No Ordinary Love (20 page)

We’re now at nine, for inappropriate comments.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.

“Nothing.”

“You didn’t just say that. What did I do now?” She had the nerve to sound hurt.

At least she’s not talking about
him
.

“Nothing, Mom. I’m just getting a headache.”

“Are you drinking the water there?”

“No, of course not,” I lied.

“Good. It’s not clean.”

Hmmm. This could be inappropriate comment number ten, or just a plain stupid theory. I’ll have to go to the judges.

“I would never drink the water overseas,” Mom said. “It’s not cleaned correctly. Most of those countries aren’t as progressive as America.”

“Clearly.” I yawned into the phone, hoping she got the hint that I was tired. “I should go soon, Mom.”

“Don’t you want to know what your father said in his last letter?”

And now I really need to get off of the phone.

“I think I’ve got enough letters from Dad. I don’t need to hear about his other correspondence,” I said.

“Ny, your dad has said time and time again that he didn’t send those letters,” she assured me. “It’s just one of those criminals he helped on a case. The ones that made him take the money.”

“Yeah, they forced him to take those bribes.”

“They did.”

“Well, I don’t believe him. I bet it’s him writing those nasty letters to me.” My headache shifted to hammering against my skull. “Anyway, I have to go.”

“Wait, he told me that he wants him and me to start again, as soon as he gets out.”

“Of course he does. You have an apartment, job, and car. He needs somewhere to stay and be catered to. Who else but his … ” I paused from talking, realizing that I may have been going too far. Mom was a lot of things, but she was never deserving of my being an asshole to her.

“Go ahead, Ny. Why else would your father be with me, right?” she asked. “I’m not pretty or in shape, my body has sagged and wrinkled. What else would a man like him want from me?”

A man like him? Give me a fucking break. He’s nothing.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I know the truth of the situation.”

“No, you don’t.” I buried my head into my hands. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you, but I have mirrors in my home.”

“You really are beautiful,” I said again but knew it fell on deaf ears.

How many times had I told her those words and she never believed me? How many times had I stared in the mirror with her, a little kid holding my teddy bear, watching her cake on tons of makeup as she cried, claiming she still was ugly? How many times had I sat right next to her and gazed at both of our reflections, seeing our similarities and realizing the truth …
if she thinks she’s ugly, then I must be, too.

I was the spitting image of her.

It must’ve taken me a year of being away from my mom to realize my own self-worth, and still Zo claims I have issues with insecurity.

“I have to take what I can get these days, honey. You’ll understand when you get older,” Mom said. “You’re young now, but the years are crashing down, Ny. There will be a time when you wake up and look in the mirror and have no idea whose body is staring back at you. Then you’ll have to take what you can get, too.”

Then I’ll be putting stock into the vibrator industry.

I rubbed my face with both hands, almost dropping the phone. There was a process with talking to her. I had to make sure I was never fully present in the conversation, for fear I’d let those worries seep into my pores. Logic told me that what she said was bullshit. Common sense pointed to the fact that she had serious issues with insecurity and whatever else a counselor could pick out.

Women were more than their bodies and faces. Right? Our insides counted, too, as well as our tits and ass. All of these thoughts did their best to serve as a helmet over my brain to block my mom’s bullshit away. But sometimes in my most vulnerable moments, like tonight, I often wondered …

What if she’s right?

“Your dad should be out in a year,” she continued.

“Why that’s just awesome.” I didn’t even try to sound excited.

We both knew how I felt about him. As soon as the media persecuted Dad, she forgave him for leaving us. Not me. He could die all alone for all I cared. I’d been a Daddy’s little girl after all, and if there was one thing about that man, he was an unforgiving, stubborn bastard who gave two shits about anyone who hurt him. I would be the same in that respect. It didn’t take me two or three times to get hurt, to understand a lesson. This man could never come back into my life.

I would never forgive him.

“I want to have a welcome back dinner for him,” she said.

“And who do you think is coming to that?” I asked.

“Ny?”

“Yes.”

“You should come.”

“For what?” I asked. “So he can sit there and point his stupid finger at me as he yells about the damn book? He
still
isn’t over it.”

“I think if he heard that you regretted it, then—”

“I don’t regret it. That’s the problem.” Anger boiled within me.

Fuck him. Are you kidding me? How easy has it been for you to forgive this dickhead? He broke your heart and ruined my teenage years, just over his selfishness.

“Nyomi?” my mom said. “Did you hear what I said?”

Fuck him twice in the ass. In fact, I hope he’s getting a whole bunch of cock in jail as we speak. I can’t forgive him. As far as I’m concerned, he’ll have to make up for disrespecting you and me. And that would take years.

“Samantha Nyomi Palmer.”

“Yes.”

“You need to understand that the book you wrote about your dad really hurt him.”

No, I don’t.

I waved away her comment, glad she couldn’t see me. “He didn’t even read it.”

“Not true, Samantha. He—”

“I go by Nyomi now. If I wasn’t so busy with my writing, I would get the damn name Samantha taken off my birth certificate and make it all official.”

I refuse to be named after a man who doesn’t love me.

“Nyomi!”

I ignored her. “And if you think I’m going to sit across from him at the table and try to swallow down food without vomiting all over his pretentious face, well then you’ve got it all wrong—”

“Nyomi, that’s enough.”

And then of course, the tears came. My mother’s breakdowns were an art, a lush performance that Shakespeare would’ve wept at and been inspired to create a play. First sniffling ensued, light sounds like the distant rumble of thunder with an oncoming storm. Already they sounded over the phone and irritated my ears.

“I-I’m … so broken … f-from this.”

Oh God. Then get yourself fixed. At least I’m trying to fix myself!

And then the crying began—loud, obnoxious shrills traveled over the phone’s line. Even in Tokyo, I wasn’t far enough away from her. The call had been a mistake. I should’ve sent a postcard and emailed a few friends.

Next time I’ll just ride a train to McDonalds when I’m missing America. I’ve always wanted to try the shrimp fillet sandwich on the Tokyo Mickey D’s menu. It looks disgusting, but anything’s better than this phone call.

“Why can’t you two just forgive each other?” she cried.

“Because he isn’t willing to man up and admit that he hurt me.”

“Would that really be enough?” she sniffled.

I paused. “I don’t know.”

She wept a little more. For anyone else it would’ve been uncomfortable. For me, it was an everyday occurrence with her. All my life, Mom had fought depression, and a lot of the time I sat next to her, trying to get her out of it. And when Dad left, her gloomy bouts got even worse.

A few minutes went by before she finally seemed to have a hold of herself.

“Mom,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Pain thumped inside my chest, a sort of odd ache that I couldn’t put a name on. It wasn’t heartbreak, but damage had been done. This was another reason I hated talking to her. She reminded me of the pain inside me that I’d managed to forget as I hopped around the globe. I wanted to forget this man, while she hoped to reunite us.

I don’t need him. Life is better without Dad.

Once she finally stopped talking, I said, “Well, Mom, I have to go. It’s getting late.”

“Oh, I wanted to hear more about your trip.”

Maybe you should not bring up Dad, so we can do that.

“I can talk more about it next time,” I said.

“Okay, but have you met anybody?”

“No.”

“Ny?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You said that really fast.”

“Oh God, Mom. I’m just here researching. There’s no one that’s caught my eye.”

“O-kay. Just be careful. Those Japanese men are possessive.”

And now inappropriate comment number ten.

“Goodbye, Mom.”

“I’m serious. I’ve heard things and seen stuff on the news. Those Japanese men may meet you and decide they like you, and never let go.”

That statement made me shiver. “Well, I’m pretty good at getting out of those situations. No man has been able to trap me yet.”

“One will. Let’s just hope you’re ready, little girl.”

Oh goodness.

“Good night, Mom.”

That night I dreamed something weird. I stood in front of my childhood home. No one was around, but me. Then a rumble came from my right. A dragon appeared—covered in gold scales. He stomped my way and stood in front of the house, and with one swift, powerful movement, he set the house on fire.

I didn't cry or shed any tears as every inch of my old home burned away.

The dragon sat next to me as I continued to stand. He didn't roar or blow fire, neither did he seem distressed. All he did was lick a few claws, lay his head down, and go to sleep.

Chapter 20

NYOMI

My phone buzzed. I checked the screen and was surprised to see a text from Kenji.

Kenji: I finished your book.

I chewed the inside of my cheek and typed in a reply.

Me: What did you think?

Kenji: Amazing. Although I think you may have given him life imprisonment in a literary way.

I scrunched my face in confusion.

Kenji: There's something missing toward the end. Like the story isn't finished.

What the fuck?

Me: It hit the bestseller list.

Kenji: Do you talk to him now?

Me: Of course not. He left my mom and me.

Kenji: I've known fathers to do worse things, and yet they still have good relationships with their kids. Do you know why?

I frowned, not even willing to respond.

Kenji: I think there is something embedded in children that makes us love our parents no matter how bad they are.

Me: I think I carved that out of my body and now it's somewhere in the Hudson River.

Kenji: That's impossible. To cut out your love for your mother and father would be a way to truly die.

Me: Is that why you're truly living? Cause you're obediently doing what is expected of you, because of your love for your parents?

Ha! Take that! You've got some daddy issues, too, buddy. I may not know what they are, but I do know that you're not happy and it's due to him.

Kenji: That's fair. Maybe we can both teach each other something.

Me: I don't need to learn anything when it comes to my father. He's a douche bag.

Kenji: I don't believe in coincidences. We met for a reason. We both have problems with our fathers.

Me: Do we? I'm fine.

Part of me wanted to just shut my damn phone off and ignore him. How dare he assume that I have daddy issues? I was getting real tired of people thinking they could read me just from a few glimpses of my life.

Kenji: We are supposed to teach each other something. You could teach me how to…

I waited for two minutes, but he didn't text any more.

Me: Teach you what?

Kenji: You could teach me how to judge my father like you did and punish him appropriately.

I looked up from my phone. “What? Has he been smoking something? What is he talking about?”

Maybe I should just go with it and see what comes out on the other side.

Me: Well, as you can see from my book, I'm certainly good with judging a man for his sins and handing out proper punishment. But what would you teach me?

Ten minutes passed before he delivered another text. When he did, I dove for the phone, eager to see what he said.

Kenji: I could show you how to forgive a monster. That way, when you give me your heart, it will be less broken and I'll have more to work with when I'm healing you.

I dropped the phone, unable to deal with any more talk about this. Sex I could discuss. Writing, sure. But when it came to emotional crap like this … my brain shut off, my ears closed, and I ran to the nearest shelter.

I turned off my phone.

Chapter 21

KENJI

Eito stepped into my office. He was the shortest of all the men under me, barely four-eleven. However, his height didn't matter. Scars decorated his face. He'd been sliced several times on his cheeks, burned on his forehead, and scraped by a sharp cheese grater-like instrument wherever his skin wasn't already damaged. All of these things were done by my father's hands.

No one knew why, and I never asked.

Yet, when I stepped up as the new leader of the family. Eito was the first to pledge his loyalty. And when we ended the private ceremony, he came to me and whispered in my ear, “Things must change and you must be the one to do it.”

From then on I'd been trying, but I could see in his eyes that I'd not done nearly enough.