I feel it.”
Good News and Sadness
Timothy and Pattress cross the fence
while I’m feeding the turkeys.
“I have some news,” he says,
taking the bucket of grain from me.
He pours it into the feeder.
“Is it good news?” I ask.
“I think so.”
“I have news, too.”
“You first,” Timothy says.
I tell him, “We’re staying in Hillsborough.”
“Cool,” he says. “Because my news is
I’m staying here till next June.”
“That’s great news,” I say, and smile.
But Timothy’s eyes look sad.
“Right?”
“Sure,” he says, and shrugs,
and keeps looking at me like he needs more
than a smile.
We give the turkeys fresh water,
and Timothy helps me lock the pen.
Pattress has been sitting outside all this time
and wags her tail when we come out.
Finally I ask, “Why are you staying here?
Doesn’t your mother want you home,
now that Wesley’s in Vietnam?”
Then he tells me a little
about his life in New York
and why he’s staying with his grumpy uncle.
“My dad and mom are divorced.
He left us when I was three.”
“Do you remember your dad?”
“Not really. My mom and Wesley
have told me stories,
but now I don’t know if I remember him or the stories.
Mom thinks I need to be around someone
who can be like a father.
She doesn’t like that I like to cook.”
“My dad likes to cook.”
“I would tell her that
if I didn’t have to keep it a secret
that I come over here.”
“You have to keep lots of secrets. Isn’t it hard
to keep them all straight?”
“I like coming over,” he says.
“It’s one of the only reasons
I even want to stay with my uncle.”
Then I say what Papa says all the time:
“You are welcome to visit us anytime.”
Timothy smiles finally.
“I wish I lived here. I wish
I had your family.”
“I don’t think you’d want to be in my family.
It’s not always easy.”
“My family isn’t easy, either.”
Now I know
that what Timothy needed more than a smile
was for me to hear his story.
I give him a hug
for the first time,
and he hugs me back
as if he has wanted to forever.
It feels good. And now I’m glad
my family voted to stay.
Language
Dr. Haseda has come to visit us again
with Baby Cake, who
has grown up so much since April.
Now she walks without lurching
and has lots more teeth.
I take her outside and blow bubbles
so Mama and her friend can visit alone.
Kate chases the bubbles and pops them
with her fingers and her face,
and laughs and screams
and falls down.
Timothy crosses the fence
and gives Kate pony rides on his back.
She grabs the neck of his T-shirt
and his ears
as he neighs and whinnies through the grass.
She wants to ride on Pattress, too,
who would let her,
but we say no,
and blow more bubbles.
Then Timothy has to leave,
and Kate and I go inside, where our mothers
are drinking tea with lemon and eating ginger cookies
that Dr. Haseda brought.
She gives one to her daughter.
And when she sets Kate on her lap,
Mama presses her hand over her heart
and looks at me.
“I am thinking of offering a class in the tea ceremony,” Dr. Haseda says to Mama
in Japanese.
Mama sets her teacup in the saucer. “Did you know
I am certified to teach osado?”
“My, my,” Dr. Haseda says. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in teaching my class.”
Mama looks at her teacup to hide her smile. “I might be.
I’ll need to talk to my husband first.”
This is Mama’s way of hiding her glee.
“Of course,” says Dr. Haseda,
who puts her teacup down and gathers her daughter.
She knows Mama’s answer will be yes.
I would not be able to explain to Timothy or Stacey
or anyone else in Hillsborough how
I understand the language
behind their words.
Tilling
Papa nudges his dinner plate,
but Mama doesn’t take it to the sink right away.
When I get up to leave,
she says, “Stay, Mimi-chan,”
and starts telling Papa about Dr. Haseda’s visit,
what a nice person she is,
and how big Baby Cake has grown.
Papa nods patiently.
I’m holding my breath for the punch line,
because Mama’s way is to feel out the mood,
till the soil before planting the seeds.
Finally Papa asks, “What else?”
kindly.
“She wants to introduce students to tea ceremony this fall.”
“And she asked you to teach,” Papa says.
“That’s right.”
“Can you handle it?” Papa asks. “There are turkeys
and the house and the family.”
“Up to you,” Mama says.
“Do you want to teach?” Papa asks.
“What do you think?” she asks.
Mama’s face has no expression—
not joy or sadness or anticipation.
She stares at Papa, waiting.
“It’s fine with me,” he says,
and smiles, as if making a decision like that is a burden
he carries with reverence.
Mama’s mouth twitches into a smile
she can’t stop,
so she takes Papa’s plate to the sink.
“Oh,” she says, turning around,
“something else. . . . She asked if Mimi can babysit for Kate
on Saturday night.”
“Me, babysit?” I ask.
I can’t keep my smile from taking over my face
or my squeals from bouncing off the walls.
“You’re certainly not your mother,” Papa says, laughing.
I look from him to Mama. “Can I?
I want to do it.
And I can handle it.”
“I’ll ask her for the details,” Papa says,
“and tell her yes.”
And that’s how Mama and I get our first jobs
in Hillsborough on the same day.
Babysitting Baby Cake
Dr. Haseda opens the fridge. “Here
are her bottles.” They’re all lined up on the middle shelf.
“Always heat them in warm water,” she says
just like a teacher.
“But she just ate
and shouldn’t be hun
gry. In fact,
she’ll probably sleep straight through for you.”
“So I won’t get to play with her?” I ask.
“Not tonight, but maybe next time,
if you want to come back.”
Her husband, Rick, is a sculptor,
who works in their garage.
He has long hair and a bushy beard.
At first, he and Dr. Haseda didn’t seem to fit.
But after five minutes I knew they were perfect for each other.
They’re going to a movie at the college.
“We won’t be late,” Dr. Haseda says,
and shows me a number next to the phone.
But I say, “I’ll be fine . . . we’ll be fine.
Kate and I are best friends. Don’t worry. Have fun.”
After they leave, I go to Kate’s room
to check on her. She’s lying on her side
and her mouth is open just a little.
She smells like milk and baby shampoo,
and her lips are moving like she’s chewing.
She has kicked off her blanket, so I pull it back over her,
and I go back to the living room and look at the magazines.
Then I get a Fudgsicle
and turn on The Dating Game.
The show is almost over
when Kate starts to cry—low and soft
and building up.
I run to her room. She’s standing in her crib.
She sees me and stops crying
but looks dazed.
Then she wails and grabs the railing of her crib.
“Mama mama mama!”
“It’s okay, Baby Cake. Remember me? I’m Mimi.
We blew bubbles together,” I say,
wishing I’d brought bubbles tonight.
“Can I pick you up?”
She shakes her head and cries more.
“I’ll be right back,” I say,
and bring a bottle from the fridge.
But she throws it to the floor.
“Mama mama mama,” she cries louder.
“Kate, you’ll wake up the neighbors,”
I say, even though it’s only eight o’clock.
I help her lie down again, but she stiffens
and pops up, pulls on the crib railing.
So I take her out of the crib
and carry her to the living room.
She wants to get down
and cries more.
Now I don’t feel like babysitting.
I’m no good at it,
and I want to cry, too.
I try holding her and feeding her
and rocking her and putting her back in her crib,
but she cries all through My Three Sons.
I can’t take anymore,
so I call the number by the phone.
It rings and rings, but no one answers,
and I drop the phone back into the cradle
and look at the clock. Maybe they’ll be home
in an hour, or two hours. Or three.
I’m thirteen now and should be able to handle
things like this on my own, but I can’t handle this,
and I call home.
When Mama answers, I can only talk
between Kate’s screams and my sobs.
I feel like I’m drowning, but when Mama says,
“I’ll come soon, Mimi-chan,”
I know I’ve found a rowboat to roll into
and rest.
When Mama comes, she picks up Baby Cake
and coos to her. “What a good girl you are.
Why are you crying for Mimi?”
Mama takes her back to her room
and changes her diaper.
“Where’s her bottle?” Mama asks,
smoothing Baby Cake’s soft hair
as she drinks,
watching Mama. And blinks.
“She’s tired. That’s all,” Mama says,
and picks her up, sways in place.
Kate’s eyes close and she looks heavy on Mama’s shoulder.
I take the bottle from her limp hand.
Mama lays her gently in her crib.
Baby Cake sleeps on,
and Mama waits with me in the living room,
watching Hogan’s Heroes until we’re sure
Kate will stay asleep.
“I’ll go now,” Mama says. “You’ll be fine.”
I know why Mama is leaving
instead of staying with me—
so Kate’s mom and dad will see
that everything went fine
while I was in charge.
Going Home
When Papa’s older sister, Fiona,
was fourteen, she was burned in a fire.
But she survived,
and after that, they called her Phoenix—
the bird that rose from ashes.
Auntie Phoenix was the only person in Papa’s family
who kept in touch with him
after he and Mama got married.
Today, Auntie’s husband called.
Last night she had a heart attack
and died
in peace.
Papa’s leaving for her funeral in Baltimore.
I’m not going
because I need to keep Mama company.
Mama’s not going
because she has to stay with me.
And because when Papa married Mama,
his family disowned him.
Jitter Legs
Jitter legs is not a dance
or a disease
or the feeling you get when you walk too long in the snow.
Because Papa is still in Baltimore,
he can’t drive me to school today—
my first day of eighth grade.
But he and Mama had already decided
I’m old enough now to take the school bus.
And I have decided I’m old enough
to walk by myself
to the bus stop at the end of the road.
Timothy had said that on our first day of school
he’d meet me down the street from Mr. Dell’s.
But he isn’t here,
so I keep walking
and tell myself, “Everything will be okay.
It’s only school,
this year I’m one of the big kids,
and I’m not new.
Timothy is not at the bus stop,
and neither is the bus.
A few cars, a motorcycle, and
a truck carrying chickens whiz by me
on the road into town.
The little fear comes back, inching
from my chest to my arms
and legs, up to my head.
It’s hard to breathe.
Who will my teachers be?
Will the kids act differently this year
around me, toward me?
Will I make more friends?
Will Timothy come on time?
I can’t just stand here and wait,
so I walk in a circle, taking big steps
like the astronauts on the moon.
They must have been more afraid
than I am now, but they
walked around the moon anyway,
and did what they had to do.
Finally, Timothy comes down the hill.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, and hands me a Pop-Tart
that’s still warm.
I stop walking, relieved to see him, and take a bite.
Then the bus rolls down the road
and thuds to a stop ri
ght in front of us.
The door folds open.
Timothy waits behind me.
Jitter legs
is standing at the bus stop,
scared that eighth grade will be just like seventh,
but knowing you have to get on the bus
and do what you have to do.
One Small Step
Loneliness is
Watching your sea-blue home floating in the blackness
hundreds of thousands of miles away.
Leaving your cousins
to live where no one speaks your language.
Being abandoned by your family,
then visiting your favorite sister after she has died.
Waiting at the bus stop by yourself
and feeling like it’s last year all over again.
Fear is
Standing on the ladder of Eagle
before taking one small step—
one giant leap—
into the ancient dust.
Lining up on a gangplank in Los Angeles
before taking your first step
into your new country, Amerika,
with your new husband,
knowing you can never go back home.
Gathering with thousands of other people
about to step together
to a song of freedom and equality for everyone,
no matter what it may cost.
Watching the bus door open
and reading WATCH YOUR STEP
as you lift your foot
on your first day of eighth grade.
But courage is
Taking that one small step
anyway.
Eighth Grade
The not-so-good things about eighth grade:
The bus route home takes so long that I almost get carsick
Miss Bonne said I’m flabby
There’s a lot more homework in eighth grade
No one looks like me, but a new boy comes close
Kids think I should have a crush on the new boy
Girls still can’t take shop
And the things that are pretty great:
I have Mrs. Stanton again for science
We’re studying the space program
I like cooking better than sewing
I eat lunch with Stacey and Timothy
Miss Bonne thinks I should try out for volleyball
Full Cicada Moon Page 10
