While I Was Away Read online

  I did enjoy eating super sour-salty pickled umeboshi plums with my rice, but I couldn’t imagine what they’d taste like as a candy. Even diluted with tea, too large a bite of umeboshi would make my lips pucker and my eyes squint with their tartness. Reiko looked at me with so much anticipation, though, and I remembered how I felt waiting for Obaasama to eat the finger Jell-O I made.

  “Okay, I’ll try them.” I put them in my basket. “Yan Yan!” I exclaimed as I spotted one of my favorite treats I hadn’t been able to find in the US. Little shortbread cookie sticks with dipping chocolate on the side. “Oh, and these—”

  I found a plain yellow box with white lettering on the front, about the size of a deck of cards.

  “Morinaga caramels?” asked Reiko.

  “Obaasama used to have them as a kid.” I added the plain box to my pile.

  “These are like caramels, but creamier.” Reiko found a small bag of Milkys. “Maybe we can share.”

  We rode the escalators up past the clothing floors and into the stationery section to search for presents for Annette and Kris. They wanted cute stationery, pencils, and erasers since no stores in Kansas carried these items I’d grown to love.

  “Do you think you’ll come back next summer?” asked Reiko.

  I didn’t think so. Too soon.

  “Maybe the next year, then? We’d be fourteen . . .” Reiko mentioned.

  The last time I talked with my mother, she told me I could attend summer camps if I wanted, instead of coming back to Japan. Fourteen means I’d be getting ready for high school too. My older brother didn’t come here because being in high school meant he was too busy.

  I fiddled with a cute light-blue pencil box. It had separate, removable compartments for pencils and one for erasers. On the outside, illustrations of Peter Rabbit and his sisters Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail.

  It was too hard to say this was probably goodbye for good.

  So I told Reiko, “Maybe,” instead.

  On a sunny Saturday in October, I went to my last day of school in Japan. Since Saturday classes lasted only a half day, we ended my time at school with a celebration with my classmates from 6-5. Since I was the person being celebrated, I couldn’t hang out in the margins as I’d grown used to doing. As we walked to the park outside of the school grounds where Mr. Adachi arranged for my farewell party to take place, girls peppered me with questions.

  “Waka-chan, are you excited about going back to America?”

  “I can’t believe you’ve been away from home as long as you have. My mom won’t even let me travel outside of Tokyo by myself!”

  “What are your classes going to be like, Waka-chan?”

  “When are you leaving? I want to make you something before you go.”

  “If I write to you, will you write me back? I want to have an American pen pal!” exclaimed Emi-chan.

  Fujita-san nudged her. “But Waka’s Japanese.”

  I waited for a chorus of contradictions, of Gaijin! Gaijin! But there were none.

  Emi-chan thought for a second. She nodded. “You’re right. But it still would be nice to be pen pals.”

  Ever since Mr. Adachi stopped skipping me for reading, my relations with my classmates improved. Sometimes I would be talking with a girl from my class right before recess and then it would be easy to continue talking during recess. And then we’d play. Granted, there were other times when that didn’t happen, and I was left without anyone to play with. But it was strange how at some point, the loneliness of the previous months changed and . . . sometimes I didn’t mind being alone at all. In fact, I felt free.

  At the end of the party, Mr. Adachi made me stand with him in front of all my classmates, just like my very first day.

  “Everyone, gather round! As you know, this is Waka-chan’s last day.”

  How long I’d waited for this day! But now that it was finally here, my breath caught in my chest as I saw the sad expressions on some of my classmates’ faces.

  “I know it’s a sad day, since she has gotten along well with all of you. Made friends.”

  I might have made better friends . . . and been a better friend in return, had I done some things differently, I thought. But what would I have done differently? What if I told them from the very beginning this guruupu idea was silly? Would other girls have spoken up and said they thought so too? Now, I would never know.

  “I’m sure you’ve all noticed how much her Japanese has improved, right? It really has.” He turned to me and the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, just like Mrs. Davenport’s, just like they did the first day of school.

  My classmates smiled at me. Okay, the boys who made fun of me didn’t, but they didn’t make an effort to contradict Mr. Adachi.

  “And she’s so smart she’s going back to seventh grade, not sixth grade like you.”

  I sighed. I appreciated all the nice things Mr. Adachi said, but the whole she’s-so-smart-she-skipped-a-grade story wasn’t true at the beginning of my stay, and it wasn’t true now.

  There were probably things I should have said to him then, such as thank you for giving up your breaks to tutor me, thank you for never being impatient with me, ever, and even though I don’t think you should smack kids on the head as much as you do, thanks for defending me against the boys who made fun of me. But I didn’t say anything. I simply bowed at the end of his speech, happy it was finally over.

  Then, he presented me with a signed placard. Square, white, and rimmed in gold, with a Mickey Mouse clad in red, white, and blue stars and stripes clothing in the middle. Each of my classmates had signed it starting from Mickey and radiating outward like rays of the sun. Messages such as “Come back to Japan again soon!” and “Don’t forget me! Here’s my address” and “I don’t want to say goodbye, but the time has come!” adorned it. The messages from my former guruupu were the shortest ones on the placard. “Don’t forget me,” “Be well,” and “Goodbye.” I’m not sure what Midori wrote, since she didn’t sign her name at all. Outspoken and always-different Saito-san signed with “Hey, here’s my birthday, don’t forget.” Another girl who I always thought was nice, but didn’t talk with much since we were in different groups, wrote, “Let’s be friends forever, okay?” I felt a pang of regret when I read her note. I didn’t feel we were very close to begin with, but now I would never find out if we could have been. Several other kids (who also didn’t sign their names) wrote, “Practice your kanji.” I’m pretty sure these were the boys. Mr. Adachi’s message was the longest:

  What did you think of Japanese school? I hope it was fun. You’ve really become skilled at reading, and your writing has improved as well. You’ve learned so much kanji—you worked hard, didn’t you? I truly hope you enjoy your life in America. Please come back to Japan sometime.

  Farewell,

  Mr. Adachi

  Farewell, Mr. Adachi.

  Farewell, Tall-Girl-Jock-Life.

  Farewell, 6-5.

  Farewell, farewell, farewell.

  Twenty-Seven

  During that Sunday, the very last day before my father picked me up, I packed and repacked, wrapping my souvenirs in my socks so they wouldn’t break on my way home, double-checking to make sure all my stationery supplies were safely tucked away. I was busy, isogashii. The kanji for “busy” is a combination of kanji parts that mean “to forget” and “soul”: 忙. To “forget one’s soul” might seem like a bad thing, but not for me. Being busy kept me from thinking too much about anything difficult or sad except everything that needed to be done.

  “Are you sure you have everything?” asked Obaasama in the midst of my packing.

  “I think so,” I answered without looking up.

  “Okay then . . .” She stood there for a moment. Almost like she wanted to say something.

  I waited but all she said was “I’ll go feed the koi then.”

  “All right.”

  There went Obaasama, to tend to her koi again. The way she fed them, it was a surprise they
weren’t the size of whales. The weather was cool enough that the mosquitoes were gone, so I could join her, but . . . my anger at her was gone and in its place was . . . regret? Regret at what? For putting my guard up? No, I had to.

  But enough about that! I didn’t have time for such thoughts. I had to pack! I didn’t remember bringing much. So how did I end up with so much stuff? My dad, who I hadn’t seen for five months, would be here soon and I wasn’t ready. I mean, I had been ready for a while, but I wasn’t ready ready.

  My dad had told us what train he’d be on, so Obaasama and I knew exactly what time to wait for him by the sliding door that led out to the back gate. There was only one way to our house from the station so I kept watching the street, waiting. Never one to be still, Obaasama left to tidy up the kitchen (again) before my father arrived. I almost offered to help her. I didn’t, though, because I wanted to wait at the door for my dad.

  While I was away, Dad wrote me a few postcards and we talked on the phone some. We always kept it short, though, because of how pricey long-distance calls were. Would he be surprised to see how much I’d grown, to hear how much Japanese I could speak now? I hoped so. Where was he?

  I saw him before he saw me.

  Even though throngs of people walked back and forth down the street, and bicycles whizzed by, ringing their bells alerting people to get out of their way, everything seemed to slow down and fall silent when I saw him. He was dressed differently, more conservatively than he would have at home. No polyester plaid pants and striped polos this time, just dark dress pants and a light-blue collared shirt I hadn’t ever seen him wear before. It looked stiff and uncomfortable. Then, he looked up and saw me. His face broke out into a grin and he waved. I raised my hand and gave a quick wave back before I ran into the house.

  “Obaasama! Obaasama! Otousan kita yo!” I shouted at my grandmother as she dried dishes in the kitchen. Dad’s here!

  “Oh.” She wiped her hands on her apron before she untied its straps and set it aside.

  Obaasama and I waited in the doorway for my dad to come through the gate. When he finally made it up the two steps to our house, he patted my shoulder heartily. But he didn’t have to reach down so low. I was up past his shoulders now.

  “Oh, Waka! Ookikunatta ne!”

  “She has grown, hasn’t she?” replied Obaasama.

  My dad bowed deeply. “Thank you so much for taking care of her. You look well.”

  Obaasama bowed in return. “She really was no trouble. Please, come in.”

  First, my father presented my grandmother with gifts, omiyage, he brought from the United States. Over the past five months, I learned how customary it was to bring gifts when visiting someone, and especially to people who had done you a favor. Obaasama sure had done my parents a huge favor by taking me in—I understood this now.

  My father presented Obaasama with the items I came to expect from the care packages I received: Pepperidge Farm cookies, boxes of Jell-O, unfrosted Pop Tarts.

  “What’s this?” asked Obaasama as she pulled a vegetable peeler out of the gift bag.

  “I thought you could use one,” I piped up. “May I show you?”

  She nodded. “Iiyo.”

  I unwrapped the vegetable peeler from its packaging and grabbed a potato—there were still a few from the school trip.

  I turned on the faucet, rinsed the potato, and peeled, shoop, shoop, shoop . . . lightning quick!

  “See how quickly it peels?” I asked Obaasama.

  She nodded. “Yes, I see.”

  “You just have to be careful of your fingers.”

  “All right.”

  I rinsed the potato off and handed her the peeler. “I thought it could save you some time.”

  “Thank you.” She dried it and put it in a drawer filled with other kitchen utensils.

  “Um, what should I do with this potato?” I asked. I was so eager to show her the peeler that I hadn’t thought whether Obaasama wanted potatoes for dinner or not.

  She took it from my hands.

  “You go sit with your father. I’ll get some tea.”

  As my father, grandmother, and I sat and sipped tea, I felt . . . weird. My father was from one part of my life and Obaasama was from another. Although my father was Japanese, he was from my American life, and my Obaasama was from my Japanese one.

  “Our house feels empty now, with Aya off at college and Waka in Japan,” remarked my father.

  “Yes, well, I’m sure Waka is looking forward to going back,” responded Obaasama.

  “Yes! Well, we’re looking forward to having her back.”

  Sip, my father took a sip of his tea.

  Sip, Obaasama took a sip of her tea.

  Sip, I took a sip of my tea.

  “Work is going well. I think my paper at the conference was received well enough . . .” My father discussed briefly the business he combined with his trip to Japan to pick me up. Should I be my Japanese self now, or my American one? I couldn’t decide, so I was silent.

  “I should go over and thank the Kobayashis,” my father announced.

  “That’s a good idea,” agreed Obaasama. I let out a sigh of relief. It would be nice to play with Reiko one last time.

  While my father presented Reiko’s mother and father with their omiyage and thanked them for taking care of me, Reiko and I talked about how we’d keep in touch.

  “I’m good at keeping in touch,” I told Reiko. “I must have written hundreds of pages of letters to my friends in Kansas!”

  Reiko nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll write all my letters on cute stationery,” she promised.

  “The stationery isn’t as nice in America,” I sighed. “So I apologize for the boring paper I’ll have to use.”

  Reiko laughed. “You know I don’t care what kind of paper your letters are on. Just that you write!”

  “Oh, I’ll definitely write,” I promised.

  Reiko’s little sister bounced by. “Will you write to me too? Please?”

  I smiled. “Of course I will.”

  “It will be fun to have a pen pal,” Reiko said.

  Then, we played cards until the grown-ups finished their conversation, keeping our sadness at bay with rollicking games of Speed and Baba-nuki, the Japanese version of Old Maid. When my father and I left Reiko’s house, their entire family gathered in the doorway while we walked across the street back to my grandmother’s house. When I turned around to look back, they were still there, Reiko and Tomoko waving and waving.

  Finally, it was time to say goodbye to Obaasama. Frankly, I was ready—the intersection of my current world with my former and future world had become so uncomfortable I could barely handle the tension between the two. I was ready to go back. Finally. Finally, I was going home! But . . . why didn’t I feel happy? I did, I did feel happy . . . I think. I couldn’t wait to be back in my own bed, to see Annette and Kris. To get my locker at school with all my other classmates! To be back with my family, even my brothers. To see my mom. To let down my guard, at last, to be myself without having to wonder if that was okay. Obaasama would be glad to have her place back to herself again too. Without a doubt.

  I walked through the house one last time to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Nothing in the restroom. Nothing in the bedroom Obaasama and I had shared, my futon and bedding put back away in the closets with the sliding doors, and the Singer sewing machine tucked away too. None of my clothes left drying near the o-furo bath. In the living room, the altar with my grandfather’s photo looking back at me was exactly as it was when I had arrived. The only thing different was the clay horse I made for Obaasama in the special glass case with her wedding china.

  The clock on the wall ticked as loudly as it did when I arrived at the end of May.

  Taro-chan hopped back and forth in his cage.

  “Taro-chan, sayonara.” I tried to communicate with Obaasama’s black mynah bird one last time.

  Taro cocked his head when he looked at me. “Sayonara,�
�� he responded in my grandmother’s voice.

  I laughed. A proper conversation at last! But then he was quiet, and I wished he would crow like a rooster one more time for me, or shout “Whoa, Nelly!” to break the silence I already felt settling like a fog onto Obaasama’s home.

  I walked toward the sliding door behind the kitchen where my father waited for me.

  I slipped on my shoes, stepped outside, and turned to face Obaasama as she stood in the doorway.

  “We’ll let you know when we arrive home.” Dad bowed to Obaasama. “Thank you again for taking such good care of Waka.” Turning to me, he gently prompted, “Waka, it’s time to say goodbye.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t say, “Ittemairimasu” like I usually did since it meant “I’ll go and come back.” So I bowed and said only, “Sayonara,” which is more like a “farewell” or a “goodbye,” and was what everyone had been saying to me and what I’d been saying to everyone else. But this was my grandmother. All I had was “Sayonara”?

  Obaasama stood quietly and looked at me and I wondered if she’d just say the same back to me. “Ja, Waka-chan . . .” I met her gaze. To my surprise, she was smaller than when I arrived, or maybe I was just bigger. Funny how I’d just noticed that. While I had experienced her dragon-like fury firsthand, right now she just looked small and deflated. Frail, even.

  Her voice trailed off.

  “Genki de ne. . . .” Be well.

  And then she did something I was completely unprepared for.

  Her chin quivered.

  What? No! Was she . . . crying? But Obaasama’s thick glasses magnified her eyes so I could see without a doubt my strong, independent grandmother was indeed . . . No, stop, please. Please, don’t cry, I thought as her eyes filled with tears behind her thick glasses. Tears I never saw when she told me about her beloved husband whose death left her a single mother, tears she didn’t shed when she talked about her young daughter’s death, tears that didn’t form when she told me about the mother she lost when she herself was only a young girl, tears that didn’t well up in her eyes when she told me about her father’s cruelty, and leaving home never to see her family again.