Southern Fried Sushi, page 4
Heaven, covered with a crispy coating and out-of-this-world sauce. A smudge of hot mustard made me murmur my delight out loud.
I’d eaten half my plate when Kyoko squinted at me, nose ring shining. “Don’t you miss your family?” she blurted.
I poured more thick, sweet brown sauce into my ground sesame seeds and mixed it with my chopsticks then drizzled it over my pork. “Me?”
“No, the waitress. Yes, you.”
I looked up in surprise, stirring absently with my chopsticks. “Well, to be honest, I don’t have much of a family. My parentsare divorced, and I never, ever hear from my dad. He used to send checks at Christmas, but a few years ago he just sort of stopped. And so did I.”
“Bummer.”
I shrugged. “It’s not like I miss him anyway. He worked ninety percent of the time, was angry the other ten, and left for good when I turned seven.”
“Remarried?”
“Yeah. To some woman named Tanzania who’s young enough to be my older sister. She’s a belly dancer or something. I think she has a kid. No, two.”
Kyoko’s dark eyes beamed back unexpected sympathy and ever-present cynicism, as if that’s how everything turned out. “I’m sorry. Where does he live?”
“Tanzania,” I snipped, and Kyoko choked on her wisp of cabbage between two chopsticks. Glared at me.
“He lived in Canada for a while, but Tanzania wanted a warmer climate, so they moved to Mexico City. His retirement money goes pretty far there.”
“What a globe-trotting family. And your mom?”
I grimaced. “I don’t even know, to tell the truth. She’s just so weird. After Dad left she just sort of lost it. Nervous breakdown or something. She would mutter to herself and send me to school with an onion in my lunch box.”
“An onion?” Kyoko put down her chopsticks and sipped her hot green tea.
“Yeah. Unpeeled. Just sitting there.” I chuckled. “It’s kind of funny now, but at the time I was hungry. And mad. I learned how to eat out of school vending machines, but then they took away the vending machines because of nutritional debates, and I couldn’t find anything else to eat. Until they caved in to big money and started putting franchises like Burger King and Pizza Hut in the bigger schools, and I could eat to my heart’s content.”
“Obviously.” She scowled at my nearly empty plate. She stillhad half her food left. I cautiously hovered my chopsticks near a crisp, succulent piece of chicken.
“May I?”
“Go ahead.” She shoved her plate in my direction and looked sullen. “I don’t know how you stay thin when you eat like you do.”
“I run?” I offered hesitantly, taking a bite.
“Please.” Kyoko snarled. “You run, what, around the block?”
“Um … yeah. But that counts, right?”
“I could do marathons all night long, and I’d still look like this.”
“Like what? You look great. Stop it.”
She really did. I don’t know why Kyoko thought she should look skeletal—like so many hollow-cheeked Japanese fashion models.
“Who asked you?” She sounded mad again, but I knew her weight bothered her like always.
Genetics played favorites like a spiteful grandmother—blatantly and unjustly arbitrary. All running aside, I could eat and never gain a thing, whereas Kyoko could have a little dish of rice and put on pounds. Or kilos, since we lived in Japan.
Since she was twenty-six, she loved to remind me how the weight would pile on once I hit thirty—and I could kiss my french-fry addiction good-bye. Well, at least I had six more years to go.
“I dispense my opinions for free. You’re one of the lucky few, Kyoko. You really should be more grateful.” I took a long sip of green tea and another piece of her chicken.
She drummed her nails in irritation. “So, do you ever see your mom?”
I made a face. “No. Why should I? She’s just … in her own world. She joined cults all the time. Especially the one about aliens.” I thought hard. “Something about beaming us all up to our celestial home. Or is that Star Trek?“
“Raelians. I’ve heard of them. There’s a bunch of them in San Fran.”
“There’s a bunch of everything in San Fran. But my mom just … doesn’t fit in my life anymore. She swears she’s quit cults and all that, but who knows what she’s into now?”
I rubbed my forehead in annoyance. “The past year or so she’s been bugging to talk to me again, sending me letters and stuff, inviting me to visit, and … I don’t want to. What’s done is done. I’ve moved on.”
“Where does she live?”
Color crept into my face. “I’m not exactly sure.” I picked up some rice with my chopsticks. “She moved a couple of times, and I sort of lost track. Atlanta or something.”
“Ah, the South!”
“Yeah. Of all places.”
“Don’t they still believe the Civil War is going on?” Kyoko smirked.
“Apparently.” I leaned closer. “I knew this guy from Alabama once. They said he married his cousin. Don’t they have laws against that?”
“Not in some states.” Kyoko, the legal expert on inbreeding.
“Let me guess…. West Virginia?”
“Wrong.”
“Really?” I looked up in midbite. “Where?”
She winked. “California.”
I laughed, hands circling my green-tea mug. Kyoko wasn’t kidding about her San Fran freedom. Truth be told, we actually weren’t that chummy at work, where Kyoko could be ice cold and somewhat competitive. But in the soft drone of voices and laughter around us, the amber glow, everything seemed to soften.
“You’d like the food in the South though. I hear everything’s deep fried.” Kyoko’s eyes peered at me over the rim of her shiny lacquer teacup.
“Really?” My ears perked up.
“Yeah. Like pork rinds and deep-fried moon pies.”
“My mom sent me some stuff once here in Tokyo. A bright pink coconut thing, which probably soaked up more red dye than those Chinese ‘congrats-on-your-new-baby’ eggs.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. But the weirdest thing she sent was a mini pecan pie, enshrined in plastic. I still have it at home.”
“Did you eat them?” Her eyebrows contorted in horror.
“No way. I kept the pecan pie as a memento.”
“What do you mean you ‘kept it’?”
“Well, the pink thing started to … well, not look so good anymore, so I threw it away. But the pecan pie never changed. It just sits there staring at me. I think it’s made with formaldehyde or something.” I shuddered.
She stared at me, mystified. “Funny. So that’s your mom’s legacy.”
“Yeah. My half sister told me Mom got a good job doing something … forgot what … and makes a good living, so I didn’t worry about her anymore.”
Kyoko surprisingly said nothing. She twirled her teacup. “So you have a half sister?”
“From my dad’s previous marriage. No relation to my mom, but Ashley lived with us until Dad left.”
“Do you keep in touch with her?”
“Sort of. We e-mail once in a while. She’s pregnant and lives in Chicago.” Obviously Dad, not Mom, named Ashley. “And she’s a pain. Now she just sends a Christmas card every few years.”
“Oh. Well, I guess that sort of makes you free to live where you want, doesn’t it?”
“Exactly.” I smiled. A twinge of sadness flickered across my thoughts, but I grabbed my reporter’s pad instead and made several ticks. “Hair dye companies must do a roaring trade in Japan. Great investment potential, don’t you think?”
“As if you have money to invest.” Kyoko sniffed. “Gucci girl.”
“What? I only have one thing from Gucci.”
“Really.” She didn’t believe me.
“No.” I smiled and asked for the check.
Quiet settled over the streets when we stopped under the streetlight next to my apartment complex. Which wasn’t as nice as Kyoko’s a few blocks away, since she’d been at AP longer.
“So you really want to stay here forever?” asked Kyoko, digging in her purse for a lighter.
“Yes.”
“Does Carlos?”
I played with my silver watch strap. “Not exactly. But maybe I could convince him.”
She harrumphed. “You’ll have enough trouble convincing him to leave the Girl Down Under alone.”
I sniffed and said nothing. Kyoko lit up a cigarette, which I hated. Hands down her worst habit. “Why’d you have to do that?” I whined. “It’s bad for you. And for me.” I faked a cough.
“No worse than your fried whatever. Besides, it helps me keep the weight off.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. That’s life.” She made an exaggerated point of blowing smoke on me. “Gotta step on some toes sometimes.”
In an instant I thought of the PM’s wife article and knew exactly what she meant. “Well, you’re right about one thing, Kyoko. Whatever it takes.” I gave her a mock salute. “Well spoken. You up for a run?”
“Tonight? Are you nuts?”
“Sure. Just over to the—”
“No.” Kyoko tapped the ashes off her cigarette and scowled. “Any other silly questions?”
I hid a smile. “Okay then. I’ll go alone. I’m definitely up for
Akiba tomorrow though. I’ll call ya.”
She saluted me back and disappeared down the street until I could only catch a little orange glimmer of her cigarette. Then my cell phone buzzed. DOES THE P STAND FOR PERSEPHONE? she texted.
The split-second subject change again. NICE TRY, I texted back.
MARRY A JAPANESE GUY. THEN You CAN STAY HERE.
NOT POSSIBLE. I‘M IN LOVE WITH CARLOS. ADIOS.
DOES HE LOVE You?
I stared at her brazen letters in disbelief. The cursor winked. OF COURSE HE DOES!
I snapped my phone closed in annoyance and headed up to my apartment on the eleventh floor. Technically it was the tenth floor, since Japanese are superstitious about the number four, which sounded ominously like the word for death—shi. So occasionally Japanese airlines have no row number four, and some high-rise complexes omit the fourth floor, too, like mine.
Funny, the first three letters of my name started with the letters “shi.” Why had I never thought of that until now?
I hoped it wasn’t an omen.
The door to my little flat opened quietly, and I dropped my keys and purse on the long wooden table. Inside, rows of tiny “cubicles” held my shoes so I didn’t dirty the inside of my apartment, per Japanese custom. It reminded me of the “capsule hotels” where Japanese businessmen sleep in a rented tube to save money. I hoped my shoes slept comfortably.
I slipped them off in the genkan, a sort of uncarpeted entranceway, and stepped into padded Japanese slippers, feeling the weight of my too-chic heels melt.
“Tadaima!” I said to no one in particular. “I’m home!”
I shrugged off my expensive jacket and hung it in the small wooden wardrobe near my bed. My apartment looked more like a mini hotel room: sterile modern furnishings, tiny spotlessrooms, solid white paint and carpeting. The “living room” (more like a “six-by-six-foot living space”) barely contained a sofa and tiny table, a narrow hallway with a mini fridge and stovetop, and just enough room to swing my legs over the (single) bed without hitting the wall.
I was lucky; most of my expat friends lived in one-room efficiencies or cheaper underground pads. Bill Gates made chump change compared to staggering Tokyo rent.
My favorite feature: the mini balcony, where I could look out over the city and watch it twinkle and sparkle into the night. Even my new flat-screen TV, which I’d wedged next to the table, took a backseat. I couldn’t fit a chair on the balcony, but I could sit on the arm of the sofa and look out, out, as far as I could imagine. In fact, in a few minutes I’d take my favorite seat and dream, and maybe call Carlos.
My second favorite feature: the toilet-sink. Yes, my toilet did play music, but the top of the toilet tank also sported a faucet, scooped porcelain, and drain—making its own little sink. As Ben Franklin said, “Waste not, want not.”
I doubt he referred to space, but in Tokyo, every millimeter counts. The Japanese did it again—and not just with onigiri wrappers.
The apartment still smelled of newness and carpet. A minimalist design, certainly, but I’d brightened it up with memories of my two years in Japan: brilliant red-and-white carp streamers, colorful kites, paper lanterns, a blue-and-gold silk wall hanging decorated with kimono patterns.
On the corkboard in my bedroom I kept a stash of mementos: special news stories I’d written, ticket stubs, pictures of Kinkakuji (Golden Temple), an iconic “I LOVE NY!” postcard, letters from friends, pressed gingko leaves, a flowered kimono hairpiece, and my mom’s mini pecan pie.
I’d skewered the pie there by the corner of the plastic with a thumbtack. It looked sticky but otherwise the same as it did six
months ago.
The collection of absurdities displayed my life, in a strange little nutshell.
I pulled my hair back into an elastic band and took off my bracelets, setting them in the artsy dish on my dwarfed bedside table. I was just reaching for my running shorts when I noticed the blinking light on the answering machine. Fourteen messages.
No. Please no. Dread crept up my spine. What if Dave …?
Impossible. He would have called my cell phone. He knows I’m almost never home. Right?
Nobody calls my home phone except occasional salespeople, who are too cheap to pay the more expensive cell-phone rate. The number 14 flashed red again like a warning, and a tremor of fear passed through me.
Four. Shi. Death. Mine, at the hands of Dave Driscoll.
As if on cue, the phone jangled loudly, startling me in my silence.
Chapter 4
Hello?” I nervously picked up the receiver.
The line crackled. “Shiloh?” asked a choked-up voice. “Are you there?”
I stared at the wall, the tremor of fear increasing with every second. “Who is this?”
“Shiloh? This is Ashley.”
My half sister? I could barely hear over incoherent sobbing.
I stood up and grabbed the phone as if to cling to something, anything. I sensed bad news and approaching fast. Ashley never called me. The pit of my stomach shook like when I felt an earthquake coming on.
“Ashley!” My voice rose. “Speak to me! What’s going on?”
No answer, just sniffling.
“Did you lose the baby?” I couldn’t think of another possibility … unless her husband, Wade …
“Shiloh, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but …” More sobbing.
“Ashley!” Panic prickled.
Muffled noise sifted to my ear, some staticky clicks, and an embarrassed male voice sounded on the line. “Shiloh? Hi. This is Wade. Sorry about that.”
“Wade. So you’re okay.” I sat down warily on the side of my bed, coiling the phone cord tighter around my white fingers. “She lost the baby, didn’t she?”
“No, Shiloh. The baby’s fine. Ashley’s fine. We’re all … fine. It’s your mom.”
Instinctively my eyes turned to the pecan pie on the corkboard. “What’s wrong with Mom? Is she … sick or something?”
“No. Yes. Uh … no.”
“Huh?”
Wade sighed. “Shiloh, I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m really sorry. It’s just … she … well, she’s gone.”
“Gone? She’s … missing?” My mom’s photo on a milk carton flashed through my mind.
“No. She passed away.”
The line buzzed faintly like static. I rubbed my ear to see if I’d heard right.
“Excuse me?”
“She passed away, Shiloh. I’m sorry.”
I felt my throat tighten, but no tears came. I couldn’t speak. The wind had been knocked out of me. Literally. I slumped from the bed to the floor, landing in a pile.
“She … what?”
“She passed away early this morning. At the hospital. The doctors say she had a brain aneurysm. They tried to help her, but … they couldn’t. It happened so suddenly. Nobody ever expected it in a million years. She was fine and healthy … from what I … you know, hear …”
I felt numb and strange, as if hearing two perfect strangers having our conversation. I had the urge to hang up and pretend everything had never happened, that I’d dreamed it all up. The room shimmered transparent, unreal.
“Shiloh, are you there?” Wade’s voice again.
“Hmm?” I had lost the feeling in my fingers. I unwound the cord slightly, letting blood flow back into the tips.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I stammered. “Fine.” What else could I say? “Does Dad know?”
“Yeah, he does. Ashley just talked to him. He and Tanzania are … well, really sorry. She meant a lot to all of us.”
I thought of Dad, off with his belly-dancing wife in Mexico City, and felt a wave of fury heat my blood to boiling. Not only did Dad know before me, but he could care less about Mom. Sorry? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word sorry!
Wade cleared his throat. “I know she was … well, her own person, in her own special way.”
Hot anger toward Wade stabbed me so fiercely I could hardly think. How dare he say anything about Mom? He never knew her, probably never even spoke to her. Ashley didn’t even invite Mom to her wedding.
“How did it happen?” I barked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Well, Ashley said Ellen—your mom—was out working in her garden when she just fell over. A neighbor saw her and called the ambulance, and … they pronounced her dead at the hospital. That’s really all we know.”
“How did Ashley find out?” I could feel my voice rising. “How does she know everything?”
“It’s okay, Shiloh. I know you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset!” I hollered.
“Okay.” Wade sighed, sounding tired. “Do you want to talk to Ashley?”
“No. She’s probably still … no. Forget it.” I don’t do crying. Ever. My stomach tightened at the thought. “Sorry, Wade. I’m just surprised. That’s all.”
