All the Ways Home

by Elsie Chapman

  “I thought I told your brother the last time we spoke that I would head out here directly this time, instead of stopping by home between shoots like I usually do. But I can’t be sure, I might have meant to but forgot. Either way, it’s been a bit since I’ve been in touch. And reception here is mostly terrible—if Shoma’s tried to reach me, I’m afraid it never got through.”

  It’s been a bit since I’ve been in touch.

  The last time I heard from my dad was an email, when I’d been eight. I’d read the final line over and over again, because it was supposed to be a promise. I’ll talk to you in a bit, Kaede, all right?

  I guess we both have different ideas what a bit means.

  “Kaede, why aren’t you at home?”

  Home.

  The word has grown oversized. No definition can possibly contain it. It’s like the world, stuffed into four letters.

  Hearing it from my dad—just what did it mean to him, anyway?

  “You asked me to come, Dad, remember? Last week. To come and stay with you for the rest of the summer, you said. Shoma passed on your message. But I got tired of waiting in Tokyo, so here I am.”

  My dad’s surprise jumps from his cell and into mine. It comes at me like a punch.

  “I haven’t been home for nearly two years.” His words are very careful, like he’s not sure how I’m taking whatever he’s saying. “I don’t know why your brother would tell you that. But it’s fine, I’m glad you’re visiting. Is Shoma with you in Hokkaido?”

  I stare at the crowd rushing all around me, at the way everyone’s mouths move as they talk and laugh. But I don’t hear any of it. I don’t even hear my dad as he keeps asking me about my vacation.

  My brain scrambles to understand. Parts are working and wheeling away, trying so hard.

  Why would Shoma not tell me about our dad being gone this whole time? And then lie about who asked me to come?

  Somersaults are happening in my stomach. Flips and dives, huge leaps off giant springboards.

  “Unfortunately”—Dad’s still talking, but I’m barely listening—“I’m not going to make it back to Japan anytime soon. My contract says I have to stay put until the shoot’s done. Unless it’s a family emergency, but I don’t think this really qualifies—Shoma’s there, after all.”

  My brother was the one who’d been around to first hear the news about Mom. He’s the one who asked how I was after she died. He’s the one who managed to meet me at the airport.

  “I’m still sorry it took me so long going through my messages to hear about your mother. By the time I could use my cell again, it’d been weeks, nearly two months, and—well, I wasn’t sure your grandpa needed to hear from me by that point. I assumed Shoma had talked to him, and I knew he’d take care of everything and would do his best to be there for you.”

  Anger’s growing inside my chest, sharp little spikes trying to climb my throat.

  Because Shoma’s also the one who said he was passing on our messages to our dad, when he wasn’t. He asked me to come visit and let me think it was Dad trying to make things better. When really it was just him wanting to do something to stop feeling guilty.

  He keeps telling me to get over Dad and to not bother trying to reach him.

  He’s still covering for him now, that’s why he’s been lying about him being away. A tag team of two, as I always knew.

  “Dad, I have to go.” My voice sounds nearly like Shoma’s when he gets upset. I’m struggling not to cry even as my insides sting. I feel the way I did biking to Mr. Ames’s house, the way I did skating up behind Jory. “Shoma’s calling for me.”

  “Sure, okay.” He must not notice that I’m upset because all I hear in his voice is relief. “I’ll talk to you both soon, all right, Kaede? In a bit.”

  “Right. Okay, bye.” I hang up and start walking through the terminal, though I don’t know where I’m going, who to find.

  It’s like I’ve dumped that old box of questions right over the side of the boat and replaced it with a brand-new one. It’s even harder to row now, and I think I’m going to sink, once and for all.

  This box has questions, too, but they’re not about the past, and they’re not for my dad.

  Shoma, my big brother, taking care of everything.

  I keep going—through halls and shops, up escalators and then back down them—as though I’m still trying to leave behind that bad luck omikuji. As though it’s not already too late.

  And Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy, the one who’s supposed to be kind?

  I guess she’s just as lost as me, since I can’t sense her at all.

  42

  I’m at the airport in Hokkaido.

  I know you’ve been lying about Dad.

  I have all my things, and money for a ticket, so I’m just going to fly home.

  43

  Wait for me there.

  I’m catching the first plane out.

  44

  Shoma comes flying around into my section of the terminal, his eyes wide and searching, his blue hair wild. There’s a festival press pass around his neck, and the sight of his wristband reminds me I’m still wearing mine. It’d stuck around, after all.

  “Kaede!”

  My brother’s yell is a boom, echoing along the rows of empty chairs. It’s past midnight, and this part of the terminal is deserted. Outside, the sky is nearly black but for the watchful moon, and our reflections show on the huge glass windows: Shoma swooping fast in my direction like he’s trying to catch something, and me in my chair, legs crossed, backpack in my lap, stuck.

  Shoma reaches me, and for a long second he’s absolutely still, as though he can’t decide if he’s supposed to be angry or relieved. Then he just collapses into the empty seat next to me and slides low enough he’s practically lying down.

  It’s nearly six hours to get from the festival grounds in Chiba to Hokkaido.

  He really did have to race over, the same way I had. And he’d been working, too. He’s missed hours of shows, of music. He’s missed watching Nothing’s Carved In Stone.

  “What are you doing, Kaede?” My brother asks this so quietly I can barely hear him in the already silent room. He slowly sits up. “Seriously.”

  “I wanted to see Dad.” The words are somehow too simple, even if they’re the truth. “But you lied about him being here in Hokkaido.”

  “I never lied. He is here. At least, he was here, the last time we talked.”

  “He’s in New Zealand.”

  “What?” His surprise is too real to be fake. He probably would have reacted the same if I’d said Mars, or the moon (from Japan, New Zealand’s twelve hours away by air, I’d checked). “Who told you this?”

  “Dad did. He finally called me back today.”

  Shoma sighs and rubs his face. “You’ve been calling him this whole time, haven’t you?”

  “He says he’s been there since last year.” Fresh tears sting my eyes. “A whole year! Why’d you lie?”

  My brother’s shaking his head. His eyes have the same sad look as Mr. Zaher’s. “I didn’t know, Kaede. I swear. His cell never worked when he was in Sapporo two years ago, so one day I just … stopped calling. It’s routine for him, going away for weeks, then boom, suddenly being back in town. Only this time, I guess he never bothered coming home again before leaving for his next job.”

  I can tell he so badly wants me to believe him. A part of me wants to.

  But what if he’s lying because he doesn’t want to admit how our dad has ditched him, too? What if it’s because he’s decided it’s my turn to be tricked, now that I’m here?

  “You made up him wanting me to visit.” There are planes in the sky outside, their lights blinking and winking. I wonder if they’re coming or going, how often they get to just stay on the ground. “It’s not a game. I’m not a joke.”

  “You’re not at all.” Shoma appears cornered and wary and kind of helpless. “Look, talking to your grandpa, I knew you were in trouble. And your mom h
ad just died—I didn’t want to tell you about Dad not being here, too. And … I didn’t think you’d come if it was just me asking. We didn’t even know each other, brothers or not.”

  “And now you’re trying to make up for it, hanging out with me, pretending you don’t mind.” My face is wet, but I just leave it.

  “I like hanging out with you, Kaede.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Trusting him is dangerous. Why haven’t I learned that yet? “You just needed proof that you’re not the only one Dad’s forgotten, and that’s why you asked me to come.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then was it punishment for me and Mom leaving you, too?”

  Shoma’s whole face goes tight. I bet a minute passes before he speaks again. And his voice, as it always is when he’s upset, is rough and sore sounding, full of hurts.

  “Listen. When you and your mom left, I lost my family, all right? I had to go back to living with someone who always wanted to be anywhere else. So, yes, maybe I did hate you and your mom for leaving, just a bit, and that’s the truth. And I admit I knew I was ignoring you all these years, okay?” He’s picking at the threads on his jeans, staring hard at them, the way I’m careful to stare hard at things that can’t stare back. “I was so sorry to hear about your mom. But at least you have your grandpa, Kaede, and at least he cares to try. You’re actually luckier than you know.”

  Each of his words is like one of those chisels artists use, chipping away at their project, getting to the heart of it.

  Shoma still has a project of his own, just as I do.

  This whole time, we’ve been working on the same thing. Our own tag team.

  “I’m sorry we made you hate us,” I whisper. Mom would want me to make sure he knows. “We should have tried harder, too.”

  His smile still isn’t all the way in his eyes. “And I should have been more careful about Dad being here. I just figured everything would somehow work out, even if you had to leave before he came back. I thought you’d be okay with it in the end, because you would have had fun anyway. Because maybe I would have been enough.”

  “I’ve been having a great time. I don’t want to leave.” I swipe my sleeve across my face and give him a small grin. “You’re kind of supposed to be a jerk, you know?”

  “Sorry.” Now he laughs, the real thing.

  “And … you’re not kidding about liking hanging out, right?” Somewhere unseen in the terminal, someone’s running a vacuum.

  “Not kidding in the least.” His face gets serious. “I really do hope you get to see Dad before you have to leave.”

  “Me too.” But I already know I won’t. I’d heard it in our dad’s voice over my cell, how he couldn’t hide it. The eagerness to get away, to get back to what is his home. “Shoma, about that interview I found—why did you save it?”

  He shrugs. “After his Hokkaido shoot finished, I tried to find out where he’d gone next. Or if he even ended up staying. That interview was the last print one I found—I stopped looking afterward.” Shoma’s still serious as he watches me. “He really never did call to let me know he’d moved on, Kaede.”

  “I know, I believe you.” And I do.

  A new silence forms, but it’s a good one. Like a storm’s just passed through and gotten rid of all the bad stuff that’s been hanging on.

  Speaking of bad stuff.

  I might as well tell him now.

  “Shoma, I sold your bass.” I say it fast, the same way you’re supposed to tear off bandages so they don’t hurt (they still do). “The one you kept in the closet of my room. I used the money I got for it and then your credit card to help me buy my train and airplane tickets to Sapporo.”

  My brother blinks. “Wow, okay. That’s … some planning, all right.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That was my very first bass, the one I taught myself to play on. I bought it with money I earned selling ice cream at Tokyo Sea. It was pretty much the worst summer job in the world.”

  I hunch farther into my chair. “I’m really, really sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

  Shoma only laughs again. “Just promise you won’t take off on me the rest of the time you’re here, and we’ll call it even.”

  “Deal.”

  45

  Dear Nothing’s Carved In Stone,

  It was my fault we missed you guys at RIJF.

  But Shoma somehow got himself assigned to the Rising Sun Rock festival a week later. It was at RSR that that photo of Shinichi and Takeshi still being friends was taken, showing me that not all broken things are actually broken.

  Flying to Hokkaido was more fun this time around, me and Shoma getting to go together.

  He watched you guys play from nearer to the front, something he likes to do for all the shows he writes about. He says he likes to feel a live as best he can, as well as see and hear. For him, that’s up close.

  I stayed along the side, watching you as the crowd watches you, their faces telling me about home.

  How it can be a field with room for thousands.

  A stage for four.

  The strange and cool and bright energy that is a song.

  Really, it’s that home is something inside of you. So you’re never lost wherever you go in the world. You take it with you.

  I’m almost done with my Summer Celebration Project.

  I’m pretty happy with how it’s turned out. I don’t even mind my mostly-made-up family tree that much, since me and Shoma worked on it together. It won’t be the most well-done project in class, or the one that looks the best, or the most educational, but I believe it’s true, and honest. Maybe those things will come close to Mr. Zaher’s “truly excellent.”

  Ms. Nanda says we can use whatever fits in a notebook.

  And Shoma didn’t give me your music thinking it’d help me define home. But it has.

  Which is why I’m going to include the lyrics to one of your songs.

  It’s one that knows me well, because I can find myself in the words. It’s just as Shoma says: Home is made up of those things I know will always be there for me.

  So don’t stop writing songs or playing music. Because what “November 15th” means to me might be some other song for some other kid that’s still inside of you. What you still need to write.

  46

  Hi, Mr. Zaher,

  It’s Kaede from school again.

  I wanted to show you some pictures I’ve taken of my Summer Celebration Project. I know you and Ms. Nanda will still want to see the real thing next week after I get back, but maybe you can give me an idea of how it looks so far? That way, if I’ve somehow done it wrong, I’ll still have time to fix it.

  Thanks! (I’m attaching the photos to this email!)

  Kaede

  47

  Dear Kaede,

  Such a pleasure to see these photos of your work! Thank you very much for sending them along. The heart you’ve put into your Summer Celebration Project clearly shines through, and I’m very eager to see the rest upon your return.

  While you are correct that Ms. Nanda and I will still need to assess the actual project, I can tell you I’m more than excited about your upcoming school year and what it means for you.

  I think it’s safe to say you should be excited, too.

  Do enjoy the rest of your summer. Japan is beautiful, and now I mean to visit one day.

  For that—and for sharing what promises to be a truly excellent project—thank you, Kaede.

  Mr. Zaher

  48

  “So you remembered everything, right?” Shoma eyes my stuffed backpack. “Not that you have any room left in that thing.”

  I pat the outside of it. “It’s okay, I’ve got it all.”

  I hadn’t expected to be taking so much back to Canada with me. I’d even meant to leave things behind, even if those things were more weight than shape—a family I didn’t need anymore, that box of tough questions for my dad.

  But Shoma had given me small thi
ngs over the weeks to take home, to keep us connected over the ocean. Things that had made him think of me when he saw them—a RSR keychain, a bright neon guitar pick, toys from capsule machines. Handed over really casually, so it wouldn’t seem a big deal to either of us if I turned them away.

  I never did.

  Most of the time, I know I’ll be okay, seeing all of that in my room in Vancouver. I’m no longer three but twelve—stronger now. So when Shoma slowly disappears on me, memories will make me happy instead of sad. I’ll be able to imagine him getting back to his life here, exactly how it’d been before I came, and know that we’re still brothers.

  I’m luckier than I know.

  Dad hasn’t made it back to Tokyo, but my questions for him haven’t resurfaced. They’re still deep in the water, after I threw them over the edge of my imaginary boat into my imaginary lake. Instead I got answers from Shoma, ones I hadn’t known I needed. And those are just as good as ones I might have gotten from Dad. They make those questions not really matter anymore.

  My Summer Celebration Project ended up being bigger than I ever would have guessed—it seems I had more to say on the topic of home than I thought. I was careful packing it this morning at Shoma’s, this notebook thick with tickets and photos and writing, with everything else that felt right.

  School starts in three days; I find out for sure in two if I’ll be in Grade 7 or 8. I know what I’m hoping for—what I’m not so scared to hope for anymore—but I also think I’ll be ready if the other happens.

  I have souvenirs, too. For Gemma and Jory and other friends, and for Grandpa. I even got a small lucky cat for Mr. Zaher. I’m pretty sure he’ll like it, especially after I tell him what it means, how he’s supposed to leave it by his office door for whatever kids might walk through.

  And Jory texted me back this past week. To tell me his eye is starting to see light again, that he wants to hang out after I’m back so he can hear about my trip. So I’m seeing him tomorrow. We’re meeting up with Gemma and Roan and Donovan. It’ll almost be just like old times again.