Southern Fried Sushi (28 page)

“What? Tim’s wearing a hairnet?” That couldn’t be true, or good news, but that’s what I heard.

“No, silly!” Becky hit me jokingly. “I’m pregnant!”

“What?” I shouted.

Even Jamie dropped the scanning gun and covered a scream. “Oh my goodness! Congratulations!” And she threw her arms around Becky like an old friend.

When I came to my senses, we all jumped up and down and shouted together. People buying books frowned, but I didn’t care.

“She’s pregnant!” I called out to anyone who would listen, making Becky blush like fire and try to shush me.

“I cain’t believe it,” she repeated, shining tears pooling in her eyes. “God’s so good ta me, Shah-loh! I jest knew He’d make it happen! I knew He’d give me my miracle!”

It certainly seemed like it. The hand holding Becky’s purse shook so much I steered her to a table, which a polite high-school boy vacated immediately.

Jamie trailed along, beaming something I couldn’t figure out, and suddenly I got it. “You’re a Christian, too, aren’t you?”

“Sure I am. Since middle school.”

“I thought so.” I pushed her down next to Becky. “Talk, then, since you can understand each other.”

I thought Jamie would be uncomfortable, but instead she clasped Becky’s trembling fingers in her own and closed her eyes. “Dear Father,” she whispered, “we thank You for this miracle. How You’ve given life and brought a new child into the world. Most of all, we thank You for Your Son, Jesus, who died to make life with You possible—on earth and in heaven forever.”

Becky’s happy tears made little circles on the table as she whispered a prayer in reply, and I just stood there dumbfounded—an outsider interloping on something unspeakably sacred.

An instant warmth flowed between them that I couldn’t match, no matter how I tried. As if they shared a past, present, and future—and a family, too—even though they’d just met.

Miracle. Life. New
. Those words again, fresh and heady like the green glens I’d passed with Adam, listening to Tomorrow fill the summer air. I wanted to swallow those words and make them mine.

I sensed something inside me like Becky must feel—pushing, growing, begging for breath—breaking open the hard walls of the seed and lifting a curling green tendril to the sun.

What is it? I fidgeted with a random book from Jamie’s cart, trying to stop the swell of emotion that both frightened and intrigued me at the same time. Is it You, God, I’m feeling? Is it even possible that You would love me or that I would need You? How can I know? Did You even hear my prayer?

As if on cue, I looked down at the book in my hands—emblazoned with a silhouette of a man on a cross.

I jerked my fingers off like I’d grabbed a searing Japanese hot pot, and the book dropped with a clatter. Then I hesitantly knelt to pick it up, heart in my throat. And oddly on my knees as if in prayer.

I scrambled to my feet and smoothed my skirt, tossing thebook on the cart like an old banana peel. Where did that come from? My omamori good-luck charm? But my curiosity tickled, relentless, and I turned the book over with the tips of my fingers.

“I was pushed back and about to fall, but the L
ORD
helped me,” the glossy jacket quoted from the Bible in clear white script. “I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the L
ORD
has done!”

I pushed the cart away from me with a start.

“Amen!” Jamie beamed, raising her head and releasing Becky’s hands.

So let it be done
.

I shoved another book on top of the cart and covered it with the scanning gun for good measure. Becky threw her arms around Jamie and then practically knocked me down with her hug. I felt strangely honored to enter her life, her struggles and joys.

We’d only known each other a month or so.
Why is she so kind to me? Why does she care about me, honoring me with her news, grilling hamburgers for me?
I mulled this over as she hovered like a happy moth, wiping her tears while I straightened CDs. And tried to forget the book on the cart as Jamie wheeled it away.

“When’s the baby due?”

“Wale, it’s July now, so ‘round April, I reckon.”

“Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“Both! I don’t care! Twins! Triplets! Bring it on!”

“Do you have names picked out?”

“Not yet. Ken ya he’p me find a baby-names book? I wanna get started thinkin’ right away!”

At last—something I could do for Becky! We pored through book after book, sliding them off the shelves with our heads hunched together.

“What’s yer middle name?” Becky hovered in the
P
‘s. “Don’t it start with a
P
?”

“Pearl,” I lied.

“Aw, that’s sweet!”

I didn’t meet her eyes. “Maybe a hundred years ago.”

“Yeah. I reckon so. I had an Aunt Pearl though, an’ I loved her.”

“How about …”—I thumbed through some pages—”Brooklyn?” Wow, a New York name! “Or Bronx?”

“Bronx? That ain’t in there!”

I smirked. “No. But Brooklyn is.”

Becky wrinkled her nose. “Too city slicker. No offense. But look here.” She slid her finger down the list. “Macy. Don’t it sound nice?”

“Like the department store?”

“Macy Alyssa.” Becky turned a page, not hearing me. “Alyssa with a
y
. I think it’s real cute.”

“And what if it’s a boy?”

“I dunno yet, but he ain’t gonna be no Arthur or Fred or nothin’. This baby’s gonna have style!”

Given that Becky sported too-big denim overalls, a green plaid shirt, and her hair in a messy ponytail with a frizzy hot-pink elastic band that had (maybe) seen better days, the comment was rather funny.

I closed the book. “Speaking of style, I need to get my hair cut. Want to come with me?”

“I usually go ta Hair Corral. It’s fifteen bucks. How ‘bout it?”

Any hair salon with the word
corral
in it gave me shivers, like I’d come out of a hay-filled stall with a perm and feathered bangs. “Umm … I was thinking of a place in the mall Jamie recommended. Since it’s so close to work.”

Becky looked up. “Crystal? That place costs fifty bucks or more!”

It probably did, but I wouldn’t walk out with a mullet. “I’ll pay for you.”

“Shucks, Shah-loh! You don’t have ta do that!”

“Consider it my prebaby gift.” I’ll work overtime. Please, Becky, say yes
.

She beamed. “Okay. It’s a deal. When?”

“Friday morning, ten o’clock. Before my shift.”

“Got it.”

Becky smacked my leg suddenly. “Hey, I heard ya went fishin’ with Adam!”

“Me?” My voice came out loud and squeaky. “Why, did he say something about it? Because it wasn’t my idea. He just came over and invited me.”

“Yeah. He said ya was havin’ a rough time adjustin’ and all.”

He said that?
I stiffened. “Yeah? Well, I’m fine. I’m making it.”

She studied me a minute, finger holding her place in the book. “Ya know, I’m always prayin’ that Adam’ll find a real good Christian gal. He wouldn’t settle for less than that in a woman. He’s a keeper, ya know. He don’t take things lightly, ‘specially when it comes to faith and God.”

“Well, there’s always Jamie.” Oops. She’s taken. Long-time boyfriend.

Becky peeked over the shelves. “Nah. Jamie’s real sweet, but I don’t think she’s his style.”

“You don’t even know her!”

“I jest have a feelin’.”

I looked around for an exit. Got out my cell phone to check the time. “Adam’s … well, really serious, Becky.”

“Yep, I reckon a little too much sometimes. I always tell him to lighten up. But that’s jest Adam. He’ll figger out a good balance one day.” She closed her book. “But he’s one in a million. That’s fer sure.”

Uh-oh. I needed to end this conversation fast, before—

“Is that his cell phone?” she yelped, snatching it out of my hand.

“He’s just helping me out!” I put my hands up, panicking at her smug smile. No way I’d hook up with somebody from Staunton, no matter how nice he was.

I shoved the phone back in my pocket and flipped through Becky’s name book. “How about Clive?” I suggested. “Or here … Chanticleer?”

And got out of the way before Becky whacked me with it.

I was still thinking about Becky when I pulled open my metal mailbox door. We didn’t have cute little mailboxes in Japan—just professional red mail drops. In the South mailboxes were art. Decorated with eagles, flags, paintings, all laced with blooming clematis and lilies. Stella said if her mail-carrier cousin got a dime for every bee sting around those dumb flowers, she’d be a rich woman.

I stopped thinking about Becky, though, when I pulled out a thick plastic package of forwarded mail covered with labels. Probably for Mom. I still got her mail, which weirded me out.

But this bundle boasted a Japanese postage stamp. I tore open the plastic, curious.

Envelopes. Fat envelopes. From … American Express. Daimaru. Uh-oh.

I sifted through them, still frozen to the side of the road. Comme des Garçons. And on. For infinity. Bills and more bills. They kept coming—remorseless white rectangles, staring angrily back at me.

I knew they’d come one day, but I didn’t think they’d come so fast. And so many. Did I really spend that much money in Japan?

“You did!” screamed Louis Vuitton. Visa. Taiyo Internet and phone company. Motorola. Costco.

I’m in big trouble. My shaking fingers found two lastenvelopes in the mailbox, one with an official-looking font. An apology letter from Dave and a plea to come back? Or a severance check?

Chicago Tribune
. I ripped it open.

“Thank you for sending your résumé. We regret to inform you …”

I didn’t bother to finish. Balled it in a wad. Another silly paper not hiring—or not hiring me.

The last envelope simply contained the water bill. Changed to my name and due in a week.

A car whizzed by, blowing my hair, and I realized I was still standing there, hand on the mailbox lid. Mouth like a round ramen-noodle bowl.

All I could think of was Adam’s cell phone in my pocket and two people I needed to call, right now: Tim, and as much as I never, ever wanted to admit it, Stella Farmer.

“Hello, Stella?” I tried to keep my voice from quivering.

“That you, Shiloh?”

“Yes.” I slumped at the kitchen table in utter despair, envelopes everywhere. “I … uh … never thought I’d ask you this, but what restaurant does your brother own?” I choked the words out.

“The Green Tree, downtown. Why? Ya need a job?”

I covered my face with my hands. I hated, hated to answer yes. How on earth could I, Shiloh P. Jacobs, need a job from Stella Farmer’s brother?!

“Maybe.”

“I thought ya done found somethin’! What about the paper? Didn’t ya tell ‘em yer a big-shot reporter in Japan?”

I wiped my eyes, which suddenly started to fill. Crying came so much easier since that day with Adam, as if making up for seventeen years without tears.

“They’re not hiring now, but they’ll … um … keep my résumé for the future.” I stretched the truth. “I sent my résumé to some other papers, too, but …” I didn’t bother to recount the rejection e-mails—and three rejection letters, four including the
Chicago Tribune
—I’d received since.