Lavender and Parsley

by Lisa K Nakamura

  “She’s wonderful,” he says as he scritches her fluffy ears. “Why is she named Dido?” Dido leans her fuzzy yellow body into him in response.

  I tell him how I adopted Dido four summers ago. “My dad found a litter of puppies abandoned by the restaurant dumpster. He thought they were a mix of Australian Shepherd, Golden Retriever and Basset Hound. He found homes for all of them except for the runt, Dido. She earned her name when she ate a whole sheet pan of breakfast sausages along with three loaves of challah Dad had prepared for Sunday brunch. Dad started calling her “Dido the Queen of Carnage” after that incident.

  “Mom was not happy with Dido’s antics. When I accepted the chef’s job in San Francisco, she threatened to take Dido to the pound unless I adopted her and took her with me. Dido has been the trusty canine Robin to my Batwoman ever since.”

  Mr. Darcy puts his hand under Dido’s chin, and whispers to her, “It is okay. Every dog should eat some sausage and challah sometime. You are a good girl.”

  Dido sneezes once, and then rolls over on her back, asking for a belly rub, her tail thunking madly on the floor.

  Mr. Darcy, a friend to animals! I never would have believed it! My opinion of his character goes up several notches tonight.

  I grab my coat, and we head out the door. I’m really touched he put so much thought into choosing those flowers. He may be an uptight dude, but he definitely is thoughtful and kind.

  Whoa, did I just think that about stern Mr. Darcy? I giggle internally at the picture of him showing up at my door, a bunch of kale in his hands. When I share that thought with him, he chuckles and asks me if I prefer lacinato or curly kale.

  When we arrive at the temple, I usher Mr. Darcy downstairs into the huge kitchen. His jaw drops when he sees fifty rice cookers, all hissing steam and filling the air with the comforting smell of cooking gohan, rice. There’s the tang of rice vinegar in the air mingling with the salty smells of seafood and nori, seaweed. At a large table, thirty or so o-bachans, grandmothers, roll sushi non-stop.

  “It’s always an odd number of ingredients in the filling. Even numbers are bad luck, especially four,” I tell him.

  Mr. Darcy nods gravely. I invite him to step closer to see better what the ladies are doing, how they are rolling sushi.

  “This always brings me back to my Bachan’s kitchen, where she would make things out of thin air. She never used recipes. It’s been a project of mine, to recreate her food, and there are days when I get really close to my taste memories of her cooking. She was such a great cook, plus a hilariously funny woman. Dad says I’m so much like her. I really miss her. When I’m trying to recreate her food, I hear her laughing, feel her joy.”

  “She sounds lovely,” Mr. Darcy comments. “You must have been close to her.”

  “I was. I adored her. When I was a kid, Bachan would take the kitchen scraps and feed the fish in the tide pool near our farm. They would see her shadow and start swarming towards her. Along with feeding the fish, she would toss pieces of chicken and fish trimmings up into the air for the bald eagles to catch mid-flight. I loved watching this. ”

  Mr. Darcy smiles as I share my anecdote.

  “You are very fortunate to have such wonderful recollections of your grandmother. I wish I had known my grandparents, but they were always too reserved. They believed children should be seen, not heard.”

  “Everyone tells me I’m just like Bachan. I hope so! I would love to have even half of her cooking skills. I know I have her sense of humor and adventure!”

  Mr. Darcy smiles at me, then carefully steps closer to the table to watch what is happening. At one end of the table, Aunty Madeline is gently chiding Uncle Eddie on the proper way to roll makizushi. He’s been given the job of cutting each roll into eight even pieces with Aunty Madeline carefully inspecting his work. She points out some pieces are infinitesimally bigger than others. He laughs, and then gives her a quick hug.

  When he sees us, he beckons us over. Before Mr. Darcy can say anything, Uncle Eddie hands him a slice of maki. Mr. Darcy pops the whole thing into his mouth like a pro and chews thoughtfully. I can see him thinking, analyzing each ingredient separately, and then together again as a whole. He smiles and tells Aunty Madeline he understands where Uncle Eddie learned his sushi prowess, that he married it. Aunty Madeline giggles and reaches over to pat my arms. “You have a wise man there, Lizzy.” she pronounces.

  I protest that Mr. Darcy is not my man, but I’m talking to the air. Aunty Madeline has already turned back to her work, chuckling at me. Uncle Eddie busies himself with packing up the maki slices for sale. I peek up at Mr. Darcy, and he grins down at me. Mr. Darcy, grinning, at me! This is just too much.

  We head out to the playground behind the temple and the parking lot, which have become a sea of tents and stands. Fairy lights hang everywhere making the festival glow. Hundreds of people are milling about, buying food and trying their hand at carnival games.

  One attraction is the mochitsuke, rice cake making, stand, where couples are given instructions, and then encouraged to test their harmony by pounding mochi together. Uncle Eddie insists we try. I grab the kine, the pestle, and Mr. Darcy prepares to turn the rice in the usu, the mortar. Surprisingly, I don’t maim him with the wooden pestle, and he manages to keep the rice turned nicely on cue. We work in a smooth rhythm with each other, and before we can protest, Uncle Eddie has grabbed our hands, lifting them over his head, Rocky-style. In a loud voice aimed at the crowd, he pronounces us the perfect mochi-making couple.

  So much for me keeping a low profile, trying to maintain a distant platonic relationship with Mr. Darcy. It seems my family has other plans for me. Why, oh, why, does my family have to behave in such an embarrassing manner when I’m around this man?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Darcy

  Damsel in Distress

  I look down at Elizabeth, seeing she’s blushing intensely. I squeeze her hand, and whisper, “Bear up, my mochi-making queen. You have vanquished the competition, and I am your servant.”

  She is about to answer when a shriek cuts the air. “Lizzy!”

  It’s Jane, and she’s rushing towards her sister.

  “Lizzy, come! Now!”

  Elizabeth rushes off with her sister, pulling me along with her. I think she’s forgotten we are holding hands. People part for us, and everything is a blur as we dash back to the kitchen. There, a crowd of women is gathered, and as Jane and Elizabeth approach, they make way. Lying stretched out and unconscious on the floor is Mrs. Murasaki.

  “Lydia’s run off,” Jane tells us. “The high school principal, Mrs. Kowalski, called and told Mom that Lydia hasn’t been in class for the past two days. One of Lydia’s friends finally admitted to Mrs. Kowalski they’ve been snorting coke in the bathroom! This weekend there’s a party at the vacation home of one of the parents’ over on the beach. There’s supposed to be heroin and heavier stuff there. Lydia went to it!

  “When Mom got the phone call, she totally freaked out and collapsed! I think it was too much for her nerves. I don’t know where Lydia is now, and I don’t know what’s happening to Mom!”

  Uncle Eddie reassures us by saying he’s called 911 for help. All we can do is wait.

  I hear a distant siren getting louder. The paramedics arrive, and Elizabeth and Jane move to let them attend to Mrs. Murasaki. Their mother is quickly lifted onto a gurney, and within a few minutes, she is on her way to the emergency room of a nearby hospital. Jane goes along to ride in the ambulance with her.

  I grab Elizabeth, leading her to my car. I drive to the hospital, trying as best as I can to keep up with the ambulance. When I pull up in front of the emergency wing, Elizabeth vaults out of the car and runs inside. Jane meets her in the waiting room. They are huddled, deep in discussion, when I join them.

  Uncle Eddie and Aunty Madeline arrive a bit later and sit with their nieces. I text Charles and inform him about what has happened. We settle quietly into the waiting room, whispering toget
her. Loud voices might burst the quiet balloon Mrs. Murasaki is floating in, causing her to tumble towards her grave.

  Uncle Eddie has been texting Lydia every few hours. Auntie Madeline is calling all of her friends back on the coast to ask if Lydia is there. So far, there is no news about where Lydia might be.

  Charles rushes in, bringing a gust of cold night air. Jane and he become inseparable. He holds her close, smoothing her ebony hair. Elizabeth looks across at me, and I can see how frightened she is. But she acts bravely and murmurs to Jane, saying, “Everything will be okay.” I want to go to her, to cradle her in my arms, but something in her fierce look stops me. I see she is barely holding herself together, and that if I approach her, she will fall apart. She is trying to be courageous for her sister.

  Soon, the ER doctor enters the waiting room, and from his face, I can tell the news is bad. He ushers everyone into a private conference room. I hear him tell the Murasakis their mother has had a severe stroke and is now in a coma. He says that her prognosis is not good; there is almost zero percent chance Mrs. Murasaki will ever regain consciousness and survive. He cautions that if she miraculously does come out of her coma, she will need extensive 24-hour care to stay alive.

  Jane asks him if her mother is in pain. The doctor responds, saying at this point, she probably isn’t feeling anything at all. He adds gently, “We believe comatose patients can still hear up until the very end of their lives. So talk to her, let her know you’re here. Tell her about the little things and reassure her. This is the best medicine she can have right now.”

  Before he leaves, he warns us about what may be ahead, saying if she does not wake in a week, the family may have to make some hard decisions.

  Now, there is nothing to do but wait and pray. I don’t know what we are praying for; a miracle of a recovery or a easy passage into the next world. Elizabeth tells me all she wants is for her sister, Lydia, to return before her mother leaves them forever.

  The sisters take shifts, sitting on the folding chair in their mother’s room. They read to her from the latest Danielle Steele novel, adding juicy tidbits from the Hollywood Reporter. Jane gives her mom daily reports about their dad, assuring her he is being well-cared for. Elizabeth has set up a small Bluetooth speaker to softly play Mozart and Vivaldi in the background.

  Charles and I pace incessantly, marking invisible tracks on the pale yellow linoleum floor. When Jane and Elizabeth come out to take breaks, we do our best to persuade them to eat and rest, with middling success.

  Three days pass since Karen Murasaki slipped into a coma. Her husband remains blissfully unaware of what is happening to his wife. Jane and Elizabeth have decided he would not understand, making it more harmful than helpful to tell him.

  Finally, Lydia texts Jane telling her sister that her friends have abandoned her at the Safeway grocery store in Federal Way south of Seattle. She pleads for Uncle Eddie to come pick her up, saying she has no money or friends to help her get home.

  Uncle Eddies leaves immediately, taking Auntie Madeline with him for moral support, as well as to manage Lydia. They hurry off, with Auntie Madeline muttering something about eternal grounding and military boarding school for Lydia. She spews an invective in Japanese, making Jane and Elizabeth flinch when they hear it.

  I push Elizabeth gently into a chair in the waiting room. “You and Jane need to eat. Now, tell me, what can I get for you?”

  “Would you go to McDonald’s and find us breakfast?” she asks.

  When I raise my eyebrows at her request, she explains. “For years, after the summer season, we would celebrate by having Sunday breakfast together at McDonald’s. Mom refused to cook, and Dad loved the hash browns there. It was the perfect solution.

  “The Golden Arches became a touchstone for us. It meant meals together again as a family. It was our favorite restaurant. I want to share one more breakfast with Mom, even if she can’t eat with us.”

  I smile at her explanation, understanding her need for something familiar in this stressful time. I head to the McDonald’s around the corner and return with four bags filled with hash browns and Egg McMuffins. Mrs. Murasaki shifts her head slightly when the smell of sausages fills the hospital room but she doesn’t wake.

  We dutifully chew our breakfasts, although none of us are eating with zeal. The sausage feels like sawdust in my mouth, while the grease from the hash browns sits heavily in my stomach. I glance at Elizabeth and see she is struggling to swallow her food, barely able to keep from crying. I know how hard she is fighting despair and to be strong; I did the same for Emily when our father died.

  It’s seven in the evening when Uncle Eddie hurries in, dragging Lydia behind him. He pushes her towards her mother prone on the bed, telling her to beg for forgiveness. Lydia grasps her mother’s hand, and says, “I never meant to hurt anyone. I thought the party and drugs were just a kick. I didn’t think you would worry. Please, please, wake up, Mom. I’ll never do something like this again!

  Elizabeth takes hold of her mother’s other hand, and strokes it. Speaking softly, she says, “Mom, Lydia is home safe. She’s fine. It’s okay for you to go now, if you want to. We’ll take care of Daddy until it’s time for him to join you.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widen as Mrs. Murasaki squeezes both her daughters’ hands slightly. Then, the monitors give off a flat ugly beep and the squiggly lines stop jumping up and down on the screen. She is gone from this life, safe in the knowledge her youngest daughter has been restored to her.

  The sisters all burst into tears. One by one, quietly sobbing, they come closer to the bed to say goodbye to their mother. Uncle Eddie and Aunty Madeline gather their three nieces, telling them they will take them home.

  We file out of the hospital, filled with sadness. Oddly, on this winter day in Seattle, there is no rain to weep with us. Lydia and Jane climb into Uncle Eddie’s SUV. Elizabeth refuses, telling them all that right now, she cannot be near Lydia because she is so furious and she needs time to calm down.

  Elizabeth walks to my car and waits for me. She gets in silently as I hold the door open for her. I drive her back to her apartment, asking her as we drive, “When will you tell your father what has happened and his wife is gone?”

  “Tomorrow. It can wait until tomorrow. He usually has lucid moments around ten in the morning. I will tell him then.”

  When we arrive home, I take her keys from her. I open the front door, and then walk her to her bedroom. As I turn to go, she reaches out to me and I finally enfold her in my arms. She cries silently against my chest.

  “Would you like me to stay?”

  When she nods, I pick her up and gently place her on her bed. I remove her shoes, and then tuck her under the bed covers. I kick off my shoes and carefully lie down besides her. She rolls towards me, and I pull her into my arms, ready to let her cry for as long as she needs to.

  “I never ever thanked Mom for giving me her stubborn temper, to let her know I appreciated everything she did for me. She died thinking I didn’t love her. I was always so busy trying to prove to her how smart I was, how I didn’t need her. We were so opposite, and yet, so much alike. Maybe that’s why we argued so much.

  “She was always so superstitious. I was logical and determined to expose the ludicrousness of her beliefs. I couldn’t just let her have her peace. One time, she warned Jane and me about swimming in the ocean in August, when it’s O-bon season. She tried to frighten us by telling us that the obake, ghosts, would rise out of the ocean to drown us. I should have just listened to her and let it go. Instead, I told her that more people drowning in August has nothing to do with obake claiming them. It’s just that there are more people swimming then, to escape the heat, so the percentage for drowning casualties goes up. She was so mad that she could no longer scare me into submission.

  “She hated that I had a mind of my own, and thought I was too much like my dad. But really, I got my stubbornness from her.

  “Do you think she’s forgiven me and is watch
ing over me now?” she asks.

  “I do, Elizabeth, I really do.”

  “How do you know that?”

  ”Because, when my mother died, I would feel her spirit whenever I was scared or worried. After my father died, on really quiet nights, I would catch his shadow and my mother’s in corners of my rooms. When I turned to look, they would disappear. Sometimes, though I could hear their voices, telling me they loved me and missed me.

  “I saw her once, in the middle of the day in New York, just before I moved here. I had just asked her for help. I recognized her eyes. Like her, your mother is also here, and she’s guarding you. She, and your Bachan. They will always be here.”

  “What was your mom like, Mr. Darcy?”

  “She was beautiful. I know, all sons are supposed to say their mothers are beautiful. But it was more than her physical grace, you know? She was kind, so very kind. I remember one August day, she and I walked down the trail to the farmers’ market a couple of miles away from our house. Once we arrived, she bought a big bunch of golden sunflowers.

  “On our way back, we passed an elderly woman sitting alone on a bench alongside the trail. She spoke and told my mother how lovely the sunflowers were. Without hesitation, my mother pulled a sunflower from her bouquet and gave it to the woman. We walked away quickly before the woman could do anything more than say thank-you.

  “I asked my mother why she did it. She told me that it’s important in life to do kind things for people who might never be able to return the gesture. It was not about money or how much something cost. She said, ‘You do kind things for others because your soul needs to feel that love, Peter. You do it, because you need to be kind for yourself.’

  “I remember her words clearly. They stick with me because my line of work is hard. It’s not easy to write negative reviews about someone’s livelihood and dream. I get that. But I do try to be compassionate in other ways, when no one is looking. Anne William Darcy has asked that of me; I try very hard not to disappoint her.