“It’s okay. I don’t really like the water,” I say.
Hiroshi points his finger in front of him like he’s using it to focus on me. “I can see you, Kiko. You love the water. Why are you trying to hide yourself?”
I’m not prepared to answer such a very big question.
He leans against the railing. “My father never wanted me to paint. In fact, he only wanted me to do what he himself approved of first. Because you see, to my father, my purpose in life was not to follow my dreams. It was to bring him happiness. He had a very strong understanding of what I needed to do in order to make him happy. And if I wasn’t making him happy, well, then, what was the point of having children?
“I wasted a lot of time trying to be the son he wanted because I thought failing him meant that I was failing in life. Anytime he was unhappy, I thought it was my fault. If he was angry at me, I felt to blame. He always found a way to make me feel as if I had let him down in some way.” Hiroshi straightens his back. “At his funeral, I overheard some people referring to him as ‘Starfish.’ I asked them why they gave him that nickname, and they told me it was because he always had to be the center of attention. Like the legs of a starfish, all pointing to the middle. He thought he was the center of all things.” Hiroshi laughs. “All that time growing up, I thought I was the only one who could see. I thought nobody understood the way he was. I thought I was the problem. But some people are just starfish—they need everyone to fill the roles that they assign. They need the world to sit around them, pointing at them and validating their feelings. But you can’t spend your life trying to make a starfish happy, because no matter what you do, it will never be enough. They will always find a way to make themselves the center of attention, because it’s the only way they know how to live.”
I feel like all my blood has drained away and I am left standing and empty.
A sense of clarity washes over me, and all the images I’ve collected of my mother over the years start to morph into something different. For the first time in my life, I really see her.
The mother I’ve always wanted isn’t real; she’s a dream. And not every dream comes true. Sometimes a wishing star turns out to be just a lump of rock that crashes into a planet and kills all the dinosaurs. Mom’s not a shooting star—she’s a starfish.
And for the briefest, smallest moment in time, I feel like I don’t have a mother at all.
Hiroshi pulls himself away from the balcony and places a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t live to please the starfish, especially when their happiness is at the expense of yours. That is not love. That is narcissism. There’s an entire ocean out there, Kiko—swim in it.”
After he goes inside, it takes me a while to move. When I look over my shoulder, I see Jamie watching me with the same adoring smile he has from the first time I met him.
Jamie is not a starfish. Not even close.
? ? ?
I draw a very small fish swimming in the ocean and realizing it’s filled with planets and stars.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
When Mom tells me she’s kicked Uncle Max out of the house, I think she’s making fun of me.
“I’m serious, Kiko. I’m so mad at him.” She’s talking really fast, like she’s building up to an explosion.
“But . . . why?” Has she changed her mind? Is this her way of trying to get me to come back home?
“He’s been taking money from me.” Mom scoffs into the phone so loud I can practically hear the spit hit the speaker.
I try not to let my chest rise, but it’s really, really hard not to. “You caught him stealing?”
“I’ve been noticing money has gone missing from my purse for weeks, but at first I thought it was me being forgetful. But then I found all this stuff in Max’s room. New clothes, a new watch, a ton of cigarettes. He doesn’t have a job—there’s only one place he could get the money.” She spits again. “I can’t believe my own brother would be so horrible to me. After everything I’ve done for him. It makes me so sad.”
I lie back on the bed and drop my hand to my chest. It would have been nice if she’d just believed me the first time, but I guess this is better than nothing. At least he’s out of the house.
“Don’t you think so? Don’t you think it’s terrible?” She wants validation—an acknowledgment that she’s been wronged.
“Yeah, it sucks.” I pause. “Is he gone for good?”
“Oh, for sure. I will never forgive him for using me like this. I don’t even care if we never talk again.” I don’t know why, but she laughs.
I sit up irritably. This is the proverbial straw that broke the relationship between Mom and Uncle Max. Clothes and cigarettes. Not what happened when I was a kid. Not what happened a few weeks ago.
Mom’s listening for a reaction from me. She has to know what I’m thinking, right? She must know how infuriating this is for me.
“So,” she starts, “are you going to come home now? You don’t have to worry about your stuff going missing.”
“I’m doing pretty well out here,” I say truthfully. “I was thinking it might be good for me to stay. I might get into Brightwood.”
“This all seems really dramatic. I don’t understand why you just won’t come home.”
“I was never going to live at home forever,” I point out.
“Yeah, but Taro and Shoji don’t help with anything around here. They never take turns cooking or cleaning. I have to do everything by myself. It’s not easy, you know—to feel like you spend your whole life with people walking all over you. I want you to come home. I need someone to talk to.”
Oh my God, is there a compliment buried in there somewhere? “Are you trying to tell me you miss my cooking?” I ask. Or that you actually miss me? I think.
“I mean, it’s nice to have someone cook for you,” she says. I count the silence for five seconds. “You can send me pictures of your drawings, you know. I am interested.”
“I sent you pictures before, remember?” I feel like there are bugs crawling over me and I keep fidgeting to fight them off—tiny little anxious bugs that are trying to eat me alive.
“I was busy before,” she insists. “I had a lot on my mind with the whole money thing. But I promise I’ll look at them this time.”
I want to challenge her, or suggest she’s making it up, or point out how she’s never been interested in my entire life. But I don’t.
Because as a daughter who craves her mother’s love, I consider this a win.
? ? ?
I text Mom pictures of all my newest sketches as soon as I hang up the phone. I can’t help myself—I get hopeful and excited over the possibility of Mom thinking I’ve done well at something.
Five hours pass. I paint with Hiroshi. I get coffee with Jamie. I sketch on his parents’ balcony.
Mom never writes back.