Chapter One

Chapter One

Fired.

Mika blinked. “I’m sorry, what?” she asked Greg, in his shoebox of an office. In fact, it wasn’t really an office. It was a cubicle carved out of the large copy room at Kennedy, Smith & McDougal Law. But Greg wielded the tiny space like a corner office on the thirtieth floor. He’d even decorated it—a bonsai tree in the corner of his desk, a cheap samurai sword tacked crookedly to the wall. Greg was white and a self-described Japanophile. On more than one occasion, he’d tried to converse with Mika in Japanese, and she’d demurred—she was fluent, she just wasn’t fluent for him. So yeah, that guy.

Greg leaned back in his chair. “This shouldn’t come as a surprise,” he said, steepling his fingers together and placing them under his hairless chin. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.”

Mika nodded vacantly. A senior partner, a rainmaker, had recently departed for another firm. Profit shares were down. She opened her hands. “But I make twenty dollars an hour.” A pittance compared to the other salaried employees. Did the powers that be think laying off a copy assistant would make a dent in their financial woes?

Greg waved a hand. “I get it,” he said. “But you know how these things go, last in the pecking order . . .” He trailed off.

Greg shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mika. It’s no use. Today is your last day.”

* * *

The faint scent of stale popcorn. The emotionally healing candles on clearance. What was it about this particular store that sucked Mika in? She stood in the home section, examining a pillow embroidered with the saying money can buy a house, but not a home. On the phone, Hana laughed. “So, let me get this straight. He asked you out at the same time he was firing you?”

Hana snorted another laugh.

Mika’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Please don’t. I’m in a very vulnerable place right now.”

Mika tilted her head, contemplating the pillow. It was designed by a couple who had become filthy rich making new houses look old. It was all about the shiplap. The pillow could be hers for $29.99. “I never thought I’d be laid off and sexually harassed all in the same day. It’s a new first.” Mika bypassed the pillow and went on to the wine section. Her pocketbook was lighter, but a five-dollar bottle of wine was a necessity.

Hana made a sympathetic noise. “It could be worse. Remember the time you were fired from that donut shop for keeping a box of maple bars in the freezer and eating them between filling orders?”

Confusion rippled across her face. “That never happened.” Hana laughed again. Mika rubbed her forehead, feeling as if she’d fallen from an unlucky tree, hitting every branch on the way down, then landing in a pit of snakes and bears. “What am I going to do?”

Her phone rang again. Sometimes Hiromi called two, three times in a row, inducing panic. Last time Mika answered breathless, reaching for her keys, ready to head to the hospital. What’s the matter?

Hiromi replied, Nothing. Why do you sound so winded? I wanted to tell you Fred Meyer is having a sale on chicken . . .

Mika listened, temper rising. You can’t call so many times. I thought something was wrong, she said.

To which Hiromi scoffed, I’m sorry I’m not more dead for you. The ringing continued. Mika fished the phone from her purse and peered at the screen. A blocked number.

Curious, she swiped to answer. “Hello?” she said, brows knitting together. Shit, she thought too late. It could be the new congregant, Hayato. Quickly, she cycled through possible excuses. My phone is dying. I’m dying.

* * *

Mika managed to keep a hold on the phone even as her limbs went completely slack. Even as the blood raced in her veins and her vision blurred, then tunneled. Even as she hurdled back in time, back to the hospital, to Penny as a newborn. The day returned in heart-stopping flashes. Holding Penny in the crook of her arm. Kissing her brow. Slicking her hair away to place a thin blue-and-pink-striped cap on her head. All so unbearable and beautiful.

Silence then. Penny was waiting for Mika to say something. She closed her eyes, opened them. “That’s very clever,” she murmured, trembling. Sit. She needed to sit down. She stumbled back into a plastic outdoor chair, gripping the armrest to regain her balance, her knuckles turning white. How had she wound up in the garden section?

Mika was sweating, the phone slippery against her ear. She breathed in and out. In and out. “I’m here.”

A throb settled in her temples. “I am. I did,” Mika said, her throat dry. Secretly, she’d dreamed of this moment. The day she might hear her daughter’s voice. Talk to her. Sometimes the fantasy bordered on delusional. Over the years, she thought she’d seen Penny a couple of times. Which was ridiculous. She knew Penny lived in the Midwest. But then she’d spot a dark-headed little girl with blunt bangs, and Mika’s body would swell with certainty. She’d feel an invisible tug. That’s my daughter, she’d think, only to deflate when the girl turned around, and the nose was wrong, or the eyes were green, not a deep brown. Not Penny. An imposter.

Mika released the lawn chair from her death grip, her legs wobbly as she stood. She began to wander the aisles. She needed to move. It helped to ground her, to keep her in the present. Helped to exorcise the storm of emotions brewing.

She had also hoped a more American-sounding name would ease Penny’s way in life. Mika had years of mispronunciations and misspellings under her belt. She’d been called Mickey more times than she could count. She’d wanted Penny to blend in. But it didn’t seem the right time to say all this. Instead, she said, “I was sorry to hear about your mom.” When Mrs. Pearson had informed Mika five years ago that Caroline Calvin had cancer and was dying, she’d begged to be put in touch with Penny, swore she could feel her daughter’s grief pressing against her skin like a hot iron.

She needs me, Mika had said.

I’ll try, Mrs. Pearson had replied. Then Thomas Calvin denied the request. I’m sorry, Mika, Mrs. Pearson said, Caroline doesn’t have much time. Cancer. Stage four. Very sudden. He wants it to be the three of them these last few days.

Quiet fell on the line again. Mika kept walking. Destination unknown. Her entire body was in an uproar. She passed the aisle of pregnancy tests. Nearly seventeen years ago, she’d picked through Hana’s car to find enough money to buy a test at the dollar store, then peed on the stick in the bathroom of a grocery store nearby. She’d barely wiped when the two pink lines appeared, when her world fell apart.

Mika realized she’d gone silent for too long. “She wrote me letters, your mom, and sent me packages with pictures of you, drawings you made. She had nice handwriting,” she blurted. Mika didn’t know much about the couple who adopted Penny. She’d chosen them from dozens of scrapbook family profiles. She used to stare at the photographs of Penny’s future parents. At Thomas, a copyright attorney, pictured in college on his rowing team. She would focus on his hands wrapped around the oars, at the scowly dent between his green eyes. He is strong, Mika remembered thinking. He’d stand up for Penny. Then she’d peer at Caroline, also in college wearing a sweatshirt with Greek letters, her smile wide. It was easy to imagine her smiling the same way at Penny, saying wonderful things like I’m proud of you. I’m so happy you’re mine. I’d run blind through the dark for you.

Mika didn’t think it was. But she longed for a connection to Penny, any way to bind them together. “My handwriting is terrible too.”

Mika slowed. Calmed a little. “I like to think of it as my own font. It’d be called ‘too much coffee and donuts.’”

Penny laughed. It was a pleasant sound, full-bodied and earnest. Her daughter. “Or ‘clean up your mess.’”

Finally, Mika paused in the detergent aisle. No one was in it. She leaned back, inhaled the scent of clean laundry. She’d thought in time the memory of Penny, what happened before, might fade, but it only grew sharper against the blurred, less important memories of her recent past. Graduating college, her first paying job, even some of the pregnancy—the ever-ticking clock had worn smooth all those rough edges. But Penny, the baby, Mika’s baby, had stayed, a hand cast in concrete. She wished she knew then what she knew now. That every day she would wake and think of Penny. Of how old she was. What she might be wearing. Whom she might be smiling at. That her love would be teeth and nails, unwilling to let go.

Mika jolted upright. “Fine. I’m fine.” One of the children had chocolate all over his face. He licked a slow circle around his lips. The mom waited until Mika got moving before moving on herself.

Penny swore. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked if now was a good time to talk. I should let you go.”

Mika didn’t like the sound of that. The threat of this tiny tenuous string being cut again. Could Penny feel it too? This flow of bliss-like energy between them. “No. It’s okay.”

No. Keep talking. I’d listen to you read War and Peace. She stifled the sudden urge to cry. “Of course. It was nice speaking with you.” Mika stepped out of the store. The sky was gray—end of winter in Portland. A couple of crows picked at trash in the parking lot. She blinked and, on the inside of her eyelids, saw another set of crows. From a long time ago, fighting over a discarded watermelon container. She pushed the memory away. “If you ever need anything. If I can ever do anything . . .”