All the Ways Home

by Elsie Chapman

  Back in my room, I call my dad, my fingers still cold as they dial.

  His voice mail picks up this time. I’m so surprised I nearly start talking, reveal to him my plans. But then I realize he might call Shoma and get him to stop me.

  I disconnect, turn off the light, and crawl into bed. I stare at the ceiling, waiting. The streetlamp outside flickers its glow into the room through the blinds, and once in a while cars drive down the street so pavement crunches. Between crunches my heart thuds and thuds.

  There are no sounds from inside the apartment, though, no signs of Shoma finally leaving for the konbini. I guess he’s forgotten about being hungry. Or maybe he’s got a tornado in his stomach, too, the other half of mine.

  When I think he’s finally asleep, I roll off the futon. Using the flashlight on my cell so I can see not to miss any of my stuff, I begin to pack.

  37

  It’s past midnight when I crack open my door and step out of my room to check.

  Like I’d guessed, the rest of the apartment’s gone quiet, the TV and stereo turned off and in the dark. No light peeks out from beneath Shoma’s door. The silence is weird, turning the place unfamiliar. Shoma not still being awake is also weird—it’s the first time since I’ve been here that he’s gone to sleep before me.

  I go back into my room and head for the closet. Still holding my cell as a flashlight, I pull open the door. I do it while barely breathing, while trying not to think. My throat’s tight with nerves, my stomach all wound up.

  Shoma’s bass is cold in my hand as I grab it from behind the jackets and boxes. It’s heavier than the guitar I’d played at Frets. I pull out the amp, too—a set would sell for more, I bet.

  The lucky cat beckons from the ground as I lock the outer door behind me, its ceramic paw a slow and steady sweep of white. It smiles at me the way it always does, like I’m not making plans to run away and betray Shoma. The tiny path is empty around us, the acupuncture clinic next door closed until tomorrow.

  I don’t have any five-yen coins on me, but even if I did, I don’t know what I’d wish for. How do you ask for something to be fixed when you’re the one who’s deciding to mess it up? How do you wonder about a choice when it’s the only one you can make?

  “Give me a sign of what to do,” I whisper to the lucky cat, my voice somehow still too loud in the quiet. It’s all shaky, too, just like a little kid’s after getting caught in a lie.

  Because … why do I still feel lost, if I know what I need to do?

  What good are things like kotodama and omikuji and ema if I’m still confused?

  Where have Kannon and Mazu and Kwan Tai gone?

  The cat just waves and waves, as silent as those gods.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper again. I throw the strap of Shoma’s bass over my shoulder, hug the amp to my chest, and move down the path. “I’d save your luck for someone else, too.”

  Shinjuku is just as it was the last time I was out so late—still crowded, full of people and noise and music. The air smells of food and cigarette smoke. I pass by the same konbini where I’d eaten middle-of-the-night curry and spaghetti-flavored chips. The one where the cashier was mistaken and thought I belonged.

  It’s Kabukicho that’s different this time.

  When I’d gone before, it’d already gone to sleep. Now it’s just waking up, and as I get closer to the district’s center, the streets slowly change. There are bits of glass and plastic on the pavement, collections of grime in the corners of shop windows. Lights are either too bright or too dim so there are shadows everywhere. Faces wear too much makeup, and the laughter that rings out is full of odd, shrill edges.

  During that outdoor education class trip last year, the week we’d slept under the stars, we’d also slept next to forests. And it was at night that those forests sometimes felt different. Not dangerous, just more mysterious. As though when we fell asleep, the trees woke up for real and began to talk to each other.

  Kabukicho is Shinjuku, but it’s also not.

  I swallow hard and pull Shoma’s bass closer. I hug his amp closer, too, my arms clamped tight around it. Both are my way to my dad, but if I were in the ocean right now and holding them just this way, their weight would sink me. The same way my box of questions wants to sink me.

  I don’t know what to think about that.

  Maybe my quest for answers is doomed from the start.

  Maybe it means I should probably come in from the water completely.

  I keep walking. No one stops me. Looks that come my way don’t last long. A part of me wants to call out, make someone notice. So they can turn me around and make me go back to Shoma’s, my plan ruined just in time.

  But I stay quiet, and I’m left alone. I move even faster now, following the directions on my cell. Shoma’s bass feels heavier than it did when I left the apartment, like it’s trying to pull me back. To remind me it’s more than steel and strings. That it still has songs for me to hear, if only I stay.

  The third resale shop on my list is still open because it happens to share the space with a twenty-four-hour ticket reseller. Just like at Frets, there are guitars displayed in the windows. But there’s junk, too, a lot of it ugly and useless, and my hand twists the strap of my brother’s bass. I picture Shoma showing me how to press down on the frets, as patient as Mom had been when she’d taught me what she’d held on to.

  In the end, it’s easy to hand it over, way easier than it should be. It makes me wonder how many other kids come in way past midnight to sell a bass to find their missing dads. Then I stop wondering because there’s only one possible answer, and my eyes get hot when Mom’s voice fills my head. Kaede, it’s not too late to go back. Shoma might have given up on Dad, but he hasn’t given up on you.

  “Ten thousand, five hundred yen,” the lady from behind the counter says, her voice swallowing up Mom’s. “For the set. Happy with that?”

  I nod, unsure how I feel. She hands me the bills. They’re slick in my fingers.

  I head over to the nearest konbini with an ATM and take out all the money on my grandpa’s emergency money card. Twenty thousand more yen. This money feels too slick, too.

  I don’t find out until I’m back at Shinjuku Station that you can’t swap out Suica fare cards for their balance in cash. I hadn’t counted on that.

  It leaves me eight thousand yen short of a train fare and plane ride to Sapporo.

  But then I remember how I still have Shoma’s credit card. From when I went out by myself and he’d been worried, the way a dad might be.

  Just in case, my brother had said. For things you think you really need.

  I’d lied to him that day, too.

  Before my mom’s voice can come back and chime in with his, I’m rushing toward one of the ticket kiosks.

  I punch the information into the screen. Using my cash, I book a seat on a train that leaves from Shinjuku Station tomorrow morning. Then I go online and use my cell to buy a plane ticket from Tokyo to Sapporo, charging it to Shoma’s card.

  The whole time something in my chest pushes and pulls, a broken compass’s needle spinning and spinning.

  A town could be blown away by the wind battering around in my stomach.

  Cities, even.

  Whole entire countries.

  I leave the station, pretty sure that buying stuff for running away should be even harder than selling stuff to do it. Not easier.

  I half run along the still-crowded sidewalk, working out in my head the rest of how I’m going to leave my brother behind. Faces blur, my eyes hotter than ever.

  If I leave the festival as soon as Shoma heads off to his stage to work, I should be able to make it back here in time. Before getting on the train I’ll stop at his place to pick up my stuff (being caught again with a full backpack for a day trip would only be suspicious), and then I’ll leave his apartment key with the staff at Irusu. I’ll be at Haneda Airport by noon tomorrow, in Sapporo by four in the afternoon.

  I don’t want t
o imagine Shoma’s face when he realizes I’ve left.

  How I’d chosen, over him, our wandering dad and my useless questions and my stupid need for answers.

  Now I’m running for real, dodging and weaving around people who don’t have to, who have a place of their own. The missing weight of Shoma’s bass and amp is huge, and I guess it’s what guilt feels like. I run all the way back to the apartment, my lungs burning, my whole stomach a hurricane.

  38

  Dear Kaede,

  How nice it is to hear from you! I hope you’re enjoying Japan and discovering all kinds of new things.

  After speaking to Ms. Nanda, we’re both fine with not including your Summer Celebration Project for the lobby display. We know some things can be too personal to want to share, meant more for you than anyone else. We just need to be confident that you understand the spirit of the project and see how effectively you’ve applied yourself to your selected theme.

  Good luck with everything,

  Mr. Zaher

  39

  It’s ten in the morning, and this part of the world is on fire.

  I pluck at the front of my T-shirt, pretty certain all my sunscreen has already melted away, and glance back at the main entrance gates.

  A huge sea of people is rolling inward, shimmering beneath the sun. It’s Shinjuku Station times one hundred, its close walls and ceilings torn away to make even more room. There’s an energy in the air, too, like lightning about to happen. I think of the old beehive in my backyard, its swarm of busy occupants spilled out all at once so their buzzing was everywhere. I’d felt the sound along the skin of my arms, the same way the festival’s energy dances off it now.

  I bet storm chasers feel something like this. As though they’ve been painted with a current of electricity, the certainty that something’s about to happen.

  Shoma checks the fit of my attendance wristband to make sure it’s not too loose. If I lose it, there go my in-and-out privileges.

  Not that it matters, since I won’t need it for more than a few minutes.

  He glances down at his cell to check the time, the crowd flowing in all around us. “Okay, Kaede, I have to go sign in—the first shows are scheduled to start pretty soon. So, rules: be careful with your wristband, don’t get too close to the front of the crowds or you’ll get crushed, keep slathering on the sunscreen, and make sure you come find me in time later tonight. Sound good?”

  “I’ll make sure.” Guilt churns me up, crawls around my stomach. One of those storm watchers would take a single look at me and know what’s brewing inside. “Lake Stage, 6:40 P.M.” Nothing’s Carved In Stone, the band my brother wants us to watch together.

  “Text me if you need anything before then. It might take me a bit if I’m in the middle of something, but I will text you back.”

  He’s thinking about Dad. How he’s not him. Reminding me how different they are.

  I want to tell him he can stop worrying about me thinking that. I did once, lumping them together as one and the same after they turned faceless and into just outlines, a tag team of two strangers. I could tell him, make him happy, tell myself he can think back to it later, after he finds out what I needed to do and is no longer so happy.

  But my brother’s no longer a stranger, and I don’t think I can erase him away now, even if I tried.

  “Okay, I will.” I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses so Shoma can’t see so much. My ribs ache holding back what’s gone heavy in my chest, the heart in there that’s a giant bruise.

  “Cool,” he says, smiling.

  Shoma had cried the day we’d left, Mom had told me a long time ago. Her voice had cracked as she’d said it, had ground down to a whisper. I was so sorry to leave him, Kaede. He was so hurt. It’s still the hardest thing I’ve ever done, leaving him alone like that.

  The questions I would ask her if she were still here:

  How do you say good-bye without it sounding like good-bye? To say thank you for a week where so much happened it was like living another person’s life, the half of me I haven’t been since I was three? To say thank you for being a brother, when Shoma could have just stayed away? For showing me how home isn’t the single dull definition the dictionary says it is, but something way more complex and interesting and real?

  “Shoma?”

  “Yeah?” He’s checking his cell again. His life, keeping him busy, one he built all on his own.

  “I— Thanks for all the help. With my school project and … all of it. I think you made it a lot better than it would have been.” I blink fast behind my sunglasses, willing the tears back and not doing a good job. “Really. I mean it.”

  My brother’s grin goes wide. The blue of his hair shines, a streak of sky. Ripped black jeans, tattoos, his earrings bright in the sun.

  He doesn’t look any different since the first time I saw him, there at the airport for me, making up for our missing dad.

  Except that he does.

  The thing is, I know it’s because he looks like family now.

  Shoma scrubs at my hair with a hand, gives me a super quick one-armed hug, and then he’s gone without another word.

  I can’t talk anymore, either.

  I turn back the way I came and begin to run—as though I’m being chased, a huge storm about to happen.

  When I’m supposed to be doing the chasing.

  40

  The plane lands in Chitose Airport in Hokkaido more than five hours later, at three in the afternoon.

  My stomach hits the ground along with the landing gear. The flight attendant is saying something about staying seated until the plane’s completely stopped moving. Somewhere in the cabin, a baby cries. Passengers are restless, tugging at their seat belts, turning airplane mode off on their cells and getting back online to check their emails and texts.

  I stare out the window, suddenly nervous about more than just seeing my dad for the first time in nearly a decade. It’s my first time being in this part of Japan, so far north from Tokyo. I don’t know much about Hokkaido except that it’s the second biggest of the four islands that make up the country. And it’s got real winters, with months and months of snow.

  It’s also got mountains, ones remote enough to keep a dad in hiding.

  The same way a ghost might hide.

  I still don’t know how to find him. My plans end once I get to Sapporo Station.

  But there are only four accessible mountains in Hokkaido’s capital city, and only a dozen or so bed-and-breakfasts. And my dad is Tsubasa Hirano, famous photographer—it’s not his first time here. Owners and staff would know his face, his name. How hard can it be to track him down?

  I’d never gotten details from Shoma about where our dad was staying, even though my brother had reminded me to bug him. And by the time I knew I needed to, asking would have been suspicious.

  I wonder what band he’s watching right now. If he’s tried to find me despite working, despite my assuring him I was fine. If he’s noticed I’m gone from the festival altogether. If he believes my leaving is because of something he did.

  That’s what bothers me the most. Him feeling bad when all he’s supposed to be is relieved I’m no longer his responsibility.

  Before the plane took off, I’d sent him a single text from the airport, just to keep him from worrying until I could call him after landing:

  Don’t want to bug you while you work, so I’ll just hang out until tonight. See you at Lake Stage for Nothing’s Carved In Stone!

  Moments later: Okay, see you then. And it’s way too hot out, so eat lots of kakigori!

  The plane finally rolls to a complete stop, and passengers get out of their seats, reach overhead for their luggage.

  I’m inside the airport terminal, walking alongside a small food court, when I get back online.

  A bunch of texts come through all at once.

  All from Shoma. All asking where I am. All sounding worried.

  Guilt twists me up, and I’m about to call him when my
cell rings in my hand.

  “Hello?” I say into it without looking at the number, sure it’s my brother.

  “Kaede?” my dad asks.

  41

  I stop walking, totally shocked.

  “Dad?”

  “Kaede, you called? I’m dialing my last missed one.”

  My father’s voice is faint over my cell, but I still recognize it. Voices are their own memory. I’d remembered Shoma’s, too.

  “I did call,” I say stupidly, hating how young I suddenly sound. A strange kind of whooshing noise fills my ears, coming and going with my pulse. If I’m so surprised, I wonder how my dad must have reacted, seeing my cell number show up on his. He’s been in my head for years, but me in his? How not on his mind have I been?

  “Are things all right?” he asks. “What’s the emergency?”

  I didn’t know there had to be one. My mouth is slow to move, the same way my feet still aren’t moving, even though people are swerving around me, buying snacks or rushing for a gate or for the exit.

  “You still there, Kaede?” A note of impatience creeps into the sound of my name.

  “I’m here, Dad,” I say, my face flushing. “In Japan. In Hokkaido.”

  “Hokkaido? Why?”

  “I came to meet up with you.”

  “But I’m not in Hokkaido. I’m in New Zealand.”

  More shock.

  New Zealand?

  I don’t know anything about New Zealand except that it’s also far away from Tokyo.

  “But Shoma said you were here. Right now.” My Japanese comes out in awkward, broken-up fragments, no longer easy for me.

  “Well, I was in Hokkaido—Sapporo—last year. But now I’m in New Zealand.”

  Last year.

  My dad’s been gone from Tokyo since then? Maybe even since that article that Shoma’s saved, the one where my dad talks about no limits? The next time I’m gone, it could be anywhere from a month to six, from a year to five.