Chapter 31

31

An entire week passes. I hole up in my room. For a while, I kept up on the tabloids; they were still reporting on my affair, feasting on the body even though Akio had gone dark and I was on another continent. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I switched to bad television, mostly reality shows. On day seven, I binge a show about some guy with five wives. I am making incredible advances in feeling sorry for myself. It’s award-worthy. I convince myself it’s a positive. Got to keep those goalposts moving. Also, I haven’t showered. The weather is warm and there’s no air conditioning. So yeah, it’s bad all around.

Mom reluctantly supports my newfound hermit lifestyle. She brings food and drinks and makes sure my blinds are open, even when I hiss at the sunlight like a vampire. Jones has stopped by, bringing me a tincture for broken hearts and some aromatherapy—peppermint to improve my mood and increase my energy.

Noora prances in. She eyes my jammies. I’ve gone with a Christmas theme this morning. “Did someone forget it’s afternoon?” she asks. Her hair is particularly glossy today. I hate it.

I give her a dead-eye stare, praying for the sweet release of death.

She sniffs the air. “Well, at least your shame cave smells a bit better this morning. Is that patchouli and peppermint?”

I roll onto my back. “Jones brought it.”

“Have you been outside at all?”

“Mom opened the window this morning.” I don’t mention I haven’t been outside this whole week. There really is no reason to be. The world is a cold place. Graduation is in a few days. My cap and gown hang in the closet. I suppose I’ll have to make an appearance. Jones is planning a celebratory dinner. I am one thousand percent sure it’s just to spend time with my mother. I see through him. All the way through to his unrequited love. Poor schmuck. I feel for him. I really do.

On-screen, the wives groan about being persecuted for their beliefs. Noora rolls her eyes and turns off the show.

“Hey!” I say, though there’s no heat in it. “I was watching that.”

“Zoom Zoom.” She sits on the bed near my hips. “This is a new low.”

I turn toward her. “I can’t. I just can’t. It’s too painful.” All I can think about is all I had. All I lost. How badly I’m fractured. “I thought Japan was the answer to everything. But I’m still me. Nothing has changed.” I squeeze my eyes shut, tears leak from the corners. The big revelation over my seven-day reality show coma is that I don’t feel much different.

She lays down beside me and snuggles in. We’re almost nose-to-nose. “Why is that so bad?” Her dark eyes are pools of concern.

“Don’t you ever feel like you don’t belong anywhere? Like you’re two discordant halves living in one body? I’m not American enough. I’m not Japanese enough.” I thought moving to another country and getting to know my father would make me whole, give me a way to stitch together those parts.

A couple seconds tick by. “Ah. I see. You’re having the whole born-a-different-race-in-white-America existentialist dilemma.”

“There’s a name for it?”

“Sure is.”

“What’s the antidote?” My heart expands with its last little bit of hope.

“I’m not really sure there is a cure. Some things are just meant to be felt.”

“So no easy answers?”

“Sorry. I don’t think so. We all have to figure out on our own who we are and where we fit in.”

“Where do I fit in, then?”

“Well,” Noora says. “I’m not sure, but I think you fit pretty well next to me … and Glory and Hansani, but mostly me, because I’m the best.” She grins. “That’s something, right?”

I sniffle and wipe my nose on my sheets. “That’s a lot of something.”

“Come back to the land of the living,” Noora says, taking my hands in hers and placing them between us. “If there isn’t an answer, at least we can be together in our perpetually confused states. We need you.” Her face twitches. “Plus, you need to clean your sheets. Why do they smell so sour?”

Right. I spilled some milk a few days ago. I think about Noora’s gentle prodding. She’s right. This backward slide isn’t me. My natural disposition walks on the sunny side of the street. Plus, I’ve got to get off the reality shows. I must do it for myself and the world. It’s time to return to the land of the living and be a contributing, or at least semifunctioning, member of society.

We start by stripping my bed. Small steps. Noora makes a big deal of gagging when crumbs and wrappers fall out, even asking Mom if she has a hazmat suit on hand. No bother.

We’re stuffing sheets into the washing machine when there’s a knock on the door. I pour a generous amount of detergent in the barrel and slam down the lid. That should do it.

There’s another knock. “Probably Jones,” I say to Noora, skipping ahead of her. Yesterday, he promised fresh honey. Tamagotchi goes crazy and follows on my heels.

The door swings open. My jaw drops. I let out a little gasp.

Noora skids to a stop behind me. “He’s here,” she whisper-shouts. “Asian George Clooney. In the flesh.”

I am speechless. Breathless. A fish washed ashore. There, framed in the doorway, as easy as you please, is my father—the Crown Prince of Japan.