“But what about you?”
For a moment, a ghost of something—grief? pain?—flits across her face. But I blink and her face is set back in its usual no-nonsense expression, her mouth pressed into a hard, straight line, and I wonder if I just imagined it.
“I am not in love with your father,” she says firmly. “Yūko-san, who loves him, never complained. She suffered and endured heartbreak.”
Gaman. “But so did you.”
She twists her wedding ring, remembering. “Before I married your father, yes, I suffered. But the man I was engaged to did not have gaman. He had no patience for suffering. He had no patience for enduring. And I have no use for a man like that.” Mom looks at me. “Your father works hard, he makes money for us to be comfortable, and he is kind. He loves you. He cares for me. I care for him. That is a good family. That is all I need.”
“But it’s not a good family! It’s not fair! You can’t just accept stuff like that. You don’t have to have gaman.”
“And if I don’t have gaman, then what? Your father leaves Yūko-san and we are all sad together for the rest of our lives? Or I divorce your father and become a single mother, and make my family in Japan sad, as well? No matter what, we suffer. This arrangement is the best way. This way, we all get what we need.”
“No, we don’t. They get everything. You only get—”
“I have what I need,” she says again. “And Yūko-san does not have everything. She does not have a family. She does not have a daughter.” Mom looks straight at me and takes my hand, and I feel my heart soften and my throat tighten. But I’m not done fighting yet.
“But what about me? I get a dad who’s never home. I get a dad who cheats on my mom, and who knows how long he’ll stick around, and my mom just sits by and lets it happen.”
She sighs, and strokes my hair. “It’s hard for you, I know. I’m sorry. Your father is very, very sorry. But he’s an honorable man—”
“He’s a cheater.”
“No. I told you already, he loves you. He will not abandon us. I’ve known him since we were children, and I know this about him.” It still doesn’t seem fair. She takes my face in her hands and looks me in the eye. “Don’t be angry at your father or Yūko-san. Don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve thought about it many times, and many times again, and no matter how I look at it, this is the best way. I am content. I could have left your father and gone back to Japan with you—some Japanese wives do. But I stayed here because I want to have a strong, independent daughter who can grow up to be whatever she wants, and who can love whoever she wants. You can live the life that your father and Yūko-san could not.
“Your father didn’t want you to know. I tried to tell him that you were ready when we moved here, but he wasn’t ready to tell you. And then you figured it out on your own—it was only a matter of time for a smart girl like you. You are stronger and more independent than I was prepared for. I suppose that’s what happens when you grow up in America. Perhaps I need to give you more room to grow.” She smiles ruefully. “Sometimes the parents have to run to catch up with their children, instead of the other way around.”
37
MOM STROKES MY HAIR ONE MORE TIME, LETS her hand linger on my shoulder for a moment, and then withdraws it and resettles herself next to me on the bed.
My head is spinning. Nothing is what I thought it was. It’s like my life was a sinking ship, and Mom has just plunked me into a lifeboat, but I can’t figure out how to work the oars. The villains are the long-suffering and lovelorn victims; the long-suffering victim is the gallant heroine. I still want to be angry with Dad and That Woman—I mean, Yūko—but how can I be when they’re just two people in love? It’s the story of Yama-sachi and Toyo-tama-himé. No wonder Dad loved it so much. I want to feel sorry for Mom, and mad at her for letting all of this happen to her, because no matter what she says about being content, she got a raw deal. But how can I when she helped make it happen? She and Dad stayed married for me—so that I could grow up here. Would she have been happier with a divorce? Would I?
Then there’s all that stuff she said about me. She wants to let me be stronger and more independent. She’s going to give me more space. She wants me to be able to love whoever I want. Is she dropping a hint here? Does she know more than I gave her credit for?
I realize that Mom is waiting for me to say something. And I realize that now, after she’s let me in on the Secret of Dad and Yūko, this would be a good time to tell her the Secret of Sana and Jamie. Though I guess it’s just the Secret of Sana now.
“So you know how you said that you wanted me to grow up and love whoever I want to love?” She eyes me warily. Not good. “Well, um.” I clear my throat. There’s still time. I can still back out. I could just ask her something innocuous, like if she’d be okay with it if one day I married a white American. But I feel the weight of my secret again, dragging me down, like the secret of the phone number and the earrings. Like Mom and Dad’s secret. And I remember that hiding the truth doesn’t stop things from being true. Not talking about things doesn’t stop them from happening. Pretending that a thing is something else doesn’t change its true nature.
And I don’t need to pretend to be something else. I don’t want to be anything but what I am. And I don’t want to hide my true self anymore, like Toyo-tama-himé did. So I close my eyes, brace myself, and plunge ahead. “I’m gay.”
She blinks. “Gay?”
“Lesbian. I like girls. Like, romantically. Instead of boys.”
Her mouth makes a little “o,” but no sound comes out. Then she closes her mouth and nods her head once. I wait. And wait. Finally, I can’t wait anymore. I have no gaman left. “Are you okay?”
“Hn.” She nods again. “Sōka.” So that’s the way it is.
More waiting. “What? What are you saying? You’re okay with it?”
“Hnnn.” Then silence. Then, “You are so young. Are you sure? How do you know?”
“I’m sure. I just know, that’s all.”
“For how long?”
“Since it started mattering, I guess. But it’s not like I woke up one day and I was gay. I sort of . . . figured it out. It’s just the way I am.”
She stares at her fingers as she twists them in her lap. I can’t tell how she feels, but she seems to be taking it well. She looks up at me. “I read in the magazine that the gay can’t change to normal.”
“I am normal, Mom.”
Mom shakes her head. “No. Gay is not normal. If gay is normal, then everybody is gay.”
“It’s normal for me.”
She scoffs, as if she’s never heard anything more ridiculous. My heart contracts as my hopes for this conversation, which had been rising, begin to sink.