Southern Fried Sushi (7 page)

She pulled open the thick glass door with a suction sound. “Which one? This one? I think that’s your favorite, right?”

It wasn’t even jasmine tea. It was a weird brand of green. But I nodded anyway.

Kyoko pulled out the bottle and just stood there. Finally she closed the door. “Okay. Anything else?”

I tried to think.

“Is it … Carlos? Did you guys have, like … a fight or something?”

“Carlos?” I glanced at her foggily. “No. But he didn’t answer the phone.”

“But you did call him?”

“Yes. Mia didn’t answer either.”

She wisely restrained her eyebrows. “Something at work?” she ventured.

“No.”

Kyoko shook her head as if lost, drumming her dark nails on the tea bottle. “Okay … something at … home?”

As I raised my eyes to her, looking lost and shell-shocked and even guilty, something inside her seemed to understand.

“Your parents?”

“My mom.” I couldn’t say any more.

Kyoko opened and closed her mouth then guided me to the register. She paid for the tea and spoke to Mrs. Inoue, who worried over me with crossed arms. Mrs. Inoue gave me a bag of ginger candy, wrapping her hands around mine. She dropped in some senbei rice crackers for good measure then accompanied us to the door.

I suddenly reached out and hugged her, something I had never done. Japanese generally don’t hug.

She patted my hair in a motherly way, muttering something soothing in Japanese with her wrinkled lips.

Maybe I’d come for that reason. Maybe, for just one moment in my addled brain, I wanted to reach out for two things I suddenly could not obtain: a mother who acted like one—and a mother who was still alive.

“Do you want to go home or come to my place?” Kyoko held open the door for me.

“Your place.” I couldn’t stand the idea of going back into my bedroom and seeing that phone again.

Our taxi stopped at Kyoko’s apartment. She flipped on the light and seated me on the sofa with a blanket and a bowl of
mikan
—small, deliciously sweet tangerines packed with flavor. They reminded me of those ancient Bonkers candy commercials where huge fruits suddenly crash through the ceiling when you ate one.

I gently tore off the soft mikan skin, pressing the pieces against my nose to inhale them. It made Kyoko’s living room smell less like carpet and incense and more like summertime. If they made a perfume scented like mikan, I’d wear it. In fact, maybe I could just wear the peels like a necklace or something. I rehearsed the Japanese phrase I’d use at the perfume counter to ask, “Do you have bottled mikan?”

I was making no sense. I popped a section of mikan in my mouth, and the intense burst of sweet, tart citrus flavor seemed to bring me out of my fog.

“She was only forty-nine,” I said in a small voice, dropping my head into my hands.

Kyoko came from the kitchen with two glasses and stopped short. “What do you mean ‘was’?”

“I mean, how could she do that? I should have been there, and she should have waited for me. I mean, how do I know thosedoctors actually tried to help her? I should see the records! If I sue, I’ll sue big-time. You can help me with all your legal know-how. It’s their fault. Completely.”

I didn’t touch my tea. Condensation frosted on the side.

“Come on—forty-nine? People don’t die of brain aneurysms at forty-nine. People live to eighty. Or nowadays, ninety, with all our medical care. What about longevity? Vitamins? She was healthy. This shouldn’t have happened.”

Palpable sorrow glowed in Kyoko’s dark eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

I barely heard her. The dam had broken, and the tidal wave curled up, ready to slap. Just like Hokusai’s famous painting.

“Maybe those freak friends of hers took too long to call the medics. Or the ambulance. Maybe it didn’t get there fast enough. They took the wrong road, or got stopped by traffic, or … would that be the city’s fault? Maybe somebody poisoned her! Help me, Kyoko! You’re the legal one. Who can I sue?”

I blabbed on for about five more minutes, and Kyoko graciously didn’t try to stop me. When I finally sagged against the sofa and sipped my tea, she clumsily patted my shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Ro-chan. I know you weren’t … you know, close … but I know she mattered to you.”

For some reason I sensed none of the anger I’d felt toward Wade when he said basically the same thing.

“I should have tried harder. I should have been there.”

Grief obviously didn’t put Kyoko in her element, and I knew she felt uncomfortable. But she just stayed there in her armchair, legs curled up under her, looking glum. She picked at her dark green toenail polish.

“Wanna try Carlos again?”

I shook my head. “Let’s just go there. He doesn’t answer his phone.”

“Okay. Do you want to call Dave? Or I’ll call him if you want.”

Kyoko? Call Dave? Kyoko Morikoshi had suddenly moved beyond crabby office lunch-mate to friend. “Would you?”

“Sure. I guess you’re going for the funeral, right?”

“Yes.” My determination surprised even myself.

“Really? You sure? I thought …”

“I’m going.”

Her smile beamed slight tenderness. “Good for you, Ro,” she said, voice softer than usual. “The rest of us can cover for you. It’s not a busy month.”

She scrolled through a computer calendar and squinted at me. “Aren’t you supposed to renew your visa next week?”

“My what?”

“Never mind. You can do it in the States. Just don’t forget.”

I played with my glass and ate another mikan while Kyoko discreetly made phone calls from the other room. A purple lava lamp bubbled. My eyes passed over her walls scattered with old Goth and dark post-punk rock posters: Bauhaus. The Cure. Joy Division. And some scary-looking blond Japanese guy in all black called Gackt. Where did Kyoko come up with this stuff?

She came back in and fiddled with her laptop on her desk. “Your story on the PM’s wife posted.”

I looked up. “Oh.” Some other time I’d celebrate.

“Do you want to make some airline reservations? I can help if you want. Then we can go to Carlos’s place.”

I dragged myself over to the couch and plopped down in front of the computer. Clicked a few pages. Rubbed my face. Typed
Tokyo (Narita)
under F
ROM
.

The cursor blinked at me under To.

“Where does she live?” Kyoko started to correct herself and say “did” but stopped.

I banged my head against the keyboard, typing rows and rows of b’s.

“Ro? Are you okay? Calm down! I’ll do it.” She leaned over me and took control of the keyboard. “What’s her city and state?”

I rolled my head back and forth in misery. “You know what? I don’t even know.”

Tokyo at night had a soothing feeling even my mood couldn’t shatter. A taxi over to Shibuya would cost a fortune, so we took the subway. I already had too much on my credit card to buy first-class tickets, so I got coach and hoped Kyoko hadn’t noticed. She paid for our subway tickets.

A group of platinum-blond Japanese girls with eerie white-and-blue makeup and silver-white lipstick strummed guitars and sang on the side of the street. A perky summer love song, ironic for how I felt at the moment.

The subway crowds had thinned, so Kyoko and I sat side by side on the seat, purses on our lap and staring straight ahead per Japanese custom. A drunk businessman tried vainly to hold on to one of the rings, advertisement cards overhead swatting his balding head, and he finally stumbled into a seat across from us. He slumped against the glass, tie askew and mouth hanging slack. I felt like doing the same thing.

“Thanks for letting me call Wade and Ashley.”

“No problem, Ro. Just don’t forget to go to the consulate and renew your visa while you’re in the US, or I’ll be visiting you in the deportation wing of the airport.”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.” I tried to smile but couldn’t. “Do you really think it’s okay to take off a whole week?”

“The office will find some way to go on.” Kyoko stopped abruptly, remembering to turn off her sarcasm button. She tried again. “Dave was really sympathetic, wasn’t he? Probably a first for him.”

“I know. Will you talk to Mrs. Inoue? I like her a lot.”

“Certainly.”

“And you’re sure? You really don’t mind putting me up for the night and taking me to the airport tomorrow?”

She flicked my head. It stung, and I scowled and rubbed the spot. “Stop worrying about everything! Take a nap like that guy is doing.”

I followed her curt nod to a thin businessman in an open-mouthed sleep, head bobbing forward as the subway car jolted. There’s a disease in Japan called
karoshi
—death from overwork. One could only take so many eighteen-hour days, eating vending-machine noodles and sleeping in tubes.

“I’m worried about Carlos,” I finally whispered. “And Mia. I don’t like it.”

“Now you’re coming to your senses.”

“He called me childish.”

“He’s the one who’s childish. If he thinks for a second he’s immune to Little Miss Green Eyes, or any other attractive woman under the age of fifty staying in his apartment, he’s deluded.
Ploise
.” She fluttered her eyelashes.

“I thought you’re from San Fran!” I protested. “Freedom and no stroke order!” Honestly, Kyoko struck me as the last person on earth to object to Carlos’s female roommate.

She stared at me. “I’m not stupid, Ro! Freedom doesn’t mean ignorance. Wake up and welcome to the real world!” She tapped me on her head with her cell phone.

“Besides, he always makes you go meet him,” she grumbled. “He doesn’t even care that you love Japan and want to stay here.”

“He works hard. And he loves Argentina.”

“Then get used to playing second fiddle, babe.”

“I can’t just expect him to drop everything for me!”

Kyoko turned to face me. “Everything? Know what I see, Ro-chan? A man who hasn’t given up
anything
for you! At all! He does his thing, and you come at his beck and call. You don’t even talk to each other like you’re in love! He … Forget it.”

Kyoko looked furious. She mashed the keys on her cell phone violently, and her cheeks reddened. Finally she broke the icy silence. “I think you should dump him.”

The ring on my finger sparkled, and I curled my hand into a fist in defiance.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“Shut up.” She turned away.

We didn’t speak until the subway slid to a stop at the station. I knew in her own way Kyoko bared protective claws, and it made my heart swell a little. Someone cared; someone thought my happiness mattered.

We walked through the turnstile and started up the hill to Carlos’s apartment, breathing in the cool, damp night air.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I shouldn’t keep bringing it up, especially with all you’re going through now. He’s as good-looking as sin, Ro, but he still bugs me. Something just isn’t right. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“It’s okay.” Our footsteps echoed on the pavement. “I understand.” I took her arm. “You’re a good friend, Kyoko. Thanks.”

“Nah. It’s nothing. You’ll probably get married as soon as you get back, and I’ll have to eat crow.” She disentangled her arm and patted me—or rather, smacked me—on the back of the head. I’m assuming she meant it affectionately, since that’s pretty much as close as she came.

We entered the super-chic, chandeliered lobby of Carlos’s building, and the receptionist nodded at me. He loved practicing his English, and I loved gawking at the fine furnishings and imagining I lived here. Stockbrokers obviously made more than reporters.

“Is Carlos home?” I asked in English.

“Yes, I believe he is. Shall I ring him for you?”

“No thanks. We’ll go up.” I nodded my thanks.

We stepped into the shiny gold elevator, but when it stopped at Carlos’s floor, my hands twisted nervously. Why hadn’t he called me? Certainly he’d seen his messages by now if he was

home. Maybe the receptionist made a mistake.

I buzzed the button outside Carlos’s door. Kyoko twisted a dark silver spider ring, looking moody.

A flurry of footsteps pattered, and my heart picked up. A fumbling with the lock.

The door opened slowly, and there he stood. A little rumpled in shorts and a T-shirt, but still gorgeous. “What’s wrong, chica?” His eyes widened as he spotted my sad face. “Chicas?” he amended upon seeing Kyoko.

“Can we come in?” I reached out to hold his hand.

“Of cou … uh … sure. Sure.” He held the door open wider and cleared his throat. He stuttered again.

We filed in, and there in the darkened living room sat Mia, looking pretty in a pair of fuzzy cotton pajamas, curled up in an armchair. A bowl of popcorn at her feet. She looked up in surprise.

“Um … hi.” Her nervous gaze bounced from me to Carlos, those glass-green eyes looking blue in the glow of the paused TV. For good measure, she quickly sat up straight and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. I shot her a look, but she seemed quite absorbed in scrubbing something off the arm of the chair.

“We were jus … watching a movie.” Carlos assumed his place in the armchair opposite Mia and leaned back in overdone relaxation, hands behind his head. They sat pretty far apart, but he ran his hand through his black hair a tad nervously.