Summer Haikus – Chapter 9

The taxi pulls up outside of my grandparents’ house as the evening light slants into the window and blinds me.

“Are you sure this is where you want to go?” the driver asks. The little old man turns around in the driver’s seat and throws his arm over the divider, examining me.

“Yep. This is it. My grandparents live here… and my mom.”

“You live far away from your mom?”

He must think I’m ten years old, but I get that a lot. I look young for my age.

“I go to college in America,” I explain, as the door opens for me. The driver jumps out and retrieves my bags from the trunk. I try to tip him but he waves it off.

“Enjoy your stay in Japan, young lady,” he says.

I smile at him and bow as he drives off. Taking a deep, calming breath, I scan the streets, which haven’t changed much in the years since I’ve been here. My grandparents have lived in this neighborhood since the 1970s, and it’s always been safe and quiet, full of families and small businesses, and they know every person within a ten block radius.

I throw my backpack on and open the gate to their tiny front garden. The paver stones are perfectly lined up, edged in with white pebbles. Green plants border the house on the right and dozens of potted plants cover the fence space to the left. A little water feature with a tanuki statue, a Japanese hybrid raccoon dog animal, sits near the dark wood front door. I ring the bell and wait, rolling my neck and stretching my arms, before my grandpa opens the door.

“Isa-chan!” he exclaims, embracing me. “We were worried you’d gotten lost.”

“No such luck, Grandpa. I am actually here.”

He pats me on the back several times before letting me go and stroking my hair.

“You’re more beautiful than the last time I saw you.”

I blush and look away. “Grandpa, stop it.”

“Come in. Come in.” He steps out of the way to let me in. I step inside and immediately take off my shoes in the stone-floored front hall. This space, the genkan, is sacred in most Japanese homes. I grew up in a no-shoes household, and I switched Halley over when we started living together. My grandpa picks up my shoes, puts them in a cubby on the wall, and hands me house slippers.

“Leave your bags. We’ll put them away later.”

“Isa-chan!” My grandma rounds the corner from the stairs and comes straight to me. I’ve always admired my grandmother. Sixty-four years old and not a strand of gray in her hair, she is the picture of Japanese beauty. Her slim face is always made up, and she wears black, always very chic and modern, unless she’s wearing kimono.

She wraps me in a warm hug and sighs. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too. How’s Mom?” I ask, my voice cracking. I don’t think I can afford to cry right now.

She clutches my upper arms and smiles at me. “She’s going to be fine. We saw her today. She’s in good hands, I promise. Now, come upstairs. Grandpa has grilled fish and we have mushroom rice, seaweed, and pickles. You still like my cooking?”

“Of course,” I say with a laugh. My grandparents were always afraid I’d become a true American and only ever want cheeseburgers and fries. I do love those things but, as Halley and Masa can attest to, I eat Japanese at least twice per week. I crave it. I smell rice cooking and my nose leads me towards it. I can eat seaweed with just about anything, and I keep a tub of miso in our tiny dorm fridge.

I peek into each room and re-familiarize myself with the house now that it’s been renovated. The ground floor contains the two master bedrooms, my grandparents’ and my mom’s rooms, and one generously sized bath, plus a storage space with an American-made washer and dryer they bought imported and access to a parking spot, big enough for only one car. We ascend the stairs and I catch my breath.

“The house is beautiful.” My grandparents have been in this house for decades but only recently invested in having it updated. The second floor landing empties straight into an open layout. This room used to be divided into many rooms. Now, it’s a large open space with a living room and new flat-screen TV, a handcrafted dining room table my grandpa worked on for years, and a modern brand-new kitchen. They opened up walls and put in tons of windows overlooking Kichijōji and downtown Tokyo in the distance. My mom said construction took over four years, and I got glimpses of the work during Skype and FaceTime chats, but seeing it for myself, it’s magnificent.

“Wow.” I walk to the long wall opposite the kitchen and stare at the family photos — lots of my grandparents with my mom and her younger sister, my aunt’s family, and then me as a baby, as a teen, and graduating high school. Only one photo of my mom and dad on their wedding day, but otherwise he’s absent from this history. Probably for the better.

“We made up the loft for you. The space is air conditioned but still kind of stuffy. I hope it’ll be okay for you. You can use the bathroom on this floor, but for showers and a bath, you’ll need to go all the way downstairs.”

The loft is accessed from a spiral staircase off the kitchen. I ascend the winding risers and find the low-ceilinged spot cooling down, with a big futon mattress on the floor dressed in light cotton sheets, a bedside alarm clock, a TV, and a small floor table. Storage boxes line the far wall, but I ignore them.

I glance around the room and worry I’ve taken up too much space. The floor is covered in tatami mats, at least six, which by Japanese standards is huge.

“Why the frown, Isa-chan? Is there something missing you need?”

“No, no. This is generous and way more than I was expecting. I thought I would sleep on a futon on the floor of Mom’s room.”

Grandma waves her hand. “This is extra space. We used to store materials for building the house here. Now it’s empty most of the time.” She smiles and rubs her arms. “I remember when all the appliances sat here for years. The kitchen renovation was worth it, but eventually I hired men to finish it so Grandpa would be off the hook.”

My grandpa is the artisan and laborer in the family. He headed up the ryokan renovation himself twelve years ago and moved onto their house when he was done. My mom always worried the work would be the death of him. Yet, to me, he was always happy, talking about each part of the upgrade, what was to come next, where he was getting his supplies, and showing off what he had just finished.

I eat dinner with Grandma and Grandpa out on their deck, right off the kitchen, but it’s hard to keep my eyes open and speak Japanese at the same time. My brain keeps trying to default to English at every available opportunity. Finally, Grandma gives in and takes my mostly empty plate from in front of me, her hand solid and comforting on my shoulder.

I shower in the master bathroom, dazed by the change from the time I was here last. It used to be a serviceable, plastic shower stall and ofuro, a Japanese tub sunken into the floor. Now, there’s a glass tiled wrap-around luxury shower, a cedar floor, and a ceramic tub that I can stand up in. I sink down and let the hot water cover me to my ears. The hours on the plane fade away, my muscles relax, and I being to feel more human.

After my bath, I dress in a robe my grandma lends me and let myself into my mom’s bedroom. The bed is made, like she was here this morning. I imagine her sitting on her bed with her iPad, talking to me like we did every Sunday, and my heart aches. The iPad sits untouched on her nightstand, and when I hit the home button, the screen remains dark. I bet my mom would like it with her in the hospital, if she can even use it, so I plug it in and wait for the charge icon to come on the screen before setting it back on her nightstand.

A group of framed photos line the top of her dresser, including one of me from my high school senior pictures and another of my mom and a man I don’t know. I bite my lip as I raise the photo up and stare at it. They’re both in summer kimono, sitting on a blanket, in green grass. My instincts tell me my mom was on a date with this man, but she’s never mentioned anyone.

I set down the photo and sit on my mom’s bed, running my hand over her sheets. I close my eyes, breathe deep, and feel my hand in hers as a little kid as she’s smiling down at me. What kind of shape is she in? Will she ever be able to hold my hand again? I slam my own fist on my knee, knowing this pain could never be a fraction of what she must feel right now. I wish I was with her instead of here in her empty bedroom.

I cry for the second time in a month, the third time in years.