Chapter Thirty-Four
The rain had started in Portland. The first few weeks of September were always wet. But Mika didn’t care. She opened the windows so she could hear the pitter-patter and smell the damp earth. Her phone dinged with an email. It was from UPS. A digital copy of the receipt for the painting. It had arrived in Dayton, and Thomas had signed for it. Mika closed out of her email and set down her phone. So that was that. The next move was Penny’s.
In front of her was a sandwich, and she dug into it, not realizing how hungry she was. She was eating at the counter because there wasn’t anywhere to sit down anymore. The couch housed canvases. The dining table held assorted supplies. The passion, the need to paint, was a cup. Filling until, stroke by stroke of the brush, Mika emptied it. But then the cup would start filling again. The cycle endless, excruciating, exhausting, exhilarating, and undeniable. It was gravity, and Mika had no choice but to comply. The lock on the front door turned, and Mika froze, wad of bread in her cheek.
The door opened, and Hana stepped inside, duffel over her shoulder. “Honey, I’m home,” she called out, letting the bag drop onto the floor, a plume of dust rising around it. Much like Mika, Hana also paused, toes inches from a drop cloth. “Wow. I love what you’ve done with the place. It’s very late-stage Van Gogh meets Grey Gardens.”
Mika chewed and swallowed. She supposed there was a certain madness to how the house appeared. But doesn’t madness always lead to discovery? “This is awkward. You said you’d be home in a couple weeks.”
“Yes, and that was almost two weeks ago,” Hana enunciated slowly.
Had that much time passed? Mika wasn’t sure. She still went to work, but everything sort of felt nebulous. “Huh,” was all she said.
Hana flashed Mika a grin. She stepped onto the drop cloth. Mika had purchased additional easels. Wanting to work on more than one painting at a time. She’d continued with her theme. Sketching Hiromi and Shige in American Gothic. Recasting Josephine and Hana in Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss. Hayato and Seth in Caillebotte’s Paris Street, Rainy Day. Hana walked between them as one does at a high-end gallery. She stopped and examined the painting of her and Josephine. “I like this one. I feel like you really captured my essence.”
Mika’s chest felt warm and gooey. “Thank you.”
Hana approached Mika and put her elbows on the counter. “You changed directions,” she stated.
A faint smile flickered across Mika’s lips. “I did. Or, I am. I think it’s in progress.” The world seemed bright now. Better. “Um, I’m going to be gone for a while too.”
“Are you?” Hana arched one perfect eyebrow.
“Yes.” Mika nodded. “Just a week. But I’m going to Paris. And . . .” A jumble of emotion clogged her throat. She thought of Thomas. I could see us in Paris. She blinked it away—some things you just had to do on your own. “I’ve been thinking about getting my own place. You know, somewhere I can fully realize my Grey Gardens, Van Gogh fever dreams.” Mika half smiled. “But I’d need a while to save up, a few months.”
“It’s like that then.” Hana smiled.
“It’s like that.”
“Good.” Hana placed one finger on Mika’s plate and drew it toward her, then she took a giant bite of her sandwich. She chewed, covered her lips with her fingers, swallowed, and said, “Now, I’m going to take a nap. And I expect this place to be cleaned up by the time I wake up.”
Mika huffed out a laugh. “I wouldn’t set your hopes too high.”
“Love your face.” Hana lifted herself upright.
“Love yours more,” Mika said.
Hana shut herself in her room. Mika snapped a few pictures of her paintings. And opened up her Instagram account. The one she’d abandoned and Penny had found. She posted the images, with a promise of more coming soon. And because she couldn’t help it, she checked her followers—all thirty-two of them. Penny’s name was still listed.
Mika chewed her lip, peering at the dining room table. The tubes of oils had been squeezed, almost every drop of them used. Better to get more now if she wanted to paint all night again. She threw her purse over her shoulder and swung open the front door, keys in hand. A dark head met her vision. Hiromi was stooped down, placing a plastic bag with a yogurt container inside on the step. Mika smelled bento. Her mother straightened, her mouth a little O. They stared at each other—mother and daughter.
Hiromi was the first to speak. “You look tired.” Involuntarily Mika touched under her eyes. “Have you been eating?”
Mika shook her head. Her stomach grumbled. She’d abandoned the sandwich on the counter. “No.”
“Here then,” Hiromi said, thrusting the bag at Mika.
Mika took it. Warmth bled through the plastic. Hiromi had cooked and brought the food over fresh. “I was just on my way out, but do you want to sit with me for a minute while I eat?”
“Sure.”
“Hana is taking a nap. You mind if we stay out here?” Their porch was just big enough for a couple of metal red chairs, a little bistro table between them.
“That’s fine.”
“Okay, let me just get some hashi.” Mika dashed inside and grabbed the utensils and was back just as Hiromi settled in a chair.
Hiromi opened the plastic bag and set out the container, peeling the lid off it. Steam rose from the bento. “It’s cold out today.” Hiromi placed the container in front of Mika. And Mika observed her mother’s hands, dry skin stretched tight over her bones like a canvas to a frame. Mika’s hands were similar now, rough and chapped.
Mika nodded noncommittally. Using her hashi, she brought a bite of sticky rice to her mouth. “At least it’s not raining.” The sky was overcast, but there was a break in the showers.
A few minutes passed. “You talk to Penny?” Hiromi finally asked, staring out at the street. The skin under her eyes was purple and puffy. A car drove by, kicking rocks onto the sidewalk.
“No. She’s not speaking to me.”
Hiromi pursed her lips. “Now you know how I feel.”
Indeed, Mika did. Having a daughter made you vulnerable. “I guess so.”
Hiromi crossed her legs at the ankles. She hiked up her chin. “I did the best I could,” she said, as if standing in front of a tribunal. Mika thought of her relationship with Penny. Thought of Penny’s relationship with Caroline. It was inevitable. All daughters felt disappointed with their mothers. No woman could ever get it right. The expectations were impossible.
Mika put down her hashi and regarded her mother. Seeing her mortality, all five feet two inches of it. “I believe that.” Her mother loved her. It was in the sacrifices she made for Mika. In the early mornings, in the oil burns on her hands from the wok, in the late-night washing laundry by hand. It was Hiromi’s approval that eluded Mika. What she had craved most but could never seem to win or court because to do so would be a betrayal of herself. What Hiromi wanted was at direct odds with what Mika wanted, with who Mika was. And now, Mika reveled in herself. In all her parts—painter, mother, dreamer, daughter.
Hiromi sucked in through her teeth, expression turning thoughtful, then said, “Shouganai.” Roughly translated to “It cannot be helped.” Salarymen muttered it when stuck in traffic. A mother might say it to her daughter after her heart had been broken. Or a policeman to a woman when she is groped on a train. It was a reminder that environments were fickle, uncontrollable, sometimes cruel. Better to move on without regrets. Mika didn’t reply. Didn’t want to fight anymore. She just picked up her hashi and started eating again.
“You’ve been painting again?” Hiromi eyed Mika’s clothes, her hands splattered with paint.
“Yes.” She paused. “Do you want to come in and see?”
She shook her head once. “I better not. I have to get home to your father.” Hiromi stood.
“Okay. Thanks for the food,” Mika said, surprised to find that she meant it. To find the electric zap of Hiromi’s dismissal was absent.
Hiromi stepped away and stopped. “Make sure you keep the container,” she said over her shoulder. “Bring it back to me the next time you come home.”
“I will.” Mika knew she’d see her mother again. She’d go to church with her parents and to dinner at their house. Like it or not, she might never be able to cut the tie. But she could move on, discard the fear that without her mother, she might be nothing. She knew where she must look for love now. And where she must give up looking for it.
Once in the car, Hiromi waved to her daughter. Mika waved back. Two old enemies, tired of their feud. Mika stayed on the porch a little longer. She leaned back, watched the rain start again.
She might not ever be able to get over it. The assault. The adoption. But she could make sense of it. Find meaning. She could reach into the darkness and come out with hands full. She’d seen Peter and the adoption as punishment. Because she’d been a bad daughter. Been disobedient. She’d blamed herself. Thinking something was wrong with her. That she didn’t deserve to be loved, that she didn’t deserve to be happy. But that was the real lie. She wouldn’t suffer her mother’s discontent any longer. Didn’t have to siphon Hiromi’s unhappy life.
Thomas had been a lovely distraction. Penny too. She still wanted them both, with an intensity that stole her breath. She ached with the bigness of the love she had to share. But there was something else she needed right now. Hiromi couldn’t let go of her ghost life, but maybe Mika could. She stood, gathered her purse again, and drove to the art store. Dive deep, she’d wished for Penny, but she should have wished it for herself. No more swimming in shallow water. No more constantly drifting to shore. No more gasping for breath, confused at what tides had pushed her there. No more disorienting illusions of before, of what she wanted or who she was at eighteen, trying to capture what could have been. Time to make a new memory. Time to travel farther out into the ocean.