'Til Grits Do Us Part (30 page)

“Good for you.” Kyoko heaved a long sigh. “Okay, since you forced me, I admit I'll miss the subways. They're so pristine. And of course I'll miss the anime.”

“Those creepy comics? Yuck. Not me.”

Kyoko fell silent, and I sensed something emotional coming. Like tremors before an earthquake. “Once I visited my homestay family after almost a year, and when I left, they walked out to the train with me. Stood on the platform until the train came.” Her words came out almost husky, completely un-Kyoko-like. “The mother's tears made streak marks on her cheeks. And they waved as the train took off, until I couldn't see them anymore. When we came around a bend, they were still bowing and waving—even the little tiny grandma. Just specks in the distance.”

She made a sniffling sound. “I saw cherry blossoms on the hillsides behind them like snow.”

I looked up at smooth walls and framed photos of Faye's wedding, barely seeing any of it. “You finally get it, Kyoko.”

“Get what?” Kyoko barked, hastily backpedaling from anything remotely sentimental.

“Japan. That's what I miss, too.”

She didn't answer for a long time. I heard her bumping and moving stuff and doing what sounded like folding clothes. Taping more boxes.

“I miss my brothers more,” she said in an “I-don't-care” tone. “And that San Francisco smog, doggone it. Never thought I'd miss that.” I heard the click of her suitcase latches, as if to close up the memories.

“What are you taking from Japan?” I sniffled, reaching for a tissue in my purse.

“Books. CDs. Some ugly gargoyle from Okinawa.” I heard the crows again outside her window, crying from bicycle-and-pedestrian-crowded streets. Venders probably putting out their bunches of green onions, round
nashi
pears, and imported bananas for the day. “It's not like I have space for a lot of stuff. My whole apartment here could fit in my carry-on bag.”

I stayed quiet, listening to Kyoko's last day in Tokyo.

“Listen, is there anything else you want me to send you from here?” Kyoko abruptly switched subjects. “I've already mailed you some seaweed paper, miso paste, and a bunch of stuff.”

“You're really great, Kyoko. Thanks. I'll love whatever you send.” I remembered the throwing star and caught myself. “Let me rephrase. I'll love whatever you send that's not illegal or gross or a hazard to myself or society.”

She snickered. “That does constrain me a bit, doesn't it?” I heard a thump. “Hope you like
yukata
fabric.”

“Huh?”

“You know. Fabric for making yukata. Girly colored stuff with bunnies and flowers and other nasty things. Mrs. Oyama gave me a ton of it as a going-away present, and I have no idea what I'll do with it. Have you ever seen me in sugar-pink with cherry blossoms and lavender? Geesh.” I heard her shudder. “A nice thought, of course, but I get the creeps just looking at it.”

The two green and navy-blue yukata my homestay mom made me still hung in my closet: pretty, cotton kimono-style robes in cheerful patterns, with wide, colorful
obi
sashes tied in the back. Girls wore them to festivals in sandals, hair pulled up, fanning themselves with bright paper fans. “I'd love it. I'll use the fabric to make bags and pillows and things.”

“That's actually a good idea,” said Kyoko in admiration. “Wow. Did you think of it yourself?” She paused. “Or did you download it off the Internet, copy it, and hand it to your former editor Dave Driscoll with your name at the top?”

My eyes popped. “Of all the—!”

“I'm kidding, Ro. Take it easy.” Kyoko laughed lightly. “Really. Maybe it's bad taste, but…I just couldn't resist.” She grew surprisingly sober. “What's done is done, and I'm leaving in a few hours anyway. Your plagiarism goof-up is actually putting us on the same continent for a while.”

“Are you ever going to forgive me?”

“For making me share a work space with Nora Choi, no. But for getting fired, yes. We all do things we shouldn't. We make mistakes. We…you know. Learn that way.”

I heard her clip another suitcase closed. “Water under the bridge, my friend. You'll do things differently next time. And I think…” Her voice trailed off.

“Think what?” I pouted.

“You'll be okay there with Adam.” Her voice softened. “If you can just stop putting yourself in harm's way for five minutes.”

“I'll try.”

Neither of us seemed to know what to say.

“Well, my flight's in a couple of hours,” said Kyoko, grunting as she stretched. “I'm just calling to say
sayonara
.”

In the distance I heard the roar of a little delivery moped, probably taking
ramen
noodles or a
bento
(premade lunchbox) to someone in her building. The faint
ping-pong
of the doorbell, distinctively Japanese.

“It's not
sayonara
for good-bye. It's
mata ne
. See you later,” I corrected, trying to swallow the lump that had formed painfully in my throat.

“Yeah. But it's…well, sayonara to an era.”

“Did you have to say that?” I flared.

“I know, I know. But…it's true, Ro. I'm sorry.” Kyoko could be brutally honest. “But it was good while it lasted. And…”

I waited.

“And I wouldn't have enjoyed it half as much without you.” Her voice turned uncharacteristically husky. “You made it fun. And when I think of Japan, I'll always think of you.”

My eyes burned. I glanced over at the severed stem of freesia, its cheery yellow petals already starting to wilt a bit on the edges. One leaf curled at the tip.

Yet they raised bright faces, crocus-like, in reckless golden joy.

“Well, you know where I live. We can pick up where we left off.” I cleared my throat.

“Of course. And now it'll be easier for me to send you stuff and harass you about your budding redneck roots.” Kyoko paused. “If you'll forgive my cliché, the best is yet to come. Even that Jesus of yours saved the best wine 'til the end, didn't He?”

The best is yet to come
.

Trading the old for the new. My top-of-the-line Japanese cell phone for Adam's simple old gray one. My single days for married ones. My will for God's way. And my brash independence for a life spent yielding and growing with someone else.

Strange and scary paradoxes, all of them. Mingled into one astonishing life called mine.

I glanced around at the house that had been my second home all these difficult months, filling my Japan-aching heart with fresh and tender memories. In the town that had started all this, taking me away from Tokyo in one swift phone call.

This
was where I belonged. Where my heart had settled, even against my will.

A death of sorts. To all I once wanted.

I traced my ring, the color of moonlight and tears. Remembering the rattle of dirt on top of Mom's casket. The door closing for the last time in my Tokyo apartment. Kyoko's good-bye as I boarded at Narita International Airport last summer, until I could no longer see her.

“Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. Anyone who loves their life will lose it, while anyone who hates their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.”

My freesia trembled in the breeze.

“Can you hold the phone up to the window?” I sniffled.

“What?”

“Can you hold the phone up to the window? So I can hear?”

Amazingly, Kyoko didn't make a wisecrack. Didn't say a word.

The next thing I heard was the raspy
caw
of a crow. Faraway, distant, over the muted noise of traffic. Car horns honking. The ring of cicadas. The roar of a delivery truck pulling away from a shop, and the faint
chirp-chirp-chirp
of the crosswalk, bird-like. Haunting.

The opening and closing of a door, like the opening and closing of our days in Tokyo.

Women's voices, drifting up from the street. “
Domo arigatou
!” they were saying, probably bowing, faces lit with smiles. “Mata ne! See you later!”

Mata ne, old Mrs. Inoue and your shop. The handfuls of ginger candy you used to give me when I bought green onions and cold jasmine tea. Mata ne, Momiji fried pork and noodle stalls and whir of the subway, blowing my hair. Mata ne, Tokyo. Mata ne, Japan.

The best is yet to come
.

Kyoko waited respectfully almost ten minutes and then informed me that her hand was about to fall off. Told me she'd charge me the ticket if I made her miss her flight.

But I was okay. I'd listened to the city I loved and said good-bye.

“Thanks, Kyoko,” I said in a steadier voice. “You're a good friend. I'll miss our Japan days.”

“I'll miss them, too, Ro. Come to Italy. We'll make more memories there.”

“I'd love to. And you'll be in Europe now, so I can still send you NASCAR races on DVD,” I sniffled. “I've downloaded a whole bunch for you.”

A pause while Kyoko decided if I was serious. “I'm not gonna ask,” she finally said. Then, “I'll see you in August.”

“I'll be waiting.”

“Mata ne, my friend.”

“Mata ne.”

I
t's too crowded up front. Let's get these out of here.” I pulled at the side of a table while Jerry pushed, making a new walkway between the entrance of The Green Tree restaurant and the alcove we'd opened up in the back.

I stood back and surveyed our work, my old apron wrapped around my waist. New paint gleamed from floor to ceiling—a bright, pale blue-green somewhere between earth and sky tones—and Jerry's gorgeous, sand-colored flooring glistened with a fresh coat of wax. All the mirrors of different sizes Adam had hung to the side of the alcove in a thick scatter and around the bare walls reflected back golden spangles as if the moon and stars had come unglued and gotten stuck in a restaurant in Staunton, Virginia.

And the most amazing part of all: the smell of fresh herbs and clean plants. Potted plants. Living plants. Adam had tossed the idea of cut flowers (which had to be replaced daily) with dollar-friendly potted plants on the tables: Mini sweet-bay trees. Basil plants. Rosemary shrubs trimmed in circles like topiaries. Each in a hammered metal pot.

Besides that, he'd convinced Jerry to use real trees instead of the dusty old plastic ficus—placing them in pots near the windows and under strategically lit spaces. Their branches stretched up toward the aqua sky, and the whole place felt like we'd magically stepped outside.

As for the menu, Jerry and I studied gourmet cooking magazines and restaurant recipes until our eyes crossed. Rewrote trendy recipes. Taste tested.

I'd written my restaurant contacts back in Japan and Thailand for Asian noodle and rice recipes with exotic ingredients like coconut milk, ginger, and curry that packed loads of flavor in a little (inexpensive) punch—and Jerry threw in an unexpected Southern twist. Why? Because locally grown produce and poultry trumped imported ingredients in the cheapness department. So: Japanese fried tempura eggplant and Southern squash with dipping sauce. Shenandoah Valley goat cheese instead of Jarlsberg on crostini with red onion and rhubarb marmalade. Hominy polenta. Local greens and pine nuts.

It was unconventional, but it worked. Or at least I hoped it would.

After all, this was The Green Tree.
Jerry's
Green Tree. And I couldn't let a bunch of lousy reviews flush it down the drain. Staunton needed this restaurant—if only to have one place in town that didn't chuck everything in the deep fryer.

“It's time.” Jerry checked his watch, fingers shaking. “This is it, y'all. Doors open at eleven, and it's three 'til. The crew from
Fine Dining
is comin' at eleven fifteen sharp. You think we're ready?”

“The place looks great.” I peeled off my apron. “They'll love it. You'll see.”

“Yeah, well, I hope so.” Jerry mopped his sweaty forehead. “This place means the world to me. And you.” He pointed. “You're an angel.”

I stumbled slightly, grabbing a chair back to catch myself. Odysseus's words sifting back like a bad memory:
“To my angel. I can't wait to share my life with you.”

Jerry gave me a funny look, one eyebrow raised, as I let go of the chair. “You ain't been tippin' the wine back in the kitchen, have ya?”

My heart calmed down as I looked around the clean lines of the dining room. Dawn, the hostess, organized papers by the already neat register. The familiar clink of glasses rang from the kitchen, accompanied by faint strains of the cooks, Flash and José, singing offkey bluegrass tunes.

“Don't mention it, Jerry. You'd do the same for us.” I looked up as the glass doors opened, and Dawn slipped out to greet our first clients. “Call after the critics come and tell me how it goes.”