I Love You So Mochi

by Sarah Kuhn

  She falls silent and I turn that over in my mind. Grandma’s kept Mom’s unfinished yukata on that dress form for twenty years. I can see how it’s both a source of pain and hope—it can never be truly completed until Mom comes back.

  “Kimiko-chan, what are you looking at?” my grandmother says, gesturing to my laptop. “Fashion school?”

  “Oh … yes,” I say, pulling the computer back into my lap. “Yes, I guess I was.”

  “This is where you are going?” Obaasan says. “After high school?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “I mean. I don’t know yet.” We’ve never really talked about what made me decide to come to Japan in the first place. I try to avoid talking to her about Mom. And so much of that story is about Mom.

  “Why don’t you know?” she says, her brow crinkling. “This looks like what you love.” She taps the laptop screen.

  “It … it is,” I say slowly. Have I ever actually admitted this out loud? That I don’t design and make clothes “just for fun” or “as a distraction,” like I keep saying? “I do love it. But …”

  “But what?”

  “I-I’m scared. I don’t want to ruin everything.”

  She gives me a perplexed look. “How would you do that?”

  “Mom worked so hard,” I say. Then I remember who I’m talking to. “Sorry.”

  “You can talk about your mother to me,” she says, her voice mild. I sneak a sidelong glance at her. It seems like … she really wants for me to talk about Mom. So I keep going.

  “She worked hard for me,” I say, my voice trembling. “She didn’t get to be the artist she wanted to be. So she wanted me to have that chance and I … I …”

  I blew it. Tears gather in my eyes and I swallow hard, trying to keep them at bay.

  “Mom always likes to tell this story,” I say, switching gears. “About how she took me to the dollar store when I was seven. She told me I could pick a toy—any toy I wanted. It was this big, incredible treat, because we didn’t have a lot of money. And I went for this set of cheap watercolor paints—the kind that comes in that flimsy plastic holder with the little brush. She showed me how to brush color onto paper, how to clean my brush between colors, and when I gave her my first finished painting …” My tears threaten to fall again. “Her eyes lit up and she gave me the biggest smile I’d ever seen from her.”

  “What was the painting?” Grandma asks.

  I smile a little. “A truly innovative, impressionistic take on the neighborhood cat, Oreo. He became my muse—the subject of my entire first art cycle.”

  “Sounds like quite a masterpiece,” Grandma says.

  “Oh, it was. The thing is … Mom didn’t smile a ton when I was a kid. Money was so tight, she was barely speaking to … um, well, you and Ojiisan. Working all these jobs, not sleeping hardly at all. So that smile she gave me was a big deal. She actually started painting again because of me and my dumb little watercolors—I asked her to paint with me and I was apparently too cute to resist.”

  “I can see this well,” my obaasan says, a slight smile in her voice. “And then you continued painting?”

  “Yes. I just kept doing it. If you tallied up all the hours I’ve spent painting over the course of my life, it would probably be more hours than I’ve spent doing anything else. I mean, I like it. But …”

  “But you don’t love it,” Grandma says. “It does not speak to your soul.”

  I nod quickly. If I say that out loud, I will cry.

  I tell Grandma the rest, all about Liu Academy and how Mom and I had a huge fight before I left.

  “So now you are afraid to claim this,” Grandma says, tapping the laptop screen again. “Didn’t I tell you, if you really want something—”

  “I have to say it out loud and to the correct person,” I say. “But I’m afraid that if I say this out loud … I don’t know. I can’t disappoint my mother. I don’t want all her hard work and all her sacrifices to mean nothing. And I’m so scared …” I trail off and hiccup, a rogue tear sliding down my cheek.

  “You are scared that you and your mother will say things that cannot be unsaid and barely speak to each other for twenty years,” my obaasan says, and it’s not a question. She knows. “You are scared of losing her.”

  I nod, more tears sliding down my cheeks.

  “Kimiko-chan,” my grandmother says, her voice more gentle than I’ve ever heard it. “Do you think your mother is sad about how her life turned out? After all of these sacrifices she’s made?”

  “N-no,” I say, hiccuping again. “I mean, she’s painting again, she has a great business. She and Dad are still in an over-the-top disgusting level of love.”

  “And she has you,” my grandmother says. “Which is perhaps the main reason I do not believe she would go back and do things differently.”

  I look down at my lap. I don’t know how to respond to that.

  “Your mother wants you to be happy, Kimiko-chan,” Grandma continues. “I am very sure of that. It sounds like perhaps the two of you did not, ah … communicate well about some of the things you love and do not love. But there is still time for that.”

  “Maybe,” I murmur, thinking of all the unanswered emails I’ve been sending.

  “The two of you sound very close,” my obaasan says. “If you go after the thing that you want, the thing that will make you happy—I do not believe it will be like it was with her and I.”

  I’m just sitting here silently crying now. All of these things I was so scared to voice feel like they’re lying in pieces around me.

  Obaasan gently moves the computer aside and slides something else into my lap. The book she was holding, I realize. I cock my head at it, trying to figure out what it is.

  “I have been thinking you should have this,” she says.

  Then she gives my shoulder a small squeeze, gets up, and leaves the room.

  I open the book and a cavalcade of grinning tanukis greets me. They’re sketched out in soft pencil and tumbling across the page in various mischievous poses. One is cramming taiyaki in his mouth and raising a devilish eyebrow. Another is totally upending an entire pot of tea and snickering about it.

  My eyes widen, my hands grip the book tightly, and the realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

  This is my mother’s old sketchbook.

  I spend hours paging through Mom’s drawings, scrutinizing every line and eraser mark. When I get to the end, I flip back to the beginning and start paging through all over again. The tanukis are as funny and naughty and whimsical as I imagined when Grandpa described them.

  Eventually, Mom started adding color to her work—bright, bold shades. It’s fascinating to page through and watch how she grew and changed in her style of drawings, how the avalanches of tanukis eventually morph into the flowing lines of trees that look like the wild abstract shapes that are so much a part of her current work. I realize I’m seeing her story, how she became the artist—and the person—she is today.

  I remember what Akira said about how he could see “happy” and passion in my fashion designs. I see that here, too. Joy in every pencil mark, exuberance in every splash of color. I’m seeing my mother discover her love of art.

  I think about everything I’ve learned about her past, her life with her parents, while I’ve been here. She must have felt so much pressure to take over the farm after Grandma fought so hard to keep it. Especially since she’s Grandma and Grandpa’s only child. Even though it wasn’t singing to her soul. Even though it wasn’t what she really wanted.

  I wonder, if I had just talked to her when I started having doubts about painting, would she have listened?

  I set her sketchbook next to mine, both open to pages in the middle. There is that same passion in both books, dancing its way across the pages and across art separated by two decades. And I realize that you can see my journey, too: The exaggerated shapes and textures and contrasts and bright colors I like to play with in my clothes recall the shapes and shadows I’ve alway
s put in my paintings, going all the way back to my watercolor of Oreo the cat. (I mean, I gave him a really huge head and painted him hot pink and yellow. How have I never seen that as the obvious first steps of my artistic development?)

  The story of discovering my passion is in the pages of my sketchbook, just as my mother’s story is in hers. And I’ve already found the “artistic voice” my mother’s always talking about. It’s been there the whole time.

  Now I just need to find the courage to express it.

  I pull my computer into my lap and compose a new email to Dad.

  Don’t send the tuition. I’m withdrawing from my spot at Liu Academy. You don’t have to worry about anything else, I’ll let them know. And as for what I’m doing instead … I have a plan, Daddy. I promise.

  I take a deep breath and glance back at the two sketchbooks lying side by side on my bed. Then I hit “send.”

  I have a plan. Or at least, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself.

  After researching all the ins and outs of the Institute’s application process, I’ve determined I can make the latest deadline for fall admission if I complete my piece and my statement right after I get back from spring break. Somehow, I know it has to be a whole new piece; I’m not going to apply with a Kimi Original I’ve already created. I just have to figure out what garment is going to express absolutely everything about who I am and who I want to be as a designer.

  No pressure.

  I stay up most of the night, sketching feverishly. I discard nearly everything I draw. Nothing feels right.

  As the sun creeps over the horizon, I realize I haven’t heard from Akira since we parted two days ago. That’s odd. I mean, I haven’t texted him, either, but I’ve been super busy having important revelations about myself.

  I force myself to put down my sketchbook and send him a text, asking if he wants to meet up later.

  I think I’ve finally cracked the case! I impulsively add at the last minute. Can’t wait to tell you about it.

  I start sketching again and can’t help but smile as I imagine talking to Akira about everything from the day before: my heart-to-heart with Grandma and looking through Mom’s sketchbook and taking the first step toward pursuing something I love. He’ll be so excited. I picture his face lighting up, that adorable dimple making an appearance. Him sweeping me into his arms and holding me tight. All of it just makes my smile get bigger.

  I still can’t figure out my application outfit, though. I frown at the page. What I’m sketching isn’t right, yet again. I scribble over it and flip to a new page.

  After a couple hours of this, I realize that it’s breakfast time and I’m starving. I go eat with my grandparents. Come back to my room, sketch some more. Decide to try for a change of scenery and go sit at the living room table with Grandpa, who’s working on his trains again. Sketch, sketch, sketch.

  It’s almost lunchtime and I still haven’t heard from Akira. I frown at my phone. Where is he? I know he’s working this morning at the mochi stand, but it’s unlike him to be silent for this long. Especially since I have less than a week left in Japan and we’d talked about making the most of it …

  I turn back to my sketchbook, but now I’m completely distracted. Well, I’m not getting anywhere with this amazing application outfit, anyway, so I might as well go see the cute boy I like. Maybe he’ll say something that will spur me on, inspire me.

  “I’m going to Maruyama Park to get lunch at the market, Grandpa,” I say. “Would you like me to bring anything back?”

  “No, Kimiko-chan, that is all right,” he says, disassembling the train he’s just pieced together. “Have a good time.”

  I head out and take the train to Kyoto, then scurry through the park, giving a little wave to the stuffed tanuki as I pass by. I expect to be greeted by the familiar sight of Akira dancing around in his mochi costume, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  I frown, scanning the market, and finally spot him behind the counter at the mochi stand. No costume. I cross the market and wait patiently for him to finish helping a customer. Then I hop into his sightline, give him a bright smile, and throw my arms out, like ta-da!

  “Hello,” I say cheerfully. “Why are you being so mysterious? Trying to get me to solve an all-new case: Where’s Akira?”

  “Hi, Kimi,” he says. “Sorry, what?”

  He looks tired around the eyes and his demeanor is muted—like someone’s turned his volume way, way down.

  “Um.” I drop my arms to my sides. “You didn’t respond to any of my texts? I haven’t heard from you in, like, days and that’s pretty unusual in our current pattern of communication? Are you okay?”

  “Oh. I apologize for not responding. I am … eto …” He pauses, like he’s trying to figure it out. “I am fine.”

  “Are you sure?” I study him, trying to scrutinize every inch of his face. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I—”

  “Akira-kun!”

  We both turn to see Uncle Okamoto bustling up to the stand. He says something to Akira in Japanese and makes a hand-waving motion. Akira shakes his head vehemently and says something back. Uncle hand-waves more forcefully, like he’s shooing Akira away. Akira moves to the side, still shaking his head, removes his apron, and exits the stand.

  He comes to stand next to me, but his eyes are still trained on Uncle, who has turned his attention to an approaching customer.

  “Hey,” I say softly. I touch Akira’s hand. “I was going to get some lunch. Are you hungry?” Maybe if we sit down and eat—one of our top five favorite things to do, after all—he’ll relax and tell me what’s bothering him.

  He turns and gives me a blank look and I can’t help but feel stung. It’s so different from the way he usually looks at me—sweet and earnest and a little amused, but with that intensity playing underneath, hinting at all the deeper emotions I feel whenever he kisses me. Right now, it’s like he’s been leeched of all that and I’m a stranger. I could be anyone, standing in front of him.

  I half expect him to turn me down, but finally he says, “Yes, all right.”

  We find an onigiri stand selling a variety of flavors. I opt for a salmon and a kakuni and we settle on a nearby bench to eat. We chew in silence for a few minutes.

  “Akira.” My voice is gentle. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  He shakes his head, picking at the rice ball he’s eating. “It’s nothing.”

  “Clearly it’s something,” I press. “You’re upset.” I’ve never seen him like this and it makes my heart ache. I kind of want to murder whoever made him look so downtrodden, so robbed of hope. “Is it about your ojisan and the mochi stand? Did the market raise the rent again?”

  “I …” He sets the onigiri down on its plastic wrap. “I think maybe it would be best if we do not see each other anymore.”

  “What?!” I set my own rice ball down and goggle at him. He’s staring down at his food, refusing to meet my eyes. “How … how can you say that? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No.” He shakes his head vehemently but refuses to meet my eyes.

  “Then …” My brow furrows and I shake my head. I’m so confused. “Then why? What’s changed since we saw each other two days ago?”

  Since we had that achingly deep, soul-searching conversation about our families. Since I talked to you like I’ve never talked to anyone. Since you kissed me like you were putting your entire soul into it—I think that’s how you do everything and it’s one of the reasons I … I …

  “Kimi.” He finally meets my eyes. “You only have a few days left in Japan and you should enjoy them—”

  “I want to enjoy them with you—”

  “I am not good company right now.”

  “And I get no say in that?” Frustration bubbles up in my chest, thick and toxic. “Because I’m the one you’re keeping company. I should be, like, the judge of how good the company is. And I do not agree with your assessment.”

  “I also do not have
time for … for distractions,” he says, turning away from me and glaring at the ground. “I just don’t have time.”

  “I’m a distraction now?” Tears prick my eyes.

  “I just … I think perhaps I’ve been spending time on the wrong things—”

  “Y-you were the one who told me not to dismiss important stuff that way,” I press. “Even if it’s fun important stuff. Is that what you think of me? Of us hanging out? Of … of …” My voice cracks and I swallow hard. I don’t want to cry right now.

  “I … eto … I think I’m not saying it right. I’m sorry.” He slumps back on the bench, his glare dissipating.

  There are so many emotions crashing through me—anger and frustration claw for space and underneath it all, my heart feels like it’s about to shatter.

  “Akira,” I say, my voice urgent. “Please tell me what’s going on. Please.”

  He lets out a long sigh and turns to face me. “They are raising the rent on the stands at the market again,” he says, his voice dull. “It’s worse than what we thought it would be. Much worse—twice the amount as usual. Ojisan can’t afford it. He will have to close the mochi stand. His life’s work, his dream: gone just like that.”

  “No,” I breathe, my eyes going wide. “There must be something we can do.”

  “I can go work for him full-time, year-round,” Akira says, his eyes getting that intense look. “It would allow him to keep the stand open at all times and he could make more money. If I do that, he might have a chance to make rent.”