Chapter Three
A week later, Mika attended church. With her parents. Squished into the corner of the pew, Mika snuck a glance at her mother. Hiromi Suzuki stared straight ahead. Her black button eyes focused on the pulpit. Her face was small with delicate features and a mouth that frowned more than it smiled. At home, she had a closet full of velour tracksuits. Today, she wore eggplant. It complemented her short dark hair permed into half-domes to curl away from her head, like the queen of England’s. Next to Hiromi, Mika’s father, Shige, snoozed.
The sermon continued, something about friendship, and Mika reached for her phone, popping open her Instagram profile. It featured exactly five photos. Her toes in the sand from a trip she took to Puerto Rico with Leif, right before they broke up. Another of her and Leif on the same trip dressed up for the evening. Hana’s backyard after she’d first moved in—they’d strung fairy lights all around and drunk margaritas with top-shelf tequila. A bridesmaid photo from Charlie’s wedding. And a photograph of a beet and goat cheese salad. That was all. Penny had liked all of them. They’d scheduled a call for tomorrow, their first Skype meeting. She clicked out of her profile and onto the magnifying glass—the explore tab.
Her screen populated with posts, the algorithm producing content for her based on previous clicks and searches. There were a lot of women with symmetrical faces who matched the perfect beige houses they lived in. An ad to celebrate a new federal holiday by purchasing commemorative toilet paper. A celebrity whom Hiromi loved because she didn’t have a nanny. How impressive.
In the search line, she entered the word adoption. The screen repopulated. Mostly with adoptive moms describing their journey. He’s finally home. Mateo (we’ve been calling him Matty!) is six weeks old and has never been held. To reacclimate him, I’ve been wearing him in the Ring Sling (not a paid sponsorship) as much as possible. My back is tired, and I’m tired in general—Mateo has been waking up every two hours. Any other mamas out there feeling a little overwhelmed today? People had commented with: You can do this! You got it! Try this smoothie recipe for an extra energy boost. Mika frowned at the twist in her gut. Nobody said It’s okay to stop. It’s okay to admit you can’t. This is beyond you. There was so much emphasis placed on women doing everything on their own. To keep going even if they were tired, poor, hanging on by a thread. She peered at the picture again of the woman holding her newly adopted son. Smiling like a hero. Is this what Thomas and Caroline thought, that they’d rescued Penny?
A hand snaked behind Mika’s arm and pinched the thin-skinned underside. “Pay attention,” said her mother in the same tone she used when sending Mika to her room in elementary school.
“Ow,” Mika hissed, rubbing her arm and glaring at her mother. And this was better here than visiting them at home.
At the thought of her childhood house, Mika’s anxiety stretched and prepared for a sprint. The house itself wasn’t particularly intimidating. A 1970s bungalow with all its original charm—puke green shag carpet, yellow globe lights, and paneled den. On the outside, it was similar to all the other homes on the block, the architecture unremarkable—definitely not worthy of any art history textbook. But on the inside, there were all the classical Japanese touches: soy sauce packets and plastic silverware shoved into drawers, slippers neatly aligned by the front door, a drying line in the backyard, a sprinkle of pistachio shells her dad liked to eat while watching NHK or Japanese baseball, the Hanshin Tigers, his favorite team.
Despite the clutter, the incense smell, and the dated décor, the drive for perfection persisted within its walls. It was in the dusty kimono Mika refused to wear after she quit odori. In the empty frames where Mika’s Ivy League degree and wedding photos should have gone. In the pots and pans Mika had never learned to cook with.
By the fifth month of Mika’s pregnancy, she had started to show. She couldn’t hide it any longer, didn’t want to. She and Hiromi were cleaning the lime-green-tiled kitchen when Mika blurted out the truth. I’m pregnant. Mika’s father was watching television in the next room. All the doors in the hallway were neatly closed—you only saw what Hiromi wanted you to see. Hiromi stopped wiping down the counters. For one single moment, she stayed still. Unable to comprehend this new reality. Did you hear me? I said I’m pregnant. Against the inside of Mika’s belly, Penny moved—a gentle flutter like wings. The quickening, the ob-gyn at the free health clinic on campus had told her.
Hiromi blinked once. Straightened. Who’s the father? she asked coolly.
The house smelled of sukiyaki—boiled beef and vegetable in mirin, soy sauce, and sugar. They always ate the traditional hotpot meal when the weather turned cold. That night, snow was forecast. It’s a girl, Mika said.
Hiromi wrung out the sponge in the sink. Girls are difficult. “You are difficult,” Hiromi meant. Someone laughed on the television.
I’m giving her up for adoption. The statement was spontaneous. Mika hadn’t decided anything. She was still processing the pregnancy, a pendulum swinging between disbelief and stark fear. What had she been expecting her mother to say? Too late, Mika realized she wanted Hiromi to tell her to keep the baby. To promise to help raise the bundle of cells. But Mika should have known. Hiromi’s support always came at a high price, and Mika had never quite figured out how to afford it. Still, Mika couldn’t help coming to her mother, offering her broken need on a platter, hoping for more, for better, for her mother to change—to heal Mika. The word adoption was mentioned as a kind of dare.
Hiromi turned on the faucet to flush food scraps down the drain. Hot water scalded her hands red, and steam dampened the hollow of her throat. That’s probably best. What do you know about raising a baby? Another way in which she’d failed her mother. Hiromi had tried to teach Mika how to be a good housewife, how to cook, how to host and be a housekeeper. All in preparation for the day she’d have her own partner and child. But Hiromi had never taught Mika about birth control or sex or love or what to do if you found yourself suddenly pregnant. Because that was an undesirable outcome. And you did not talk of that which you did not want to happen.
In the kitchen, Mika was stunned for a moment. Disappointment suffocated her like a clot of overcooked rice in her throat. That’s it? That’s all you want to say to me?
Hiromi’s eyes snapped to Mika’s, then roved over Mika’s stomach. Her expression the same as when Mika came home with secondhand clothing from a thrift store in high school. That had been the style then—ripped jeans, flannels, crop tees. What will the ladies at church think? Hiromi had said, focusing on Mika’s bare midriff.
What else do you want me to say? I’ll tell your father about it. “It.” That’s how Hiromi referred to Penny. She turned away from Mika, her fingers curled in. Do you want leftovers to take back to the dorm?
Mika cupped her belly. No. No, thanks.
She didn’t see her parents until after Penny was born, after she’d flunked part of her freshman and sophomore years. It became an unspeakable thing, contained behind one of the closed doors in Hiromi’s home.
Now, Mika settled back in the pew. Outside the stained-glass windows, a rainbow and BLM flag flapped in the wind—Hiromi and Shige tolerated the church’s progressive views and attended services every Sunday. Mika wasn’t even sure they believed in a Christian God. Statues of the Buddha and little altars, butsudan, covered their home. They came to drink ocha, to mingle with the ninety-nine percent Japanese congregation, and to find Mika dates.
“We’re looking for someone to maintain our social media accounts,” Pastor Barbara announced from the pulpit. “Keep them updated with all the goings-on.” White but fluent in Japanese, Pastor Barbara was a stout woman with a gentle voice. She liked to hold both your hands while she spoke to you. Behind her was a specially commissioned Asian Jesus—the woodworker used only fallen logs found on non-tribal land and plastic pieces harvested from the floating garbage patch in the Pacific Ocean.
Really Mika’s mother should be the one applauded for sustainable living. The woman had been using the same sour cream container as Tupperware for the last twenty years. She also reused wrapping paper like it was her job. Five birthdays in a row, Mika’s present was wrapped in the same My Little Pony paper. Hiromi’s parents had been World War II survivors in Japan, had grown up in a time when fruit was a memory, their lives shaped by war and famine. They’d taught Hiromi to save every scrap of paper, to stir-fry field grasses, to take soil blackened from bombs and make it rich again.
“We’re also looking for volunteers for the annual bazaar for food prep,” Pastor Barbara went on. “But what we really need are taiko players or dancers for the exhibit portion. If you’ve got a special talent, now is the time to let it shine!” Once a year, in the spring, the church held a fundraiser. Tents went up in the parking lot. Chicken was marinated in tubs of teriyaki sauce. Soba noodles sizzled in woks. They sold Japanese street food outside. Inside, handicrafts were displayed on tables—crocheted potholders, kokeshi dolls, yosegi. In the evening, congregants danced and played music in a showcase.
Another pinch from her mother. “You should do that. Help with the food or dance in the showcase.” Hiromi elbowed Shige, waking him with a start. “Remember how Mika danced?” Before Shige swept her off her feet, before becoming a wife, Mika’s mother had trained as a maiko, a geisha apprentice. And when they moved to the States, Hiromi tracked down a sensei to teach Mika. If Hiromi couldn’t be a maiko, Mika would be a dancer. Hiromi wanted a foil. Mika wanted to be free.
He nodded dazedly. “Yes, yes, of course.”
Mika scooted away until she was pressed against the end of the pew. She didn’t say anything. The refusal was in the set line of her mouth. Mika would dance again the same day Hiromi used a microwave. Which would be never.
“All those lessons. What a waste.” Hiromi clucked her tongue. School. Chores. Dance. Once upon a time, Mika’s world had been a tiny matchstick model built in the center of her mother’s palm.
After the service, Mika drifted to the refreshments table. She piled a plate high with dorayaki, tiny squares of chiffon, and matcha cake . . . all while balancing a cup of tea in one hand. Her temples throbbed. The official line was a headache, not a hangover from box wine the night before.
Mika stuffed a sweet-potato cake in her mouth. “Dad, what have you been up to lately?”
Shige turned to her. “I watched a documentary about the United States Postal System.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mika feigned interest. Her mom scanned the room, bowing her head at a friend, then kept going, clearly on the hunt for someone else.
Her father sipped his tea, served by Mika’s mother. No longer a maiko, Hiromi was a sengyō shufu now, a professional housewife. This was her ikigai, her motivation to live, to entertain, and to care. Mika couldn’t remember a meal or snack her father had ever prepared for himself. “Did you know you can send birds through the mail?” Shige smiled, and it was disarmingly charming. When Mika was growing up, he had been kind to her but stayed out of the parenting. Mika understood. Hiromi Suzuki was a force Shige elected not to reckon with. Unfortunately, that left Mika alone to weather her mother’s storms. Riding around in their Ford Taurus station wagon, Mika used to write “Help, I’ve been kidnapped” in the condensation on the window in hopes someone would pull them over.
Mika smiled too, bolstered by his good humor. Her mother was momentarily distracted by Mrs. Ito showing off pictures of her trip to Japan. Hiromi and Mrs. Ito were best friends and mortal enemies. They had reduced mothering to a competitive sport. Correction, a war. With judgment the preferred weapon of torture. Anyway, now was the perfect time. She had her father’s attention and didn’t have her mother’s. “Otōsan . . .” Mika started. “I’ve recently had a little setback.”
Shige’s face crinkled. “Not again.”
Mika had never been good at saving. She lived her life impulsively, check to check. Operating on the motto “You can’t take it with you.” Funds became short rather quickly. Within days, her circumstances teetered on dire. Rent was due. Utilities too. Plan A, getting another job ASAP, hadn’t panned out. Plan B, not eating, lasted all of four hours. Now, it was time for plan C, asking her parents for money, and Mika had to say, it fucking sucked. Mika licked her lips and plowed on. “I’m applying for new jobs like crazy. I’m sure I’ll have something lined up in no time. I just need a little help to get me through the rest of this month. I’m sorry,” she said. It was a global apology—for all her deficits, for asking for money in a public place. She couldn’t bear to visit them and ask at home.
“What’s this?” Hiromi swept over, finished with Mrs. Ito.
For a moment, her father said nothing. He cast his gaze around, making sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “Mi-chan has asked for money,” he said, voice lowered, nearly inaudible.
Hiromi’s face cooled. Mika knew that expressionless look; it was all in the eyes. It cut through her—that concealed disappointment. But also fear. Who is this woman-child I’ve raised? So ignorant. So disconnected from her past, how can she have a future? I have so many regrets. Shamed and feeling small, Mika peered down at her plate.
“How much do you need?” Shige asked.
Mika rubbed her thumbs against her plate. “A couple thousand. I’ll pay you back.”
Hiromi waved it off. “Yes. That is what you always say.”
Mika kept quiet. She swore she’d never ask her parents for money again. How many times had she broken that promise to herself?
Hiromi’s gaze lit on someone. “Put your plate down,” she commanded, scowling at the amount of food on Mika’s plate. Mrs. Ito often commented what a good eater Mika was. “I see the new congregant.” She took in Mika’s outfit—pants and a blouse with a button missing, the last clean clothing items in her closet. “This is what you’re wearing?”
Mika frowned. “I don’t want to meet anyone.” When Mika broke up with Leif, Hiromi had said, How will you survive? “And what about the loan—”
“Shush,” Hiromi said. “Everyone will see you disagreeing with me. You will meet this person.” Hiromi’s eyes flickered. “And your father will write you a check.” Mika was waiting for this part, to feel the tug of the strings to which the money was attached.
Dating someone her mother approved of was about as appealing as a full body cavity search. “Kaasan—”
“Listen to your mother. Show us you are willing to change,” her father said. When choosing sides, Shige always picked his wife’s. “You must begin taking your life more seriously, which includes searching for the right partner.”
Mika swallowed and set her plate down. “Fine.”
Hiromi smiled like a cat and ushered Mika to the new congregant. He was talking to the pastor. “Mika-san,” the pastor said, taking both of Mika’s hands. Her smile was warm. “How are you?”
“I’ve come to introduce Mika to our new member.” Hiromi smiled sweetly. She squeezed Mika’s arm like she’d just encountered good fortune.
“Oh, of course!” the pastor said, letting go of Mika’s hands. “This is Hayato Nakaya. He just transferred from Nike Japan to our fair city.”
Hayato bowed. “How do you do?” He was lean and taller than Mika, which wasn’t saying much. Mika was five-two on a good day. He had a nice smile, she supposed.
“Pastor, I need to speak with you about the bazaar,” Hiromi said gravely. “Esther Watanabe wants to use her tempura recipe again. I wonder if we might persuade her in a different direction.”
“Sure, sure.” The pastor nodded, and they stepped away, leaving Mika alone with Hayato.
“Well, this is uncomfortable,” Hayato said in perfect English.
“Did you grow up in Japan?” Mika asked to be polite.
“No, in California. LA.” He rocked back on his heels. “My mother is first-generation Japanese American. How about you?”
“Mine too. I was born in Daito, just outside of Osaka.” Mika had only impressions of her home in Japan. The sloping roof with curling tiles. The plastic sheeting around the porch. The muddy backyard bordering a sweet potato farm. The tansu chest left by a previous owner, which her mother loved but was too expensive to transport to the United States. “We moved when I was six.”
She remembered the day they arrived in the States. Their little family of three rumpled and irritable from flying near fifteen hours. What day was it? What time? You couldn’t tell in the windowless customs corridor. Fans blew, and the air was stale with travelers’ breath. A man in a blue uniform behind plexiglass examined their passports while Shige spoke of his job, how they’d arranged his work visa, even an apartment. Hiromi stared at the agent as if down the barrel of a gun. And Mika slipped away. She remembered the steps. One. Two. Three. Like walking a tightrope until she came to a wall and looked up.
To an oil portrait of Louis Armstrong.
It was as if a door in the sky had opened, and Mika was peeking into another world. She had to swallow back the tears. Something inside of her stirred to life. A miracle, Mika remembered thinking as she traced the brushstrokes with her eyes. It’s a miracle. That was the day her world collapsed and reinflated. Roads were lines to draw. Trees were colors to be filled in. The sun was light to be used. Endless possibilities. Much like Mika’s love for Penny, her love for painting was instinctual, prelingual. Mika ceased being a person—she was the stroke of a brush, a bottle of paint, a blank canvas waiting.
“Thought so. I’m familiar with the whole forcing two singles together in the hopes of producing Japanese love spawns,” said Hayato, pulling Mika from the past.
Mika forced a smile. “I know my mom gave you my phone number the other day. But I’m not really looking to date anyone right now. No offense.”
“None taken. In fact, I am only interested in dating men.” Hayato pointed at himself with two thumbs. “Super gay.”
Mika’s smile was genuine now. “Well, then.”
“Well, then,” Hayato said back warmly.
They chatted for a while. Agreeing to meet up sometime. Maybe Mika would invite him to Charlie’s housewarming party in a few weeks. After church, her father wrote a check in the parking lot.
“If you go out with him,” Hiromi said, meaning Hayato, “wear a dress. Maybe some perfume. Nothing too heavy.”
“He’s not interested,” Mika said, plucking the check from Shige’s fingers.
“What do you mean he’s not interested? What did you do?” Hiromi’s voice grew shrill—the sound of seagulls fighting over a rotten fish.
Mika stiffened. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You have to make him interested,” Hiromi insisted.
“No means no,” Mika answered firmly.
“Eh.” Shige rubbed his brow. “Can you two go five minutes without fighting? You’re like two flames, always burning everything down around you.”
Mika’s jaw tensed, but she stayed silent. She folded up the check and stuffed it in her pocket, squeezing out a quiet thanks before walking away.