I Love You So Mochi

by Sarah Kuhn

  “She told me she felt like her generation of Japanese Americans had this innate, passed-down trauma,” I continue. “So much was lost—in terms of possessions and memories and … well, everything. And she didn’t want me to have that trauma, but she thought making sure I knew every detail of her parents’ story was important—that it would help me understand myself better. Even though it’s so painful.”

  “Did it?”

  “Maybe not until now,” I say. “Because the more I talk to my grandparents, the more I’m starting to understand that there are these huge gaps in my understanding of my own history. And I think, in a way, I sort of chose not to know about it. It disrupted the idea I had of my family: that Mom was cast out by her parents and after that they basically ceased to exist. Now I’m thinking about how my other grandmother—my dad’s mom—fought so hard to learn all about her family history, to get her parents to share with her, even though it hurt so much. I kind of wish …” I pause, then swallow hard, vocalizing the wisp of a thought that’s been dancing around the back of my mind since my first talk with Grandpa. “I wish I had fought harder for my family history.”

  “Maybe that is what you are doing now?” Akira says. He gives me one of those gentle smiles that seems to convey so many layers of meaning beneath his words and I feel that crackle pass between us again.

  “Maybe.”

  Something off to the side catches my eye, a bright splotch of color. I turn and see a yokai that looks like a cat with long eyelashes who’s standing up like a human—and dressed in a bright red kimono with a yellow obi and a pink flower behind her ear.

  “Ohhhhh.” I dart over to it. “I think this is my favorite yokai yet.”

  “Because of the bright colors!” Akira exclaims. “It is very you. Perhaps the most fashionable yokai on the block.”

  I smile. The color combination makes me so … happy. I flash back to seeing the girls in their yukata in the bamboo forest, how I was moved to tears. The surge of emotion I got in the fabric store, gazing at all those “clashing” patterns existing harmoniously together. My overwhelming excitement at the pins and needles shop and my obaasan talking about how Kyoto is home to people who like to make things.

  There are so many little pieces of myself that have roots here, I realize. It’s like finding answers to questions I never knew I had.

  And maybe if I can put them all together, maybe if I fight to understand all of my history, I can finally answer the question that brought me here in the first place: Who am I?

  “Hey. Kimi.” I turn to see Akira looking at me, his gaze tender. He reaches over and his fingertips graze my cheek. “It is nice talking to you about our families like this. We have discussed things that are—how do you say it?—weighing a lot.”

  “Heavy,” I say, my voice soft. “It is nice.”

  It is also the type of conversation I almost never have. Because talking about things that are “weighing a lot” inevitably opens you up to complications and messiness. It totally ruins things by making them too real.

  But, in that moment, I don’t care. It is nice to talk about these things with Akira. And I’m shocked to realize I can’t even quite remember what I was so afraid of ruining in the first place.

  Dear Mom,

  Do you remember when you gave me your kimono and obi? I was fifteen and it was right before Obon Fest. (Also, do you remember how I used to pester you and Dad with constant questions about what Obon Fest was all about and Dad said, “It’s about honoring our ancestors” and I was like, “But what does that mean??” and you said, “Shhh, Kimi-chan, there will be lots of good food and if you and Atsuko perform the Bon Odori well, I will buy you an extra taiyaki,” and that usually shut me up pretty fast.)

  Anyway, my memory of the moment when you gave me the kimono is made up of all these deeply sensory things that have been burned so far into my brain, I can still feel them now. I remember touching the silky fabric, in awe. I remember the texture of the embroidery on the obi. And I remember my eyes drinking in the sheer beauty of those bright colors layered next to each other, red and orange. I had never seen anything more beautiful. For a while, all my paintings were red and orange, red and orange. Over and over again. Seeing them paired so vibrantly made me so happy, spoke to something deep in my soul.

  At that particular Obon Fest, Atsuko got mad because her mom told her she had to do the Bon Odori dance even though it conflicted with her taiko drum performance and then we totally messed up the dance and you bought me an extra taiyaki anyway and the combination of heat and dancing and too much food made me a little sick.

  But nothing could ruin the joy I found in that kimono and obi and in their glorious color combination.

  Later that summer, I made myself a dress out of a bunch of tiny, silky fabric remnants—all different shades of red and orange. It took forever to sew them all together, but in the end, I felt like a sunrise come to life. And like I had a sort of representation of that kimono/obi combo I could wear every day. Putting on that dress always gives me this giddy feeling that reverberates through my entire body, makes me smile no matter how bad a mood I’m in.

  This is the kind of feeling I would have dismissed before as silly and frivolous. But being here, I’m starting to think it’s connected to something deeper—some kind of pure joy that’s an essential part of my soul.

  I need to investigate this further. I hope you’ll be interested in hearing about what I find.

  Love,

  Kimi

  I’ve redone the same ruffle five times now. No matter what, it won’t gather right, so I keep pulling out the stitches and starting all over again.

  “Come. On,” I grumble, feeding my bright pink fabric through the sewing machine. But my hands aren’t steady enough and it gathers wrong yet again, the fabric crinkling into a cartoonishly uneven ruffle. Really, it’s more like a crumple. “Uggggghhhhhhhh,” I growl, pulling the cotton from the machine and preparing to pull out the stitches for the kazillionth time.

  “Kimiko-chan?” My grandmother, who’s situated across the sewing room, working on a project of her own, looks up from the garment she’s hand-stitching. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” I say, glaring at the uncooperative piece of fabric. I force myself to set it to the side and stand, stretching my arms over my head. “I think I need a break.”

  “It is good to take breaks.” Obaasan nods approvingly. “Helps to reset the mind.” She sets her own sewing to the side. “Your blouse is coming along very nicely, though.”

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling at her. The beginnings of my blouse are laid out on the cutting table in the middle of the room—body and sleeves are ready to be sewn together and I’m just trying to get these damn ruffles right before I assemble the entire thing. Akira is working at the mochi stand all day today, so Obaasan and I decided to spend the afternoon sewing. I’m hoping to finish my blouse project. I also need to tell Dad by the end of today what to do about Liu Academy tuition. I would feel better about it if, in addition to telling him to cancel the whole thing and not send it in, I could tell him what I had decided to do instead. But I still haven’t figured out that part of it yet.

  You may already have the clues you need to crack this case, Kimi from America, Akira says in my head.

  And even though that makes me smile, I brush the thought aside for the moment.

  “What do you usually do when you take breaks?” Grandma asks, walking over to the sewing table and idly straightening the pieces of my blouse project so they’re in perfect formation. “Your grandfather says taking a break means doing absolutely nothing, just sitting with your thoughts. But I, eto …” She smiles slightly and gives the blouse pieces a final pat. “… can never manage to do nothing.”

  “Me neither.” I pull my phone from my pocket. “I like to look through street style photos on the internet. It relaxes my brain and gives me inspiration for my own outfits.”

  “Street style … ?” My grandmother’s brow fu
rrows.

  “Just what it sounds like: Pictures of people’s fashion out on the street,” I say. “Like a collection of what people are wearing in their everyday lives. There are actually a lot of awesome feeds and blogs out of Japan in particular.”

  I tap on my phone to pull up a few photos from a Tokyo street style blog I like and show Grandma the screen.

  “Interesting,” she says, scrutinizing the screen. She points to a photo of a girl wearing a gauzy, flowing sleeveless maxi-dress over a bulky sweater with puffy, fuzzy sleeves. “This mix of shapes and textures—very unusual, ne? Lots of contrast. She is expressing something of who she is.”

  “That’s another reason I love looking at these photos,” I say, nodding eagerly. “You learn so much about the people in them based on the outfits they’ve put together. You can tell that what they’re wearing really speaks to their souls—like what you were saying at the fabric store.” We share a smile.

  “Show me more,” Grandma says, waving a hand at the screen.

  We scroll through photo after photo, commenting on interesting layering combinations and bold prints and stop to admire one girl in particular who’s wearing no fewer than seven different patterns.

  “Ah,” I say, pausing on a girl clad in a high-waisted tulip skirt. “This is the kind of shape I want to play with—maybe using that purple silk I got at the fabric store. Only I want to make a full dress and the shape should be more exaggerated and echoed in the sleeves.”

  “Mmm, sou, sou, I can picture this,” my grandmother says. “Would you make the sleeves as one piece?”

  “I was actually thinking of constructing them out of several pieces,” I say. “The skirt, too. I think it would give it more texture and movement all around.” I set down my phone and open my sketchbook, which is lying on the cutting table next to my blouse project. “Like this?” I show Grandma the designs I’ve been sketching out.

  “This looks good,” she says, nodding as she studies it. “You will probably want to reexamine your draping at every step as you go, to make sure the garment is hanging correctly. Shall we start this after you complete your blouse?”

  “I’d love to, but we may not have time to finish it before I have to go home,” I say. I gnaw on my lower lip as I study my sketch, getting a little stab of trepidation at the thought of going home.

  “We could try to do some initial draping, ne?” my grandmother says, crossing the room to the shelf where we’ve stored my purple silk.

  “Is this what we’re doing while we’re supposed to be taking a break?” I say, giggling. “That is what we’re supposed to be doing, right?”

  “Hmm.” My grandmother smiles at me as she pulls the purple silk from the shelf. “Perhaps we should just accept that we are not good at taking breaks. Do not tell your grandfather.”

  I laugh again as she brings the purple silk to the cutting table.

  “I can be your—what do you say?—model,” my grandmother says. “I will stand very still.”

  “Oh, thank you, Obaasan,” I say, beaming at her. “But you know, I think it would be easier if we just …” My gaze goes to the dress form in the corner of the room. The one with the beautiful, unfinished yukata on it. I haven’t brought up the dress form or the yukata since the day I accidentally discovered this room. They just sort of lurk in the corner like ghosts—never to be mentioned, never to be touched. Grandma, I’ve noticed, seems to pretend they aren’t there at all.

  Her gaze follows mine and a shadow passes over her face.

  “No,” she says, her tone brisk. “We don’t need that. Drape your silk on me, Kimiko-chan.” She pulls herself up tall and holds her arms out, looking at me expectantly.

  “But …” My eyes go back to the dress form. “I might need you to help me drape.”

  “I can do that and model,” she says, lifting her chin.

  “Um … well, I think it would make more sense if we could …” I trail off, my eyes still locked on the dress form. I don’t know why I’m getting so fixated on this. Maybe because Grandma usually seems to endorse a no-nonsense approach—like when she told me I had to “say it out loud and to the correct person” if I really wanted something. So why is she going out of her way to avoid the most straightforward way of doing this? “What if I helped you finish the yukata first?” I suggest. “Then we could free up the dress form and—”

  “No.” She drops her arms to her sides, frowning at me.

  “But it’s so beautiful,” I blurt out. “Why don’t you want to finish it? I can already see how it will be a totally amazing piece and then we can make even more amazing pieces—”

  “I said no, Kimiko,” she snaps. “It will never be finished.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it won’t.” Anger sparks in her eyes. “I am not sure how many different ways I need to say it. It will never be finished, and we do not need a dress form to make a good garment.” She turns to the cutting table and starts to shove bits of fabric and pins and buttons into piles. As far as I can tell, she’s not really organizing, just angrily moving stuff around. “I think we are done sewing for the day,” she says, her voice low and cold.

  “I was going to finish my blouse—”

  “You can finish it another time.”

  She turns her back to me and continues shoving things into smaller and smaller piles, quiet tension radiating from her every pore.

  I take a step back, swallowing hard. Somehow I know not to argue—even though I have no idea what I’ve done wrong. I’m sure Atsuko would say this has something to do with Asian Mom Math, but it’s an equation I’m completely unfamiliar with.

  I stew in my room for a while, messing around on the internet. I think about calling Bex and Atsuko or texting Akira, but I don’t really feel like interacting with anyone. The reminder I’ve set to let Dad know what to do about Liu Academy pops up on my screen and I dismiss it with a grumpy snort.

  I search the internet for different colleges, poking around at various websites to see if there are any programs that spark an interest. (Not to mention programs I can still apply to and programs where I’ll have a shot at scholarships. Kind of important.)

  My gaze slides to my sketchbook, lying next to me on the futon. It’s fallen open to the page I drew my first full day in Japan—that fluffy cherry blossom–inspired dress, the one I was going to wear to Atsuko’s fantasy party. A slight smile touches my lips and I reach out to trace the lines on the page with my fingertips.

  Normally, this is the kind of moment where someone would speak up in my head—I’d remember something inspiring Akira’s said or think of the advice Atsuko would offer or imagine how my mom might guide me in her firm, loving way.

  But nothing pops up. Instead I think of how good I’ve felt this past week whenever I’ve done something I thought I couldn’t do. I think of the exhilaration blazing through me when I told Akira I liked him, when I pushed myself through Buddha’s nostril, when I brought the kine down on the usu with a mighty smack. Or when I moved my hand to the bright pink cotton, the fabric I really wanted deep down in my soul.

  And I think about all those little moments that have felt like discovering pieces of myself in Japan—those pieces that are starting to make more and more sense the longer I’m here.

  I stare at the laptop screen. Take a deep breath and rest my hands on the keyboard again.

  My heart is hammering like mad as I type “fashion design schools” into the search bar.

  I click around, perusing different links that look interesting. As I explore, my heartbeat calms a little. And I find myself drawn into different websites, different program descriptions. I pause on a photo of a girl in clunky glasses draping fabric over a dress form, her brow furrowed in concentration. A warm glow spreads through my chest as I scroll through a gallery of the behind-the-scenes chaos of a student fashion show, bits of fabric flying everywhere. I feel a smile overtaking my face as I click to a picture of an older woman explaining a large sketch of one of
her designs. She looks a bit like Sakae, I notice.

  I realize then that I’ve been lingering on the same website for the last fifteen minutes. I scroll up to the name. West Coast Institute of Design. It’s in San Francisco.

  I click over to the Admissions page. They have rolling admissions based on an unconventional three-semester school year. You have to submit transcripts, essays—all the usual stuff. But also, a portfolio of sketches. And photographs and descriptions of one piece you’re particularly proud of, as well as a statement about what it means to you.

  Hmm.

  I’m so focused on the Admissions page that I don’t hear my grandmother come in.

  “Kimiko-chan?” she says, looking a bit uncertain.

  “Hi, Grandma,” I say, my eyes still glued to the webpage.

  She settles herself next to me on the futon.

  “I am sorry about earlier,” she says. “I should not have snapped at you. I, eto … have a hard time letting things go. At least, that is what your grandfather tells me.” She hesitates. “That yukata has been on the dress form for twenty years now.”

  I set my computer to the side, my brain latching on to this factoid. I’m no math whiz, but I immediately figure out what it means.

  “It’s Mom’s,” I say, the realization sending my mind spinning in about a thousand different directions. “The yukata was supposed to be for Mom, wasn’t it?” I turn to face her. She’s looking down, toying with some sort of book in her lap.

  “Hai. We were working on it together. That is, mostly I was working on it while she pretended to help.” She meets my gaze and gives me a slight smile. “She was never that interested in sewing. I was going to finish it and present it to her when she graduated from college. But …”

  “But she never came back,” I finish. “And you never went to the States.”

  “I just wanted her to complete school before she made any big decisions,” my grandmother says—and there’s so much frustration in her voice, frustration that bubbles up instantly after all these years. “Focus on what she went to the America to do instead of getting distracted by a boy. Learn something that would make her a good living or allow her to help with the farm. I’d fought my father so hard for the farm and this house. Our home. And she, eto … anyway. Mostly, I didn’t want her to struggle. I didn’t want her to hurt. I worked hard so any children of mine would never have to hurt. But she seemed so determined to make choices that would lead her there. I did not understand. And then … too many things were said between us. Things that could not be unsaid.”