“I’ve got to run,” I said, sensing a new list of their alleged slights was forthcoming. The problem was separation: the way the Shimura men whisked my father off to the golf course, leaving my mother with Aunt Norie, who always forgot she didn’t like fish or other foods of the sea. My aunt had also laughed at my mother when she wanted to ship home an antique ceramic urinal. I was with my mother on that one. The blue-and-white urinal looked great planted with California poppies.
“What are you doing today?” My mother was unwilling to let me go.
“Oh, I thought I’d go shopping, maybe look for some wood-block illustrations,” I improvised.
“Really! Keep an eye out for me. Remember, I don’t care about age, I’m looking for color and line and as little water damage as possible…”
My mother and I both loved Japanese antiques. Since she was an interior decorator, looks were more important than history. I was more into age, but my budget limited me to small, often damaged pieces. Still, everything I bought filled me with joy. I also realized that if you hung enough kimono and wood-block prints on the walls, it diverted the eye from peeling paint and made things cozy enough that you almost forgot the lack of central heat.
I hung up the phone and started doing dishes under a trickle of cold water that I knew wouldn’t heat up until I was through. I thought about my mother’s request; it would be easy to go to Oriental Bazaar, a gleaming emporium aimed at foreigners, to find the kind of prints she wanted. That held no challenge, though.
The telephone rang again and I let the answering machine kick on. When I heard the voice of a Japanese man speaking fluent English, I shut off the sniveling tap and ran to pick up.
“You’re back sooner than I expected, cuz,” I greeted Tom Shimura, son of my mother’s mortal enemy.
“I’m still en route—at the train station, actually—but called in and got the message. What is up?” Tom’s enthusiasm for colloquialisms always made me smile.
“I have a Japanese medical document that I can’t understand.”
Tom’s voice lowered to a confidential level. “Is it your medical record? Don’t tell me you finally went in for your annual?”
The fact my cousin knew I was overdue for any kind of doctor visit annoyed me. Had he been through my St. Luke’s records himself? I steeled myself into politeness and said, “Actually, I haven’t. But I was wondering whether you know anything about autopsies?”
“Sure. I dictated plenty of them when I was training. Why?”
“I’ll tell you when we get together.”
“You want to see me today? I’ll be in Yokohama by lunchtime.”
“Tell me where,” I said, astounded at my luck. Tom was the busiest man I knew.
“Could you stand a trip to the suburbs? My father’s gone back to work in Hiroshima, so we’ve been quite lonely. Oksan—Mom—will be thrilled to have somebody new to cook for.”
“Please tell her not to go to any trouble.”
“Trouble? We’re still eating our way through the New Year’s leftovers. Consider yourself performing a public service.”
On the well-groomed street leading to my cousin’s house, every driveway held a car sparkling from the culturally-mandated New Year’s washing, some with holiday ornaments decorating the grilles. Tom’s Honda Accord was no exception. The decoration of pine twigs tied with washi paper looked like it had been crafted by the same person who had done the exuberant arrangement of pine, bamboo, and plum by the front door: Aunt Norie, Yokohama’s own Martha Stewart.
“Rei-chan, you shouldn’t have!” my aunt said when I presented her with a small jar of Indonesian vanilla beans. I would probably be “little Rei” to her the rest of my life, but didn’t really mind.
Tom came downstairs and gave me an awkward, light embrace that he’d probably learned in America, as no one else in his family had gotten to the point of touching me yet. Some things were just too foreign.
“Can you recognize me? This overwork at the hospital…I need to join a health club or something.” Tom poked at his barely rounded stomach.
“You look great, Tom,” I said. Aunt Norie had confided she’d received almost a dozen calls from brokers active in the arranged marriage scene. Tom, however, would have none of it.
For lunch, Aunt Norie served scallops au gratin, a cucumber salad, sake-simmered lotus root, spinach-sesame rolls, and pickled eggplant left over from New Year’s. She said, “Please tell your mother how much we enjoy that vinegar she sent for my birthday! It’s on the salad. But I don’t understand what it is, exactly.”