While I Was Away Read online

  My jaw dropped. It was hard to imagine my twice-a-day rosary-praying grandmother leaving home as a rebellious teenager.

  “I didn’t want to, but I overheard my stepmother telling my father they needed to marry me off soon. So I left.” Obaasama sighed.

  I thought about having to be married to someone at fifteen, three years from the age I am now. I shuddered. “Wait,” I asked, interested despite myself. “Your stepmother?”

  “Haven’t I mentioned her before?” Obaasama finished peeling a potato and picked up another one. “My own mother died when I was eight.”

  “Oh.” I’d had very few encounters with death and didn’t know what to say to people who had. I found another knife and tried peeling a potato the “grandma” way. Scritch, scratch.

  “She was very tall,” she continued.

  My left eyebrow raised, skeptical. Okay?

  She answered my unspoken question, “I’m like my father who was quite short. They made quite a pair! Her eyes were a light brown and her skin was also very fair. Many people thought she had Siberian blood. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did, being from northern Japan and all.”

  Some of my cousins and uncles were quite tall. My mom, unfortunately, wasn’t. I felt a flash of regret I didn’t inherit any of those tall, fair genes. Come to think of it, the idea that I was short was something I learned growing up in Kansas. I wasn’t short here, though. Maybe there was a little bit of my great-grandmother’s Siberian blood in me after all.

  “My real mother made sure I went to school. I even learned tea ceremony!” Obaasama paused and waited for my reaction. I think I was supposed to be impressed, but I didn’t know what “learning tea ceremony” involved. Frankly, it sounded a little boring, especially since I didn’t even like tea all that much. My grandmother sighed.

  “But when she died, our lives changed. It was stressful being a widower, no doubt,” Obaasama reminisced. “I’m sure having me, a young daughter, added to it.”

  Scritch, scritch, scrape. My grandmother’s potato-peeling method worked, but a vegetable peeler still would have been quicker. What would it be like to have only my dad take care of my sister, brothers, and me? I remembered how nervous I felt when my mother was in the hospital giving birth to my little brother, and how amazed I was that the spaghetti my father cooked that night wasn’t half bad. Had I really been more worried about dinner than my own mom? I was only seven years old then; I was more mature now. I hoped.

  My grandmother interrupted my musings with more of her own.

  “I had accidents in the night more often than I should have. This made him so angry.”

  I froze, wondering if my aunt told her about my accident at her house at the beginning of my stay.

  “He took one of those cattle irons—”

  I looked up, not recognizing the word she used.

  “You know, one of those . . . those metal sticks used to mark cows?”

  I gulped. She didn’t wait for me to acknowledge that I understood.

  “And he burned me with it.” Her face was blank when she said this, her voice robotic and without any emotion. It was like she said something as matter-of-fact as “I fed the koi today” but that wasn’t what she said. That wasn’t what she said at all.

  My grandmother turned off the faucet. After four months in Japan, my Japanese was good enough that I didn’t doubt if I understood something correctly. I understood, but I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand how anyone could be that cruel to a child. Obaasama found a couple cutting boards and handed me one. She chopped her potato in half lengthwise, and then into thin, arch-shaped slices. I did the same.

  “Another time, in the dead of the Hokkaido winter, he locked me out. I cried for him to let me in, and promised to be more helpful. I didn’t have my coat and it was so cold. I don’t know what I would have done had the neighbors not taken me in. Until he could calm down. So stressed, so angry, so much trouble to raise a child on one’s own.”

  It was hard to hear Obaasama make excuses for my great-grandfather, this monster who took a hot iron to his young daughter’s skin—a daughter who, even when describing his awful actions, clearly still loved him.

  I thought about her being locked out in the cold and neighbors taking her in. I thought about being locked out and Reiko’s mother helping me back in. I felt sorry for that little girl in that winter long ago. But did I feel sorry for Obaasama as she was now? That, I didn’t know.

  I sliced my potato nice and thin, like Obaasama did. She took a skillet and dropped in a chunk of butter. When it melted and the pan was close to smoking, she dropped the potato slices in. When their edges crisped and browned, she flipped them over, sprinkled with salt, and flipped them over again. When the potatoes were soft, she dribbled a little soy sauce over them and served.

  We were quiet as we ate those hot, delicious, buttery, salty potatoes with our chopsticks.

  “Fresh potatoes certainly are delicious!” Obaasama broke the silence.

  They were delicious, but to be honest, I couldn’t tell the difference between a fresh potato and one that wasn’t. McDonald’s french fries were delicious, too, and I doubt they were made from potatoes dug up the day before.

  But I responded, “They certainly are!” anyway.

  I knew what she was doing.

  Obaasama never hit me with scissors like she did to my mom and uncles, but she used them to make me cut off my hair. She certainly didn’t brand me like her father had done to her, but she locked me out like he did to her. I felt bad for Obaasama and her hard past, but . . . that didn’t make what she did to me right. With only a month left, I wasn’t about to let her unleash any more of her demons on me. I could keep from being a “rude, awful girl” for that amount of time. Sure, no problem.

  Our fight might have been over, and her story might have been my grandmother’s way of apologizing to me, but I couldn’t trust her anymore. I had to keep my guard up. No need to let it down again since October was just around the corner, and my last month in Japan was a time for endings.

  Twenty-Five

  No close friends in 6-5? That was okay. That meant no distractions either. The heat of the summer was gone and October’s cool, crisp temperatures turned the leaves into fiery oranges, reds, and yellows. Japan’s beautiful autumn called out, “Come outside, come outside.” But I resisted the temptation and spent a lot of my time inside instead. During break time? Study. Recess? Study. After eating lunch? Study. At Obaasama’s place? Study, study, study.

  When our class went to the school library, I stumbled upon a book called Ijimekko, which meant “bullies.” I flipped through it, read a few lines here and there, and realized I had read this book before . . . but in English! I checked the cover and sure enough, the book I held in my hands was the Japanese translation of a book I read about a year ago. The English title was different, but the author was the same. There were some kanji I didn’t know, but there was also furigana that helped me with those. Since I had read it before, I also already knew the story.

  Most importantly, the book was in the sixth-grade section of the library.

  I think I can read this, I thought to myself as I flipped through it. I can, I know I can read this.

  At that point, the girl who dug next to me at the potato patch asked, “What’s so great about that book?”

  I looked up. Behind her were Midori-chan, Naomi-chan, and Yamashita-san pretending not to look my way. Interesting that Saito-san wasn’t there. I hoped she continued to march to the beat of her own drum, even if it wasn’t with me.

  With less than a month left here, I just didn’t have the energy for more accidental drama. I shrugged and said, “I don’t know,” and kept on reading. I felt a pang of remorse when she walked away—had I been rude? But it was better safe than sorry. I resumed reading.

  Being with a book was way better than being stuck with people who weren’t kind to me.

  “Waka-chan, looks like you’re doing your best.” Mr. Adachi n
oticed me studying by myself during recess. “Ganbatteiru ne.” There was that phrase people said to me from Day One—“ganbatte.”

  I nodded. I would do my best.

  “May I hear?” he asked. He was on his smoke break. I brought my language arts textbook and joined him at his desk.

  And read.

  At the end of the page, I looked up. “Would you like me to continue?”

  He smiled. “Sure.”

  I read until the end, hardly believing he didn’t have any corrections or comments for me. I was reading!

  “So what do you think, Waka-chan?” Mr. Adachi put out his cigarette. “I think you’re ready. Do you believe you are?”

  “Yes,” I answered. I meant it this time.

  Just like when I first arrived, students read aloud, one right after the other, straight down the rows. Just like the time I froze and couldn’t read my paragraph, I waited as my turn to read came closer and closer. Unlike last time, though, I did not count how many students were before me. Because I knew the whole lesson and that I could read any paragraph I landed on.

  “Your turn, Waka,” Mr. Adachi announced.

  An unnatural quiet enveloped the class while I made it through my lines. My hands went cold and I stumbled once or twice. My voice shook, but I was able to control it. I certainly wasn’t the best reader in my class, but I also wasn’t the worst. I exhaled when I finished, and my entire class exhaled with me.

  No fanfare, no wild applause. Only a smile that crept over Mr. Adachi’s face as he prompted the student sitting in front of me. “Kurosawa! Your turn!”

  I did it. I finally did it!

  But I wasn’t done, not yet. For my last shuuji calligraphy lesson, Mr. Adachi assigned the kanji 白鳥. Shuuji wasn’t this horrible, pointless exercise that showed how bad I was at kanji, I realized. If I just concentrated on each stroke to the best of my ability, I’d get it right eventually.

  Firm placement of the brush, swoop down toward the left, trail off with a wisp. Strong, straight line down. The first character—“white”—was five strokes by itself. The second character—“bird”—was eleven strokes. I went through pages and pages of the thin, light rice paper, but instead of feeling frustrated like the first time I did shuuji, the whole process relaxed me more than stressed me out. Classmates brought beautiful characters to Mr. Adachi for his approval, but he found little things to correct every time and sent them back to their seats. Shuuji was about our effort and attitude more than a perfect final result. Still, in what seemed like much less time than it took to master the characters for my other shuuji lessons, Mr. Adachi swirled a red maru around my two characters, “white” and “bird.” Together, they formed the word for swan.

  It was good enough to show Obaasama when I got home, I thought. But then I caught myself. It’s not home. I kept it, but I ended up not showing it to her.

  As I got closer and closer to that elusive 100 percent on my kanji quizzes, I ramped up my studying. It was the middle of October, only two weeks before I was supposed to leave. I scored a 95 percent, missing only 流れる (nagareru), which meant “to flow.” It stung to be so close and not achieve my goal. Two weeks left, and only one more chance.

  With eight days left of school, Mr. Adachi gave us another kanji test—my last one. With each question, my confidence grew. When he returned the tests to us, none of my kanji were marked in red. Finally, 100 percent! I sure squeaked under the wire, but I did what I came here to do. My classmates in Kansas might have applauded, or let out a triumphant “Yes!” but after five months in Japan and watching the Olympics with my relatives, I knew there would be none of that grandstanding here.

  I couldn’t help but peek at my classmates’ test scores, though. Not many of them had the same score! I knew it wasn’t a competition, but I admit, it made me pretty darn happy. Suzuki-kun, who called me baka more times than I could count, left his test out on his desk. Seventy-five percent. He grumbled to himself as he grabbed his test and shoved it into his backpack. I left mine out on my desk. Look . . . I sent telepathic vibes his way. Over here. Look this way.

  When he looked up, I moved my test to the edge of my desk so he could see it better.

  Who’s the baka now, buddy?

  Twenty-Six

  “We should visit your cousins,” Obaasama announced one morning.

  “Together?”

  “Of course,” Obaasama responded. “But your aunt Noriko is so busy. I’d hate for her to have to come get—”

  I interrupted, forgetting my manners in the moment. “She wouldn’t have to come over. I could take you.”

  “You?” Obaasama asked, surprised.

  “Yes.” I was a little annoyed she doubted my ability to do this. “I know the way.”

  I worked through the train route in my head. We didn’t have to change trains that often. Since we were going on a Saturday, we didn’t need to worry about the hurly-burly of people during the rush hour.

  On the day of our trip, I wore jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. Why should I wear a skirt when I didn’t have to go to school? Obaasama fancied up, though—dress, hat, even gloves. When we walked to the train station together, I remembered to let her set the pace. It felt slow to me, but she handled the stairs to the platform with no problem.

  “Not bad for an old lady!” she pointed out with pride. She sat on a regular seat in the train, too, not one of the ones reserved for the elderly.

  The trains were practically empty, and while my grandmother closed her eyes like many people did on the train, I remained awake and aware. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than falling asleep and waking up not knowing where we were.

  At our last train change, I searched for a moment, not remembering exactly where we should go. I was pretty sure we were on the right platform, but I wasn’t 100 percent positive.

  “Are you sure this is it?” asked Obaasama.

  I was . . . but then I wasn’t. The train that waited there for us was silver, not an orange one like it had been in the past.

  Obaasama looked uncomfortable, so I found a station employee. “Excuse me. Does this train stop at Tsudanuma station?” He looked at the train and not me. There was nothing about my Japanese that made him wonder where I was from. To him, I was just an ordinary Japanese girl traveling with her grandma on the weekend.

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  I thanked him with much more enthusiasm than he expected, but I couldn’t contain my happiness about being treated like any ol’ normal Japanese girl. When we boarded our last train, I hopped on.

  At my cousins’ house, my aunt prepared a lavish dinner just like she did when I first arrived. Obaasama and my aunt and uncle talked while my cousins and I played card games. It was too chilly to play outside, and dark now too. I overheard my aunt asking, “Did you help Waka-chan figure out the trains at all?”

  “No,” Obaasama answered. “She knew the system better than I do.”

  “She’s really come a long way, hasn’t she?”

  I stayed the night, futon spread on the floor with my girl cousins, just like I did five months ago. But this time Obaasama was in the house too, enjoying family time because I helped her get here. Although the autumn cool had silenced the cicadas, I could still hear the train in the distance clicking and clacking over the tracks. I wasn’t scared like I was before, though, because the months that stretched ahead of me were now the months that stretched behind me. Their canary hopped in its cage, and my cousins breathed gently as they slept. For a brief moment I thought, I will miss them. But I shoved that thought away and focused on my little brother instead. I used to think he was so annoying, but now I couldn’t wait to see the little stinker again.

  Who did Obaasama look forward to seeing again? The thought flashed into my mind as I snuggled under my blankets. And before sleep enveloped me: Would Obaasama miss me?

  Back at Obaasama’s house, gingko nuts ripened and fell alongside the trees’ yellow, fan-shaped leaves. The nuts’ orange flesh stun
k up the yard.

  “It smells like something died and rotted under the house,” I complained to Reiko one afternoon.

  “Sure, but that means you have gingko nuts,” sighed Reiko. “I love gingko nuts.”

  Together, Obaasama and I gathered the nuts and rinsed off their orange pulp to reveal the pale, hard shell underneath. Then, we cracked open the shell to reveal the nutmeat, covered in a thin brown skin. We boiled them in salted water until finally, the brown skin peeled off to reveal the spring-green ginnan. They were chewy, salty, and delicious, and I got why Reiko liked them too. In a few days, there were enough to harvest again, so Obaasama and I gathered and rinsed the pulp off another batch of nuts to give Reiko and her family. We worked well together—efficient, like coworkers. Since we didn’t chat, we could concentrate on rinsing the slime off the ginnan, and not on anything like regret, or how awkward things had been between us since the Lockout.

  My time with Reiko was also near an end. Although I never had dinner at her house again after my fight with Obaasama, we still walked together to and from school. The ajisai flowers that caught my attention with their ever-changing pink and blue spheres were replaced by bright red and yellow leaves that fell and decorated our paths. One late-October afternoon, we found time to go shopping together. We spent one afternoon in the candy section of the Ito-Yokado department store, debating the pros and cons of every type of candy.

  “These are great.” She handed me a Choco Baby package.

  “Is there something special about them? They just look like little pellets of chocolate in cute packaging.” I shook the container.

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much all there is to them,” Reiko laughed as she put them back on the shelf. She found another item. “Have you ever had these?”

  I examined the packet of candy that looked like purple Smarties. “No, what are they?”

  “You like umeboshi, right? They’re umeboshi-flavored candy. If you ever feel tired, they’ll perk you right up!”