I decide to call home after I’m finished painting at the studio. Not because I’m planning on telling anyone Shoji called, but because I want to know if everything is okay. My brothers don’t normally call me—I’m still trying to figure out why Shoji made an exception last night.
I call Taro first. He sounds surprised to hear from me, which I guess is a good sign. If there’s a problem with Shoji, he must not know about it.
“Why are you calling?” He laughs into the phone awkwardly.
“I wanted to see how everything is back home,” I say carefully.
He grunts. “So are you and Jamie dating now? Mom says you guys are living together.”
“Mom exaggerates everything,” I say. “I’m just staying at his parents’ house while I look at schools.” I pause. “Have you hung out with Shoji lately? How is he?”
“Trying to pretend he’s a foreign exchange student living in our house, like he always is.” Taro laughs louder, sighing at the end like he finds himself incredibly amusing. “Did you know he speaks Japanese now?”
“I mean, I guess I assumed. I know he reads all those comics,” I say.
“Yeah, but he can actually speak it. Even Dad doesn’t know Japanese. It’s kind of weird.”
I raise my eyebrows even though we’re not in the same room. “I think it’s kind of cool. I wish I could speak Japanese.”
“Maybe.” Taro snorts. “I’m pretty sure he only learned it so he could cuss at Mom without her knowing.”
I stiffen. “What makes you say that?”
“Because every time she talks to him he starts muttering in a different language under his breath. What else would he be saying?”
“I bet she hates that.”
“Of course she hates it,” he agrees. “Can you imagine anything she hates more than not knowing what people are saying about her?” After a pause, he asks, “When are you coming back? Are you coming back?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “I’m still figuring it out.”
There’s a long, awkward silence. “Well, uh, I hope you’re having fun or whatever. I remember when I first moved out. It was great.”
“Yeah. It is,” I say. “What about you? Are you okay?”
“I’m always okay. You’re the one who lets her get to you too easily. You’re just wasting energy if you try to get her to understand anything. It’s easier to not care.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out like he’s bored. “Plus, I get to leave whenever I want, remember?”
And when there’s another long silence, I add, “Well, I’ll let you go.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you”—Taro laughs into the phone—“sometime?”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, even though both of us know “sometime” will be a long time from now. Because this is how we are with each other—we don’t linger.
After he hangs up, I call Mom because I’m still not positive everything is okay with Shoji. I don’t know what I’m expecting to hear. I guess I’m just trying to find out if something happened—if there was some kind of a massive fight or Shoji’s done anything out of the ordinary beyond muttering possible Japanese curse words under his breath.
Mom talks about her blog, and work, and a new show she’s watching.
“How are Taro and Shoji?” I ask, as delicately as I can.
She grunts noncommittally. “Still unable to cook a meal or clean a toilet. You know, sometimes I just want to sell the house, get a one-bedroom apartment, and tell them they can go live with their dad for a change. Let him see how hard it is.”
My chest tightens. I don’t want to argue with her—I want to ask about my brother. Because he opened a door last night—a door he might want me to look inside. But I don’t know how else to follow up on it without going through Taro or Mom. Even if my brother made a phone call, he’s still wearing his armor.
I think of something simple to ask, something that won’t set off any alarm bells. “Is Shoji still doing tae kwon do?”
Mom ignores my question. “Your dad had it so easy. I wish you guys could see that.”
I feel my head start to throb. “I don’t want to talk about Dad with you.” I want to talk about Shoji.
“Yeah, because you always side with him.”
All my organs start to feel tight and cramped, as if there’s not enough room for them. They’re being pushed out of the way to make room for all the frustration boiling inside of me. Maybe that’s why Shoji called—maybe his frustration is boiling over too. “Well, go get an apartment, then,” I snap.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “It was your suggestion. It’s not like Dad didn’t want to see us more.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Oh my God, why am I falling into this sand trap? Just stop talking, Kiko.
She sighs heavily into the phone. “I didn’t force your dad to stay away. He could’ve seen you guys as much as he wanted to.”
“I think maybe he thought it was easier for us to go to him. So you two didn’t have to fight,” I offer.
“Is that my fault? That he couldn’t have a mature conversation with his wife?” she growls.
“Ex-wife,” I mutter.
She keeps talking, the volume in her voice growing with every word. “He always blamed me for making it hard to see you guys, but he could have made more of an effort.”
My agitation builds. Sometimes I have an uncontrollable urge to defend Dad because he’s always defended me. I know he left, and maybe that wasn’t right, but he’s always felt more present in my life than Mom, and she was living in the same house as me. “You had full custody, Mom. You argued for that. He was trying to give you what you wanted.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have asked for it if I’d known I was going to be punished for it!”
“Mom, calm down. Nobody is punishing you.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. I think I made a mistake calling her today.
“If I could go back in time, I would never have married him. I was too young. I could’ve done so much better,” she says.
My eyes flash open. Okay, what’s that supposed to mean?
“People look at me different, you know. Having his last name. They treat me differently. It’s not easy when people look at you differently just because of a name.”
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“Of course you were never going to love my face—you can’t even love a name!”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
“You have a maiden name. Change it back.”
She tuts into the phone. “I’m not paying to have that changed. What, so Serena can say she’s the ‘real’ Mrs. Himura? No thanks.”
I roll my eyes. I want to tell her Serena isn’t as petty as she is, and that maybe Serena would be better off as the only Mrs. Himura because she probably thinks it’s beautiful and special and not in any way inferior.
But I don’t.
“I have to go, Mom.”
“Okay. Oh, by the way, have you read my last blog post?”
I clench my teeth. “I don’t read your blog.”
“It’s really good, you know. Everyone at works thinks so. I kind of feel like a celebrity.” She laughs.
I want to tell her I’ll read her blog when she looks at my sketchbooks, but I bite my tongue. I don’t want to engage anymore—I want the phone call to be over. “I’ll talk to you later.”