Starfish

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

  The lawyer says the easiest way is for Mom and Dad to work it out between them, amicably.

  Dad doesn’t think amicably is an option.

  Shoji is covered up to his waist in a blue blanket. He doesn’t have any tubes or anything sticking out of his arms—not like I thought he would. He’s just sitting still, like he’s waiting for what to do next. There’s not even a book in his hands.

  “Did you like California?” he asks sheepishly.

  I sit next to him—Dad motions that he’s going to wait out in the hall so we can talk.

  “You could’ve called me, Shoji. Before you . . . you know.” I try to sound strong, but it comes across as awkward.

  “I didn’t plan it. It just kind of happened.” He rests his head against the pillow, the blacks of his eyes peeking out of his puffy eyelids. “Who called you?”

  “Mom.” I roll my eyes, and Shoji laughs because he knows what I know.

  “Does she know I want to live with Dad?”

  “She knows.” I drop my hands between my knees. “I’m sorry. I feel like I should have noticed sooner. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.” Maybe I was too wrapped up in myself. Maybe I’m a starfish too.

  It’s a thought that makes me want to rip out my insides and replace them with anything else. I don’t ever want to be a starfish.

  “It’s okay. We kind of all ignore each other.” He shrugs. “Taro called and said the same thing as you. Maybe we’re all the same person, split into three pieces.”

  I nod quickly to hide the tremble in my jaw. If we are all three broken pieces of the same being, we should have tried to put ourselves back together a long time ago. Maybe we needed each other because being a third of something was never enough.

  Maybe we had what the other person needed all along.

  Taro doesn’t take Mom personally. Shoji knows where he fits into the world. I dream about a new life.

  Maybe by splitting into three pieces, we robbed each other of what it felt like to be a full person. If I had Taro’s thick skin or Shoji’s confidence, I might’ve fought back a long time ago. I might’ve realized sooner that it’s okay to be different.

  And if Shoji had my ability to dream, he might’ve cared more about his future than ending his pain.

  We’re no good as broken pieces. We failed as siblings.

  I press my arms against my stomach and dig my fingers into my sides. Shoji looks back at me with his dark, familiar eyes. Even when they’re filled with pain they’re beautiful—why has it taken me so long to notice?

  My little brother knew long before I did that our half-Japanese heritage was worth loving. I only wish I could have told him our future was worth loving too.

  He asks me to tell him a story that’s not about Mom or suicide. I tell him about California, and Hiroshi, and Jamie, and Brightwood. I don’t tell him about my painting, because that’s too close to Mom, but I do tell him about the job at the café.

  “When are you moving?” he asks.

  I flatten my lips. “I’m not. I don’t want to leave you here with Mom.”

  “I’m staying with Dad,” he says seriously, leaning forward.

  I’m not sure I should tell him about the custody and the lawyers and the fight Mom is making about it. I don’t think this is the appropriate time for bad news. “Okay. Well, I still don’t want to leave you.”

  Shoji settles. “I don’t want you to stay here. It sucks here. I’d much rather you went to California.” He thinks. “Besides, if you lived in California, maybe I could come visit you one day.”

  It’s a nice thought, even though it’s unlikely to ever become a reality. My brothers and I just don’t keep in touch, no matter how good our intentions are.

  I nod anyway. “Okay, well, the nurse said I was only supposed to have a few minutes. I guess you need to rest still.”

  “Okay. Thanks for coming.”

  I stand up, but he lifts his fingers to stop me.

  “Hey, Kiko?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you remember when some of your money went missing?” His face goes white. “It was me. I took it.”

  It wasn’t Uncle Max. It was my brother. My face crumples in surprise, but I try to smooth out the creases before Shoji starts to feel bad. “Why would you do that?”

  He shrugs. “I was going to run away.” A weak laugh follows. “This was plan B.”

  I don’t join in on his humor. “Well, thanks for telling me.”

  “I told Dad, too. I thought if he found out later he might not let me live with him.” He stares at his hands. “If Mom tries to make me stay with her, will you stick up for me? Even if Dad has to get a lawyer?”

  I push a smile onto my face to reassure him. “Of course,” I say. I hope it won’t come to lawyers. I’m afraid of what I’ll have to say out loud if it does.

  • • •

  I draw a skeleton putting itself back together again.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Jamie leaves four voice mails on my phone. He texts sixteen times. Most of them say Please call me back. The very last one says How do I fix this?

  I’m not ready to talk to him. I want to—I want to go back to where we were on the beach, two people finally telling each other how they really feel. But I can’t find the beach anymore—there’s too much road between us. A road I need to travel on my own.

  I don’t tell Emery about any of what’s happened. She’s so busy that it’s easy not to. More important, I’m worried I’ll go back to using her as a crutch now that I’m not talking to Jamie, and I don’t want our friendship to be about her holding me up.

  Mom doesn’t act like it’s been weeks since she’s seen me. She just asks questions about Shoji and whether anyone—the doctors, Dad, Serena—has been bad-mouthing her.

  I spend a lot of time in my room drawing. It’s the easiest way to avoid Mom, since she’s now the only other person in the house. I think it’s making her weirdly clingy. She even comes up to my room to give me a stack of pages torn out of a fashion magazine.

  “I know you always wanted to use makeup,” she says enthusiastically. “And you’re almost an adult, and I’m sure you’re going to do what you want to do. So I thought you could at least look at these to get an idea of what looks good. There’s nothing worse than someone putting on makeup the wrong way.”

  All the pictures are of a certain type of model. Blond, blue-eyed, narrow-chinned, with thin brows.

  In other words, they look nothing like me. They look like Mom.

  I don’t point out to her that she’s giving me makeup tips for the completely wrong face shape—I just thank her and push the pages under my bed.

  Because blond and blue-eyed and narrow-chinned is what Mom thinks is beautiful, but it’s not what everyone thinks is beautiful.

  And more important, it’s not what I think is beautiful. Not anymore. Not when I’ve seen all the colors and lines that exist beyond this small town.

  Beauty is unique and special and it looks different for every person in the world.

  I don’t need Mom or her magazines to try to convince me otherwise.

  • • •

  Mom spends a lot of time arguing on the phone with Dad. They haven’t talked this much in years. Mom’s threatening to fight Dad for custody. She thinks she’ll get it.

  • • •

  I call the bookstore to see if they have any hours for me. I need to start saving for college, and I’m so anxious these days that it’s probably better if I stay busy with work. The manager tells me I can start again next week, two days after my birthday. It’s something, but, to be honest, I feel like my mind is broken into a hundred tiny pieces, and most of them are still back in California.

  Because all I ever think about is Jamie, and I’m supposed to be working on rehabilitating my mental health. I know I want to be stronger. I know I don’t want to feel as if I need people to meet my expectations as a mother, friend, boyfriend, or even brother. I want to find self-wor
th without needing it to come from someone’s approval.

  I want my first steps into my new life to be ones I take on my own.

  But still. It’s hard to forget his blue eyes, and the way he’s so tall that when he hugs me I fit against his chest, and how he smells like the ocean, and how when we kissed for the first time all I could hear was the water kissing the sand.

  I want to call him. I don’t.

  • • •

  When Shoji goes home from the hospital with Dad, Mom spends the morning googling lawyers. She doesn’t call any of them—she just reads a lot.

  Even though she will never admit it out loud, I think she knows Shoji should be with Dad and Serena and the twins. He’ll be healthier there. He’ll probably be more loved, too.

  If she wanted to, she could’ve stopped Dad from taking him home, but she didn’t.

  We’re all thinking it—we just know better than to say it. Mom is irrational when she thinks you’re in any way criticizing her. Admitting Shoji is better off without her is admitting she’s not the best mom.

  “Do you want coffee?” Mom asks from behind her laptop. She’s holding a mug in her hand. She laughs. “Isn’t that what everyone in California drinks?”

  “You don’t need to keep making fun of California. I’m probably not going back anyway.” My voice is dry. I haven’t slept very well since I’ve been home. Being here makes me feel constantly on edge.

  “Did you and Jamie have a fight?” She blinks at me with intensity.

  I shake my head. The last thing I want to do is talk to her about Jamie.

  “Until we get Shoji back, it’s just us girls. We can talk, you know. About anything.”

  “Shoji isn’t coming back, Mom.”

  “We’ll let a judge decide that.”

  I’m scowling. “If you take Dad to court, I’ll tell the judge everything. I’ll tell them about Uncle Max. You’ll never get custody.”

  She sets her mug down. Her eyes twitch. “Where is this coming from? Are you angry with me about something?”

  Saliva fills my mouth. It must be my nerves. They make my chest itch too. “Why did you tell me you and Dad split up because he cheated?”

  She pulls her hands away from the keyboard and shifts. “I told you he had an affair because that’s the truth.”

  “Before or after you cheated with Jamie’s dad?”

  Her nostrils flare. “We all make mistakes in our lives. That happened when I was very young. I’ve already made my peace with it.”

  “I don’t care what your reasons were or whether you regret it or not. I’m asking if you and Dad split up because of him or because of you.” Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.” My hands shake. “Because I thought he had the affair because you were fighting about me, not because you were fighting about you.”

  “Well, I never told you that.”

  “But you did.” I blink. “Or you implied it anyway. You told me I was always causing problems. You said I was making it hard for you and Dad to get along.”

  “Because you and Jamie were constantly hanging around each other. It was hurtful.”

  “How was I supposed to understand that?” I growl. “You never explained it. I thought you had told Dad about Uncle Max. I thought he was angry that he was still living in our house.”

  Mom shrugs. “I don’t know why you thought that. I never even told your dad.”

  My stomach disintegrates. My blood drains. All that’s left is my painful heartbeat. “You didn’t tell him?”

  “I wasn’t going to make an issue out of nothing when my brother needed a place to stay. I’ve already told you—you were little, it was late, you might have dreamed it.” She crosses her arms. “Besides, I asked Max about it at the time, and he swore he had no idea what you were talking about. And it’s not like accusing him of things he hasn’t done isn’t a pattern with you.” Her blue eyes go cold. “I know Shoji took the money. Your dad told me.”

  Something horrible swarms my chest and throat. “I’m not lying about what happened to me.”

  Mom clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I’m not saying you’re lying. I just think you might be remembering things that didn’t happen. And since we’re on the subject, I think you owe Max an apology.”

  “For what?” The veins in my neck feel like they’re going to explode.

  “I kicked him out of this house because you told me he was stealing,” she says.

  WHAT I WANT TO SAY:

  “You kicked him out of the house because you thought he was stealing—you didn’t even believe me when I told you!”

  WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:

  “I will never apologize to Uncle Max. Never.”

  “Well.” She sighs. “I think that’s very immature, Kiko. I’ve already called him and made things better.”

  The sides of my head throb. My knees feel weak. “You need therapy.”

  Mom laughs the most over-the-top, hysterical laugh I’ve ever heard.

  “It’s not funny. There is something wrong with you. Who treats their kids this way? There’s a reason none of us want to be around you. There’s a reason Shoji wants to live with Dad, and why Taro spent the rest of the summer with his friend, and why I want to go to art school thousands of miles away from you.” My face burns with frustration. “You are so obsessed with yourself that there isn’t any room for anyone else’s feelings. You don’t care about anything unless it somehow relates back to you.”

  I start to walk away, intent on leaving her alone in her chair. But something stops me.

  Spinning back to face her, my breathing erratic and my voice hoarse, I growl, “And I’m not imagining what happened to me. Your sick brother sexually abused me. I don’t care what you think it’s called, because that’s what it is. Sexual abuse. I was sexually abused. Do you get that? And if you were any kind of mother, that would have mattered to you. You wouldn’t have tried to justify it or rationalize it away by saying it wasn’t rape and therefore isn’t as bad—it was bad. That’s it.”

  I leave because I don’t want to give her the chance to respond.

  • • •

  I draw a dragon breaking free from its grave and finally seeing what its wings and fire are for.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Jamie sends another text: I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I just want to know if your brother is okay. I love you and I’m sorry.

  I text back: He’s fine, thanks. He moved in with my dad.

  He doesn’t send another reply. Part of me knew not to expect one—I’m the one ignoring him, after all, and he did just want to know about Shoji.

  But part of me feels devastated. As if I’ve taken the silence too far. As if I’m ruining us forever.

  I give myself a pep talk in the mirror to remind myself I need to be strong. It won’t do any good to cry about Jamie when I’m trying to make it so that the only person who can make me cry is me.

  And besides, I still need to work on curing myself of Mom.

  I find her downstairs in the living room while I’m on my way to get a glass of water. My eyes focus on all the space around her but never directly on her.

  To my surprise, she doesn’t ignore me.

  “Can I talk to you?” Mom looks at me nervously. Her hair is spun in a golden knot on her head, and she’s still wearing pajamas. I feel like she might have been waiting for me, which is ridiculous, because when we fight she always pretends I don’t exist at least until the afternoon.

  “Sure,” I reply. Now I’m nervous.

  I sit down next to her on the couch. She’s still holding the remote in her hand, even though she’s muted whatever reality TV show she was watching.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot since yesterday,” she starts. The smirk starts to form on her face—the one she usually blames on awkwardness—but she tries not to let it take over. “And I think I’m going to talk to someone.”

  I wait, but she doesn
’t say anything else. “You mean like a therapist?” My heart is pounding. She’s actually going to talk to someone. She actually wants to get better. I can’t believe it.

  She listened to me.

  Mom nods. “Yeah, I think I need to.”

  Something in my stomach spins and spins and I feel light-headed. She took me seriously. She’s admitting she needs help. “Mom, that’s great. Good for you.” My face feels heavy, but I try to hide it because I’m afraid if I show any happiness she’ll change her mind.

  She nods again, and the smirk starts to grow. I’m too happy to let it bother me.

  “I’ve been reading all this stuff on hypnotherapy and repressed memories, and I really want to find out if something happened to me when I was younger.”

  The spinning stops. My ears ring. “Wait. What are you talking about?” I thought this was about her narcissism. It’s not.

  “I mean, how can I know for sure if someone didn’t do something to me when I was younger? Like when I was sleeping. So many people block those memories out—something horrible could have happened to me when I was a kid and I don’t even remember it.” Her eyes are wide now and full of something that isn’t sadness or humor—it’s craziness.

  I try to take a breath, but I feel like throwing up. “Are you trying to say you think you were sexually abused when you were a kid?” My voice is so dry I’m sure my words are going to crumble into thousands of tiny, brittle pieces. I try to think logically. I try to be calm.

  She shrugs and twists her face like this is a genuine possibility. “I mean, who knows? Maybe a hypnotherapist could find out.”

  “Do you have any memories at all that are making you think this? Did anything weird happen to you?” I ask through stiff breaths. Like, I don’t know, an uncle sneaking into your room?

  “No,” she says pointedly. “But that’s what I mean—just because I can’t remember anything doesn’t mean nothing ever happened. When I was younger, I was very attractive and very naive. I didn’t even know there were mean people in the world. Someone could have taken advantage of that.”

  WHAT I WANT TO SAY: