I’ve caught glimpses of my mother’s fiance before. They met when she was a waitress at an upscale restaurant, one of her better-paying jobs that managed to keep the bills off the table.
She stayed at the restaurant longer than I thought she would have, lasting a whopping six months and getting the most tips out of all her coworkers. If someone had told me a year before that being a waitress would make her a happier person, I would have thought it was a cruel joke.
Yet that’s exactly what that job did. After she was fired from being a cashier for failing to show up for her shifts on time, she was forced to find another way to feed us. My part-time job organizing books at the local library wasn’t going to put food in the fridge, at least not beyond a carton of eggs and a pint of milk.
She had found the job serendipitously when someone overheard her speaking on the phone to my grandmother in Japanese. As luck would have it, that person needed someone who was fluent in the language to serve customers who preferred not to use English. And it didn’t hurt that she had a face that would add to the reputation of the establishment.
Although she was skeptical of the spontaneous offer, she went out on a limb and took it. After all, she had been approached while using the last of her paycheck to buy groceries.
It turned out better than either of us could hope for. I saw her become herself again and slowly the light returned to her eyes.
She was already an attractive woman, but over the first few days at the restaurant, she became even more so. I thought it was because she finally smiled again, but whatever it was, it made her age backward.
It started with her hair. A cheap box dye took a decade off her life by darkening her gray roots. Then came the Shiseido makeup and suddenly I wondered if the woman I was looking at was my mother anymore.
I quickly found out that the source of her transformation was a regular who was coming in often to see her. His name was Kenzo Watanabe and he visited the house once to take her out on a date. That’s how I knew he had salt and pepper hair, a full beard, and a stylish pair of tinted glasses. I could tell he didn’t like where we lived since he refused the simple courtesy of having a seat and a glass of water while he waited for my mother.
He didn’t seem like much to me with his soft voice and awkward demeanor. My father had been a taller man with an open face that compelled many strangers to engage in deep conversations with him. By comparison, Mr. Watanabe was a stone wall, his face only changing when he saw my mother.
In front of her, he made clumsy attempts to be friendly with me. He quietly offered a fistful of strawberry candy, which I accepted to be polite. Privately, I was offended that he treated me like a kid even though I would eat the candy later.
I tried not to take the gesture personally. As my mother would later explain, he was also a widow raising a daughter, albeit one younger than me. He was in California for a business deal, but he was returning to Japan soon and wanted my mother to join him.
She agreed, which was why we were at Haneda Airport waiting for him.
I fidget nervously, unsure if we left through the right terminal. My nightmare on the plane left me paranoid and a dozen disastrous scenarios sprouted in my mind, rampant and unwanted like a crop of weeds. I wanted to trust that my mother was doing the right thing, but I had too much common sense for blind faith.
I would never admit this to anyone, but she has a history of letting me down countless times due to her nasty streak of irresponsibility. Whether she couldn’t keep a job or show up to pick me up from school on time, I couldn’t rely on her to be there when I needed her.
But that hadn’t been a problem when my father was alive. He knew how to take care of us.
I didn’t know if I could say the same for Mr. Watanabe. We’ve been sitting around for half an hour waiting for him. My thumbs are sore from playing stupid phone games and my mother is falling asleep, her head jerking up every so often to smile and prove that she’s staying awake.
I know nothing about him except for a few cursory details so every minute that passes makes it feel as though the entire move is a bad idea. I suspect that my mother was scammed by a gigolo, but Mr. Watanabe wasn’t handsome enough to be one.
Those suspicions multiply when a black car silently pulls up in front of us and a man with a suit beckons us inside. My mother shoves our luggage into the trunk, eagerly entering the vehicle. I join her, praying that this wasn’t part of a scheme to sell our organs into the black market or something equally unsavory.
After all, people disappear all the time just like you did.
If my mother and I were to fall off the face of the earth, people wouldn’t care about what happened to us, not any more than they cared about what happened to you.
It’s a depressing thought, but it rings true in my head. Sadly, it’s all I can think about as the car cuts through the city.
We pass multiple apartment buildings and houses. Each time I think we’re going to stop, the car keeps moving forward and going deeper into a more secluded neighborhood. I began to understand why the driver was late as the trees outnumbered the people.
Soon, the greenery gives way to the view of a mansion. My jaw drops. I can’t hide my surprise even if I try. The view is picturesque, worthy of a nice postcard or an expensive oil painting.
My mother smiles smugly. I can’t believe my eyes as we leave the car. Suddenly, I understood why we moved here so quickly.
As the servants open the large double doors at the entrance, my head swims at the sight of the sheer opulence. I’m overwhelmed by the glittering chandeliers, gold statues, and shiny marble floors. The foyer alone is so massive that I can hear my shoes echo with every step.
And there, standing in the middle of it all, is Mr. Watanabe looking more out of place than I feel. Indeed, it seems like neither of us were supposed to be here with our colorful t-shirts, jean shorts, and scuffed running shoes. Only my mother, resplendent in an emerald green summer dress, appears to belong.
A maid walks in with a tray of drinks, the ice clinking against the glass as she approaches. Mr. Watanabe grabs a drink, gesturing for us to do the same.
The cold condensation against my palm is a welcome feeling in the summer heat. I take a polite sip, noting the citrus taste.
“Thank you for the lemonade,” I say in the best Japanese I could muster.
“Lemonade?” He looks at me quizzically.
“What Nana meant to say was, that she’s very grateful that you’ve provided us with refreshments. She thinks the yuzu tonic tastes delicious. Isn’t that right, Nana?”
My mother elbows me, nearly making me drop my drink. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Lemonade, yuzu tonic – how are they any different? The juice in the glass tastes like cold sweet lemons either way.
“Yes,” I agree reluctantly. “The yuzu tonic tastes very fresh.”
Mr. Watanabe nods impassively. It’s hard to gauge his emotions, especially since he’s kept his shades on indoors.
“Airi picked them from the orchards herself. They are her favorite fruit. She’ll be here any second.”
A proud smile comes to his face, the sentiment transforming him from stone to flesh. All traces of awkwardness vanish from his body as a young girl walks through the door, carrying a basket of flowers. They embrace, his hug lifting her off the ground.
She’s a pale little thing in a robin-egg blue dress. Just like her father, she wears a pair of dark lenses, although the oval shape of her glasses gives her an alien appearance. What startles me the most about her is her long white hair, which hangs like a sheet to her waist.
“Airi, I would like you to meet your new mother and sister,” Mr. Watanabe says, introducing us.
The ghostly girl frowns at us, registering our presence. I shift uneasily, not used to the intense scrutiny of her disdainful gaze. She takes off her glasses, revealing eyes so pale that I can’t tell whether they’re blue or purple.
I sip my tonic, feeling the strange urge to spill my drink and shatter the glass in my hands. Her eyes narrowed at me as if she could hear my intrusive thoughts. I wonder if someone as delicate as her would throw a fit at the sight of such a mess, but I decide that I don’t want to find out.
She turns on her heels, picks up the basket, and marches up the large spiral staircase without greeting my mother and I.
“She’s just a little shy,” Mr. Watanabe explains. “Once she gets used to having you at home, Airi will see you as family.”
I cough awkwardly and my mother’s smile remains frozen on her face. As he leads us further into the mansion, I wonder if my mother knows just what she’s gotten us into.
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