While I Was Away

by Waka T. Brown

  In the remaining weeks of my break from school, I tried to keep my head above water by writing—letters mostly. I dated one batch of letters to my friends 1983 and not 1984. Would my friends notice how silly that was? I’m so bored I’m going to circle all the prepositional phrases in Ivanhoe! I wrote. Would they realize I was joking? Or would they think I was so bored that was actually what I did? Clearly, I was hilarious. Would they think so too? I would have to wait at least eight days to find out.

  After I wrote as many letters to as many people I could, I tried to teach Taro how to say something in English.

  “Taro-chan, say, ‘Hello, Waka.’”

  “Grrr . . .”

  “Come-on, Taro-chan. ‘Hello, WA . . . KA.’”

  “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

  “‘HELL-O, WAH-KAH,’” I repeated.

  “ . . . Konnichiwa.”

  Come ON, Taro-chan!

  Maybe if I fed him he would like me more, I thought. Maybe that would help him learn. Obaasama was open to the idea.

  “Well, if you’re going to feed him, you might as well clean the bottom of his cage while you’re at it.”

  I took the poopy, soupy, soiled, wet newspaper pages out from the bottom of his cage and replaced them with fresh ones. I filled his feeder with his bird food that reminded me of gray Cocoa Puffs. I tried something different. “Taro, say, ‘Hi! My name is Taro.’”

  He hopped back and forth in his cage and snapped his beak—clack, clack—at me.

  “C’mon, say, ‘Hi! My name is Taro.’” I filled his water bowl.

  He cocked his head at me and didn’t respond. Instead he—chomp!—closed his beak over my finger as I latched the door to his cage shut.

  I yelped and yanked my hand away.

  “Kora!” Obaasama shouted at Taro.

  “Good morning!” responded Taro.

  “Stupid bird,” I muttered to myself as I let Obaasama tend to Taro. She never asked me about my finger or to help with Taro again, and that was fine by me. I guess Taro and I would never be friends.

  Two weeks until school. Thirteen days . . . twelve.

  For some reason, it was this time more than any other that it began to strike me just how long I’d been away.

  Letters from home, each one like a life ring, kept me afloat. My brother wrote about the presidential race heating up at home. He mentioned the Democratic nominee was considering a woman for his vice president. A woman vice president? That would be cool. Apparently, he also convinced my parents to get an Apple IIe computer while I was away.

  Annette wrote:

  I got your letter today. I loved your 1983 joke. When I opened your letter I kind of tore the top so I had to decipher what you wrote. Funny joke (198(3)). Ha ha ha . . . I got this piano book and it has “Chariots of Fire (Race to the End).” I don’t know if you have a piano there, but I ran off a copy anyway, just in case.

  I first saw the movie Chariots of Fire when I was in third grade. It was about a Jewish man who experienced discrimination, but he ended up winning a gold medal in the 1924 Olympics. It was one of my favorite movies ever. After watching it, I decided I wanted to be an Olympian when I grew up too. When I was nine years old, I woke up at 6:30 a.m. a few times to run around the neighborhood to train, the Chariots of Fire theme song running through my head the whole time. I imagined myself running in slow motion on the beach.

  I didn’t have a piano at my grandmother’s place, so I couldn’t play the sheet music Annette sent, but I appreciated that sheet music I couldn’t play more than she’d ever know. Maybe that day on the beach when I looked out over the Pacific, she was looking my way and thinking of me too.

  These letters were like Christmas presents to me, but some of the letters were like socks—you know, still a present, but not fun at all. Like one letter from my mother written entirely in Japanese. It went something like this:

  How are you? We’re really busy preparing for your sister’s move to college. It’s like our house has been turned upside down and there’s no place to walk. Unfortunately, your sister doesn’t know how to pack her own stuff so she’s not doing anything at all. I don’t have any time to eat, tend to the yard, or to play with your little brother. I don’t really have time to write letters but if I try to call you on the phone your dad looks really sad about how much it costs, so I guess a letter it is. I’m so busy I don’t really have time to look for a trampoline either. Since it’s so expensive, I don’t think your dad wants to buy one. But, I’m going to find some way to get you one before you come home. . . .

  My father also sent me a postcard he bought from the Kansas Historical Society. It had an old photo of a family of Native Americans in a tepee. He wrote all in Japanese too:

  THANK YOU FOR YOUR LETTER! WE ALL ENJOYED READING IT TOGETHER. PLEASE DO YOUR BEST FOR THE REMAINING TWO MONTHS YOU HAVE IN YOUR JAPANESE SCHOOL. I WILL BUY YOU A TRANSISTOR RADIO FOR YOUR EFFORTS AND FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY! ALSO, PLEASE SHOW THE PHOTO ON THIS POSTCARD TO YOUR JAPANESE FRIENDS.

  I let my parents’ letter and postcard sink in. While I was away, my sister would leave for college and I wouldn’t get to see her until Christmas. It had been the four of us kids and my parents for a long time. With my sister leaving, it wouldn’t be that way ever again. She would be home for Christmas and maybe a few more summers, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  When I thought of that, I wasn’t sure I cared about getting a trampoline after all.

  I felt myself getting sad so I tried to focus on the transistor radio my dad said he’d buy me. One that I could hold in my hand and listen to the radio anywhere. I told myself it didn’t matter that my birthday was four months ago.

  I felt bad my mom sounded so stressed, and it wasn’t because my sister wrote it that way. My mom wrote it, in Japanese, directly to me. Like my dad’s postcard to me. There was nothing lost in the translation here. Straight from my parents to me. In Japanese.

  Whoa! Did I just read an entire letter and postcard in Japanese? I guess I did . . . and I didn’t have to ask for help once!

  While I was away, school started up again for my friends in Kansas, but not for me. I only heard about it a week or so after everything happened.

  Jenny B., a friend from band, wrote about tryouts and their new band teacher who was really short, maybe even shorter than me. She did really well in tryouts and thought she got first chair in the trumpet section, and Eric (the boy I definitely didn’t have a crush on, but everyone thought I did) got second. When I was at home, I was right in the mix of top trumpet players for my grade, but barely. With Jenny B. and Eric having more than two extra months to practice, how in the world could I catch up when I returned? I panicked and wrote a letter to my parents begging them to send my trumpet ASAP. But as soon as I dropped that letter in the mail, I felt bad for having asked. Shipping would probably cost a fortune! I hoped Mom didn’t really try to send it after all. But relief came with the next letter.

  In regard to your trumpet, it’s too large and heavy for me to mail via Air Mail. I am concerned it’s going to get damaged if I try to mail it without its case, and it could even get held up in customs. You might not even receive it before it’s time for you to come home. It’s not just that—I’m worried if you practice it at your grandmother’s place, the neighbors will complain. We’re talking about you, Waka, so I think you’ll be able to catch up really quickly when you return. Ever since your sister has left for college, your little brother is asking for us to bring you home.

  It was hard for me to imagine this was true, especially when he’d only been sending me messages like these:

  What the heck was “Paper Taiga Zoo” all about? I had no idea. Probably some inside joke I didn’t get because I was an “outside person,” even with my own family.

  Annette wrote me again:

  I met this real cute boy, his name is Andy Jones. Guess what! He lives in our neighborhood! I don’t know if he likes me or not, but he waves to me when I get off the bus. You know when you come bac
k it’s going to be hard to get used to (7th grade). Overall 7th grade is pretty fun, but it is so hot Wednesday it got up to 110°F! . . . My locker number is 126 combo 22-8-22. Your locker would probably be something like 160. Well, I gotta go as you see I’m running out of room.

  F/F

  T.F.F.N. (Ta Ta For Now)

  W.B.S.

  It was great how often Annette wrote to me, but her comment—“You know when you come back it’s going to be hard”—was like a gut punch. It was bad enough being away, but it hadn’t occurred to me everything wouldn’t go back to the way it was once I returned. Who was this Andy Jones? What did he look like? Where in our neighborhood did he live? Why would Annette mail me her locker combination? That was the type of information you sent to someone you trusted, yes, but also to someone who was in no position to ever reveal it to anyone ever again.

  My mom promised me a trampoline when I returned and now she was saying maybe not. They promised to bring me home at the end of the October, but was that for sure? All my life, my dad had said “three more years, three more years” until we returned to Japan. I hadn’t seen any airline tickets. Was this experience actually a trial run? My worries piled up, one on top of another. But now my biggest worry of all was that even when I did make it home, I would still be away.

  Eighteen

  With two more weeks left in my summer break, I lolled about in this limbo: halfway through my stay, halfway between my Japanese life and my American one. Was it possible to be in both? Or would I end up being in neither? Should I study my kanji some more? Or should I read the 700+-page English book my parents sent me since they couldn’t send my trumpet?

  I wasn’t able to decide, so I did nothing instead. Nothing except eat a Twix bar . . . then two more.

  It was in this state Obaasama found me. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Uh . . .” I sat up hoping she wouldn’t notice the crumbs and chocolate smudges on my shirt. Obaasama grabbed the bag of Twix from next to me and commanded, “Come along.”

  I sat up with a start. What did she mean to do with my Twix?

  I followed her to the refrigerator and watched her put them in. “They’ll keep cool here. Now let’s go shopping.”

  It was funny to think we had been together for so long, but she never asked me to run errands with her until now.

  The two of us left the house and headed toward the shops down the street. We had walked fewer than a couple blocks when Obaasama asked, “Do you always walk this fast?”

  I stopped. “Umm . . .” Reiko never complained. But Reiko was a lot younger than Obaasama.

  As she caught up to me, she said, “People used to tell me I walked too fast too. But I’m over eighty now, so I can’t keep up with you. Okay?”

  Obaasama was always so active and so busy, it never occurred to me there were things she couldn’t do. I never thought of her as over eighty . . . until now.

  I took smaller steps. “Okay.” After a minute I looked behind my shoulder to make sure Obaasama was still with me.

  Obaasama hadn’t moved. Instead, she was staring toward the railroad tracks. I walked back to see if something was wrong.

  “The railroad crossing. It’s different. Your grandfather liked railroad crossings, you know.”

  Oh! That explained the painting in the living room I had wondered about my very first day with Obaasama. I followed her gaze toward the tracks where cars stopped and started, and pedestrians and cyclists zoomed in and around.

  “‘People looking this way, waiting to cross. People looking back at them, waiting to cross. Connected by a common thread, a desire to cross to the other side.’ That’s what he’d say.”

  The crossing certainly looked very different from the painting. The painting was so quiet, not like here where the world buzzed and jangled. A cyclist rang his bell before he swerved around us.

  I stepped in front to protect her. “Obaasama, should we—?”

  “What was that?” Obaasama turned back to me as if waking up from a trance. “Yes, let’s.”

  We resumed our walk to the store.

  Thanks to our daily outings, the last days of summer break sped by. Instead of shopping alone, Obaasama brought me with her to the grocery store so I could help cart bags back.

  On another outing, Obaasama bought me some modeling clay. Rather than answering my friends’ letters right away, I set to work trying to model a horse, one that didn’t look like the cow patty one I tried to chisel out of rock in class. Smoothing, pinching, smoothing some more, my lump of white clay actually looked like a horse when I was finished. Way better than the one I tried to sculpt at school. By the time I was done, the afternoon had melted away and it was already dinnertime.

  “Well, that looks like a horse!” my grandmother noted as she and I set the table for dinner.

  I beamed. That was a compliment in my grandmother’s book.

  “Will you paint it?” she asked.

  I hadn’t thought to, but why not? After the clay horse sculpture dried completely, I painted it. It was all right, but I kind of wished I used oil paints so I could go back in and improve it. But the paint I used dried quickly so there was no going back. I molded and painted another one, and it was better. Practice makes perfect. Obaasama thought so too.

  So I gave it to her.

  “How did you know I loved horses?” asked Obaasama as she received it with both hands, cradling it gently like she was afraid she might drop it.

  I hadn’t known that about Obaasama.

  “You do?” I asked. “I love horses too.”

  “I guess we’re alike that way,” she mused as she examined my sculpture.

  On another outing, Obaasama and I went to a fabric store. While she admired the bright fabrics in one section of the store, a soft quilted fabric with its lavender, pale-blue, and mint-green plaid pattern drew my attention.

  “Would you like to make something?” Obaasama asked as she drew near.

  What could I make? I didn’t have a pattern. While I grew up watching my mom sew us dresses, skirts, and even stuffed animals, the school apron with the watermelon pocket was the only thing I’d ever sewn. As far as I knew, my mom always used a pattern too. I wanted new clothes, but this quilted fabric seemed too heavy for a summer outfit. I spied my grandmother’s purse, covered in tiny fabric triangles that made me think of dragon scales. It was unlike any of those brand-name purses I saw other Japanese ladies using.

  “I sewed this, you know.” Obaasama held her purse out to me. I examined it more closely.

  “I made the triangles from fabric scraps,” she said. “It would have been mottainai to throw them away.” Each triangle was different, even though they were uniform in size and shape, and spaced equally across the entire front and back of the purse. While the fabric “scales” looked complicated, the actual body of the purse looked like it was made from three, maybe four, pieces of fabric.

  “Do you think I could make something like this? Like a purse?”

  Obaasama almost smiled. “Why not? Let’s see . . . you’ll need a zipper and something for a handle. I have thread. No need to waste money on that,” my grandmother told me. “And come to think of it, I have scraps you can make into handles.” But she bought the rest.

  Back home, I helped Obaasama set up her old Singer sewing machine, the one she used when she was a seamstress and needed to make ends meet. It didn’t have a pedal like my mom’s machine, one that could power pieces of fabric together to emerge on the other side sewn together like magic. No, this sewing machine was large, wooden, and heavy with its own table and a handle I had to crank with my right hand while I guided fabric through with my left. I didn’t have a pattern for my purse, so I looked at my grandmother’s and drew one on pieces of scratch paper.

  It took me several days and there were more than a few times when I had to rip out the stitches I’d just sewn. But Obaasama guided me when she could, and sometimes she sat and folded clothes or did her calisthenics while I wor
ked on my project. One day, instead of helping me, she told me about the girl in my grandfather’s painting.

  Nineteen

  So the girl in the painting, the one you asked about, is your aunt Sakura. Did your mother ever tell you about her?”

  The girl in the white veil? Finally, I knew who it was! I wondered why it took so long for Obaasama to tell me.

  “A little. She said she was the nicest big sister ever, and that she taught her all her hiragana even before she started school. And . . .”

  My mom also told me Aunt Sakura died when she was only a child. A fifth grader, just a grade younger than I was now. But I didn’t say this. I didn’t want to bring up sad memories for Obaasama.

  Obaasama fell silent as she concentrated on threading her needle. She took her glasses off and tried again.

  “Here, Obaasama, I’ll do it,” I said, glad to be of assistance.

  “Ah, arigatou,” Obaasama thanked me when I handed them back to her. I watched as her hands, smooth from their daily fruit-peel massage, skillfully mended a seam on her blouse. She wore a silver thimble on her thumb, occasionally using it to help push the needle through the fabric.

  “Sakura means ‘cherry blossom,’ you know,” my grandmother continued.

  I nodded. “I know.”

  Back in Kansas, redbuds bloomed a purplish pink in the spring, but apparently, their beauty paled in comparison to the cotton-candy puffs of delicate light-pink cherry blossoms that covered Japan in the spring.

  “Kirei da yo,” my mother told me how beautiful they were. So beautiful that people had parties under the cherry blossoms at night, wrote songs about them, and had festivals to celebrate their arrival. Their beauty was fleeting, lasting a few weeks a year at the very most, and therefore even more precious.

  My mother missed these blossoms so much that she ordered and planted a cherry tree in our front yard. There was only one, but every year, she waited for it to bloom. When it did, it was beautiful, just like she said it would be. One year, I let her take a blossom and pin it behind my ear before I headed to school. At first, I wasn’t sure about letting her do this because it felt awfully girly girl to me, and I was not a girly girl. But my teacher oohed and ahhed so much that I kept it there the entire day, and even asked her to repin it for me when I felt the blossom drooping and slipping. For one day, I let my mother make me her cherry-blossom child. Remembering, I wished I’d let her do it more. I hoped the tree bloomed into a huge, fluffy pink cloud for my mom next spring. Maybe we could appreciate them together . . . and even compare stories about Japan.