by Hiromi Goto
Dad finally left the helicopter game he had spent six dollars of quarters on and approached us. “Where’s your mom?”
“She hasn’t come out yet,” I said.
“Do you have any more quarters?”
Kunio jostled Kenji from his left arm to his right and stuck his hand in his jean pocket. Made a fist and pulled it out. He opened his fingers and revealed a dirty piece of unchewed gum, a toothpick, six pennies, a dime, and three quarters. Dad picked out the quarters from Kunio’s palm, said, “Thanks,” and went back to the game. We watched him lift his leg to straddle the seat of the helicopter. Slip two quarters into the slot and grip the control stick. He jerked and pushed the controls, his body weaving, jolting with the movement of the machine. Computerized sounds of missiles being launched and bombs dropped. Sharp fingers jabbed my shoulder and I jumped around. Mom’s face all red and puffy and standing so close that her panting breath stirred my bangs.
“Your face is swollen. You look tired,” I managed.
“I’m exhausted! My head is spinning!”
“Something smells like takuwan,” I said, sniffing the air. “Your hand luggage smells like takuwan.”
“Don’t tell me about it! The takuwan opened up in my hand luggage somewhere over Japan and it’s been like that the whole flight home. All the way from Tokyo to Korea to Vancouver to Calgary, the thing was smelling up the inside of the plane and not a thing I could do. Your father’s sister gave it to me.”
“Oh, no,” I said, stepping away from her.
Kunio leaned over. “Welcome home,” he said and gave Mom a peck on the cheek. Mom beamed, then turned to Kenji. “Give me a kiss.”
Kenji leaned and gave her an open-mouthed slobber and she wiped it off with her fingers, looking pleased.
“Where’s your father?” Mom asked.
“On that helicopter,” I pointed. We all turned and watched him jerking around on the seat of the game, dropping bombs and firing missiles in complete absorption. Kenji squirmed and wriggled.
“Aiyai! Aiyai! Aaaiiyaaiiiii!” he hollered. Kunio let him down and he ran, laughing, towards the escalators. Kunio loped after him.
“The smell was just awful. And that was that. There wasn’t a thing I could do and now everyone will go away thinking, ‘It’s true. Oriental people. They smell funny,’” Mom said.
“You shouldn’t say Oriental, Mom. You should say Asian.”
“Asian, Oriental, it doesn’t change the way takuwan smells,” she said. “Where’s your grandmother?”
“The Canadian Airlines man in the navy blue sweater took her down to the luggage area.”
“That man!” Mom said. “I don’t know what his rush rush is all about. I’ve been chasing him ever since I got off that plane and me with all this hand luggage to carry.”
“Here,” I held out my hand, “let me take that for you.
“God!” I exclaimed. “It weighs a ton! What do you have in there?”
“I told you! Oh, my head is spinning.” Mom closed her eyes.
“Kunio!” I yelled. He was at the other end of the terminal, in front of the toy shop with Kenji on his shoulders, watching a teddy bear on a tightrope glide back and forth on a unicycle. “Kunio, come help with the luggage!”
“Hiroshi!” Mom yelled, “Hiroshi, get off that helicopter and help!” Dad jostled the control stick a few more times, dropped a few more bombs, then flung both hands into the air. Dad and Kunio reached us at the same time.
“I think that Kenji might have pooped,” Dad said.
“It’s not Kenji,” I explained. “Some takuwan exploded in Mom’s hand luggage.”
“Oh,” Dad said. He turned to Kenji. “Sorry.”
Kunio picked up two of Mom’s bags and Dad took the other. I held Kenji’s hand and we walked towards the escalator, Mom panting behind us muttering softly, “My head is spinning. The ground is heaving beneath my feet.” I lifted Kenji’s hands above his head when we reached the bottom of the escalator so he wouldn’t stumble, then let him go. Laughing, he ran toward the luggage conveyor belt. The navy blue sweater was still standing behind Obā-chan’s chair, making a smile face behind his beard. He helped her out of the chair and sat her on the plastic covered bench amidst piles of luggage and travel-tired people. Obā-chan nodded her thanks to him and he lipped a smile again and strode strode away.
“I wonder if we should have given him a tip,” Mom said.
“It’s not like he’s a bellhop,” I sighed. “It’s not like Obā-chan is luggage.”
“I know!” Mom said. “I’m just saying that it might have been a nice gesture.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” I asked.
“I will,” she said. “I’ll sit down right now and never get up again.”
“Where’s Kenji?” Dad asked.
We looked up, sweeping a quick circumference, and spotted him at the other end of the terminal, pushing a luggage cart as fast as he could, people dodging around him and angrily looking for parents to attach him to.
“I’ll get him,” Kunio said, and jogged after him. There was a general surge toward the luggage belt and bags started spewing from the chute.
“Oh,” Mom said, “here it comes.” And stood right in front so she would be in the best position to grab. Dad rocked back and forth on his heels, his arms crossed. I sat down beside Obā-chan on the bench. Took her hand in mine.
“How was your trip?” I asked. “How was Masao-ojichan?”
“The hospital was very small. Six beds in each room. There was one window but it faced the north so little sunlight came in. The only sounds to be heard were of old people in discomfort. The nurses were very young and it made one feel that much older, that much weaker. The ward had patients with head problems, so sometimes people would wander in and talk to you like they were old acquaintances continuing a conversation already started. Then a young girl in a white uniform would rush in and bow and apologize and lead them away. Masao-chan was all curled in upon himself when we first went to see him, and I thought he looked like a peanut and I was afraid to touch him because he was so brittle. ‘Masao-chan,’ I said, ‘Masao-chan, we’ve come.’ And he opened his eyes and looked up at me and I don’t know what he saw but it must have been nice because he smiled and went back to sleep. We sat in the room with those sick men, your mom and I, and we rubbed his legs and arms with a warm cloth and wiped his face and wriggled his toes and fingers and washed his hair. The nurse brought us some hot ocha and we sipped loudly so it would sound like home, and we ate early green-skinned oranges. He didn’t wake up, so we went to your mom’s cousin’s house. They made us a great feast, but we were too tired to eat so we talked and took a bath and went to sleep. We ate the leftover food in the morning and took the bus to the hospital again and when we went into Masao-chan’s room, he was already awake and so surprised to see us. ‘Onē-san!’ he said, ‘Onē-san!’ And he couldn’t say anything else because he was crying and we were crying too.”
Kenji’s wails echoed in the high ceiling. I looked up. He was sitting on the floor holding his knees, and Kunio crouched beside him, talking softly.
“‘You’re here,’ he said, ‘you came.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we were here yesterday but you were tired and you didn’t see us.’ ‘I saw you,’ he said, ‘I just didn’t know it was you.’ I tucked the blankets more warmly around his body and he reached up to touch my hand and hold it. He was so cold! ‘You’re like ice,’ I said, and rubbed, rubbed his hands between mine. He smiled at your mom. ‘And you too, Miyachan, and you too.’ Your mom leaned over his bed and hugged him Canada-style and he was quite surprised but pleased, you could tell. Then she took his icy feet and rubbed and rubbed them until they were poka poka like baked sweet potatoes. ‘Have you seen my wife yet?’ he asked. ‘Kimiko is not well. She was taking care of me too much and she weakened her own body. Her back is no good. She can’t move very well.’ ‘We haven’t seen her yet,’ I said. ‘We talked to her on the phone and she’s coming to your
daughter’s house this afternoon. Ten years is too long since I saw you both.’”
“Hiroshi!” Mom called, “Hiroshi, help me with this luggage.” Dad ambled to where she was sliding a suitcase from the conveyor belt. Plunking it on the ground beside her, she imperiously pointed to a large cardboard box. Dad lifted it with his back rather than his knees. Winced. Mom stared up the chute, willing her last bags to come out more quickly.
“Kimiko-chan had aged. There is nothing else you could say. Ten years is a lot if you are seventy to begin with, and my brother’s illness had made her stoop well into ninety. ‘We thought he was going to die,’ she said, her voice wobbling. She held both of my hands. ‘I was getting ready for his funeral.’ ‘Don’t say that,’ I said, ‘it’s not so.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but it is better now that you and Miya-chan are both here. It is better.’ And she sat down on a chair and smiled her special smile. And it felt good, to be there with my brother and his wife and Miya-chan, no matter what the reason for being there was. We were together. That was what was most important at that moment.”
I wasn’t looking at Obā-chan, just watching people pass in front of me while her words flowed over my body. From the side of my face I could feel her nodding now and then as she stroked one hand over the other. The sound of Kenji’s laughter.
“I couldn’t stay with Masao-chan every day at the hospital. It would be too much for me. So your mom’s cousin took me to Masao and Kimiko-chan’s. Kimiko-chan and I, two old women drinking green tea and eating yō-kan and trying to keep each other healthy as best we could. We talked about a lot of old things as old people will, but we talked of new things too. And Miya-chan, she went to the hospital every day from her cousin’s house because it was closer. She went every day and changed his sheets and washed his body and made him tea and talked and talked and massaged his skinny legs and arms and washed his face, his hair. She didn’t go to meet her friends for coffee or drinks and she didn’t go shopping or sightseeing. She stayed with Masao-ojichan and took care of his body. And he got stronger. He got stronger and he could sit up and eat some porridge. He started walking to the washroom and asking for books to read.”
Kenji squirmed his way between my knees, his head tipped back, looking up at my face. He reached down and tugged at the crotch of his pants.
“I have to change Kenji’s diaper,” I said, my hand on Obā-chan’s shoulder. I picked up my oversize purse and clasped Kenji’s hand. As we walked toward the washroom I could still hear Obā-chan’s voice behind me.
“It was a shame. I hadn’t seen Masao-chan for ten years and when I finally went, I couldn’t even visit with him. Five times only I saw him even though we were there for three weeks. I had much to tell him, but my body too weak to sit at a hospital all day. All I could do was know that he was a lot closer to me than before. Talking to Kimiko-chan and where did all the time go? Three weeks pass like water if you are wishing it otherwise. And I thought about staying. I did. But what would I do? An old woman with two other old people and Miya-chan couldn’t stay. No, Miya-chan a grandmother already, so hard to believe, and her home is not there any longer. No, I could not stay and my daughter, I saw how her face changed when we landed in Calgary. The edges around her eyes disappeared, this her home now. And I am home with her. Masao-chan convalescing, and Kimiko-chan’s back is a little better. I can rest easy for a while and enjoy my great grandson. And when he talks, when he can talk to me, I will listen.”
When we got back, Kunio was eating a soft ice-cream cone and Dad was sitting on the bench next to Obā-chan. Mom, at the next bench over, dug through her luggage, looking at this and that. Kenji ran to Kunio and raised both arms. “Up-poo! Up-poo!” Kunio lifted him onto his lap and they took turns licking the ice-cream.
I stood next to Mom as she dug through her luggage. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m looking for your gifts.”
“Why don’t you do that when you get home? There’s no need to do it now. Look, we just came because we’re glad that you’re home safely.”
“I want to give you the presents now,” she said, looking in this bag, then that one, removing a box, a couple of boxes, a small sack.
“These are for Kenji!” she said happily, holding up two pairs of shoes.
“Oh, that’s great!” I said. “His feet are growing so quickly, I can’t afford to keep up with them.”
“That’s what I thought,” she beamed, and held the shoes beside Kenji’s feet. They were at least three sizes too big.
“That’s all right,” Kunio said, “he can wear them when he’s older.”
Mom went back to her parcels and handed Kunio a large carton of expensive sake and a box of specialty rāmen noodles. He glowed with pleasure. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. These must have been heavy.”
Mom returned to her bags with a satisfied grin. She passed me a box of hot Korean salted pollock roe. My mouth watered.
Dad got in on it. “Here’s some pickles. Take some pickles.”
“Not the one that exploded, please,” I said, flapping my hand.
Mom still searched for more. “I know I’m forgetting something,” she muttered, rummaging through messy clothing.
“It can wait,” Dad said, and she finally stopped. She lifted both her hands to her face and smacked her cheeks.
“I gained a lot of weight, didn’t I?”
“Oh, I thought your face was just swollen from retaining water and being tired after the long flight.” I stared at her chin, wondering if it hung a little lower than before.
“It was the fish,” Mom closed her eyes dreamily. “The fish was so incredibly good.”
“Most people eat fish to lose weight, Mom.”
“I think it’s great that you ate so much you gained weight,” Kunio said.
“It was fish to die for. At least gain fifteen pounds for, anyway.”
“Should we go for supper somewhere? I’m feeling a bit hungry,” Dad said.
“Dad,” I said, “I don’t think Obā-chan is up to sitting through a meal. She probably wants to go home.”
“Yes, I’d like to go home and get some rest,” Obā-chan nodded.
“Okay,” Dad said, raising both hands, palms outward. “I was just thinking about supper, that’s all. I thought everyone might be hungry.”
“We can eat some of the rāmen I brought home,” Mom said. “Well, I know I’m forgetting something, but it’ll have to wait.”
“Thank you for all the gifts,” Kunio bobbed his head. “It must have been very heavy for you.”
“Not at all. After all that you’ve done for us,” Mom beamed.
“We didn’t do very much at all,” I said. “We’re just glad that you’re home and everything.”
“Well, let’s go!” Mom said.
“I’ll bring the car around,” Dad said. Ambled toward the exit.
Kenji started his, “Uhhhhn, uhhhhn, uhhhhhhhhn!” and I looked down. His face and hands were covered in ice-cream.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Mom said and dug in her coat pocket for a Kleenex. She wrapped it around her forefinger and spat on it and wiped Kenji’s face. Kenji squirmed. Kunio started loading Mom’s bags on to luggage carts. When Dad returned, he and Kunio pushed the carts out, Mom following with Kenji in tow. Obā-chan leaned on my arm and her bamboo walking stick. Dad had brought a pillow and two sleeping bags for Obā-chan so she could lie down on the way home. Mom settled her in the back seat and then got in the front.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“We’ll come and visit when you’re rested up.” I patted Obā-chan’s shoulder, then shut the door.
“Bye,” said Kunio.
Dad saluted and got into the car. As he pulled away from the curb, Kenji, belatedly, started shouting.
“Bye, bye, bye, bye, bye!”
Obā-chan was lying down so I couldn’t see her, but her hand was raised above the seat and she was waving.
Driving, the roa
ds icy and dust-dry wind. Kenji in the back, looking for buses and big trucks. The inside of the car warm. I didn’t want to do anything, but feeling this gap, this longing, a sense of something unsaid and wanting to fill it. Something tinged the edges of memory and tilting.
“You know, when we arrived in Narita, I had this strange feeling that my feet weren’t quite solid on the ground. The edges of my hemisphere felt skewed the tiniest bit and the ground leaned back against my sole with every step I took. It was a neat sort of feeling if you’re not prone to motion sickness. And I was thinking that maybe the ground was trying to tell me something. That I couldn’t just land and feel right at home. That there was a period of transition or something to go through.”
“Maybe you were just jet-lagged,” Kunio suggested.
“No, I don’t think so, because the feeling was there for the whole trip and I was over being jet-lagged by the third day. No, it was something to do with the land and my walking on it and what that meant and all sorts of things. I don’t know. You know what I mean?”
“No, not really.”
“The whole time I was there I had this feeling I wasn’t ever quite there. Like I was in a box made of Saran Wrap and I could see out in a thinly distorted sort of way, and people could see me too, but always through a barrier. Sometimes I felt lonely and other times I felt almost nothing at all, and I really can’t remember the details of the trip except for the love hotel and the earthquake.”
“That earthquake was one of the biggest ones I’ve felt.”
“It was funny because the earthquake happened after that snow blizzard in Tokyo and everyone kept saying we must have brought the snow with us from Canada because it almost never snows in Tokyo and never so much at once. Remember, we walked from the subway station and the blizzard blasting on our faces and the snow sticking because it was so wet and Kenji on your back hiding his face and almost falling asleep because he was so tired. We stopped at the store to buy beer and snacks and instant rāmen and onigiris and Hide buying a giant chocolate bar and we all laughed. And you slipped going up the stairs to Takeshi’s apartment and cut your hand and blood on the snow so brilliant, so beautiful. Nobu arriving late, after we’d drank a lot of beer, Kenji sleeping in the next room and us eating instant rāmen out of the Styrofoam containers. Remember? We took pictures and drank some more and ate the snacks and I was the first one to go sleep. And I don’t remember when you came to bed, but something woke me up. Something familiar, but its relationship to place was so skewed, I woke up with a jolt and sat upright. The room was moving beneath us and the weird sense of something I’d always felt as motionless heaving like nausea. And things toppled off the TV and the bookshelves and cupboards and I leaned over Kenji who slept through the whole thing, me leaning over him and making a tent with my arms and you sat up in your blankets and said, ‘Big one,’ and I absolutely couldn’t believe your factual tone of voice. Not leaning over to protect me or Kenji, just calmly sitting up in your futon. And I could hear Hide in the next room, sleeping on the floor with Takeshi and Nobu, could hear him through the paper-thin walls. ‘Big. Big,’ he said, in the exact same tone of voice as yours and I couldn’t believe it and I started laughing.”
