Then she asks, “Do you have . . . girlfriend?”
And now my hopes are in free fall. “I did. Jamie.” She takes a quick breath and looks away as this sinks in.
“She is not your girlfriend anymore?”
“No.”
I expect to see her nod her head, satisfied, but instead she says, “Nandé?”
“Um. She broke up with me because I—I lied to her.”
“Sana,” she says reproachfully.
“I thought she liked someone else, and I wanted to be with someone who only liked me, so I—I kissed someone else. I know it doesn’t make sense. And I didn’t tell her. And she found out and broke up with me.” My voice shakes a little and tears threaten to well up. I fight them back.
“You shouldn’t kiss so many people! And you shouldn’t lie. Of course she broke up with you. Kissing the person who isn’t your—your girlfriend—is bad. You will get a bad reputation.”
And then I give up fighting and let the tears come, because I hate who I’ve been and what I’ve done lately, and Mom clearly does, too. And yet it seems unfair for her to criticize, because who else has been kissing people they shouldn’t, and then lying about it to me? And worst of all, what if she’s disappointed not only in what I’ve done lately but who I’ve always been? The person I’ll always be? What will I do then?
“Sana.” Her voice is gentle.
“What?” I croak.
“Gomen-nasia. Warui koto iū-temōta ne.” Huh? “You suffered, too. And your father and I were the cause. Our lies to you. It was wrong of me to scold you, when we did wrong, too. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” Well, this is a first. “Okay.” I sniffle, and she hands me a tissue. “Though I think Dad owes me an apology, too.”
She nods.
But there’s still that other thing. “Aren’t you upset about me . . . having a girlfriend?”
“You are too young for girlfriend or boyfriend. And you don’t have girlfriend anymore.”
Okay, not what I meant, but whatever. I try again. “What about me being gay?”
Her shoulders rise, then fall. “I am surprised. I am sad. Your life will be more difficult. People will discriminate.” She looks at me, and I wait for her to go on, to tell me that I should work hard to act like everyone else. But she doesn’t.
“That’s it? Nothing else?”
Her forehead wrinkles, then she shakes her head. “No.”
“But . . . you just said that gay people aren’t normal. You even said once that we were freaks. You said we shouldn’t be out because it makes people uncomfortable.”
“Hn.” She nods her head in assent.
“But that’s . . . awful. You can’t call people freaks if you’re okay with them.”
“Freak is bad?”
“Freak is bad.”
She frowns, then waves her hand dismissively. “I meant that the gay are different—they are! You are!” I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off. “Chotto! Be quiet and listen to me. In Japan, be gay is not a sin like in America. Just different—you cannot deny that gay is different from most people. But in Japan, too different is uncomfortable for the other people. It’s disrespectful to make the other people uncomfortable. Even if you can’t help being different, it’s your duty to become like others. It’s your duty to fit in. So in Japan, the gay can’t be out of the cabinet. They can’t get married. They can’t have children.” She puts her hand on my back, gently. “But different is okay in America, even though I forget sometimes. You are okay, even though you are different.”
I’m floored. In the movie version of my life, I would now say softly, “I love you, Mom,” and she’d reply, “I love you, too, Sana.” And we’d hug each other and smile and weep and she’d kiss my hair and wipe away my tears and the scene would fade out.
In my real life, I can’t help thinking that there are still plenty of people in America who need reminding that different is okay: Glen Lake Country Club, and the cop outside the 7-Eleven, and Mrs. Lowell, for starters. But I decide to let it go for now and just be happy that my mother doesn’t think I’m bad—just different. And she’s okay with that. And that’s okay with me. She puts her arm around me and gives me an awkward squeeze. “It was good to talk,” she says. “I feel free.” Me, too. I close my eyes and soak it in.
Then I can’t help it. I say gently, “Mom, it’s out of the closet. Not the cabinet.”
“Erasō.” But she smiles, so I know she doesn’t really think I’m being a disrespectful smart aleck. “Futari de gamba-rō ne.” Let’s work hard and do our best together. In America, in English, “work hard” just means hard work. In Japan, it also means, “I’m rooting for you. I want you to succeed.” Maybe there’s no guarantee, like when American moms say, “It’s going to be great.” Because the reality is that life can be hard, and awful, and sometimes all you can do is keep working at it. But there’s hope. There’s a future together. I can work hard for that.
While I’m in the shower, Mom calls Dad to tell him to come home. He must not have been far, because I’m still combing my hair when he arrives.
“Tadaima,” he calls.
“Okairi,” Mom answers. I’m not quite ready to welcome him home, but I drift around the living room until he sits down on the couch and motions me over.
I sit gingerly on the edge of the couch and twist my fingers. I don’t know if I want to have this conversation with him. Hearing the story from Mom was weird enough. But to have to look my father the adulterer—or is it tragic hero?—in the eye and hear it from him is something else. We sit in silence for a moment before he speaks.
“Sana, gomen-nā,” he says. “I was selfish, chasing my own happiness and allowing you to worry. Your mother told you about Yūko-san and me. . . .”
“Yeah.”
“You must be very upset?”
“Yeah. No. Mostly confused, I guess.”
Dad looks at his feet, which are tapping nervously. He nods a couple of times, still looking at his feet, and then looks up at me and says, “Sana, I will never leave you and Mom, even for Yūko-san. But if you want me to stop seeing Yūko-san, I will.”
Whoa. I did not see that one coming. Do I really want to be the one to break up Dad and the woman he loves? Even if that woman isn’t Mom? Mom seems to be okay with it. Is it still cheating if your wife is okay with it? I think of everything that Mom has decided to accept because she wants me to be happy and to love who I love. If she can do it, maybe I can, too. “It’s okay,” I hear myself saying, “I still have to think about it, but I think it’ll be okay.” I say those words again inside my head, hold them in my heart, and wait to see how they feel.