Chapter 7

7

The walls in my father’s office are cedar and lacquered to a high shine, every vein in the wood highlighted. For the moment, I am alone. Mr. Fuchigami deposited me here and slid the doors closed. I understand. The Crown Prince doesn’t wait for anyone. This is fine; it gives me free rein to snoop.

Like my room here, this one is sparsely furnished. I know why. There’s money, and then there’s wealth. I’m pretty sure I’ve stepped into the dark heart of the latter. Each item on the bookshelf is given a wide berth from the others. Built-in lights, personal bolts of sunlight, highlight the pieces—a porcelain cobalt blue China vase, a Spanish silver tobacco box, some type of sword with a golden dragon winding around the handle. Each item is old, rare. Priceless. Here, families aren’t measured by dollar signs but in historical pieces and provenance. And, what’s mine? Everything about my life suddenly seems cheap.

There are photographs, too. Simply framed between two sheets of glass are images of my father, all in black-and-white. There he is as a young boy against a shoji screen backdrop, piano keys beneath his fingertips. In another, he is older, dashing and very militant in a brass-buttoned uniform. Then there are the candids. He cuddles a koala in front of a eucalyptus tree. He drinks beer with his brother at a pub. There is a photograph of the empress and emperor on their wedding day, in full imperial regalia, kimono and hakama.

The doors slide open and I straighten, smoothing out the skirt of my dress. My heart pounds. He is framed in the doorway, cutting an imposing figure in a white shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons and black slacks.

He inclines his head and speaks in Japanese to the men behind him. The doors are closed. We’re alone. We can

(a) hug;

(b) shake hands; or

(c) smile genuinely.

But then, we choose

(d) none of the above—stare awkwardly at each other.

Outside, the gray clouds have moved on, and the sun is setting. The light is different here—burnt oranges and golds, colors I thought could only be mixed by a master artist. Shadows play in the room and cast the hard planes of my father’s face into sharp relief. He is aloof. I am adrift.

“You look like your mother,” he finally blurts out.

I have the distinct sense of whiplash. Am I reading his tone correctly? Was that accusatory? I clench and unclench my hands. My worst fears might be coming true. He doesn’t want me. This was a mistake. I’m ready to burn the whole thing down. “I thought I looked a lot like you when I finally saw pictures.”

“You do. It’s the nose. The imperial family is known for passing down a small bump.”

I reach and trace the tiny ridge along the spine of my nose.

“You also look like the empress, my mother.” His tone warms. “An elfin chin and wide-set eyes. She was a great beauty in her time. It’s good you don’t look too much like me. Your mother once told me I often appeared as if I’d just eaten sour grapes.”

I laugh. Cancel the fire for now, I guess.

His jaw flexes. “I never cared for her colloquialisms.”

I sober.

We lapse into awkward silence. What had I pictured? That we’d run into each other’s arms? That our shared DNA would act as opposite ends of a magnet pulling us together? He is not a dad returning from deployment. I am not a child eagerly awaiting his arrival. There are no memories to anchor our relationship. He did not tuck me in at night, hold me while I raged with a fever, or cheer me on when I stole home playing softball. All those missed moments build up between us. I don’t want to blame him for his absence, but I kind of do. All of this is so unfair.

“I—” he begins to say, but catches himself. He’s got nothing. Neither do I. Time stretches on. We are strangers. Why did I think it might be different?

He smiles, unsure. “I’ve stared down bulls in Spain and haven’t felt as frightened as I do in this moment. My hands are shaking.” He shows me. There is a slight tremor in his blunt fingers.

Relieved, I manage a light laugh. “Never ran with the bulls, but I did glue Tommy Steven’s butt to a chair in the second grade after he stole my crayons. I was so scared of getting caught I confessed right after.”

His eyes flash with pride. “You have a strong sense of justice.”

My knees unlock and I answer with a blinding smile.

“Perhaps we should start over.” He sticks out a hand. “I’m so glad you’re here. I look forward to getting to know you.”

I place my palm in his. His grip is firm and reassuring, but not familiar. We erase (d) and choose (c), a handshake.

It’s not much, but it’s a start, helps me remember why I’m here. To meet my father. To make sense of who I am, the shape of my face, the origins of my stubborn attitude.

“The gardens are beautiful this time of year,” he says as we disengage.

I brighten. “Yeah?”

“Would you like to see them?”

I think for a moment. Fresh air makes everything better. “That sounds great. Lead the way.”

---

The air is cool and wet against my cheeks. Pea-sized gravel crunches under my feet. My father saunters next to me, head low, shoulders relaxed—a portrait of a prince, deconstructed. Gooseflesh breaks out on my arms.

“You’re cold,” he says. He fixes his gaze somewhere, and by silent command, a royal attendant materializes. A trick I’d like to master.

My father speaks in Japanese, and the attendant bows low and disappears. Broad-shouldered black shapes shift in the trees—security. I even spy Akio. This is something that will take getting used to. Even when you’re alone, you’re never really alone. The attendant reappears, and it’s staggering how fast he moves. Sweat dots his brow, but he keeps his breaths even. He bows and offers my father an ivory cashmere wrap. My father takes it and drapes it around my shoulders. “Better?”

“Much. Thank you.” I hug the shawl around me. Never saw myself as a fine wool kind of gal, but I could get used to this.

“Shall we continue?” He motions ahead.

We fall into amicable silence. The sound of the wind and traffic of Tokyo settles between us. My father points out species of trees. The white birch is his personal emblem. The path opens, expands, and circles around a pond. We pause near a sculpted black pine. Across the water, Mr. Fuchigami and a handful of chamberlains stand, making a big deal of watching us by not watching us.

My father’s smile is rueful. “Mr. Fuchigami is probably upset we’ve gone outside. Not on the itinerary.”

I tighten the shawl around me. “Seems to be a recurring theme. I thought Akio’s head was going to explode when I asked to use the restroom at the airport.”

The sun dips lower. Attendants light stone lanterns. The garden is cast in a hazy, yellow glow. My father hums. “Ah, Mr. Kobayashi. I chose him myself. I thought you’d be more comfortable with someone younger.” I nod, not wanting to appear ungrateful.

Boom.I startle. Fireworks sparkle against the night sky like sprinkled sugar. Shimmering pinks, deep purples, wild blues. In the distance, the lights of Tokyo wink at me.

My father shifts, tipping his head to the sky.

“They’re beautiful,” I marvel.

The sparks reflect in his dark eyes. “It’s for you. Tokyo is welcoming its new princess.”

For me? I gulp and do my best not to let it go to my head.

An attendant approaches carrying a silver tray, laden with drinks in heavy crystal. My father plucks up the shorter glass filled with amber liquid. I take the flute with something bubbly in it. I sip and grin. It’s sparkling cider. Delicious.

He arches an imperial brow at me (pun intended). I explain. “It’s the sparkling cider. The way to my heart is anything coated in sugar.” The second way is by hugs. Lots and lots of hugs.

He sips the amber liquid. “I don’t believe that was on your preference sheet.” True. But I did list various desserts that I’d consider serious relationships with. He stares at the liquid in his glass, frowning. “A man shouldn’t have to read about what his child likes on paper.” He sounds wistful, a bit forlorn. I wonder if he’s mad at my mom. “I’d rather hear your answers than read them. What are your hobbies?”

Does watching Real Housewives count? “I dabble in a few things, but nothing has caught my eye yet. Except for baking. I’m an excellent baker.” My buttercream and cream cheese frosting is to die for.

“Your cousins Akiko and Noriko raise silkworms,” he says, naming the twins. In the royal biographies, hobbies are listed first for females. “Sachiko enjoys mountain climbing. The Imperial Household Agency had a conniption over that—a princess in cargo pants. Very cutting edge.” He smiles over the rim of his glass as if we’re sharing a private joke. “Your grades. How are they?”

Subpar at best. But my father is a Crown Prince, so I shine up the truth a little. “Great.” So good, I’ve earned entrance into two community colleges and one state school. I sip the cider to keep from elaborating.

“Do you keep your room clean?” He swirls the liquid in his glass.

My room might give you suffocating-in-garbage stress dreams. “I’m pretty tidy, I guess.” All of his questions have driven me to a single conclusion: I am remarkably unremarkable.

His chest puffs with pride. “You’re like me. When I was a boy, I was very organized.” He considers me for a moment. I realize I’m hungry to know about him, too. Questions burn. What else was he like as a boy? Did he get into trouble? Please have gotten into trouble. But before I can ask, he says almost begrudgingly, “And your mother? How is she?”

I roll the champagne glass between my hands. “She’s good. Still single.” My eyes flash to him. No reaction. Guess my plan for a twist on the classic Parent Trap won’t work. I’ll admit it. I had a tiny sliver of a thought to reunite my parents, make them fall madly in love again, and then get them married. A girl can dream.

“Does she still have a mug collection?”

“Yeah,” I say warmly. “Her favorite is one that says ‘Bigfoot doesn’t believe in you either’.”

“How about the one that says ‘I’m quite frond of plants’?”

“No. I broke it when I was seven.” I remember in vivid detail. Mom made me hot chocolate. The outside scalded my hands and I dropped it. She wept and then called herself silly.

“I gave her that one.” His posture relaxes. “She laughed like a hyena.”

I pause, suddenly understanding her reaction. The mug tied her to another life. To my father.

“She’s a teacher?”

“Yep. Mom is super self-deprecating about it. You know the quote, ‘those who can’t do, teach’?”

“I’m not familiar,” he says. “But I understand.”

“Her students love her, and the faculty are gaga about her. She’s accomplished so much great stuff,” I gush.

“And she made you.”

My father waits for me to catch on. Comprehension is slow, but when it dawns, warmth spreads from my toes to my ears. He tips his glass to mine. I’ll cheers to that.

“She always wanted to teach.” His voice has a soft edge to it, a flicker of appreciation and respect. His expression turns wistful. “Are you … did you have a happy childhood?”

I answer automatically. “Yes. The best.” I launch into my favorite childhood stories, like the time I dressed as a pirate for almost a year in elementary school. Mom was totally on board, blackening my teeth every morning, making dishes with limes so I wouldn’t get, you know, scurvy. Those were the days. I tell him about my friends—how Noora has total boss skills, how aggressively sweet Hansani is, how cutthroat Glory can be.

I leave out living in a town with dueling confederate and rainbow flags. And the box of unaddressed Father’s Day cards next to my stash of romance novels.

He inhales audibly. “Your life would have been very different if you’d been raised here.”

“How so?”

“Well, for starters, you would have been given two very specific names. The first would be an official name that ended in -nomiya. It means imperial member.” Right. His name. Makotonomiya. “The second would be a personal name. Scholars would have drafted a list of options. I would have picked one, then sent my choice to the emperor. For approval, of course.”

“Of course.”

“The emperor would have written your anointed names on washi paper and placed them in a lacquered cypress box with the gold chrysanthemum emblem. The box would have been sent to the palace, then to the hospital and placed on your pillow, right next to your head,” he says in a low, warm voice. “After the naming ritual, you would have been bathed in a cedar tub.”

“That sounds nice.”

He swirls the liquid in his glass. “A floral emblem would have been chosen for you.”

My breath makes little clouds. The fireworks are over. Near the pond, fireflies appear, dancing over the water in concentric circles. It’s cold. Even so, I’m not ready to go inside yet. “What would you have chosen?” My eyes are as wide as saucers. My heart is open. I want this to work so badly. I want my life to be different. Better. More whole. Superhero epic.

“I chose the purple iris.”

The vase in my room—a single iris. He thought about me. He cares. My eyes sting. I bat my lashes against the tears. If he asks about them, I’ll say it’s the breeze.

“It stands for purity and wisdom.”

My emotions swell. Since I’m no good at hiding them, I say, “Mom said she didn’t tell you because she knew you wouldn’t want to leave Japan. You would be like a tree without sun.” And she didn’t want the royal life, I think. Their impasse led to separation. It was the only solution. I understand, but it’s still hard to accept.

He nods. “My duties are to Japan.”

I swipe at my nose. “I get it. I’ve seen all the Spider-Man movies.” Thanks to Glory. She’s a Marvel freak. “Power, responsibility, and all that.”

The wind ruffles his hair. He slugs down the rest of his drink. “I had no intention of living in America permanently. That was never an option.”

I nod and gulp. If I don’t dwell on it, his words won’t hurt as much. He plays with the empty glass in his hands, thumbs skirting the rim.

“But if I had known I had a daughter, I would have found a solution.” He studies me, waiting until my eyes raise to meet his. “I would have swum across oceans. I would have scaled mountains. I would have crossed deserts. I would have found a way.”

The twist of pain in my stomach eases. Hope floats in my chest. That’s something. That’s more than a start.

That’s a beginning.