Like Sweet Potato Pie (15 page)

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

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

Kyoko didn’t speak for a few minutes then abruptly hurled the shirt down, half folded.

“You know what I think, Ro?” she said in a bold voice, strong enough to wake Christie. “I think you’re all right.”

I dropped the jeans. Right there in a pile.

“What did you just say?” I felt the room spin, dizzy-like, and slid my leg over the edge of the bed to keep from sliding off.

Kyoko sighed hard, eyeing me. Fiddling with her eyebrow piercing. “Believe me, I have no idea how it could happen in a place like
this.
” She made a face. “But you’ve changed, Ro. It’s like you’re more … you. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“But that’s just it! I don’t know who I am anymore!” I flung my arms up.

“Sure you do. You just need some more time to adjust to this new … uh … life. Post-Japan, I mean.” She blew out her breath in a moody sigh.

“But I’m different.”

“Yeah. Kinda.”

I settled back onto the bed and picked at my nails. “Different how?”

“Well, the crying stuff is … well, weird, to say the least. You never did that before. But the rest of it is like you’ve grown up. I can’t figure out how else to describe it.”

“What?” My voice squeaked as I jumped from images of my crisp suit jacket back in Japan to my green Barnes & Noble apron. “You can’t mean that. I’m stuck in a ten-year time warp! Half my coworkers are still in high school!”

“So? At least here you’re not trying to impress anybody with your high-dollar scarves or dating some nincompoop like Carlos. Or maxing out credit cards trying to be somebody you’re not.”

“That’s for sure. I don’t have any credit cards left to max out.”

Kyoko shook her head. “I still don’t know how you got a Daimaru department-store card back in Tokyo. That’s just not fair. Foreigners
never
get those.”

“If they spend enough they do.”

“Figures,” Kyoko muttered under her breath. “But to tell you the truth, Ro, I think you’re …” She paused and pulled her feet up again, stirring a striped green-and-yellow wristband with her finger. “You’re doing okay. More than okay. Maybe even better than in Japan. Not job-wise, of course, but … here.” She pointed awkwardly to her heart.

I was too startled even to speak. Just swallowed. Stared. And then looked down at my crossed legs in their black patterned tights, trying to take it in.

“It makes no logical sense, Ro, with you in the Pit of Pig’s Feet, but somehow you’re getting something here that you needed. Something that you never found anywhere else, even Japan.” She shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Go figure.”

“What do you think I’ve found?” I stopped picking my nails. “Collard greens?”

“Ugh. Spare me.” She glared at me for a long time, brooding. “I have no idea. But at the risk of sounding all icky-spiritual, it seems like you’re … well, at peace.”

“With my half sister trying to steal my house?”

“Yes.”

“With collection agents breathing down my neck and a trial coming up in February? The one where I have to testify against the rednecks and skinhead who jumped me at that Civil War battle reenactment?”

“Yes. And I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that part about you going to a reenactment voluntarily.”

“It wasn’t exactly voluntary.” I waved my arms. “Anyway. As I was saying. You think I’m at peace with coworkers who dip snuff and—”

“Don’t push it!” Kyoko glowered. “Just take it and thank me.”

“I thought you hated being thanked!”

She flicked the wristband at me.

I folded her Rolling Stones shirt back up and placed it in the suitcase, sad to see Kyoko’s things packed for a flight that would take her away from me.

“Would you kill me, Kyoko, if I suggested that my peace maybe … comes from … God? From the God I’ve come to love?” My face burned with something akin to humiliation, but I didn’t take it back.

“God?” Kyoko glared. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not! I’m serious.”

“Well, I just don’t believe in Him the way you do, Ro-chan. And you never know. This whole thing may wear off for you, and I don’t want you to be devastated when you come down off this weird high.” She eyed me warily. “Just be careful. No snake handling. No mass Kool-Aid binges.”

“Why not?” I pretended not to get it. “I love Kool-Aid.”

“Because, Ro, don’t you watch the news? Mass suicide? Hello?” She broke off at the smirk on my face then tried to push me off the bed. I retaliated by plopping Christie right on Kyoko’s lap.

That worked. Kyoko hollered and shoved Christie off her lap into a neat little pile on the bedspread, scrubbing her palms against her jeans.

“Oh my goodness, Kyoko! You’re getting sick! I can see it!” I gasped. “Canine flu!”

Christie looked up, bewildered, and toddled back onto Kyoko’s lap. She curled up happily and tucked head into tail.
Yes! Chalk up one for Shiloh.

“Aw, Ro, you know I don’t like animals,” Kyoko moaned, trying unsuccessfully to pull one leg away. “What am I supposed to do now?” She shuddered and gingerly patted Christie’s back for a fraction of a second. Just long enough for Christie to pull out a fuzzy tail and wag it.

“What’s with the tail thing?” Kyoko demanded, jerking her hands up. “Is she going to poop on me or something?”

“No! It’s a sign of affection. Just pet her. You can sterilize your hands afterward, or your pants or whatever else she touched.”

“Okay, but if you tell anybody I petted a dog, I’ll …” She’d taken too long already. I grabbed her hand and patted it on Christie’s furry back, at which point Christie rolled over and offered her silky snout and neck. One sleepy paw dangled over Kyoko’s leg.

“Doggone it,” Kyoko snarled. “She’s not supposed to be like this! She’s supposed to foam at the mouth or something!”

“Oh please,” I groaned, flopping down on the bed. “Before you know it, you’ll be sneaking one of these into your apartment in Tokyo. Or in … wherever you decide.” The last words came out mournful.

Kyoko hesitantly stroked Christie’s ears. “Sorry, Ro. I’m just not into Japan like you. I
hate
the earthquakes.”

That’s right. A pretty big tremor hit a few months ago. Kyoko said it broke an office clock.

“But lots of places have earthquakes!”

“It’s more than that. I need a place that’s less restricting, without so many rules and layers of exasperating politeness. No stroke order, remember? Writing the kanji characters any way you want, forgetting all the up-to-down, right-to-left nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense!” I tried to protest, but Kyoko steamrollered right over me.

“A place where I can buy clothes without having to look in the ‘jumbo’ section, or where I don’t have to go through so much rigamarole and memorized phrases just to eat
mochi
rice balls in someone’s house, covering my teeth and complimenting the pattern on the teacup. Sheesh! That drives me nuts! And all the honorifics and polite language!” She covered her eyes and shook her head.

“But that’s what makes Japan special!”

“That’s what makes Japan tiring!”

I recoiled as if she’d punched me in the stomach.

Japan had been my refuge. My passion. I’d excelled at drawing multipronged kanji characters from the first day of Japanese language class at Cornell—so much so that my professor booted me straight to the second level in two weeks. I adored the harsh Asian study structure of copying characters again and again until each stroke gleamed. The nights of flipping through thousands of kanji flash cards, each slight variation and nuance throwing another mystery at me that somehow I excelled at solving.

Japan’s almost sadistic drive for perfection suited me like my own skin:
Try harder. Achieve. Succeed.
There, for the first time, I forgot the ache of my past.

Or thought I had.

“Sorry, Ro.” Kyoko looked up with a gleam of sympathy in her dark eyes, and I tried to focus on now. On her maroon-tinged hair shining in the yellowish overhead light. On Mom’s flowered comforter, scrunched beneath Kyoko’s suitcases. “I brought you a ton of Japanese stuff so you could remember the good times.”

So that explained the boatload of presents—and even the hand-carried cream puffs from Beard Papa’s.

Kyoko had brought a good-bye gift. From Japan to me.

My home phone rang, and I reluctantly turned toward the sound.

“Hey, you got a couple of calls from some septic company,” said Kyoko as I climbed off the bed. “I thought they took your number off their list.”

I kicked the bedpost.

Which was, of course, a really bad idea. I howled and jumped around, holding my foot.

The ringing finally stopped, and I sank down on the bed just in time to hear my cell phone vibrate against the nightstand.

I snatched it up, scowling. “What?”

“Shiloh? You … uh … all right?” came Adam’s familiar voice. “I just called the house phone but nobody answered.”

“Oh, hi.” I sank back against the headboard. “Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”

“Who, the IRS?”

I jerked my head back so hard it cracked against the walnut headboard, and even Kyoko gasped.

“Ow.” I massaged my head, mad at myself. My foot still smarted. “Why do you say that?”

He paused. “I was joking, Shiloh. Really. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” I fumbled to adjust my cell phone and accidentally knocked the tissue box on the floor. “Sorry. Kyoko and I are here talking.”

Kyoko raised an eyebrow as I stretched over the side of the bed to retrieve the tissue box, grunting.

“Don’t worry. I won’t keep you. I wanted to let you know your headlight’s out. My dad passed you this morning in town and saw it.”

“Really?” I rubbed my head some more. “My front one or my back one?”

Adam didn’t speak for a second. “Huh? You mean the …”

“Sorry. The right or the front?” I waved my hand in irritation, knocking the tissue box off again. “The right or the left?”

“The left one. He said …” I heard speaking, and Adam broke off abruptly. “Sorry, Shiloh. Gotta go. One of my guys just cut his thumb.”

When I pressed the phone off, Kyoko had leaned back on an elbow, studying me with a sly smile.

“What?” I knocked the tissue box off a third time as I reached to set my phone on the nightstand and finally just left it there. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Kyoko grinned. “No reason. Who called just now?”

“Oh.” I shrugged, catching a black sweater in midslide over the edge of the bed. “A friend. Not the septic service.”

She waggled her eyebrows. “Who?”

“Just … Adam. You met him.” I shook out the sweater and then sniffed it. “This smells like incense, Kyoko. What do you do, burn it in your bedroom?”

Kyoko laced her fingers together, nodding with a smirky wide-eyed look that reminded me of a deranged psychologist. “Adam. Really. How interesting.”

“Cut it out, Kyoko.” I grimaced and waved her away. “We’re just friends. Forget it.”

“It’s just that you’re suddenly so … pink.”

“Pink?” I hollered, dropping the sweater. “I am not! For your information, I—”

“Did you see the way he held the door for you, Ro? Even for me?”

“Well, of course! That’s only because he—”

“He paid our bill. And he made sure to leave a good tip for the waiter, even though I can tell he doesn’t have much money. Am I right?” She raised an eyebrow. “Ro? What are you doing?”

I realized I was twisting a ring on my finger and jerked my hands down. “Nothing. And to answer your question, no. Adam doesn’t have much money. He gave up a college scholarship to help take care of his brother Rick, who lost a leg and a foot in Afghanistan. A double amputee.”

“Ouch.”

“So now Adam runs a landscaping business. Planting stuff, building decks.”

She looked up suddenly, giving me a sneaky Cheshire-cat grin. “So now I see why your house is so well landscaped! All the shrubs trimmed and everything.”

“Please. He does that for everybody.” I crossed my arms uncomfortably. “Besides, he’s way younger than I am. I told you that already.”

“Oh, a year and a half.” Kyoko rolled her eyes. “Heaven forbid.”

“Still.”

“What on earth does that have to do with anything?” Kyoko waved her arms as if to jog some sense into me. “Join the twenty-first century, will ya? He’s no baby. At least he’s legal, Ro. I once dated a guy who was …” She bit her lip. “Never mind.”

My jaw wobbled.

Kyoko ignored me. “So when’s he coming over? I’ll make myself scarce.”

I pressed my hands to my cheeks, trying to stop the heat from flooding. “Stop it, Kyoko! He’s not coming over. And I don’t have feelings for Adam like that. He’s a friend! He’s not even cute at all, and …” I waved my arms. “I have no idea why he unnerves me. It’s probably because he’s so weird and stuffy all the time, asking goofy questions, and he makes me nervous. But at least we’re not arguing like we used to, right?”

Kyoko the legal reporter missed nothing. She squinted at me, twisting her head. “That’s an awful lot of vociferation, don’t you think?”

“Well, it’s true.” I crossed my arms grumpily. “He just … I don’t know. Forget about him.”

“Guys don’t hold the door for me, especially in Japan. But he did. And … I appreciated it.”

“You what?”

“It was nice.” She coolly picked at some chipped nail polish.

“I didn’t think you cared about that stuff!”

“Sometimes. I might be fat and scary, but I’m still a girl.”

“You’re not fat!” I smacked her leg so hard she yelped, waking Christie. “Scary, yes. But fat, no. Don’t ever say that again!”

“Ow!” She glared and rubbed her leg. “Glad you agree I’m scary. I try.”

“I know. You do a good job.”

Kyoko stayed quiet awhile, bending a ticket stub into a rounded arch. “I have to tell you something, Ro.”