friends about who we thought was cuter. It was the year I wrote love notes and dropped them in the locker of the boy who I had a huge crush on. The boy with the receding hairline and large forehead. The boy I thought was a good enough match for me. I don’t remember his name, but I do have his picture in my 7^th grade yearbook hearted out with an arrow and the following message: he’s my man.

Not much has changed since those days. I still go to the bar with friends and we still check out boys and occasionally the men who catch our attention. We still giggle and talk about finding Mr. Right. And of course, I still want to fall in love, even though many people tell me it’s not all that. Get yourself a puppy, they tell me. It’s not the same, I respond. I want the love that Meredith Grey speaks of in her monologue to Doctor McDreamy. She says: Derek, I love you, in a really, really big pretend to like your taste in music, let you eat the last piece of cheesecake, hold a radio over my head outside your window, unfortunate way that makes me hate you, love you. So pick me, choose me, love me.

Though many women, including myself, watching that scene cringed at hearing her utter these words, I think we all secretly wish we could say those words to somebody. It’s uncomfortable to put your heart out there, to be torn apart. But I can’t help think that perhaps without having that experience, you’re not really living. I’m not really living. So how can I fall in love when I can’t fall in love? I write a friend and she tells me to simply wait. I can’t wait anymore, I cried out when I received her letter. I propped myself on the leather couch that needed to be cleaned again and thought about her words. I continue to read and she writes, let others see the beautiful Lucy that I know. They can’t start to love you unless you let them inside your heart to see the beauty that I know is there. I can’t help myself, and I start to cry.

My Child

Mother says I’m not really her child. You’re Grandma and Grandpa’s child. Monica and Simeon were 5 and 6 years old when Mother had me. You were so white, she teased. So white and beautiful that Grandma and Grandpa took you in their care. Grandpa took one look at you and told Grandma, Old Lady, look at her. She looks just like you. I was 8 when Grandma and Grandpa finally had to give me back to Mother and Father.

I’ve never heard Mother complain or harbor any ill thoughts and feelings towards Grandmother and Grandfather for taking her baby away from her. It started with the return home from the hospital. Mother thought her husband’s parents were being unnaturally nice to her. Grandmother told Mother to rest, that she would take care of the baby. You need to get healthy again! she scolded Mother. As the daughter-in-law, Mother couldn’t say no. Once, twice, three times, the child became their child. She spent her days and nights closeted in their room. She only knew their scent and the warmth of their hands. She shied away from her Mother’s touch and held her little arms out to the person who’s touch and face she recognized. In the middle of the night, her cries were hushed by Grandmother and Grandfather’s persistent push of her baby carriage. Mother likes to say how funny it was to watch Grandma get so angry at the baby for crying so much. Mother always laughs when she remembers the episode. She would raise her right hand, ready to spank you. She would say, what a bad child, and her hand would swing down hard, but would never actually touch you.

I was the favored child and I knew it. I could be mean, pull my younger sister’s hair, cry and lie that Monica and Simeon had teased me, and I would always come out the winner. Even if I was wrong, Grandmother would never scold me in front of others. She’d take me to her room, sit me on her bed, and gently tell me to avoid getting in trouble. Mother tells me I was the object of many arguments between her and Grandmother. When you were still an infant, Grandma and Grandpa fed you milk all the time, even if you weren’t really hungry! When your father and I took you to the doctor, he ordered that we feed you less, and when we told Grandma and Grandpa, they were outraged. They stood up, took you back to their room, and told your Father and me that we wanted to starve you. That we were so greedy with our money, we didn’t want to spend it on buying you milk. Fine, Grandma raised her voice. If you and my son are so poor that you can’t feed the child, we’ll take care of her! The door closed with a bang. Mother says she and Father never brought the subject up again.

Even though my primary caretakers were Grandmother and Grandfather, I knew who my parents really were by the time I was two. I was more afraid of Mother’s wrath and Father’s disappointment, than of Grandmother’s and Grandfather’s. I think all children know, intuitively at some point in their young lives, who their real parents are. Maybe it’s the language. Calling Mother, mother and Father, father. Associating words and faces.

I was seven going on eight when Grandmother sat me down by the window overlooking the endless field of green grass where my siblings and I loved to frolic during our free time. There’s the lonely tree we use to climb and pretend to play battleship in. It took me a while to learn how to climb it without needing Simeon’s help, and I was so proud when I made my first climb by myself. Grandmother’s fingers are raking through my fine hair. She’s quiet. She sighs. My little girl, she starts. Grandma and Grandpa are leaving you for good. Do you know? I nod my little head. I bite my lips just slightly. They were leaving for America where Mother and Father got Liz and me our cute and fluffy dresses and the cool looking jean jackets all of our friends were envious of. Grandmother continues to speak. I don’t really listen until she asks, If you want, we can pack you into our luggage and you’d be able to go with us as well. I shook my head. Grandma sighs and tells me when she dies, she’s going to come back to look after me.

That night, I told Mother I didn’t want to go back to Grandmother and Grandfather’s house again. Mother tells me Grandmother and Grandfather accused her and Father of turning their little girl against them. Grandma points her finger at Mother and says, You, you did something. You’ve said something. You’ve made her not want to be with us anymore! Mother can only laugh and try to placate her enraged mother-in-law. Mother wants to tell her husband’s mother, it’s your own fault, you told her you wanted to put her in your luggage, and you told her you’d come back for her after your death. But she didn’t. They were leaving. There was no sense in starting a fight. They had had too many already and old wounds didn’t need to be re-opened again.

They left and two years later, we joined them in the land of Indian Summers, my favorite song. Simeon was visiting Grandmother and Grandfather during his summer vacation. They took away his passport and called Mother and Father. If you don’t send our child to us, we’re keeping your child here with us. He’s not coming back. They warned. Mother and Father didn’t know what to do, but pack up the entire family and leave the home they’d work so hard to build again. They could not go against the elders. It was simply not done. Simeon was for a long time, my parent’s only son. Sons are very important in the family, but they couldn’t simply give up one child for another. I was also theirs as well, and they didn’t want to have to choose.

Affairs of the Single Girl

He's really mean. I can't believe I've been seeing him for 3 years now! Anna fumes and looks very upset. I sit across from her in the tiny cafe. Our lattes half emptied. Jeff was the type of guy who took more than he gave. And he thought it was his right. He has no patience for girls who want more than just sex. I think it's because he's married and his flings with these girls are really meaningless to him. But I don't dare tell Anna. She is infatuated with him and when I last brought it up, she was on the defense.

Anna's been my friend since we last met at a party in Uptown. We really didn't want to be merry, so we each sneaked out, I to grab a cigarette and she to grab some fresh air. As I started to light up, she told me, you're going to die early, you know. I choked just a bit. Excuse me? I replied. I was annoyed that some girl dared to lecture me. She smiled and walked over to me. I said that you're going to die early. You know, because you smoke. She laughs. I'm Anna. You are? And she extends her hand. She has lovely, long fingers. Turns out she's a pianist. I extend my hand and we shake hands. Our grip is strong. I like firm, strong grips. It means you're not afraid to have a little personality. I'm Lucy, I tell her. And yes, I know. But I still do it. Perhaps I'm wishing to die early. I'm lit up and I inhale. We were both quiet as I finished my cigarette. It's a nice evening. I muse. Yes, she says. Look at the moon. I wish we could see the stars better. I nod in agreement. Do you wish you could become someone else sometimes? She quietly asks. I look slightly taken aback and recover quickly before she notices. I'm careful to tread lightly - it sounds as though there's something heavy on her mind. Um, I pause. I think everyone at some point in their lives wishes they were someone else. I mean, look at all those little girls out there wishing they could become like Britney Spears, or even worse, Paris Hilton. Yeah. That's true, she agrees. She sighs. She smiles and says, can we exchange emails? I'm new in town and looking to make new friends.

Anna met Jeff in a chat room. He was in town for business and wanted to meet her. She agreed and that night they had sex. She told me later, that she hadn't planned for sex to happen. It just did. I berated Anna's lack of judgment and told her to be careful. You might get hurt, I said. They exchange emails almost every day and at least once a week they have phone sex. Anna! I declared one night. He's a married guy. And he's old! You're so beautiful and so young - end it with him. I told her with a stern face. She always smiles and tells me yes - but the next day, she's entranced by his voice, and the way he gets her. I don't get her, I think. I don't get why she's willing to settle for this. He lives in DC with his wife of 30 years and his kids, 11 and 16. Anna's so young. I think. She could pass for his kid.

In her mid-twenties, Anna still looked like an 18-year-old girl and she doesn't mind being mistaken for such. She actually thrives on that knowledge. I hope I can forever keep my youthful shape and my beauty, she mutters as she looks herself over in the mirror. Anna's afraid of getting old, of getting wrinkles, of getting fat. I don't know why I'm her friend, but there's something about Anna, that intrigues me, perhaps it is because I wish I was more like her. Wish that I had her body, her self-confidence. Sometimes though, I think she displays a false sense of confidence in order to hide her insecurities about who she really is. Barely 100 pounds at 5 foot 1 inch, Anna works out every day, wanting to shed the extra 10 pounds she gained the year she went on Accutane to cure her acne. I'm telling you Lucy, I had to choose. The extra weight or my beautiful face. The face, as my mother often lectures about, is a woman's most important possession. The face is the first thing people look at, Mother holds my chin in her fingers. Honey, she clucks her tongue against her teeth, my poor daughter. Why won't you use the herbal cream your aunt sent you from China? At this rate, no one will want to marry you. I want to yell at Mother, to tell her that I'm trying. But I do not and listen to her lament on my poor, facial skin.

Anna was heartbroken when Jeff told her he no longer wanted to play with her. Why not? she demanded. Am I too old now? Did I do something wrong? She was getting too clingy, e-mailing him every day, and once, profession her love for him. He had had enough, and had found a new playmate closer to his home. Sorry, he wrote. We need to end this. She called me during dinner. I was sitting and enjoying a meal with my date, a surgeon who had little time to spare, and whom I was intrigued by. My cell phone rang like crazy. I could not ignore the text messages that said I'm going to kill myself. I left my date with a hasty, lame excuse, about a family emergency. I'm sure he thought I just wanted to leave the
cheap Chinese restaurant he had offered to take me out for dinner. I told him to call me if he was still interested.

I found Anna sitting in her backyard in the little swing that her father made her when she was 6 years old. The house now belonged to Anna. Her parents decided to leave and go back to their home country. Anna's home was here, so she took over their mortgage and stayed behind. It's cold Anna. I silently walked towards her. The breeze was mildly pushing the leaves on the trees sideways. Anna's shoulders started to shake and I pulled her into my arms. Anna. I soothingly whispered. Let's go inside. I grabbed her keys and we headed to her bedroom. The safe place.

I thought he loved me. She said. I thought I loved him. I do love him. Her tears cannot seem to stop. It flows as though it knows that it has to keep her in tears, to erase him from her heart. I cannot say anything. I do not say anything. I listen to her cry. To her bitch at him. To her sob. To her mumbling. And then, exhausted, she finally falls asleep and I along with her.

It's funny how the heart can change. How scars heal. Anna's happily married now. I don't know if she ever told her husband about her past. About Jeff. I don't think she would have. The shame of being with a married man would have been the unraveling of her relationship with a man who strongly believes in the sanctity of marriage. Whose life revolves around bible studies and the weekends spent at the church with great anticipation. Never tell him, I mentally advise Anna. Never tell him. But do tell God. He's the only one who would be able to forgive and love you like he loved you before your sins. I think Anna knows. I hope she knows. I hope her husband never finds out.

Nit Picky

Kari and I sit on the busy Karasuma subway. We’re headed to class and running just a little late. Kari used to be a goth girl, black and lace made up her entire wardrobe. I’ve decided to take in more colors, she nonchalantly flips her hair. She takes out her lip gloss and re-applies another coating to her already shiny lips. She now dresses in bright orange and decides to copy the Japanese high school girls, with their stilettos and their dyed hair.

Look at them, she points with her chin. There’s a group of 3 high school boys who don’t look so innocent. They’re so hot, she salivates. I agree. Especially the shorter one in the middle. His man purse slung over one shoulder, his green and white school uniform in disarray. His carefully spiked hair and the slight makeup to enhance his cheekbones. We’re bad. I giggle. We’re like the old lecherous men who always try to feel us up when we’re packed on the subway cars like sardines.

Each platform in Kyoto have platform helpers during the busy rush hours. As the bell rings signaling the doors are about to close, people rush down the stairs hoping to squeeze in the car that is ready to explode. The platform helpers help to push us in and we sometimes find ourselves, nose on the window, hoping that the doors don’t suddenly open and we fall into the river, or worse, the other train track.

The three boys glance at us briefly with no interest. I wonder what it’d be like to have a boy toy. Kari and I take the long winded stairs up to the street. It was difficult at first, making it up the stairs without huffing and puffing like a dog. But after months of endless walking, we come out without a sweat. We can hear the signal lights telling people to cross the street. It sounds like birds chirping and becomes a nuisance if you listen too long. We pass the Curry shop and I tell Kari we should have lunch there. I’d rather just pick up a bento. We can lunch in Gosho. She says. We make a brief stop at the mini mart on the corner. I can’t make up my mind which bento box I want. There’s a wall full of variety. So I opt for an onigiri with tuna and a green tea cream cheese sponge cake. At the cash register I am enticed by the rice buns in the glass case. I’ll have the one with the barbecued pork, I tell the girl working behind the counter.

Lunch is my favorite meal of the day. Dinner can be a strenuous experience. Though Mama is a wonderful cook and the meal she prepares is always of the freshest ingredients – every morning she goes to the local market to prepare for dinner, and sometimes to replenish Papa’s beer cases – at least once a week we have smoked fish, roasted fish, or fried fish. A meal that would have taken me 30 minutes to finish, takes me 1 hour when I pick at the tiny bones in the fish, trying to unearth as much meat as I can to consume with my small bowl of rice.

Lulu, the overfed Welsh corgi, nibbles at the back of my feet. I tap her away with my foot. Papa is finished with his dinner and sips heavily from his beer bottle. He only drinks dry Kirin. On the bottles, if you look closely enough, you can find the ki, the ri, and the n in the image of the flaming horse. Papa’s tall and skinny, but too much beer consumption has given him a beer belly. He unhooks the button to his pants and asks Mari about her wedding plans. Silently I finish my dinner and help Mama with the dishes. I’m going out tomorrow, I tell Mama. Is that okay? She nods and asks me where I’m going.

Papa and Obaachan get to use the ofuro first. Sometimes if I’m lucky and Papa’s not home, I am the first to relax in the warmth of the bathwater. I want one of these bath rooms, I tell Mama. After dinner, Mama always heads to the bath room and fills the deep tub with water. She presses a button and like magic, the tub heats up and keeps the water nice and hot. I rinse my body on the floor next to the tub. There’s a shower head that flexes to reach all the dirty spots. Satisfied that I’m finally clean, I hop in the tub. Sometimes I don’t, if I see stray hair or body dirt floating on the clear water. There’s just something gross about that – sharing water with strangers. I laugh at my own prejudice. How absurd, I can swim in a lake, in the ocean, in a pool filled with stranger’s dirt and yet the thought of entering the hot tub Mama prepared, fills me with disgust.

Low Expectations

She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling. Her black and white checkered blanket covers her naked body. She doesn’t want to wake up, to another empty day, to another day of feeling trapped in a world of illusions. Her hair is a mess and oily. She forgot to take a shower last night. The morning air is a little cool and she cuddles under the blanket. Moving into a fetal position, she glances at the clock. It’s 5 a.m. and not yet time for work. The curls that she had artistically arranged in her hair have become undone and the hairspray she had generously applied was not as strong as she wanted. I need to buy new hairspray. Her eyelids heavy, she remembers she also didn’t wash off her makeup. I drank too much. I feel soiled.

She remembers how rough he had been with her. I’m just his plaything. She doesn’t know how to break the cycle. She remembers now, how he had laughed. How he had taken. How she felt empty and wanted something from him. Anything. But as she lay on top of him, his heart pounding against her cheek. His hand caressing her thigh. God, you were good. He exhales. Honey, you were good. You know how to make a man want to spill his seed in you. If only she was like you. He heaves a heavy sigh. He strokes her hair. She never tells me what she wants. She just lays there as though it’s her duty. But you...babe, that was good.

He talks about his wife and how frigid she is in bed. I mean, I can’t even do it with her, I feel like I’m forcing her. All men who cheat on their wives, especially with younger women, tell her these lies. The lies pour easily from the mouths that love to give her pleasure, as she lets them kiss their way down her stomach to the sweet treasure that beckons to be filled. She hears the lies and knowingly accepts them as truth.

She pretends to be naughty. She pretends to be coquette. She pretends to know about amours such as these. She tells him she doesn’t like to cuddle afterwards. She tells him about her rules. She tells him and he accepts. She doesn’t know why she lies. She doesn’t know why. She lies and it hurts when they leave. She lies and she wonders if she was too easy. She wonders why she chose to go down this path, the path that doesn’t return. That doesn’t give back. That cannot fulfill her need.

Did I do something wrong? She texts him. No hon, he writes back. I’ve just been busy. Family’s coming to town, my to-do list is growing. He lies and she accepts it. I’m the other woman. What did I expect? She leans her forehead into her pillow and finally decides to get up. Tomorrow she’s meeting the nice gentleman her friend wants her to date. He’s not exactly the best looking guy ever, her friend teased, but I think he’ll be good for you. At least give him a chance. Keep your heart open to the possibility of you and him. He’s a good guy, her friend advises.

She stands in the warmth of the water, letting her lies go down the drain. What’s wrong with me? Why do I go for the unavailable men? Why can’t I be normal and be with someone who wants to be with me? Who can’t get enough of me? Who I can go out with in public and tell everyone he’s with me?

Loving God

Every Sunday he preaches to his attentive parish about forgiveness and love. He reads from the bible and sings to the families gathered about, he sings songs of honoring mothers and fathers, about giving your love to Him. At 5’6”, he was handsome and I was happy that Older Sister caught such a good catch. Wild and unconventional, Older Sister became pious and motherly, after her vows were exchanged. Her days, it seemed, revolved around her husband, his family, and their church. She tried to convert us, but our belief in the spirits that guard and protect our home was much more deeply rooted than her belief in God.

It was the summer of conversion. Somehow, Older Sister talked Younger Sister and me into spending the week at their annual church camp, somewhere in Baptistland in the South. At 17 and 16, we were impressionable and not quite lost yet. You’ll have fun, you’ll see, her eyes bright, she persuaded us. One word of advice, she cautioned. Don’t pledge if you don’t really believe. It’s one of the worse sins. And I was reminded of Evangelical Billy Graham.

Stand up, all of you believers, a voice from the distant podium spoke to volumes in the stadium-packed seats. Was it really Billy Graham? Slumped in the uncomfortable chair, surrounded by devout believers, I opened my fantasy book about a boy and his quest to find the true gods and filtered out the Words of the Lord. Older Sister tapped me on my shoulder. Her glare was so sudden, so brief, I thought I had imagined it. Get up! Give yourself to God! Renew your vows to Him. I glanced around. Everyone but Little Sister and me, it seemed were up on their feet, swaying to the commanding voice from below. Some people were crying, their eyes closed and faces upturned towards the sky. I nudged Little Sister and we both stood up. I leaned close to Little Sister and whispered, We shouldn’t have come. Stand up only if you believe, really believe, the voice boomed through the microphone. If you’re standing up because the people beside you, behind you, in front of you, are standing up, then don’t stand up. Stand up because you truly believe in magnificent Him and give yourself, rededicate yourself to Him. Little Sister nudged me. Older Sister was giving us the look. The look that said, what are you doing? Sit down! We waited, seconds, minutes, and then I sat down. I expelled a slight breath. Little Sister soon joined me.

We left non-believers in their faith that summer, and returned non-believers. There’s no way I’m converting. I confided to Little Sister. It’s just way too intense! I declined Older Sister’s invitation to church, declined the invitations to their church holiday party, to the bible camps. I believe that there is one God and that people just have different views of who God is. I once told Older Sister as she and Brother-in-Law drove me back to college. Buddha, Allah, God, Christ, even the spirits Mom and Dad believe in, it’s all just one thing, one true God. The rest of the trip, Older Sister lectured me about the sins of those who believed in Other Gods. They’re not going to heaven, she defiantly motions with her head. I can only nod and pretend to listen.

Older Sister and Brother-in-Law invite us to their home – it’s their first home and we’re happy for them. Our family arrives and we’re the only guests. His mother is in her room. In the kitchen, away from the prying ears of Older Sister, she tells Mother to have a talk with her daughter. It’s jut not done. Mother knows what she must do. She pulls Older Sister into a corner. What are you two doing? Where is the rest of his family? I will not eat this meal – you have disrespected me, your mother-in-law, and most of all, your father. Older Sister, tells Mother to go home. Leave if you want. You don’t have to stay. Brother-in-Law steps in and tells Mother, We already had a gathering for my family. Mother shakes her head. These two kids don’t understand. It’s just not done. Mother leaves, while Father enjoys the meal lovingly prepared by Older Sister. He doesn’t understand the fuss Mother makes over tradition. It’s our daughter, he tells her. They know God. Stop being difficult. Mother never takes Father’s advice. You eat, she tells him. You stay. You’ll see. If you don’t curb it now, you’ll see.

You don’t respect my husband! Older Sister shrieks on the phone. Father is stunned. A man of few words, he cannot think of a quick reply. I sit in the kitchen chair and watch his face slowly turn red. The color makes its way from his neck up to the roots of his hair. His nostril flares and he become short of breath. He looks as though he’s ready to explode. What did you say? He utters. Mother presses the speaker phone option and we hear my sister continue her tirade. You show up at our house without calling. You’re impolite Dad. But most of all, you disrespect my husband. It’s not your house. You should know better Dad, you’re like a kid! Older Sister hangs up. Mother pulls Father by the hand and leads him to the couch. She touches his cheek. It’s warm. Lucy, get your father his medicine.

That night, Mother placed a call to Brother-in-Law. He refused to answer the phone. Refused to return Mother’s messages. Older Brother calls and tells Mother and Father about the visit he just had from Brother-in-Law. Father, Mother. What happened? Brother-in-Law stopped by and said you’ve been harassing them? He said that you, Father, disrespect him. He said he doesn’t understand why you can’t call them before you show up at their doorstep. He wants to be a good host and provide you with water and food when you come. Mother tells Older Brother, your home is our home. Our home is your home. We’re not strangers, she continues, that we have to call you before showing up at your doorstep. We’re family.

She was 7-months pregnant when she lost her baby – only two days after she told Father he disrespected her husband. For 10 years they had been trying to conceive and even though she never told Mother and Father she was pregnant, never let them share in her joy, Mother and Father were still happy. Mother often tells us that a woman isn’t complete unless she has children. It’s about time your sister has a child, she says. Father is happy too, though he doesn’t say much. As long as he loves her, Mother says, it’s okay that she doesn’t come visit us at all, or call us to see how we’re doing. I can tell it hurts Mother and Father, and can only nod in agreement. She’s forgotten, I muse. She’s forgotten what it means to be one of us. What it means to have a mom, a dad, to have a family. We’re no longer her family. I write in my diary. He is her family now.

It’s 7 p.m. and we’re sitting down for dinner. Baby, Mother tells Younger Brother. Why don’t you say the prayer tonight? He groans and hurriedly thanks God for the meal, asks God to let me have more time to play games with him, tells God it’s not his fault he broke Bibo’s CD – it was an accident! He continues and thanks God for Mom and Dad. Please let my Mom and Dad not be so angry all the time. He pleads. Thank you. Amen.

Bibo laughs under her breath and Baby kicks her under the table. Stop it guys, I reprimand. Mother cooked a hearty meal – Dad’s favorites by his side, and ours near our side. The phone rings and Baby picks it up. Mom, he hands the phone. It’s for you. Mother gets up from the dining table and goes to the side of the room to talk. We dig into our food as though it’s our last meal. Mother doesn’t approve – don’t eat like peasants, she warns. But we are our Father’s children after all, and with our spoons clinking against the overfilled bowls of Mother’s delicious cuisine, we hurriedly fight over who gets the best meat. Father laughs and tells Bibo and I to give it to him and Baby. Bibo pouts and then says okay, with a bright smile. Always the devious one, she knows the best piece is still on the stove.

Mother hangs up. Her face pale, she tells Father, She lost the baby. She’s been in the hospital since 8 in the morning. His older brother just called. Everyone’s there – except for us. Father doesn’t respond immediately. He chews his food noisily and takes a large sip from his glass. Well, he looks at Mother. I’m not going. They didn’t see fit to call us until now. Let them take care of her. He continues to eat. I urge Baby and Bibo to eat as well and tell Mother that I’ll take her to the hospital. Even though she obviously doesn’t want us there, Mother tells me, her voice cracking slightly, I’m her Mother. I know why her stillborn won’t come out. From the time Older Sister’s baby died in her womb in the early morning as she readied to go to work, to the time her brother-in-law called Mother during our dinner meal, the stillborn was still in her womb. There’s nothing worse than that, Mother sighs. Don’t take me, she says. Your presence will only cause undue conflict. He hates you, you know. And she probably blames you for the death of their child. Your Dad too. Let me call Older Brother and see if he can take me. I nod, though I feel sad. I know he hates me. He’s hated me since the day he married my sister.

Mother arrives and rubs Older Sister’s tummy. In a gentle voice she tells her dead grandchild to come out. Shhh...she whispers. Her fingers making circles. Come out, Grandmother is here. Don’t do this to my child. I forgive her so be good and come out. Don’t take my child away from me. Even though she doesn’t honor her father and me, it’s okay now. I forgive her, so be good and come out like a good child. Twenty minutes later, Older Sister finally gives birth to her stillborn. Mother isn’t there to see. Brother-in-Law bars her again from their lives. Leave, he said as Older Sister’s contractions started. Yet his mother was in the room with them. Mother left without seeing her stillborn grandchild.

Worried, Mother calls the next morning to check on Older Sister. She’s sleeping, Brother-in-Law informs. When will you have the funeral? She asks. Soon. He replies. I’ll let you know when.

We heard they cried a lot. At the funeral. We heard his entire family was there, including his parishioners. Older Brother went because Brother-in-Law invited him. Are you going? He asked Mother and Father. No. They replied. They obviously don’t want us there, or they would have called us by now. It was the morning of the funeral. You go, Mother tells Brother. They still think you matter so go.

When friends and relatives talk about Older Sister’s miscarriage, Mother tells them she doesn’t understand why Older Sister and Brother-in-Law cried so much. My daughter is dead and I don’t even have a grave to go pay my respects, to cry. She says. At least they have a grave to go to. To say goodbye. I raised my daughter for 20 years. I held her in my bosom when she was sick and hungry. I nurtured her back to health when she was near death’s door. I clothed and fed her, loved her as best as I could and she died. She died and I don’t know where to go, don’t know where to cry. Mother hasn’t forgiven Older Sister and Brother-in-Law. She prays to God. Let them have children. Let them see what it’s like to be in our shoes. Let them feel the hurt when their child tells them they’re bad parents, when their child says, I don’t want you in my house anymore.

Parental Leave

Mother stares at me hard. I avoid her gaze. “Why are you sitting there like you’re stupid?” she demands. I shrug. They’re leaving us. I don’t care anymore. Just go, I silently tell them. Go, rejuvenate. Please don’t fight anymore. Every day you fight. It’s driving me crazy. But I cannot tell them these words. That would bruise their parental pride and I would once again be the child who can’t love them enough, can’t care for them enough.

She sits at the table and laments. Father wanted me to marry a rich man. Instead, I married your father, a poor farmer’s son. Father said it wasn’t too late. The contract’s not binding yet, Daughter. Leave him. Tell them you don’t want to marry him. I am powerful, rich. You only have to say no. But I didn’t. For reasons that are now clear to me, I couldn’t have. Your father and I were meant to meet one last time. To be husband and wife one last time. To atone for our sins in our past life. I must accept what I have been given and try to repent. She tells Father, in our next life, may we never meet again. I don’t want to meet you again. May this be our last life together.

I used to cry when Mother and Father fought. When the tears stopped, I never questioned why. I’m all cried out. My first recollection begins with an argument in our kitchen. My sisters and I were in the living room next door, watching television. My legs hanging down from the side of the sofa. Older Sister’s laying on her stomach on the shiny wooden floor, chin cupped her hands. Her curly hair hides her watching TV from the corner of the eye. Younger Sister walks in circles, talking to herself. Occasionally she stops near my head to pull strings of my hair. My arm moves to hit her hand. Stop it! I demand.

There’s a shuffle and the door to the kitchen opens wide. Mother is shouting at Father. I don’t remember what. Alarmed, we rush and stand in the hallway, eyes-wide. Mother? Father? Older Sister calls out. Go back to the living room! Mother shouts. Her right hand grips the big knife they use to butcher the pig, whose skin pulsates with warmth and life in the final hour of its death. Little Sister runs to Father and her skinny arms wrap around one of his leg. Her nose buried in the back of his knee. He bends down to unwrap her and tells her to go with Older Sister. She shakes her head and starts to cry. She knows something is wrong.

Mother must have told Father to leave because our little feet carried us, running, to the front door. Without grabbing his coat, and despite the slight chill in the December air, Father walks towards us. Three little girls with their backs pressed against the door. Don’t leave Daddy. They cry and their arms stretched over the door, in vain hopes that Father wouldn’t leave. Mother follows into the hallway, her butcher knife still in hand. She points at the door. Her hair has become loose and flows like Medusa’s snakes. She tells him to come back when he’s become a man. A real man, she digs the knife slightly deeper into his manhood. I don’t know if Father left that time. Perhaps he did, never one to like confrontations.

Whew! I tell Bibo, the youngest sister, and Baby, the younger brother. Mom and Dad are finally gone. They boarded the plane this morning and it was all quiet. Too quiet. Baby cried into his pillow when Mother and Father left. I’m a big boy, he proudly states. And his hand quickly wipes away the tears forming in his eyes. Mother calls from my cousin’s cell phone. Call us right back! she says. Mom, I saw you only 2 days ago. We’re fine and as long as we know you both arrived safe and sound, that’s all that matters. I can hear her complain to my cousin that we don’t want to talk to them. I chuckle and hang up. I look around me and tell Bibo and Baby to start cleaning.

Ode to the 16

It’s dark, still, outside. The street lights barely glow to conceal the unshed snow that sits on the corner of the street. A few cars, trucks drive by. Each driver seemingly focused on getting to work on time. Or maybe returning home from a long shift? The glass house – or what I call glass house – I wait under. It’s hard to tell when the bus is close to my stop, so I occasionally have to step out of the comfort of the enclosure to peek in the distance. Is that the 16 or the 50?

The 50 zooms past, with barely any colored folks sitting in it. A couple white folks, each with their nose buried in a book or magazine, trying to avoid seeing the decay of the town they pass through. I shiver slightly and hold my scarf, pressed tight against my nose. My glasses fog up and I wish I had little window wipers to make them clear again. The moisture collects on the acrylic green fibers and I have to move the scarf slightly to a drier spot.

It’s cold and I try to keep warm – and busy until the bus arrives. The two white men in their heavy winter coats walk past, each with a shiny black briefcase in their hand. One looks like he’s near retirement while the other is already in retirement. They smile and try to catch my eye. Here, the younger of the two hands me a 10-page magazine. Redemption, was the title. No thank you, I’m Catholic. I reply politely. They look hurt, but don’t insist and walk towards their next convert. Unlike the younger Jehovah’s witnesses, who ride their bikes through the neighborhood, facing unknown dangers, sweating in their black suits, white shirts, and black ties, these men don’t ask me if I truly know God.

I glance at the street and see the 16 slowly make its way toward me. I take out my bus pass and get ready to board. Sometimes the bus driver is slow. Barely driving 5 mph. Sometimes, the bus driver is fast, driving like a madwoman and hitting the breaks just we near the next bus stop. I miss the old man with the graying hair. He of the cheerful smile, the blues eyes, and the frail body, who always waited for me to sit before driving on.

Only the unabashed, the brave, and the drunks dare to conduct conversation on the bus. Rarely do the riders utter a sentence, if only to say, Excuse me, I’m getting off, or if they’re sitting with someone they already know. Sometimes children come aboard with their parents or their accompanied adult and the little tykes are the object of conversation. Ooh, look she smiled. Coos the Mother to the man sitting opposite her daughter’s stroller. How old is she? 8 months.

The return trip is a mess of odors, people and bags. Bodies pressed against each other if there are too many people. The little old lady in her electric scooter means an extra 8 minute delay. We can only sigh and wait. Head bent, headphones on, I only pay attention to my stop, hurrying the bus along, so I can go home and rest.

16 is my number. If you want to find me, come ride the 16 and you’ll see. It’s my ride – and an in-convenient one at time. It’s my ride, and I’m glad it’s available to ride.

Lacking Restraint

Head bowed, she tries to hide the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her nose is runny. Her fingers fumble through the black purse, trying to find a scrap of tissue. She hadn’t plan on crying, and lifts a crumpled carbon receipt from the local supermarket and delicately, without arousing attention, dabs at the tears. She folds the receipt and dabs at her nose. Kneeling on the church pew, she glances at the figures waiting in line for confession.

God, forgive me, for I have sinned. Her heart cries. I don’t pray enough. I don’t honor my mother and father. I harbor jealousy towards my best friend. I sleep with another woman’s husband. God, forgive me my sins. Her ear rings. Her heart calms. And she feels a gentle breeze across the back of her neck. I promise I’ll be good, God. Just tell me, show me, speak to me. She pleads.

She puts on her sunglasses and walks down the cathedral steps. She hopes no one notices the dried streaks on her face. Her size 6 ½ feet carry her to the beige car and she sits for awhile, composing herself. Heaving a sigh, she drives off to meet her lover in their hotel down the street. I’m going to tell him today. I have to tell him it’s over. She can only imagine what it’s like to be the loving wife, who shares his life, his tantrums, and his kids. But she’s the other woman who plays with him on his free time, who caters to his physical needs and occasionally, boosts his male ego.

He grabs her by the waist as she enters their room. He nuzzles her neck and whispers, “I’ve missed you.” She tries to disengage but he pulls her into an amorous kiss, his tongue probing her mouth open. “Stop,” her arms push against his chest. He looks confused and runs his fingers through his hair. He sits on the edge of the nicely made bed and waits for an explanation. The window shades are open and she sees the city lights starting to come alive in the darkening hours of the day.

“I can’t,” she mutters. She doesn’t look at him. She can’t look at him. She shuffles her feet, like a child does, who’s been caught fibbing. She backs away and heads toward the door. “Don’t go,” he pleads. He rises from the bed and catches a hold of her wrist. “What’s wrong?” She simply shakes her head, her voice caught in her throat. “Look at me.” He pulls her face in his hands and kisses her lips. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same.” He tears her purse from her fingers. She struggles and he lays his chin on top of her head. His arms wrapped around her, afraid to let go, afraid she’ll walk away, afraid she’ll walk out of his life. “I feel guilty,” she whispers, her lips brushing against his shirt.

Her stomach turns and she feels a wave of nausea rise. She closes her eyes and lets the dizziness take over. She leans her head against his chest. He rubs her back, his fingers knowing exactly which spots to touch. “Let’s just lay here,” he brings her towards the bed. “It’ll be okay,” he whispers in her ear. “You want this, and I want this. We need this. You know that,” he continues. She falls into him and he wraps a leg around hers. His feet caressing hers. She closes her eyes and wishes she could disappear. Wishes she could have the willpower to say no, to leave, to be the real good girl she pretends to be everyday.

Spreading Lies

As two of the only three smokers in our entire group, Nicole and I immediately bonded. Standing outside of the university hall, Japanese college students chatting on the side, are they talking about us? I took out a cigarette. “Hey, can I use your lighter?” I asked. She was leaning against the concrete pillar, smoking. She tipped her head to one side. Her brunette hair falling over part of her face. “I forgot my lighter and had to borrow one. If it’s okay, we can kiss.” Though I tried not to show I was shocked, she burst out laughing and walked over. My cigarette limp in my fingers. She hands me her lit one. “Here,” she shows me. Her lit cigarette against my unlit one. “Take a smoke, like you would normally do.” Mine catches on fire. My lungs fill with the rush of invisible air that I know kills me slowly. But I don’t care. My head fogs up and for a moment, it’s just me.

We sit in the tiny Japanese establishment on the Kamogawa River. The sun is hot outside; we are tired, and wanting to cool our throats with cold beer. She tells me what a pain it is to find people to hang out with. “It’s like we’re back in high school,” she jokes. We gossip about the nerds, the jocks, and the pleasers. “Annie’s lesbian,” she notes. “Well, she seems lesbian to me.” I listen. Neither denying nor confronting her observation. We head down the river bank and hop across the river, making sure to step exactly in the middle of the turtle shaped rocks. Though it’s not deep, we’d rather not have to explain our wet shoes to our Okaasans. “I had fun!” she raises her arms towards the sky.

Annie’s precocious. Very smart intellectually and superior to everyone else, Annie knows there’s something wrong. We go shopping at the local 100 yen store and she bursts out in tears. “Hey,” alarmed I put my arm around her shoulders, “what’s wrong?” We’re preparing for our fall group trip. We were told to write our names in rooms for each hotel we would be sleeping in. Marissa, Diana, Melinda and I all opted to share a room. Annie wanted to be with the cool kids and had written her name into their room. “Tracy said I smell!” A tear falls on her cheek. “Hey – you know Tracy can be sarcastic. Don’t take it personally.” I tried to console. But no amount of comfort could alleviate her apparent hurt. “And they think I’m a lesbian!” she wails. I’m deeply uncomfortable. But I don’t say a word. “I’m engaged for goodness sakes! How can I be a lesbian?”

We take a ferry to a magical island to see the Giant Torii rise out of the lake. It’s dry and we stand like ants next to the giant orange gate. A Shinto bride takes her vows in the inner sanctum of the shrine and the sake barrels beckons us to touch their colorful hulls. We open the windows of our room. Instead of hearing the call of cicadas in the night, we hear heated fighting on the balcony next door. Annie and Nicole are facing each other, tense and obviously angry. I should have stayed out, but I didn’t.

I became the tattle-teller. Thinking to ease her worries, I only served to confirm the truths of her statements. She’s a lesbian. “Who?” She demanded. I was caught in a corner and in a futile attempt to escape the situation, I only dug my feet in deeper, “Nicole.” There was a slight pause. “Hey – we were just talking one day – don’t take it personally. Let it go” I advised.

The next morning, Nicole confronted me. Outrage I had ratted her out. “It’s your problem now,” she exclaimed. I threw my cigarette down on the ground. “No,” I replied, “I’ve got nothing to do with this.” There was a tense silence and I left.

How childish! I mentally screamed. Annie couldn’t keep her mouth shut. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. And Nicole couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Though I regret the hurt I cause unknowingly, I regret even more not apologizing to Nicole. Annie, it would turn out later, would go on to cause more havoc in our ranks. I chose to distance myself from their politics. Let them at it, I fumed. I only want to have fun here. It’s my time to have fun.

The Sin

She feels empty. She steps into the shower, hoping to wash away her sins. I should have gone to church today she berates herself. The lukewarm water isn't hot enough and she meticulously turns the hot water knob. It's slightly scalding - not enough to hurt, but enough, she hopes, to wash the soil off her body. She lets the water fall over her bent head. Her hair, scraggly and smelling of his cologne. She closes her eyes and prays that her soul be absolved.

She met him in the coffee shop. Sitting with her laptop open. Pretending to be busy, she saw him walk in. He smiled at her and joined her. Tea? He offered, but she declined. He made her laugh, though his jokes were often corny. She saw the ring on his finger, but pretended it was only decorative.

Let's go for a ride, he offered. I know the cutest bed and breakfast in town. She briefly hesitated before saying yes. He picked her up at the bookstore where they first met. He talks a lot. But I don't mind, she muses. Her wind-blown hair hiding her from the reality of the moment. She lets him hold onto her left hand as they drive the 27 miles to the century-old hideout.

The kissing and interweaving of their bodies left her breathless. Only in the moment she realized what she had done, did it leave her empty and ashamed. He hands her the pink panties that had been hurriedly thrown on the floor. Bending down to pick up her skirt, she realizes he's already dressed and ready to leave.

I'll drive to the front and pick you up, he briskly says. And she takes her time getting dressed. She can't bring herself to look in the mirror. But her eyes strays and she sees her mussed up hair and the faint marks on her neck. She weaves her fingers through her hair, trying to bring order to the messy waves. She takes out her lipstick, and applies a fresh layer on her drying lips. She hears the car and heads down the stairs.

They drive in silence when she tells him to get a vasectomy. You gave me a near heart attack, he laughs. I'm on the pill, but there's a 1 percent chance. She mutters. His fingers brushes her cheek as she turns to leave the car. It was good he says. She nods and smiles. He has no idea she is silently crying inside.

It hurts, she tells herself. Sitting on her bed, towel wrapped around her hair, enveloped by the cream colored bathrobe with the frayed edges.

Because of the Boy

Melinda stops me on my way out of class. “Hey, wanna have lunch?” I ask her. A frown mars her wholesome face. “Have you seen Diana?” she replies. “No, I haven’t. She wasn’t in class, I assumed she’s sick. Why, what’s wrong?” We walk down the two flights of stairs and head towards the building that houses our study abroad program offices. “Diana isn’t the type to get sick and miss class,” Melinda continues, “for all my 3 years knowing her, she just isn’t. And she’s not picking up her phone.” I frown.

All of Melinda’s worries were justified. Diana was the type of girl who, as the Office Ladies (OLs) loved to call, was ketchi. She has the money – she just doesn’t like to spend it, unless she can justify the spending as justifiable. When we traveled to Sapporo, we decided to jointly purchase a 10-piece pack of the famous Sapporo white chocolates. That evening, Diana reneged on paying for half of the chocolates. “Hey – I’ll pay for the one piece I ate,” she generously offered. I told her it was unnecessary. She’s also the type of girl who comes to class everyday ready to learn and impress our teachers. All of her notes are neatly written and she earnestly pays attention to every word uttered by the teacher, while I look outside, dreaming of napping under the sunny warm sky inside the palatial Gosho walls.

The next day, I encountered Diana lurking outside of our classroom. It was still early yet and I called out to her. She jumped at my call and looked worried. “Hey!” I smiled. “Did you skip class yesterday?” I teased. She pulls me to the side and in a hushed voice groans. Concerned I waited to hear her story. “You’ll never believe what happened.” The usually composed Diana sat down on the bench near the windows. “You know that guy – the guy I met at the kimono show? We went out yesterday.” I grinned. “That’s wonderful news!” For weeks now, Diana hadn’t been able to stop gushing over the tall, lanky fair-haired American studying at the competing school across town. She had been quite taken with him and after the show, had openly asked him, “Give me your data.” My body had doubled over with laughter as I heard her pick-up line. “It’s not funny,” she grimaced, but burst out laughing along with me.

“So..?” I urged her to continue. She sighed. Her hand on her forehead. “It started out really nice,” she noted, “We had Thai for dinner and walked back to his dorm room. Oh Lucy, he has such an extensive collection of blues and rock! We listened to music and talked.” She paused, “Then, I realize what time it was and rushed out the door! I really thought I could catch the last train home, but the train stopped at Kyoto Station and that was as far as it was going to go.” Her face striken with embarrassment she continued. “So, I took a cab home.” I gasped, “You didn’t! You took a cab all the way home?”

While most of the students lived in Kyoto, Diana was one of the few whose host family lived far – in her case, Osaka. Even if one takes the express train, it’s still a 45-minute commute. And taxis in Japan are notoriously expensive. “I know,” explained Diana. “But I couldn’t spend the night with him! My host mom would have freaked out! So I caught a cab. I even asked the cab driver if I could pay with my credit card because I didn’t have enough cash on hand and he said yes. I got home okay, except when he parked outside the apartment complex and ran my card through, it wouldn’t take it. So...” she paused, “So he took me directly to the police station.” My mouth dropped an inch. “I tried to tell him I’d go up to my room and get him money – but he wouldn’t believe me!” she hurriedly explained. “Then they called my host mom. It was 3 a.m. in the morning Lucy!” she moaned as if under extreme duress still.

I leaned forward to hug her. “Diana, next time, call me.” I tell her. “I only live in Katsura, and it’s much closer to here than Osaka. And you could’ve crashed with me, my host parents wouldn’t have minded.” I offered. I cheekily smiled and injected, “Although you should have just spent the night with him and gotten to know him better!” She hit me on the shoulder. “Ow!” Rubbing the spot where it stung, I laughed. My head rolled back, my hair falling past my back, my face rising against the blue cloudless skies. Diana tried to frown, but couldn’t resist. The laughter coming from our hidden corner drew the attention of passersby.

Nonsensical Fun

Marissa grabbed my hand and pulled me along. We ran down the hazy red alley, with the bright lit Lolita signs and the handful of men standing outside the doors leading to some unknown pleasures, smoking and beckoning customers to enjoy the evening’s entertainment. “Come on, we’re going to miss the last train.” Marissa was never one to be subtle. “Shit. I forgot my purse. It’s at the Pub. You go.” I tell her. I turn around, sprinting back to the bar stool where I probably left it. My train pass, my student ID, my last 10,000 yen for the month folded in fours nestled neatly in the hidden pocket of my wallet.

I hear footsteps. “Hey – wait.” Marissa is right behind me. We burst into the noisy bar like schoolgirls. And there it was. Exactly where I had left it. No one had taken it. I laughed and hugged Marissa. “Come on, let’s have another drink. We’ve already missed the last train. Let’s just stay out all night. Our Okaasans won’t mind.” We scooted into a booth, stirring and sipping from our drinks, her favorite, Kahlua milk with barely any ice, and my usual, the Appletini with an extra shot. Our eyes scope out the room and we smile at the two handsome Japanese salarymen sitting at the bar. I take out a cigarette. “You’re gonna smoke?” Marissa whines. I nod. No sooner do I lit up and the one in the rectangular frames walks towards us. “May I borrow your lighter?” I casually hand it over to him. My finger accidentally brushes against his. He takes out his box of Marlboro Reds and offers Marissa a joint. She shakes her head. He lights up and blows out a long wave of white smoke. “Thank you.” He leans forward and hands me back the lighter. I take a hold of it, he holds on to it, and then release it to me. “What are you girls doing?” “We’re hanging out.” I answer. My eyes daring him to ask what I knew he wanted to ask. He throws a glance back at his friend, watching us from the bar. “Can my friend and I join you?” Before Marissa can protest, I nod and with a teasing smile, wave at his friend.

It’s not long though, when I lose interest in the salarymen and send them to the high school girls pretending to be college women hanging by the pool tables.

We stop on the still busy street of Kawaramachi and Karasumi and catch a glimpse of the neon green car surrounded by hip Japanese youngsters. We each grab free kleenex packs handed out on the street corner and head towards the multi-level arcade building. We stop to order our favorite crepes – mine with green tea and chocolate – hers with strawberry and cream. We walk around the complex until we find what we were looking for. The Print Club photo booths. “The newest one is out. Let’s try that one!” Marissa squeals and pulls me into the booth. “Okay, smile!” Flash. Flash. Flash. Marissa decorates our pictures and we wait for the print outs. “Here you go. Half are yours. Half are mine.” She cuts them up neatly as we wait for a karaoke room.

We sing until our throats hurt. I’m tired, but it’s not yet 4 a.m. The trains don’t start until 5:30 a.m. “Let’s go,” I tell Marissa. We walk on the lonely well lit streets of Kyoto. “What do you want to do?” “Let’s go check out that club at X station. I heard it’s good.” Marissa protested. “It’s so far! We’d have to walk 3 train stops!” “What’s the difference?” I ask, “We walk all the time and we just have to follow the river, so we won’t get lost. It’ll be fun, and besides, we’ve got a lot more time to kill.”

Walking along the Kamogawa, I can see the moon shining and the mountains asleep in the distance. I stop. My heart suddenly constricts. “I’m going to miss it here,” I whisper. Marissa nods, “Me too.” For ten months we lived in this bowl of wonderland fun. Time seemed to stand still as we blossomed and frolicked our days away. “I’m never going to forget,” I earnestly inform Marissa. And we sat by the river bank, reminiscing about our days in the world of dreams. The fog slowly lifts, and the sun starts to rise beyond the eastern mountain. “Okaasan’s going to lecture me!” Marissa whines. She yawns and lays her head on my shoulder. I chuckle and lean my head back against hers.

The Veneer

You are a dog she sneered. And in that moment, She slew my father's pride.

I had a dream. When my brother married Her. I walked into their room, palms sweaty, head pounding like crazy. There were body bags inside the tiny closet. I called the police and ran to meet them outside. Sir, you have to come see. She's done it. I insisted. They smiled at me as though I needed to be coddled. The body bags had disappeared, as if I had imagined it all along.

She never raised her voice at us. But always, in the middle of the night, in the silence of their car, in the moment she chose to deny my brother his marital rights, the purple shades would grow. Slowly. The lies, the taunts, the sneers, the pains. He loves her.

My mother can also slay people's prides. She learned from Father's mother. Yes, dear Daughter-in-Law. We are dogs. Haven't you noticed? Perhaps you were so blinded by love, you couldn't tell – and bathed yourself in dog's blood, giving birth to four little dogs. You're human. Your mother's human. Your brother's human. It's a shame that despite their human eyes, they couldn't keep you from marrying a dog. You should have married a human. But now, you're stuck with four little dogs. You've given yourself to a dog. Who would want you now?

There was no answer. And my parents left. Mother has never gone back to their house.

She was the sister I thought I always wanted. Soft-spoken, gentle smile, always saying the right things. Nothing we ever did could compare to her skills. If I killed and plucked 3 chickens, she killed and plucked 10. If I made a meal fit for a Prince, she made a meal fit for a King. She was a fashionista and always watched her weight. I adored shopping with her and borrowing her clothes.

Then it all crumbled. Over time. The illusion started to fade.

My baby brother was only 1 when she married into the family. Pregnant herself, she glowed with motherly love in our presence. Her gentle hands caressing his shiny golden locks. Her loving smile at his baby talk. Father came home early from work. Loud music played in the house. Quietly, he made his way inside and saw his youngest son in the baby walker. Just as he started to wave, she yanked the walker and pushed it across the room. She turned around. Surprise, she saw him. He stared at her. Who was she? The toddler was crying. She quickly ran,
picked him up in her arms, and cooed at him calmly. We were playing, she said. My father nodded.

Wanted: Closure

Knock. Knock. Knock. I tap on her door. No answer. I leave her a note. Scribbling, I’m sorry. Call me. We should talk.

Ring. Ring. Ring. It’s me again. Just wanted to know if you got my message. Let’s talk. I’m sorry about what happened. Call me?

She never returned my call.

I was like a child, entering unknown territory. I came out, bruised, confused, and angered. We never spoke of the episode. I never got a chance to tell her my story. And for that I cannot forget. Has she forgotten? Or does she blame me still? Or am I the only one? Am I the only one who holds onto a fragment of the past that no longer bears any meaning?

There are too many Asian events on campus. Sorry. We cannot give you any funds. As the budget committee, we held the purse strings to student life money. Her group came forward to ask for some forgotten sum to bring Two Tongues to campus. Two Tongues spoke of life on the edge. Life as a twinkie. Life in a language that no longer held any meaning. Life as it was and yearned to become.

What do you mean, too many Asian events? How many constitutes too many? How did you deliberate? Behind closed doors, the 10-member committee discusses, argues, and sometimes gives free rides. It was getting near the end of the school year. Our funds were low. We were careful about our spending. The pudgy dark haired senior girl, who probably went to law school, made The Comment. Silence. Then rage.

I thought I was her friend. I sat. Silence. No comment. No angry retort. No defensive speeches. Nothing. And as the newspapers called out the budget committee. As its credibility was denounced, my credibility disappeared as well. In her eyes, I was the worse perpetrator. They were white. It was expected. But I was, am one of her. I had betrayed the only bond that seemed to hold our friendship together.

I can’t forget. I tried to forget. I tried to redeem myself. But she has forgotten or perhaps never forgiven. I do not know. Perhaps I’ll never know. We don’t keep in touch anymore. We never spoke of the Incident. The Episode. It. We probably never will. And I’ll be in limbo. I need closure. I hope she needs closure too.

Friends are Friends?

I'm going to be an ear model one day. If I can't become a writer first. She laughed and showed us her perfectly mounted ears. Look at the lobes, the roundness, the essence it gives off. Don't you think they're simply just perfect? We laughed.

For a girl who's in love with a movie star and who writes him on his birthday, during the holidays, and who traveled hundreds of miles to be close to him, only to have him come here, close to her instead, she was quite the epitome of honesty and goodness.

I met her during our freshman year in college. Two city girls in a small Iowan town. What the hell were we thinking. We laughed and cried. We traveled and met in New York City. We were complete opposites, and yet, we complemented each other.

One evening, eyes strained from reading too many texts, fingers sore from too much typing, and trying to put off writing our senior theses, we discovered we had the same crush. Mark was his name. Dimpled Mark, is what the girls whispered amongst themselves. His perfectly combed brown mane of hair. His dark cocoa eyes. His fair skin. We giggled. He always offered to help me with my spelling, I injected. And once, he even offered me his chocolate milk in exchange for my skim milk. I sighed. She sighed. How did we miss each other? I left the school the year I entered 4th grade. You came in as I left. She replied.

We spent our last year flirting with the Thai exchange student. Each night we'd offer him a portion of our dinner we had just prepared. And each night, he'd politely decline. And sit with us. We'd watch the Bachelorette and American Idol. While I spent my first year mourning the loss of Grandmother, she spent her last year mourning the loss of her Grandmother. She always notices the hot guys walking by. Her eyes skimming and mentally grading him on her invisible score sheet. She admires the physique of a male's body, and his appreciation of fashion. And though she frequently complains about the constant stream of male who lay in waste at her feet, she adores the attention, the love they pour into an empty relationship, the drama that ensues.

The married ones are the worse, she states. She sighs. Especially if their wives come to talk to me. Another sigh. Avoid married men, she warns. I try to avoid them, but alas, they just keep coming despite the professionalism of our relationships. I sympathize, but cannot quite empathize. The boy sent me this. She shows me a drawing of Le Petit Prince, the Rose, and the Snake. He says I'm like the Rose. She laughs. I laugh. You've ruined the book for me, I tell her. And it's one of my favorites. She smiles. I know, she responds innocently. You gave me a copy of the book, remember?

Changing the Future

The telephone rings. It is him. I know by the ticking of the clock, by the shadows outside that it is him. Eagerly I await by the phone. Hello. His voice, raspy and deep. Hello.

I met him by accident. I was never supposed to meet him. Our fates were foretold. But I changed fate. I wanted to see him again, to hear him again, to feel him again. On my 18th birthday, my mother took me to see the Wise One, who was said to foretell people's past, present, and future. She said, Honey, when we walk to the house, don't look back. Look forward at all times. Otherwise, it's bad luck.

Shaking deeply within, I followed her lead into the unobstructed 2-story home with the white fence that was sequestered deep inside a suburban enclosed community. The Wise One sat in his kitchen. His children were watching cartoons on television. We weren't the first ones there. A line had been formed and we pulled our number.

When our turn came, I stared hard into his eyes. Could he really tell the future? The past? The present? I wanted to intimidate him. Rather, it was me who was humbled. The truths he spoke, I could not deny. How could he know something even Mother didn't know about. As soon as I
told him my birthdate and cut and dealt the rough-looking deck of cards on his dining table, my destiny was an open book.

He was there. In my past. We had been lovers, who swore never to meet again in the next lifetime. He was my destiny, but we wouldn't meet in this lifetime because of the oath we took. You've met him, he said. Change the future, I responded. Yes, but it will come with a price.

I changed the future. He calls me now. I changed the future. But his voice is sad. Does he know? I changed the future and the future has changed me.

The Ritual

She languidly awakens from her slumber. The peacock-shaped alarm clock shows its hand at 6 and 20. Her mouth opens to a yawn. Sitting on her silk pink sheets, she ponders on her evening ahead. She glances into the closet filled with clothes. Her black lacy bra strewn on a pile of dirty socks. Her stockings hanging from the hanger half hung on the shelf. Her favorite Sailor Moon t-shirt hung neatly in the back of her closet. Arising, she unhurriedly chooses the A-line plaid skirt that falls exactly 1 inch above her knees, the silk cream colored v-neck sleeveless shirt that accentuates her bosom, and the caramel colored jacket to top her outfit. She rummages through her underwear drawer and pulls out her crimson red thong. She frowns, and instead chooses the blue hip hugger panty from Victoria’s Secret.

She shakes her hair out and musses with the tresses that fall around her shoulder. Sitting on the edge of the old-fashioned bathtub with the hooves that remind her of tales long gone, she meticulously applies the first layer of make-up to her face. The foundation easily hides the flaws. The lip liner follows the shape of her dainty mouth and fills the crevices that hide in the lips. She opens her eyes wide to create illusion. The warm fall colors love her eyes and give her a depth of innocence. She grabs her newest lipstick color, emerald red, and applies a layer to her lips, not forgetting to dab on some gloss to entice men. Mascara, check. Eyebrows, check. Blush, check. She hopes she doesn’t blush tonight. She’s an adult, after all.

Her lustrous hair, she saves for last. The dark-toned brown hairs amidst the highlights that dance in the light, she shapes into a wavy light feathered gathering. She smiles. Her hair is perfect. Just a little hairs pray, and the ensemble is complete.

What if

There is no better playground than the dark, barely lit,compartmentalized parking lot under the apartments above. It was a maze my siblings, cousins, friends, and I would often play
hide-and-seek in.

My father and uncles spent their lazy afternoons with the other petanque-crazed cohorts. The shiny silver lead balls were always rubbed down to its original luster after each rough play in the sand. The sandbox was theirs, and the maze was ours. While our fathers were outside in the heat, mapping out where to throw the petanque next to hit their goal, we mapped out where to hide from IT.

We giggled. Dou was IT. One, Two, Three....we dispersed into the corridors and weaved through the damp halls. The 8-year-old girl told her 7- and 6- year old cousins "hush." She looked around the enclosed walls that led to the outside. I sliver of the light from the sun
peeked through the cracks. Just as they were about to walk towards the exit, a shadow grew on the children.

"Stop" the voice boomed. "What are you doing here?" The bearish man demanded. We stood frozen in our tracks. We had been caught. The children were behind her and she told them in their language to stay. Her heart palpitated. Her pulse quickened. "Come here!" he asked. And
he held his hand out.

"Don't go," she said in their language. "When I tell you to run, you run as fast as you can towards the exit." And she faced him. "We are looking for their brother sir. He was here." She held onto her ground. Her little feet grounded to the cement. He pointed at her. "Come here." She took one step forward. Her heart pounding in her ears. And just as he reached for her, she yelled, "Run" in their language and the 6 little legs carried them as fast as the wind. One, two, three. The yellow shine of the outside world beckoned.

They stepped out into the light and the place was filled with noise again. The dogs barking in the alley. The petanque balls bumping into each other. My aunt was sitting on a bench and looked towards the kids in surprise. "Where have you been?" Dou sat silently playing with
rocks besides her. We shook our heads. "We want to go home."

The Mirror

Mama and Mari were in London. Papa was spending the night in Tokyo. I had gone to eat dinner over Big Brother's house. They were so kind to feed me. Lulu was at Big Sister's house with Shinpei and Hana.

That night, I left the lights on in my room. All night. I probably shouldn't have. But I was scared. Electricity is one of the most expensive household bills. We were told to be careful about our unnecessary usage. It was getting late. We finished dinner around 9 p.m. Big Brother didn't come home until late. I sat in the living room watching the baby. Big Brother's wife was cooking us dinner. I was not very useful. I asked several times, very politely to help. Maybe I
wasn't forceful enough?

I started homework around 11 p.m. We were given a one-page text to comprehend for the next day's class. I left the piece for last. I was too busy reading my new bought shoujo manga.

The summer was hot. Stifling hot. It was mushiatsui. The cotton shirt over the back of his arms stuck to his biceps like second skin. He took the summer job. A security guard. Walking the grounds of the school. Ensuring that no kids would break into the school in the middle of the night. Alone. He made the final round of the night. The wind was unusually howling. He heard a noise. Grabbed his flashlight and his baton. Headed towards the hallway in the entrance of the school. He doesn't believe in ghosts. That's why he took the job. He saw the shadow move at the door. He glanced in the mirror. He saw himself. Looking back at him. And then he saw himself smile. He saw his hand moving towards his neck. He glanced down. His hand was still
holding onto the baton. The other to the flashlight. He threw a quick look into the mirror again. Both hands were at his neck. He was smiling.

My pen dropped. I ceased to translate and quickly glanced up behind me. The full length mirror Mari had given me to use was laughing at me. I saw my own reflection and grabbed the bed sheet. Throwing it over the mirror. It ceased to laugh. But I didn't cease to be scared.
The shadows on the sliding doors seemed to loom over me. I dared not move. It was easier to be close to the cockroach that hid beneath the TV stand. It was hot. But I was cold inside. I cuddled in my blanket and closed my eyes. It was all quiet. If I died tonight, Grandma
wouldn't know. They wouldn't know until Papa came back. Until Mama and Mari came back. And so I turned on the TV, hoping to pass time. Hoping to forget. But I couldn't. I couldn't, yet I fell asleep. Succumbing to the lull of the pounding in my head.

The next morning I awoke. The sun shone straight into my window. The light in my room was still on. The neighbors probably told Mama about my excessive use of electricity. I went to school, not ready for class. But I didn't care. Mama and Mari weren't home. Everything will
be better once they're home.