by Sarah Kuhn
“Yes, yes, let’s go,” I say, herding them back into the hall. “Oh, I meant to ask you …” I walk over to my suitcase and pick up Meiko, who I’ve perched on the handle. “Do you mind if I take Meiko back to Mom? I think she would like to see her again.”
“Of course,” Grandpa says. “Actually, Kimi-chan, I was wondering if you would take something else back to her—something from me.”
He passes me a packet of yellowed, crumbly papers, neatly bundled together with a rubber band. I turn them over in my hands, studying the kanji I don’t know how to read yet.
“Are these …”
“Hai.” He gives me a slight smile. “The letters I wrote to her years ago. I removed some of the, hmm, eto … the more colorful ones. But I thought maybe she would finally like to read these.”
“I think she would,” I say softly. I tuck the letters and Meiko into my carry-on next to my sketchbook, my mother’s sketchbook, the slips of paper with Akira’s kanji, and my bag of limited-edition Snickers. These are things I definitely don’t want to get lost on the return trip. “And Grandma,” I continue. “Let me know when you finish the yukata. Maybe you can come visit us in the States. Or we’ll come here.”
“You will come back,” Grandma says, in that way that is most definitely not a request. She twists her hands together and looks at the floor. “Kimiko-chan. I … When you first came here, I did not know what was going to happen. I was angry at your grandfather for inviting you without consulting me. But now …”
She meets my eyes and … oh god. Like Mom, I don’t think of her as someone who cries. And that’s going to make me cry even more.
She reaches over and takes my hand. “I cannot imagine you not being here,” she says, her voice shaking a little. “I cannot imagine you not being in my life.”
I step forward and throw my arms around both of my grandparents, drawing them into one big hug. And, to my surprise, they hug back.
“Obaachan, Ojiichan,” I say, my eyes full of tears. “You’re pretty much stuck with me now.”
We stand there for a long time, until Grandpa pulls back, his eyes lighting up like he’s just remembering something.
“Ah!” he says. “I almost forgot. I found limited-edition Kit Kats, Kimi-chan. Sweet potato flavor. I have purchased a bag for you to take on your flight.”
“Hakaru,” Grandma admonishes, chasing after him as he bustles into the kitchen. “She does not need more candy!”
I smile and follow them, dragging my suitcase behind me.
It’s true, I probably don’t need more candy. But I’m leaving Japan with so many things I do need, it hardly seems to matter.
I should be a zombie when I arrive in LAX after such a long flight, but I’m totally keyed up, giddy adrenaline humming through my veins. It doesn’t hurt that I’ve eaten four candy bars from Ojiichan’s stash.
Dad is waiting at baggage claim—and he has two unexpected guests with him.
“Kimi!” Bex shrieks.
She and Atsuko jump up and down, waving around a sign they’ve made that says WELCOME HOME in big, glittery letters. I run toward them and crash through the sign, accidentally ripping it in half, and we all get tangled in a three-way hug.
“Argh, sorry about the sign,” I say. “I’m so happy to see you guys.”
“I thought you’d like an extra special welcome committee,” Dad says.
I turn and throw myself into his arms. He hugs me back hard.
“Missed you, kid,” he says. He pulls back and studies me. “Did you grow while you were gone? You seem taller.”
“Of course not, Daddy, still as shrimpy as ever,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Um …” I look around, the obvious question on the tip of my tongue.
“Your mother is in her studio,” he says. “She only has a couple days left before she has to submit her piece for the big art show, so she’s basically going to be working twenty-four-seven.” His eyes shift to the side a bit. “You may not see her very much.”
“I need to work on my piece, too,” I say. “So you guys might not see me very much, either. But … I want to show her when I’m done.”
“Of course,” he says. “Let’s get your suitcase and then …” He twirls his car keys around his fingers. “Who wants ice cream?”
“Ugh, we’re too old for that, Mr. N,” Atsuko says, waving a hand. She links one of her arms through mine.
“Don’t listen to her, of course we want ice cream,” Bex says, rolling her eyes. She takes my other arm. “Right, Kimi?”
“I can’t imagine a world where I’d say no to ice cream,” I say.
My friends pull me ahead of my dad, dragging me toward the baggage carousel.
“Tell us everything,” Atsuko says. “You went kind of radio silent the last couple days and we need details.”
It’s true. I’ve been cramming so much into my last days in Japan, I haven’t been the best about responding to our text chain. I’d told them about the jacket I’d made for Akira and the printouts and Ebi Filet-O he’d left for me—but nothing after that. Not how I’d given it to him and he chased me through the park. And nothing about our last date at Fushimi Inari. I’d wanted to keep those precious details to myself for a little while.
But now I can’t wait to share them, to squee with my friends and see their faces light up as they follow the twists and turns of my final moments in Japan. And I want to hear about everything that’s been happening with them, too, during their spring break adventures. I remind myself to ask Atsuko about that Naz guy, since the very mention of his name seems to make her blush.
“Unless there’s nothing to tell?” Bex says uncertainly.
I beam at my two best friends. I’m so happy to see them.
“Oh, there’s plenty to tell,” I say, a sly grin spreading over my face. “Just let me figure out where to start.”
“So, Mom, what do you think? I mean, it’s just all of my hopes and dreams and, well, honestly my entire identity distilled into a single garment. And by the way, I also happen to think said garment is a pretty kickass piece of art. I know you might disagree, but let me explain to you how I had this big revelation about my artistic journey and my identity in Japan and it led me here, and now I’m just hoping you’ll be able to see it, too. Kthanxbye.”
I stare at my reflection in my mirror. Does my face look tough? Resolute? Do I look like someone who has, in fact, gone on a successful journey of self-discovery and is about to explain all of this to the mother who’s barely spoken to her in weeks?
It’s been two days since I returned from Japan. Mom’s mostly been in her studio and I’ve mostly been either at school or in my room, both of us preparing for the big Voices of Asian America show. The actual show is in two weeks, but we have to submit our final pieces tomorrow. Mom popped out at one point and we exchanged a perfunctory sort of hug and then we both had to get back to work. She seems muted and distant, but I can’t tell if that’s because she’s in deadline mode or if that’s just how we are with each other now.
But I’m about to find out. I’ve finished my garment and asked both of my parents to wait for me in the living room, so I can do the big reveal.
I sit down on my bed carefully, not wanting to wrinkle my creation, and take a deep breath.
A text pops up on my phone.
Did you show her yet?
Akira. I smile and get that fluttery feeling around my heart.
Just about to, I text back. Wish me luck?
You don’t need luck. The dress is amazing—and so are you.
The three bubbles appear, indicating he’s typing something else. A picture appears—the stuffed tanuki from the park.
See? Akira adds. Even he thinks so.
I burst out laughing. We’ve been texting pretty much nonstop since I got back (using one of those international texting apps so as not to run up a gigantic bill). The time zone thing is definitely a challenge and we haven’t been able to do much Skyping, but I love waking up and seeing a
bunch of messages from him, telling me about his day.
I hold the phone out and snap a picture of myself, trying to get as much of the dress in as possible. I’ve sent him pictures of the garment as it’s been in progress, but it’s been on a dress form or spread out on my bed. He hasn’t actually seen me in the dress yet.
What do you think? I type.
The three bubbles appear immediately. I watch the screen, expecting more commentary from the tanuki or maybe a funny photo in response. Instead, a single word appears.
Beautiful.
I blush—and the fluttery feeling around my heart morphs into a full-on flock of butterflies. I make myself set the phone down. If I keep texting him, I’ll just stay in here forever.
I stand, smooth my skirt, and square my shoulders. It’s time to show Mom the artist I’ve become.
I emerge from my room and stand in front of my parents. Mom studies me intently, but I can’t tell what she’s thinking. And Dad keeps sneaking looks at Mom. Probably also trying to figure out what’s going through her head.
I decide to just start talking.
“So. This is the art piece I’ll be showing. It’s a dress. Um, I guess obviously. And it’s made of a mix of materials: satin, organza, and paper that I figured out how to soak and treat and process so that it’s fabric-like. The vision of this dress was inspired by my trip to Japan.” Talking about the dress starts to get me excited, makes me a little giddy, even. I really do love it. The base of the dress is white and the shape of it is bold and exaggerated and there are lots of contrasting textures. The skirt is big and full, made up of several different panels of varying lengths. The bodice is fitted and swoops away from my body and juts above my shoulder on one side and flows into a long, billowing sleeve on the other.
“I wanted the overall look to be like an elaborate piece of sculpture, the various shapes inspired by things I was awed by during my trip,” I continue. I’m kind of cribbing from the personal statement I wrote up for my Institute application, but I’m too nervous to do anything else. “You can see a bit of the graceful bamboo stalks from the grove in Arashiyama in the movement of the skirt. Or maybe pick up a hint of the torii gates of Fushimi Inari in the architectural swoop of the bodice. And my sleeve is modeled after a kimono sleeve: that beautiful, flowing shape. But you might see Japan the most in the bits of paper I’ve sewn in all over the garment.” I gesture to various spots on the dress, where there are bright pops of color—they look especially bold against the white background. “These bits of paper are copies I made from my sketchbook, where I documented a lot of my trip through fashion design—oh, except this one is just the deer in Nara. I drew them because they were cute. And this one is this, um, guy wearing a mochi costume—I saw him the first day I was there. And tried to redesign his costume.” I smile slightly, brushing my fingers over that bit of the dress. “And these other drawings …” I point out a few more pops of color. “Those are from …” I take a deep breath and meet my mother’s eyes. She gazes back at me, still revealing nothing. “Those are copies I made from your sketchbook, Mom. The one you left in Japan. You can see a bit of your tanukis right here.” I point to a section of the skirt. “This dress shows my artistic journey—and part of that journey was seeing your sketchbook. I think …”
I twist my hands together. That stupid lump is back in my throat again. I can’t look at my mother anymore, so I look somewhere off to the side.
“I think it helped me understand you better. Before, I only saw all the sacrifices you’d made for me—what I thought you’d given up. And all the pressure I felt like you were putting on me to achieve a dream you didn’t get to have. But now …” I pause and will my voice to remain steady. “Now I see your whole journey, too. How you discovered your love of art and found your voice. How you probably felt pressure from your family, too. How you’re still on that journey, working to achieve that dream after all. And Obaachan helped me understand how a lot of the things I saw as sacrifices were actually choices you made to help you have the life you have now.”
I force myself to meet her eyes again.
“I’ve found that artistic voice you’re always talking about, Mom. I have that ‘point of view’ you’ve asked me about. I know what my passion is, what lights me up inside. It’s this.” I gesture to my dress. “I researched and applied to this really cool fashion design school. I sent in all my materials this morning. And …” Tears well in my eyes and the lump in my throat rises again. “It is important, Mom. It’s as important as the fine art painting you always wanted me to do. It’s important because it’s important to me.”
She’s still staring at me, still silent. Like a statue. My dad looks from me to her and seems kind of afraid to say anything. I draw myself up tall. I’m proud of what I made, even if she isn’t.
“And if you don’t see that, Mom—”
“Kimi-chan.” Her voice is shaking. I scrutinize her more closely—and realize that her eyes are full of tears, too. “Please. Come here.”
I practically run to the couch. She pulls me into her arms and holds me tight and I bury my face in her shoulder and finally let out the long, heaving sob I feel like I’ve been trying to shove down forever.
“I got all of your emails,” she says, through her own tears. “I … I have not been able to stop thinking about them. I did not know how to respond or talk to you about them, I felt so … so …” She pulls back and cups my face in her hands. “How could I not understand my own daughter for so long?”
“You do understand me,” I say. “You understand me better than anyone.”
It’s something I always say, but I realize then, deep in my bones, that it’s true. Even if my mother hasn’t always gotten what I’m doing, she knows me at the deepest, most molecular level. That’s why, as Obaachan observed, I’ve been so afraid to lose her. Maybe that’s the ultimate equation in Asian Mom Math.
“I just … I didn’t even know what my passion was—I didn’t know it wasn’t something I had to search for, it was already there. I had to figure all that out,” I continue.
She shakes her head. “I should have given you more space to figure it out. I had too many of my own ideas about what you should be.” She smiles. “But just as my old sketchbook helped you see me better—these emails helped me see you. And who you already are.” She gestures to my dress. “This is incredible. A tour de force work of art.”
“Thank you,” I say, smoothing the skirt. “Do you think the people at the Eckford Gallery will like it?”
“Yes,” she says, nodding emphatically. “But even if they do not, who cares? You love it. And so do I.” She beams at me. “Perhaps you can make your mother something very—how do you say it? Very cool to wear. I do not think my inside clothes will cut it for a fancy opening.” She gestures to her patterned leggings.
“You always look fantastic,” my dad says to her, and we both whip around to face him. I think we kind of forgot he was there—he backed off and blended into the woodwork while Mom and I had our big moment. “Yes, I am still here,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “I’m glad you two are, well …” He grins and arches an eyebrow. “You again. And this is amazing, Kimi.” He gestures to my dress. “I agree with your mom, a real tour de force.”
“Yes,” my mother says, her eyes wandering to a particular piece of the dress. She taps her finger on it. “Tell me about this, though, Kimi-chan—the boy in the mochi costume.” Her eyes narrow shrewdly. “I feel there is much more to this story.”
I flush.
Like I said, my mother understands me better than anyone.
Two Weeks Later
“Hurry up and take the photo,” Mom urges.
We’re standing in front of her painting at the Voices of Asian America opening and Dad is fussing with his phone camera, trying to get the perfect shot.
“Here, Mr. N, I can take it,” Atsuko says, coming up behind him. “I have excellent framing skills. And anyway, don’t you want to be in it?”
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“We need a picture of just the artists first,” Dad says, beaming at Mom and me. He’s practically bursting with pride. “Kimi, the Institute will probably want a copy of this for their display of distinguished alums.”
“Daaaaad, I’m not an alum yet, I don’t even start until fall!” I say. “Give me some time to become an alum.”
“You’re already so accomplished, I can’t imagine they won’t want to show that off,” he says, finally snapping the photo. “They gave you that big scholarship—obviously they’re fans already.”
I laugh and shake my head. My dad has a knack for catching people making the most awkward faces, so I’m sure this photo is going to be astounding levels of unflattering. At least our outfits are both spectacular—I’m in my gorgeous art piece of a dress and my mom is wearing the cool, slouchy white jumpsuit I designed for her. I sewed some of my special paper fabric into the pattern so there are little pops of color and we kind of coordinate.
“Ms. Nakamura?”
My mother and I both turn to see a tall Black lady with funky gold glasses and close-cropped red hair smiling at us—Janet, one of the owners of the Eckford Gallery.
“Ah, sorry, this Ms. Nakamura,” Janet says, laughing and gesturing to my mother. “There are some people asking about your piece—a few buyers and a rep from a gallery in San Francisco that I’d love to introduce you to.”
“Oh … oh, of course,” my mother says, suddenly looking nervous. “Kimi-chan,” she hisses, as Janet strides off and beckons for her to follow, “how is my hair?”
“It’s perfect, Mom,” I say, hugging her. “Go get ’em.”
“I should get some more atmosphere shots, right?” Dad says, waving his phone around. “Your grandparents asked for pictures of everything. I want to give them the real scope of the event. I mean, they should see how many people are here!” He hurries off, still muttering to himself about the pictures he wants to get.
“Does he mean your grandparents as in his parents?” Atsuko asks. “Aren’t they, uh, dead?”
