Southern Fried Sushi (16 page)

“Alone is fine. I’m better off without him.”

We buried the topic. Faye turned down an even more remote country road, and I didn’t know so many tones of blue and green existed, separated by wheat-colored grasses and orange daylilies flanking country mailboxes. Then she turned onto Crawford Drive. Little nondescript ranch-style houses with shutters and gravel driveways lined the street. Flowered mailboxes. A giant indigo mountain loomed behind them, its angular shape cutting into the hazy western sky.

“Here we are, doll.” Faye turned in, gravel crunching under her tires. And shifted into P
ARK
.

I blinked at Mom’s house. My house. Cream-colored, with a brown shingled roof and chocolate-brown shutters. Neatly trimmed trees and shrubs. Probably a late ‘70s model prefab, shaped just like all the others. On the side a wooden deck peeked out, flanked by a riot of pink, white, and red roses in the flower bed.

I started to ask whose white Honda Civic sat in the driveway then stopped myself.

“What happens to the car?” I asked, finding my voice. At least Mom and I had the same taste in cars. Japanese.

“It’s yers, too, sweetie. Everything is.”

Faye took a jingly packet from her purse and pressed it into my hands, and I pulled out a key chain. A V
IRGINIA
S
CHOOL FOR THE
D
EAF AND
B
LIND
logo dangled. I squeezed them, wishing I could make them warm from Mom’s hand.

“Ya all right, baby doll?” Faye put a gentle hand on my arm. I realized I’d been standing there a long time.

I didn’t answer. Crunched across the driveway and up the wooden deck steps, glancing out at the large backyard—green and grassy with lanky, leafy locust trees, shimmering shade in cool patches. I shielded my eyes. A rope swing dangled, gently rocking in the breeze.

Faye took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. I pretended not to notice. Abruptly unlocked the screen door then the wooden door, my movements harsh. It creaked open.

We stepped inside, hushed, as if we might encounter some remnant of my mother’s life: her scent, her voice, the sound of her laugh.

“Laundry room,” I heard myself say to cut the emotion. The room was plain, with a washer and dryer and closet. I tried not to look at the basket of laundry, imagining her hands—just days ago—folding the towels.

The large kitchen and dining area made me raise my eyebrows: wallpapered in a hideous brown-and-white floral pattern obviously left over from the ‘70s. Windows trimmed with frilly country-style curtains, and a large wooden country table. Framed pictures covered one wall.

I pulled out a chair and sat down, taking in the room where Mom ate, watched the snow fall, washed dishes.

“She was some woman, that Ellen.” Faye’s voice faltered as she ran a hand around one of the frames. I heard her sniffle then dig in her purse for a tissue. I should have gotten up. Gone to her. Put my arm around her shoulders.

But I just sat there, hard and bitter, like a frozen scoop of Japanese green tea ice cream.

“Do azaleas grow here?” I turned my head away. “She loved azaleas.”

“No, sweetie. Gets too cold in the winter.” Faye finished wiping her eyes and spritzed water on some limp houseplants. “But she’s got those roses growin’ real well outside.”

I forced myself to look up at the pictures and saw myself as a baby, chubby face upturned. My high school graduation picture. An artsy black-and-white photo of my five-year-old hand holding hers.

I recognized Billy in faded colors, with his heavy glasses and round face. Mom’s funky retro bob and smiling face next to his.

And then Mom, like she must have looked last year or so, next to a skinny, smiling boy in a wheelchair. She looked mature, rested, happy. Her hair flyaway as always, but nicely styled. I squinted closer in surprise. Highlights? On Mom?

All around gleamed little framed photos—on top of the microwave, on the refrigerator, in the living room—of Mom with her little students. Pictures of Mom smiling. I’d never seen her smile so wide, so real. The corners of her eyes crinkled pleasantly.

The house felt suddenly empty, and a cool breeze from the door ruffled the curtains.

“Let’s see the rest of the place.” I pushed my chair back. My voice came out harsh and abrupt, almost flippant. But I needed Faye. Her voice, her support. I just couldn’t let her see it.

“Of course, doll baby.” She appeared like an angel. “Don’t you worry. Ya don’t have ta do everything all at once, ya know, like that … Italian whatever fella you were talkin’ about earlier.”

“Oh, I’m just fine. Don’t worry about me.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets roughly, and she patted my shoulder. Faye would have made a good mom. I almost said so, but the words stuck in my throat.

We walked through the living room, with its large picture window and view of the mountains. Swallows or something nested up in the corners of the porch eaves, with Mama Birdperched on a nest. Mom’s bedroom, bed neatly made and slippers still on the floor. A library with an armchair. A guest bedroom. A tiny bathroom.

At last I leaned against the horrible kitchen wallpaper, exhausted. Someone drove by blaring country music.

“I’m ready to go.” I took out my cell phone and tapped some silly text message to Kyoko, not letting my eyes soften for one second. “Thanks for bringing me.”

“I don’t blame ya,” said Faye, putting her arm around my shoulders. “Keep that chin up. Things’ll get better.”

But Faye couldn’t have made a worse prediction.

I
spotted Adam in the hotel parking lot, planting shrubs and hauling bags of mulch. He waved as Faye dropped me off at the lobby, and the two of them lingered there talking. Voices lowered. Faye shielding her eyes in the sun.

Before I could slip up to my room I saw him coming, shaking the dust off his baseball cap.

“I’m sorry about your mom, Shiloh. I knew her from church. Not well, but I knew her.”

“You probably knew her better than I did.” I tried to keep my voice light. “We weren’t that close.”

“I’m really sorry.” He just stood there, looking down at me with a deep, sober expression.

“Thanks.” I never knew what to say in these conversations. “Becky’s been asking about you. She wanted me to invite you over for dinner before you leave.” “Over? As in …?”

“To her house. You up for it tomorrow night? Maybe around five?”

I bit my lip, ready to say no.

“If it’s too much—the house and funeral and all, I understand.

We can—”

“No, I’m completely fine. Tomorrow sounds great.”

Adam hesitated. “Are you sure? I mean, losing your mom must—”

“We’ve been apart for years. I’m fine.” I checked my watch in irritation.

Adam took a step back at my tone. “Okay. Anything you don’t like?”

“Like? As in, spiders or earthquakes or …?”

He laughed, the first time I’d seen him do it. “To eat.”

“Oh. No. Except maybe spoon bread.” I almost said root beer, but Becky had bought it for me, so I stayed quiet.

“What? No. Becky and Tim are grilling out. So watch out.” A glimmer of a smile lit up his face.

“That bad?”

“I’m kidding. Their food is great. Faye’s coming, too.”

“She’s wonderful.”

“She sure is. Would have made a great mom to somebody.” Adam took off his cap and wiped his forehead then plopped it back in place. “Faye said you haven’t had lunch yet. I can recommend some places.”

“Nah. I’m not hungry.” Shuffled my feet. “I’ve got some airline crackers or something up there.”

“Well, take care then, if you’re sure. I’ve got to get back to work, but Faye can drive you to Tim and Becky’s. After all, we can’t have you running out of gas again.” He sized me up. “Maybe I should give you a spare gas can.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Oh, so you don’t trust me anymore.”

“Not much.”

“Well then. See you tomorrow.”

I plodded up to my room and sprawled on my bed, thoroughly worn out. I didn’t move until someone knocked on the door, and I padded wearily over to the peephole in my house slippers. Front-desk Patty stood there holding a bag.

“Adam sent this up for you from Mrs. Rowe’s. Enjoy!”

Without looking I knew the cup brimmed with sweet tea and ice. I opened the to-go box and found a steaming pork barbecue sandwich, all moist and hot. Coleslaw on the side.

I lied. I was hungry. Very hungry.

I closed the door and took a bite, surprised at the burst of tomato and vinegar in the spicy sauce. The bread tasted homemade—soft and buttery. And not a pork rind or deep-fried Twinkie in sight for Kyoko to scold me about.

I ate it all, licked my fingers, washed it down with cold sweet tea, and made a mental note to thank Adam.

My mind cleared a bit, and I hooked up my laptop and got online. I sent Kyoko a quick message and scrolled through e-mails from AP. Deleted my half-finished story on the Japanese no-vote issue.

Something niggled inside me, and I thought of Carlos. It was odd that he hadn’t written or called since I left Japan, except when I’d threatened him.

I tap-tap-tapped to his profile on Azuki, a Facebook-like social networking site we used in Japan, and found his photo smiling up at me. I leaned closer. He’d changed his profile picture. And who was standing next to him? The photo cropped out the face, but someone’s white shoulder and filmy silver dress strap pressed a little too close to Carlos’s side.

I zoomed in on the photo, heart speeding with each second. That’s not my shoulder! And his arm’s … around her? I bristled.

To my utter shock, Carlos had changed his relationship status. Instead of
Engaged to Shiloh Jacobs
, it now read—in hateful black letters—
Don’t ask
.

“Don’t ask?” I snatched the ring out of my pocket and hurled it on the floor. “Don’t ask?”

Thanks for the fun evening! beamed Mia’s curly script, capped by three smiley faces. I loved meeting your colleagues! And then, Don’t forget to send me the pics!

WHAT?! Carlos was too busy to call me, even once, but had

plenty of time for parties and sending pictures?

I’m wrong! Carlos loves me! He wouldn’t …

My hand hovered over the photo icon, and I hesitantly clicked. And there, in all their unabashed glory, glimmered photos of Mia and Carlos. Hand in hand at a black-tie dinner. Giggling like kids. They looked like Hollywood premiere shots: Carlos in an expensive Italian suit, gorgeous dark eyes, and Mia with her curly blond updo and innocent, red-lipped smile. Silver dress. Filmy little straps.

My mouth went dry. I clicked through the photos: Carlos and Mia at a table with his workmates, his arm around her. Toasting with sparkling glasses. And then Carlos, kissing her naughtily behind a paper fan.

My Carlos. My fiancé.

I snatched up the phone and dialed Carlos.

Y
ou’re calling me a liar?”

“A rotten, double-crossing, Argentinian liar!” I knew how to push Carlos’s buttons.

“Oh no, you don’t!” he hollered, letting out a tirade in Spanish.

“Say whatever you want, but you’ve been schmoozing on a girl while your fiancée stands by her mother’s grave. I didn’t know even you could stoop so low!”

“You’re not coming back anyway. I know you got canned,” said Carlos coldly. “Someone told me.”

Hot color rushed to my face. “Who?”

He didn’t answer.

“Mia?”

He didn’t answer again, meaning yes. Of course. Nora. Friends with Mia. Of all the low, dirty, rotten …

“Well, you can tell Mia you just got canned!” I snapped. “We’re done, Carlos. Over!
Adios!
“

“At least send me my ring.”

Stupid diamond. It glittered there in the carpet like broken glass.

In the back of my mind I saw Hachiko the dog, his bronzestatue and bent ear gleaming in the Shibuya sun. Waiting, waiting, ever so faithfully for the master he loved—not leaving his side even for death. My throat contracted painfully.

“You said you didn’t have feelings for her.”

“Maybe I lied.”

Carlos’s paper promises crumpled in my fingers. “Thanks for the origami stinkbug, you creep.” I banged down the phone.

First thing Wednesday morning I moved to a train-free room and, after a sweltering run along the highway inhaling truck exhaust, tried to put the shambles of my life in order. I’d spent half the night talking to Kyoko, who was still mad at me.

Not only did she remind me that she’d predicted Carlos’s unfaithfulness, with staggering accuracy, but informed me—courtesy of Nora—Carlos had been “entwined” with Mia for … well, a while. She repeated so many I-told-you-so’s I threatened to hang up.

In reply, Kyoko offered to send the Japanese
yakuza
(mafia) after Carlos. Whether she was joking or not, I couldn’t tell. But then again, Kyoko astounded me—and sometimes scared me—in ways few other people did. I’d hate to be on her bad side.

“Good riddance!” she snarled. “What a jerk!”

“I know.” I blinked dry eyes, wishing I could cry.

“So Nora ratted on you.”

“Seems like it.”

“I’ll hack her computer and take down her files. Little brat! Man, Shiloh, what great friends you have!”