I Love You So Mochi

by Sarah Kuhn

  “What?!”

  “Give Akira your phone number.”

  My eyes fly open and I can’t stop myself from punching him on the arm.

  “What?!?” I explode. “I’m pretty sure the tanuki did not say that.”

  “Okay, maybe not,” Akira says. “But it is still a good idea, ne?”

  He gives me a full-on smile, his dimple firing on all cylinders.

  I get that feeling again, that weird little itch—that good itch. And I can’t help but smile back.

  I wish I could talk to my friends.

  That tiny thought bursts the fizzy, itchy bubble I’m in after parting ways with Akira. I ended up giving him my phone number and I can’t tell if I really hope he’ll text or I really hope he won’t. I should be doing my usual thing, retreating into whatever fantasy I can make up about this boy with the perfect dimple and the strangely endearing obsession with old medical textbooks. But instead, I find myself just wanting to talk to him again. I crave that little burst of pleasure I got when he touched my arm … and I’m also afraid to feel it ever again.

  Once again: None of this makes any sense.

  Atsuko would give me some no-nonsense advice that cuts right to the heart of the matter. And Bex would probably just start planning our wedding, which maybe wouldn’t exactly be helpful, but would at least make me laugh.

  But I of course can’t talk to them since our last interaction involved me hanging up on them in the midst of an argument that’s entirely my fault. I heave a big, dramatic sigh as I trudge up to my grandparents’ house.

  “Kimiko-chan?” my grandmother’s voice calls from the backyard. “Is that you?”

  “Um, yes!” I call back, jumping a little. Well, now I know where my mother inherited her terrifyingly preternatural sense of hearing. Mom has the uncanny ability to pick up when you’re passing by a room or shifting around in your seat or most especially when you’re doing something wrong—or even just thinking about it.

  I detour myself around to the back of my grandparents’ house, following the sound of my grandmother’s voice. I find her rooting around in her vegetable plot, her brow furrowed in ferocious concentration. I take a moment to admire her impressively giant sun hat. She doesn’t look up when I shuffle into view and I briefly wonder if I imagined her calling out to me.

  The backyard area of my grandparents’ place is sprawling yet contained—the vegetable plot boasts at least a dozen rows of plants, neatly lined up like little green soldiers. The far left corner of the garden has a sectioned-off spot for a flower bed, which has bloomed in pink and red and yellow. I’m struck by how no space is wasted, but it doesn’t look cluttered or messy. It looks like there’s a system—though possibly a system only my grandmother can decipher.

  Obaasan doesn’t appear to be trying to engage me in any further conversation. But maybe if I just give her a minute to warm up to me, we’ll be well on our way to bonding. I spy a small, rickety-looking wooden bench in the far left corner of the vegetable plot, so I shuffle my way over there, sit down, and take a moment to gaze out at the countryside. There are so many different shades of green, all juxtaposed against each other—it reminds me of how powerful a single color can be when you look at all its variations. In a way, every color has the potential to be its own little rainbow, and my fingers itch for my sketchbook, imagining how I’d bring that concept to life—I can see it as a sort of ombré effect, cascading over a full, flowing skirt. All of this green is dotted with the thatched roofs and gardens of other families who live in this little town. The peacefulness feels in direct opposition to the bustle of the market at Maruyama Park, and I allow it to soothe me for a moment.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I murmur, almost to myself.

  My grandmother turns and looks at me quizzically.

  “Everything about this area is so beautiful,” I say to her, feeling self-conscious underneath the weight of her piercing stare. “And your garden—wow. I love how many different things you’re able to grow. I’m bad at growing anything—I mean, I somehow managed to murder the supposedly indestructible algae plant I was supposed to be studying for Bio, but even I can see there’s a good variety of veggies going on here.”

  My cheeks heat as my babbling intensifies, but I can’t seem to stop chattering. My grandmother’s stony stare makes me feel like I have to keep talking until I get some kind of reaction out of her.

  “Anyway,” I say, forcing myself to wrap it up. “Your garden is really lovely.”

  “It is too small,” she says, waving a hand and going back to her vegetables. “We can only manage a few crops at a time.”

  “Oh, well, clearly you’ve made those thrive,” I say, struggling to find something that will net me even a modicum of approval. I feel like I’m grasping at random straws, desperate for something that will stick. “And, uh, I love your sun hat.”

  “Mmm, I need to replace it,” she says, without turning around. “It is getting old—not protecting my eyes as it used to.”

  I’m pretty much striking out in every possible way here. I have the sudden wild urge to try asking her about Akira and all my weird, confusing feelings. But if I can’t even make headway talking about her garden, I don’t know why I think gossiping with her about boys is an option.

  “Do you need any help?” I try instead. “With the gardening?”

  “Didn’t you just say you are bad at growing things?” she responds.

  Good point. Funny how I came here to escape my mother’s all-consuming disappointment, only to have it replaced with this thread of disapproval that feels just as potent. But what could I have possibly done to disappoint my grandmother? I’ve barely been here twenty-four hours.

  Once again: I really wish I could talk to my friends.

  “See you at dinner?” I say to my grandmother as I stand, gathering my things. She gives a sort of grunt in response, not looking up from her intense weeding.

  I shuffle into my grandparents’ house, shoving down another big, dramatic sigh. I don’t deserve a big, dramatic sigh. It is, after all, my own fault I have no one to talk to.

  “Kimiko-chan?” my grandfather says.

  I turn and see him sitting at the table in the middle of the living room, which is positioned by a big window that looks out into the garden.

  “Oh, hi, Ojiisan,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “Come, sit,” he says. “We will have dinner soon.”

  I cross the room and settle on a tatami mat at the table. The main living room in my grandparents’ place is an open space sectioned off by shoji screens, giving it a soft, relaxing vibe.

  Grandpa has a bunch of little plastic pieces of something spread out on the tabletop—there appear to be a few wheels? A gear or two?

  “I like building the model trains,” Grandpa says, anticipating my question. “But we don’t have space to display a big collection, ne? So I take them apart when I am done. And then go back to the beginning and build them all over again.” He cackles to himself, like that’s a pretty funny joke.

  I can’t help but smile. “You don’t get bored?”

  “I get better,” he corrects, picking up a tiny wheel and rapping it against the table. “I’ve built this one three times and I get faster every time. Soon, I’ll be able to build it in five seconds.”

  “Amazing,” I say, my smile widening. My gaze wanders to the window and to my grandmother, who’s still digging through her garden with gusto. “Wow, Obaasan’s working hard out there.”

  “She can never do anything less,” my grandfather says with a chuckle. He picks up a piece of model train, snaps the wheel onto it, then scrutinizes his handiwork. “Did your mother ever tell you about how your grandmother and I ended up with this house?”

  “No,” I say. “She doesn’t, um, talk about you guys very much.”

  “Ah.” His smile is tinged with more than a little sadness. “I suppose this is understandable. Ano … let me share with you, then.” He begins clicking other pieces of his
train together—the sound is oddly meditative. “Your obaasan was the younger of two children—her older brother was supposed to inherit this house and the family farm that came with it. But he never showed interest. He was always going off and doing other things, trying to find something that would make him money very fast. Eventually he lost contact with the family entirely. Your obaasan, on the other hand, was always here. She loved the land, growing things. She stood up to her father—who had very traditional ideas about things—and made a case for taking over the farm herself. He wanted to try everything he could to track down her brother instead. But …” My grandfather smiles to himself as he painstakingly fits the tiny pieces of the train together. “… she was very persistent. As she usually is. She fought to make this place her home.”

  So much pure love shines through in his every word, my chest warms.

  “And you moved in here when you got married?” I say.

  “Hai, hai,” he says, his smile widening. “But I did not work on the farm. I already had a job I loved, doing maintenance for Japan Railways—the Japanese railroad.”

  “That’s where you developed your train fandom, isn’t it?” I exclaim, feeling an unexpected surge of delight at uncovering this factoid.

  “Sou da ne,” he agrees. “I have always been fascinated by all things relating to the railroad. Even when I was a boy. I believe your obaasan and I were attracted to each other because we both had very distinctive passions in life.”

  “So what happened to the farm?” I say, gesturing out the window. “Because Mom did mention you guys had a farm, and the crops Obaasan still takes care of out there are super impressive, but I always imagined it being bigger.”

  “It used to be,” my grandfather says. “We ended up selling most of the surrounding land and keeping what your grandmother could maintain. As we got older and did not have any, hmm, eto …” He trails off for a moment, frowning at the half-assembled train in his hand. “Well, having a bigger farm made less sense. The money from selling the land helped us continue to live here, near Kyoto. And to be comfortable. Comfortable enough to send our granddaughter a plane ticket, for instance.”

  He gives me a slight smile and I smile back—but I can sense some of the things he’s leaving unsaid. Not only were he and Obaasan getting older, they must have eventually accepted they didn’t have any family to pass the house down to. They probably always expected Mom to take over the farm. And then she went in a totally different direction.

  A tangled mess of emotions snarls through my chest. That familiar sadness that filled my heart last night, when I discovered Meiko. A melancholy over bonds so broken, they can never be mended. But weirdly, little sparks of joy and curiosity are part of that big tangle, too. Hearing about my grandparents and all the colorful details of their past gives me a bit of that strangely pleasant itch I felt with Akira. I’m dying to hear more and I’m also afraid to hear more, because getting more of my family story disrupts everything I’ve always known. There’s a void in my understanding of my own history—a void I didn’t fully realize existed until this moment, sitting here and picturing Mom’s life before she came to the States. The life she barely ever talks about.

  “Kimiko-chan, you should not be afraid to speak about your mother around us,” my grandfather says, as if reading my thoughts. “I know your grandmother can seem … hmm, I’m not sure what the word is, eto … like a wall? But I believe she really does want to know about how your mother is doing.”

  “Really?” I say, my voice tiny. “I don’t want to upset her. I remember the times when she and Mom have tried to talk on the phone. Well, mostly I just remember a lot of yelling from my side.”

  “Sou, sou,” my grandfather says, a ghost of a smile passing over his lips. “That is just … how they are with each other. I do not think it would be as bad if they talked to each other more often. Or talked to each other at all—it has been a while. But it’s hard for both of them to let go of things that have been said in the past.”

  “What about you?” I say, fiddling with a tiny plastic gear thingy. “You don’t seem to be as … upset. About Mom. I mean, you even asked me about her last night.”

  I bite my lip, hoping I haven’t overstepped. But my ojiisan just smiles again. “I wrote your mother a number of letters over the years. I never sent any of them. But they helped me realize I was angry with her for not following a path I had laid out for her. Her own path was meant to be different, ne?”

  “You never sent them?” I say, stuck on this tidbit. “But why?”

  “Your grandmother, ah, communicated enough anger for both of us,” he says, clicking more pieces of his model train together. “I did not need to add on top of it. The act of writing the letters was clarifying for me—that was enough.”

  “Huh,” I say, turning this over in my mind.

  Grandpa snaps the last piece of the model train in place and hands it to me. “There,” he says. “You see? I put this one together faster than I ever have. You can keep if you like.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “But don’t you want to take it apart again?”

  “I do not think so,” he says, waving a hand. “It looks good the way it is.”

  I smile, studying the tiny gears and bits of plastic that make up this minuscule vehicle. “Can you excuse me for a moment, Ojiisan? There’s something I want to do before dinner.”

  It actually takes me until after dinner to work up the nerve, but I finally do. My heart hammers in my chest as I type the email address for Atsuko’s advice column, Ask Atsuko, into the appropriate field. Unlike my ojiisan, I am going to send this letter, silly as it may be.

  I start with an apology and explain why I chickened out and didn’t tell my friends anything before I left. I try to convey how overwhelmed I was—how overwhelmed I still am. I mention that I’ve met a boy who I really want to talk to more and am also scared to talk to more. I ask if the brilliant, insightful, totally famous Ask Atsuko has any advice on that front? Then I close by saying that even if she doesn’t have any advice … well, I’d just really like to talk to her. To apologize face-to-face. I ask her to please show this letter to Bex, too. Then I hit “send.”

  Five minutes later, my phone buzzes.

  Skype again, but this time I hit “answer” with gusto. And, you know, on purpose.

  “Kimi!” Atsuko shrieks. She and Bex are both onscreen and I nearly burst into tears.

  “Wait!” I yelp. “Isn’t it obscenely early over there?”

  “It is!” Bex exclaims. “But we’re up early for our big Temescal Canyon hike.”

  “Yes, I don’t think I saw the part about ‘obscenely early’ on the schedule spreadsheet,” Atsuko says, giving Bex a vaguely accusatory look. “Anyway, we got your email and before we set off to conquer this hiking trail like the bold adventurers we are, we need to hear everything about this boy.”

  “But I need to apologize first!” I insist. “I’m so, so sorry. I love you guys so much and I’m sorry I hurt you and flaked out on all our plans, I just don’t know what I’m doing right now—”

  “Kimi, it’s fine,” Atsuko says with a hand-wave. “Asian Mom Math stipulates that the fallout from any Asian Mom Fight is terrible and all-consuming and may temporarily impair the judgment of the participants.”

  “We just wish you felt like you could talk to us about it,” Bex says. “We’re always here for you, you know?”

  “Same—and thank you,” I say, a warm glow blooming in my chest.

  “Now tell us about the boy,” Atsuko demands.

  “Tell us everything!” Bex exclaims.

  “His name is Akira,” I say. “He has a cute dimple and he wants to be a doctor—like, actually wants to be one, no parental pressure required—and when I first saw him, he was dressed as a giant piece of mochi.”

  “Whoa,” Atsuko says, holding up a hand. “Please go back to the very beginning and don’t leave out a single detail. Let’s start with the mochi.”

  So I do.
I tell them the whole story of our afternoon, from mochi to tanuki.

  “That’s so cute!” Bex screams when I’m done, clapping a hand to her chest and pretending to swoon.

  Atsuko casts a sidelong glance at her, then refocuses on me, her eyes shrewd. “So what happens next?” she says. Her tone is low and measured and doesn’t give away even a scrap of what she’s thinking, which is maddening.

  “I don’t know,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I mean, part of me—like eighty percent—wants to keep this in fantasyland and never talk to him again rather than risk …” I trail off, gnawing at my lower lip.

  “Risk what?” Atsuko prods.

  “Risk actually liking him,” I admit. “Because that’s what will happen if we hang out again, I’m pretty sure. But then I’ll have to leave in two weeks and who knows when I’m coming back here, maybe never, so what’s the point? It’s like dooming a relationship to fail before it even starts. And anyway, I shouldn’t be letting myself get distracted from the purpose of my visit, which is to figure out my future and stuff now that I’ve totally tanked the whole important Asian American artist thing.”

  “Oh, Kimi.” Atsuko shakes her head, a hint of amusement creeping into her expression. “First of all, I’m going to tell you something, and it will likely come as a big shock—but I need you to listen up.” She leans in close, her face deathly serious, and sounds out each word. “You. Already. Like. Him.”

  “What!” I yelp. “I do not. I barely know him! I—”

  “You’ve already internalized all kinds of tiny observational details about him,” Atsuko says. “The dimple, the arms, the intense looks he keeps giving you that make you all swoony. Give it up, because that ship has sailed.”

  “Saaaaaaaillllllled!” Bex sings out.

  “And you want to hang out with him again because he challenges you,” Atsuko continues. “He doesn’t respond to stuff the way you think he will and that means you can’t conjure up some fake-o fantasy version of him. You are …” She gives me a sly smile. “… stimulated by his real-life presence. That’s the ‘good itch’ you’re feeling, my friend.” She shakes her head, amused. “Honestly, Kimi. You can be so KY.”