“Yeah, no calling her a jerk or creepy or telling her off.”
I flip my hair back over my shoulder. “I only do that to jerks and creeps.”
“I know.” He says it without irony. “I was kidding. No, there's nothing really to do or not to do. If she makes you uncomfortable, let me know. She might want to touch your face. She does that a lot to people.”
“Okay.”
“But she's never violent or anything. Most mentally ill people aren't.”
“And there will be other people there, right? With different things wrong?”
“I'm thinking I'll just take my mom out. Go somewhere and get dinner.”
“You can do that?”
“Yeah. If you're a relative.”
“Okay.” This whole outing isn't quite as daunting as it seemed at the outset. “So, does anyone at church help you with this at all? I mean, do they even offer any kind of services or anything like that?”
“I don't know. I don't ask. I'm not ready for that. Last thing I want is to get my mom involved and then decide I don't want to join.”
“Oh, yeah. That's smart.”
“Thank you, by the way,” says Alex.
“For?”
He laughs. “For? Coming. Helping me.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Your mom gonna worry about you if we get back kind of late?”
“Uh, you ever see my mom worry about me?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“No. She doesn't even care if she hears me sneaking back into the house.” I glance at my phone.
“Time to call your brother?”
“No, not until I get there, so if you kill me now, you have about an hour before he calls the police.”
“I really won't hurt you. I wouldn't, okay? Ever.”
“But you think he should worry?”
“If I had a sister as cute as you, I'd probably sneak a GPS tracker into her purse.”
Cute? Alex called me cute? To my face? I don't know how to respond.
But he doesn't seem to care, just keeps driving as if it's nothing, and after a moment, I realize that maybe it is.
I wake up to the sound of Alex pulling the parking brake and wonder when it was I drifted off. It must've been a while ago because my legs and back are cramped from me being curled up. I unbend slowly, wincing at the muscle twinges as I extend first one leg, then the other. We're in a parking lot of a large, concrete building that looks more like a prison than a hospital. There's even a fence with razorwire. We're inland now; I can't tell how far, but there's no hint of beach or bluffs in any direction, just forest. My back pops as I sit up straight.
“Call your brother,” says Alex.
I tap out a text instead: I'm not dead. Call off the dogs.
Alex gets out his side and through his open door comes chill air that smells like pine sap. I zip up my coat before I get out my side and I wonder if I've got weird marks on my face from his upholstery. I can't feel any with a brush of my fingers over my skin. I'm sure it's very red, at least, and that my hair's flat on one side. As I follow him towards the building, I do my best to fluff it, running my fingers through the roots and teasing it back into shape.
The front door of this place leads into what looks like a hospital lobby. Alex goes straight to the desk and leans against it. When the woman talks to him, he answers her, so I hang back. He seems not to need any help from me.
After a brief exchange, the woman directs us to sit on a row of chairs, the generic industrial kind that are all welded together with shared armrests. Alex is fidgety, his fingers tapping together. I can almost see him mime the act of flipping his lighter.
But before we can even get comfortable, if it even is possible to get comfortable in chairs like that, the elevator door at the back of the lobby opens and out walks a guy in scrubs and Grace Katsumoto, who wears her usual skirt, sweater, and blouse. She looks so normal. I hadn't known what to expect. A hospital gown, maybe? A straightjacket? I figure this is a good time to keep my mouth shut and my ears open.
She looks at me with curiosity before giving Alex a warm hug. “Are we going home?” she asks.
“No. Just getting dinner.”
“When am I going home?”
“I'm working on that, okay Mom?”
Her face crumples with disappointment for a split second, and then she turns to me and looks me over, very much like Alex does. “You're from his school?”
“Yeah. Hi. My name's Madison.”
“Madison, right. I know you. Your mother works at the market.”
“She's a potter.” I'm not sure what she even means by “market”. Supermarket? Crafts stall? Probably not worth obsessing about.
She looks sidelong at Alex and says something I don't catch. It takes a few seconds for me to realize she's speaking in Japanese.
That I might have expected, but what I do not expect is for Alex to respond, also in Japanese. All these years I wondered if he talked at all, and he's actually bilingual? “'Kay, Mom, English,” he says. “Don't be rude. Come on. Let's go eat.”
“McDonald's?”
“There isn't a McDonald's in town, but it's okay. I got all the toys that you missed.”
“No McDonald's?” This seems to genuinely distress her.
Alex puts his hands on her shoulders and looks her straight in the eye. Whatever he says, he says in Japanese, but his tone is calm, soothing.
She listens, then nods. “No Burger King?”
“All they have is Subway.”
“Subway doesn't give toys.”
“I know, I know.” More Japanese. He puts his arm around her and guides her out the door. I follow and try not to feel like a third wheel. The two of them have their heads together as they cross the parking lot to his car, but at the sight of all the toys in the back seat she breaks free and presses her nose to the glass, chattering excitedly.
“Yeah,” Alex switches back to English, “I told you I got them all.”
I wonder where his mother keeps all these toys. Is there an entire room of their house filled to the ceiling, like what you see on documentaries about hoarding?
He opens the door to the back seat and she climbs in, picking up each toy in turn and sorting it by some system I can't grasp. Some go on the seat, some in one footwell, some in the other, and some get tossed up by the rear window.
“Here,” Alex gets my attention. He's holding open the passenger side door for me.
And here I am just staring at his mother. How rude. I duck in, my face flushed with heat.
What I expect to happen next is for Alex to drive us to a local fast food restaurant, or maybe a diner, but before I know it, we've pulled up to a restaurant that is much nicer than anywhere I've ever been. My mom and I don't do restaurants. Everything in Pelican Bluffs is way out of our budget. I've only ever been in one a few times in my life. Once for Kailie's eighth birthday party, which she had at the Montroses' grill, and another was for her thirteenth, which she had at a seafood place down the coast.
Grace seems critical of it, nattering away in an irritated tone of voice, and Alex replies patiently. “Sorry,” he says to me. “She's picky and this is the only sushi place for, like, fifteen miles.”
Sushi? I know exactly two things about sushi. One is that it's raw fish, but I couldn't care less about that. The other is that it's outrageously expensive. Calm, I tell myself. I've got my credit card. I can pay my share. We'll figure it out. Just don't make the situation awkward.
We all get out and I follow Alex and his mother into a place that looks like it's straight out of a design magazine. The furniture is all light wood with delicate, clean lines and each table is made out of granite, or something that looks an awful lot like it. The sort of surface I only see in the homes of people who live bluffside. A smiling waiter greets us and smiles even wider when Grace answers him in Japanese. The two carry on a conversation as he takes us to a table and we all sit down.
Keep your face blank, I te
ll myself, though I know I must look like I'm being tortured. I'm seated next to Grace. Alex is across from her, and the table settings have only chopsticks and little cups for tea, the kind that don't have handles. I have a hard enough time with a knife and fork when I'm nervous. I've never even held chopsticks before.
The waiter plops down menus in front of us, and I'm relieved to see they're in English, but that relief is short lived when I see the prices. The appetizers begin at eighteen dollars. Even worse, Alex notices my expression.
“Raw fish not your thing?”
“No, no, that's... no. It's fine.”
“You sure? There's other stuff.” He starts listing things that could be food items, or could be building materials for all I know. It's all too foreign.
And I know I'm making the situation worse by being uptight. Lying won't help me here, not even white lies. I can't pull them off right now. “I... I didn't mean to crash a really nice meal with your mom,” I say, fully aware that Grace is sitting right next to me and understands every word. “I just thought... I don't know what I thought.”
Grace reaches over and pats my shoulder. “You're a nice girl. Very well brought up. So polite.” She snatches my menu. “We will order. You just try things. It's okay if you don't like it. Have you ever had Japanese food before?”
I shake my head. “Nooo. I'm not very cultured like that.”
“Cultured? See, such a nice girl. Not like one of these people who turns up their nose. Alex, where did you find this nice girl?”
“She found me, Mom. And I have no idea why she's hanging around.”
“No, you don't say that about yourself.”
“Mom, I'm going to court on Tuesday for attacking a police officer. Nice girls aren't usually into guys like that.”
I look at Grace, shrug, and say. “Guess I'm not a nice girl, then.”
She cracks up and pats my shoulder. “You are a very nice girl. Maybe you can help keep him out of trouble. Do you go to his church?”
I shake my head.
“Seem to be nice people at his church.” She turns her attention back to her menu and resumes speaking Japanese. She and Alex argue over items, pointing at various places on the page, and then when the waiter comes back, they talk to him long enough that I'm sure they are not ordering off the menu, but rather making it up and seeing what they can get. The only words I understand are at the end, when Alex says, “and tea. You want tea, Madison?”
I frown at the teacup. “I'm afraid I'll drop this.”
“No, you hold it like this.” Grace takes my hand and shows me how to pinch it between my thumb and index finger, holding only the rim and the bottom. “Then it doesn't burn you.”
“Tea for these two and ice water,” says Alex.
The waiter bows and leaves.
“Is now a bad time to say I don't know how to use chopsticks?”
“We don’t use chopsticks for sushi,” says Grace. “We eat it with our hands. Much easier.”
The waiter deposits a bowl of what look like unshelled peas on the table. Alex shows me how to split each pod open and pop the beans into my mouth. “Edamame,” he says. “Soybeans.”
They taste pretty nice, actually.
What comes next is miso soup, which Grace doesn't approve of. “They made the water too hot.”
“It's fine, Mom.”
Even though I see them both do it, I hesitate before picking up the bowl and drinking out of it. This just feels wrong, but there are no spoons. It's very salty, almost like what I imagine hot seawater would taste like.
“His is better,” she tells me. “He's a very good cook.”
Alex knows how to cook?
He just smirks, though. “If I could, Mom, I'd bring you miso soup every day.”
“When can I come home?”
He looks down into his bowl. “I don't know. Like I said, I'm working on it.”
But Grace is agitated now and Alex switches back to Japanese, reaching across the table to hold her hands and look her right in the eye as he talks. After a few minutes, Grace slouches in her seat and appears resigned to the situation.
More food arrives and I just try whatever they put in front of me. Despite what Grace said, she and Alex do use their chopsticks to do things like mix wasabe with the soy sauce and to grab things off plates, but they switch to using their hands to eat the sushi itself, so I don't feel too awkward. It's actually pretty good and I manage not to drop anything on the floor or down my front. The seaweed has a papery texture and a salty taste, while the fish tastes not too different from cooked fish. What amazes me is the craftsmanship that's gone into each item. It's obvious why it costs as much as it does.
Every piece I eat wins me a broad grin from Alex's mother, as if this meal is some sort of test and I'm passing with flying colors. She leans in close and tells me, “You are a very nice girl. Why are you with my son, hmm? You know he's trouble, right?”
“I heard that, Mom.”
“He's been nice to me,” I say.
She gives him a longsuffering look and shakes her head before plucking more sushi rolls off the serving plate with her chopsticks and dropping them on mine. It feels a little strange to drink hot tea with a meal, and I notice Alex doesn't. He just drinks water.
We make it ten minutes before Grace begins to argue with someone who isn't there. It's in Japanese, so I don't know what it's about. This, I finally feel prepared for. This is one of the symptoms Alex mentioned.
He watches her, listening, and I can tell he's trying to decide whether to intervene or let it go on. I just keep eating until she turns, grabs my arm, and snaps something at me.
Calm, I think. She doesn't see me right now. She sees someone or something else. I take her hand in mine and hold it a minute. She blinks, focuses on me, and reaches out to touch my face. I sit still and let her. I wonder if feeling my face helps her know what's real and what's an illusion. Does her condition make things feel different too? She blinks a few times, then pats my cheek as if nothing's happened and resumes eating.
I follow her cue, though I can feel Alex's gaze on me. When I look up at him, I can't quite read his expression. He looks away after a second.
The next time she starts to talk to someone who isn't there, I don't even look up.
Forty minutes later, the waiter comes to clear the plates and, miraculously, I don't feel like a complete idiot. I've survived, even held my own in the conversation. Alex pays the bill, though, and just waves me off when I try to contribute. His mother pats my arm and tells me again what a nice girl I am.
And then it's time to take Grace back. I can tell that she knows it. Alex puts his arm around her on the walk back to the car and the two of them talk. I sit in the back seat this time and do my best to stay unobtrusive, but as we head closer to the mental facility, Grace starts to get agitated. “I want to go home.”
“I know, Mom. But it'll be okay. We're going to get you moved soon.”
“Home?”
“I don't know.”
“Why can't I go home?”
“I'm working on it, okay?”
Once we're within sight of the hospital, she breaks down in tears.
I make myself as small as possible, willing the two of them not to notice me as Alex tries to soothe her. In the walk across the parking lot to the front door, I hang back several paces while he stays with her, again, with an arm around her shoulders. I can't hear what they say, but I get the gist. Grace is scared and homesick and doesn't want him to leave. My heart breaks for her.
When we step inside, everything gets worse. The receptionist summons two guys in scrubs who each grab her by the arm. She lets out an ear piercing shriek.
“Let her go,” says Alex. “Don't grab.”
But the two ignore him and one puts her in a kind of headlock. She sobs and screams and struggles and I can tell that she's not just seeing the guys in scrubs anymore. She feels trapped and surrounded by who knows what. Of course she's terrified.
&
nbsp; “Stop it!” shouts Alex.
One of the guys blocks him.
I duck past both of them and get in front of Grace. “Let her go,” I say.
“We're just calming her down,” says the hospital worker.
“Grace,” I say. I put my hand over hers. “It's okay. Really.” Her eyes focus on me for a second, and then the worker hauls her away towards the elevator. She whimpers, then goes limp and sobs. I've never seen anyone treated that way. She's a grown woman, not a bratty child.
“You stay where you are, or I'm calling security,” the other man in scrubs says to Alex. I turn and see him standing, helpless, his hands balled into fists and his jaw working with anger as he stares after his mother. The receptionist babbles some inanity about how glad she is that Grace is back, but Alex doesn't even acknowledge it. He turns on his heel and storms out.
“Hey!” the hospital worker yells after him. “You're welcome. We're only keeping your mother safe.”
I want to say, “Is that what you call it?” but I bite back the words. Mouthing off will probably just make the situation worse. I dart through the sliding doors after Alex and step outside just in time to see him kick the wall, hard enough to break his foot, I'm sure, but he doesn't even wince.
I watch him struggle for control, then turn around and slide down to sit on the pavement, his head between his knees. The sun is setting, so the whole parking lot is bathed in rich, gold light, which feels all wrong right now. This is a bleak moment.
I go sit next to him.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“You've got nothing to apologize for.”
“You helped, a lot.”
“I tried to help, but I'm not sure it did any good.”
“It did.” He runs his fingers through his hair, flipping it back from his face. “She didn't try to give me her watch at least.”
“Her watch?”
“It's a suicide thing. People give away important stuff when they don't want to live anymore. I hate this.” He exhales what sounds an awful lot like a sob, then folds his arms over his face and starts to cry. Not something I ever thought I'd see tough, mean Alex Katsumoto do.
Shattered Castles 1 : Castles on the Sand Page 14
