“I’m not saying I can’t take a day off tomorrow.” Mina fumbled with the faux sweetheart roses on the sideboard as the round clock on the wall chimed nine times. The bowl of stew she’d warmed up for her husband was getting cold on the table.
“Then what is it?” Jun slumped on the sofa, loosened his navy pinstripe necktie, and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt.
“I just told you. I’m not good at funerals.”
Jun swung his legs over the armrest. “So you’re telling me you’re good at boxing eclairs and puffed creams and chit-chatting with customers but not at funerals.”
Four days had passed since that conversation, since they had stopped talking. Mina called Rika, her friend from college, to explain why Jun was not coming to the barbecue party that weekend, that there was a misunderstanding between the two, nothing serious, only Jun over-reacting as usual. She heard the kettle piping in the background. Someone, perhaps Rika’s husband, was turning off the stove. Rika might have wanted to get off the phone. Maybe that was why she said if they were over with the fight by Saturday, Mina should bring Jun along.
A fight. What Mina was going through with Jun was not a fight. Nothing even close to it. The fight was Mother yelling at Father for losing his pay on horse races; Mina and her younger brother scuttling around their run-down apartment to close all the open windows; Father hollering that it was his hard-earned money and nobody was telling him how to spend it; Mina hiding under the kitchen table knowing what followed next. She still had a faint scar on her forehead from the shard of plate that splintered. Jun had once commented on the scar after they made love, when Mina was most vulnerable, when she had her eyes closed and let his fingers lift the wet strands of hair off her face.
Definitely, this was not a fight. But Mina could not bring herself to break the ice, which she usually did for the past three years of their marriage. Ordinarily, her reaching out for his hand in their bed would have ended this. Or her babbling on about trivial matters at her part-time job, like about a boy who licked the display showcase while his mother was paying for his birthday cake. Such small talks would have settled the case and steered their lives back to normal.
“Why it’s always you who have to give in?” Rika once asked her.
“I don’t see it that way.”
What Rika took as a defeat was for Mina power to have things under her control. Mina lightly touching his nape, a suggestion of a weekend hike, any appeasing move on her part would change Jun’s mood, shift the season from winter to summer.
***
Saturday. Still, they had not spoken to each other. Jun had left his onyx prayer beads on the TV board, instead of putting them back in a paulownia box. Underneath the beads lay the printed thank-you card given out at the funeral of his cousin’s wife, Yumiko. Pancreatic cancer. So sudden, not even a chance to visit her at the hospital.
Mina had lunch with the couple soon after she got engaged to Jun. His cousin, Shoji, invited them home, which used to be Jun’s grandparents’. A two-story wooden house on a hilltop; grey clay roofing tiles; a patch of front lawn where several overgrown white pine bonsai pots were pushed over to the corner of a cement brick fence. Grandpa used to win prizes at bonsai contests, Jun explained. Nobody dared to throw them away, but at the same time, nobody cared to look after the bonsai.
Shoji and Yumiko had been married for five years then. According to Jun, the couple had been thinking about starting a family, given their age. So they moved to the suburban neighborhood, and their renovation was only half-finished, and the house was furnished with mismatched furniture.
“A time machine,” Yumiko said matter-of-factly while Jun roamed around the house and reminisced on the summers he spent with Shoji.
“Let the boys be. We can chat in the kitchen unless you want to tag along with Jun.”
“Watch out, Jun,” Shoji said. “She’s going to teach Mina how to henpeck.”
Yumiko made a face and led Mina down the creaking corridor, which didn’t seem to bother Yumiko.
The kitchen was unlike the rest of the house. It was completely redone—an open kitchen with a wall-to-wall ivory cabinet, an electric cooking range, bar stools, and a wine cooler set in a corner. Unimaginable from the bygone facade of the house.
“Welcome to another world. Do you like it? The idea is to build a deck by the window so we can walk straight into our yard and have our drinks, watch stars, and perhaps have kids do handheld fireworks.”
“Jun told me you’re working on the house on weekends.”
“Little by little. We get help from the professionals we know from work. Electric wiring and plumbing, those areas are beyond us. We tear down the walls, remove tatami mats, and lay down the flooring, the usual we handle at work, but beyond that, we’re no good.”
“I thought you were an interior designer.”
“That and a jack-of-all-trades.” Yumiko cleared the counter and spread the blueprint of their dream house. She explained that cedar pillars held together the entire structure and could not be removed. But they could do away with most of the walls and create a large living room where all the family members could have their cozy corner. Upstairs would be their bedrooms: one master and two for kids.
“I know you’re still young, but mind your biological clock. I thought I could get pregnant any time, but no. I’m on infertility treatment.”
Mina read about those treatments in women’s magazines but had never been confided in by anyone, let alone by a to-be-cousin she’d met for the first time. Not knowing how to react, she gave a light grin.
“The famous killer smile.”
“What?”
“Didn’t Jun tell you about it? Love at first sight. When he saw you at the reception desk, Jun’s heartbeat.”
“Cut it out, please. You’re embarrassing me,” Jun said.
Shoji and Jun walked in, horsing around like teenagers. “What kind of husband-control tips did you give Mina?” Shoji asked.
Yumiko took out grilled spare ribs from the oven and said, “I told her to offer irresistible food.”
“You got me.” Shoji laid down the plates and chopsticks on the counter table and picked a bottle of red wine from the cooler. “A special one for a lovely couple.”
When they sat down, Jun told Mina about the cedar pillar in a tatami mat room, which was his grandparents’ bedroom. It had the markings of Shoji’s and Jun’s height with the dates written in a dark pencil. Grandfather’s handwriting. It was a ritual they went through every summer.
“It was the macho moment,” Shoji said as he poured more wine into Mina’s glass. “Jun used to stand on his toes to outdo me.”
“Never could beat the two-year age difference, though. And, of course, Grandpa always caught me cheating.”
Being an only child, Jun told Mina that summer was the only season he experienced having a brother, which ended the year Shoji started junior high school and joined a soccer club that kept him away from most extended family gatherings. In no time, Jun himself became busy with basketball practice. By the time Grandma found Grandpa lying dead by the bonsai pot, the case of a sudden cardiac arrest, the house had fewer and fewer guests every year. Eventually, the house was left vacant for a few years with Grandma gone.
“Each house is a living organism,” Shoji said when Jun asked why they didn’t rebuild the house or at least complete the renovation before they moved in. “Houses go through a metamorphosis with residents. You partner with your house.”
“Not that story again,” Yumiko said. “They’re not here to listen to your lecture on what’s wrong with the current scrap-and-build approach.”
“Go ahead. I’m interested to hear more,” Jun said.
As she chewed on the sparerib, Mina thought of the apartment she grew up in. Indeed, things changed after her mother left them when she was twelve. For a while, pots and pans remained untouched in the kitchen cabinet, and their garbage bin soon filled up to the top with takeaway packs, plastic wrappers with labels of rice balls, and empty potato chip bags. She remembered the sour-sweet, stale odor that seemed to stick to her skin no matter how thoroughly she washed in the shower. Whenever she was invited to her classmates’ houses, she secretly took note of details: a vase filled with faux coral pink peonies, a doormat with a welcome imprint in gothic letters. Instead of spending the money her mother sometimes sent to Mina on herself, she bought an artificial red carnation bush. She decorated the walls with the photographs of snow-covered Mt. Etna and cloudy-hat Mayon Volcano she’d rescued from a calendar discarded in a trashcan in her science class. Those photographs of distant places she’d never heard of, would never visit, anchored her more than the family picture taken at a beach years ago—red-faced Father sitting cross-legged beside Mother while Mina and her brother stood behind them, their hair wet like a seal. The picture remained on the cedar chest. Nobody dared to put it away. Not even her father, who stopped drinking at home and spent time watching TV on weekends instead of going to horse races.
***
“Do you want to see upstairs? The tatami mat room we’ve slept in hasn’t changed,” Shoji said as he finished washing the dishes. “Mina, you come along, too.”
“Well?” Mina looked at Yumiko.
“I don’t mind if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s a mess, but who cares,” Yumiko said. “We can all go upstairs and enjoy Mt. Fuji, if lucky.”
When they stood on the narrow balcony, their only view was the brown and grey shingles of their neighbors’ houses, the treetops of white oak and pine, and the cumulonimbus clouds.
“No luck today,” Yumiko said. “Back to beer downstairs.”
“Wait. Shoji, do you remember hiding a secret between the shingles the last summer we were together?” Jun leaned against the railing and counted the shingles on the extended low-pitched roof. “We were ten and twelve. And we added the numbers and divided them by two. That was your idea, so we won’t forget which shingle it was. Must be the eleventh one from the far end.”
“What are you boys talking about?” Yumiko asked.
“We wrote down what we wanted to be when we grew up. You know, kids’ stuff,” Shoji said.
“What did you write?” Mina asked. She wanted to know what Jun had written, given that he had become a real estate appraiser.
“Beats me.”
“Why don’t we find out?” Yumiko rummaged through her closet and said, “This would do,” and whirled her long muffler like a horsewhip.
“You’re not only drunk but crazy. What if you fall and break your neck?” Shoji tried to stop her, but Yumiko already had her hand-knit muffler tightly tied around her waist and handed the other end to Jun. “You are my lifeline.” She climbed over the railing and crawled on all fours.
Shoji shook his head, not in disgust but in resignation, as if he was used to her dare. He took over the muffler from Jun and told Yumiko how to unlatch the tile. “Every fourth one is nailed down, but the rest is only clasped together. So maybe it might not exactly be the eleventh one.”
“A treasure hunt.” Yumiko carefully crawled further down the roof and tried a few tiles with no luck.
“Maybe it’s gone,” Jun said.
“Come back up.” Shoji gripped the muffler that was tightening around Yumiko’s waist.
“Guess what.” Yumiko pulled out something that looked like a Ziploc bag. She stuffed it in the back pocket of her jeans and double-checked that all the tiles she had touched were tightly clasped.
When she got back on the balcony, Yumiko handed the Ziploc bag to Mina. “You read it out loud for us.”
“Me?” Mina hesitated, but all eyes were on her. So she gently pulled a yellowed paper from the Ziploc and opened the note one fold at a time until she saw hardly legible scribbles. “Shoji, a rock star. Jun, an alchemist.”
The four looked at each other and burst into laughter. Yumiko bent over and held her stomach, with her muffler still tied around her waist, the end hanging like a tail.
That was the image of Yumiko Mina wanted to keep. Just the way Mina held onto the image of her mother: a long beige puffer coat, her low ponytail nesting in the faux fur hood, the wheels of her luggage rattling, and the worn-out heels of her short boots clicking against the asphalt. The sun painted the distant sky orange gold while the bitter wind whipped Mina’s cheeks. Mina stood by the door and held her brother’s hand. She wanted and not wanted her mother to turn around and look at them. At the corner of the crossroad, her mother did not pause. Her brother gripped Mina’s hand tightly before letting it go and ran back into their apartment.
Disappearance was what Mina was used to. Vaporization. Like her Alzheimer’s father, who was in another world. Like her brother drilling wells somewhere in Africa. In disappearance, there was no irreversible transformation of bodies like in funerals. No final farewell. Hope lingered on like an aftertaste.
***
The patch of lawn Rika referred to as their extended living room was neatly kept by her husband, Ken, who was flipping hamburger patties on the barbecue grill. He was wearing his trademark red bib apron that said “BBQ King” in bold black stitches on the front chest—a Christmas gift from Rika chosen with Mina’s help at a department store a few years ago. Rika urged Mina to get one for Jun, just for fun, and teased her about keeping a score on Jun’s contribution to domestic work. She suggested the phrase “All Yours,” with a pot, a pan, and a spatula dancing under the letters. When Jun opened the box, he immediately tried it on, asking, “Any hidden agenda?” and poured more sparkling wine into Mina’s goblet, mimicking a sommelier. As far as Mina knew, the apron was still neatly folded, forgotten in his drawer.
“Just in time. Can you hear the heavenly sizzle?” Ken said.
Mina gave a sheepish nod. Ken’s affability and ease at welcoming anybody, like his best friend, made her feel awkward, put her at a loss. She wished Jun were there. He would have come up with smart comments—like practice makes perfect. Not that Mina could not think of those remarks. She could, but what she lacked, according to Jun, was the knack for smooth talk, which he said Ken possessed in abundance, a hallmark of an insurance agent. Chatty Chap was how Jun referred to Ken at home.
Two couples from the gym Ken and Rika worked out at, who were the regulars at the party, were already sitting on their BYO lawn chairs, drinking beer. One of the wives raised her hand and pointed at a space beside her. “If you didn’t bring yours, there’re some folding chairs by the blueberries. Grab one and join us.”
Mina nodded at her, but seeing Rika still working in her open kitchen, Mina found an excuse to go back in. “Do you need any help?”
“Just making some salad.” Rika rotated the handle of the salad spinner and let it slowly come to a rest. “Is everything all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just asking. If you don’t want to discuss it, that’s fine.” Rika placed lettuce, cucumber, and tomato slices in a bowl and handed it to Mina.
“There’s nothing to talk about. You always worry too much about me.” Mina snitched a slice of a cucumber and swallowed it, balancing the bowl in one hand. “There’s no problem between Jun and me if that’s what you’re talking about.”
“If you say so.” Rika planted the salad tongs in the bowl and took off her apron. “You know what? Ever since we’ve been friends, I’ve watched you avoid confrontations and smile as you do now.” She grabbed two different types of dressing from the fridge and shouted to Ken that they were coming. “I want you to be happy. That’s all.”
Mina grinned, which was second nature to her since childhood. How could she explain to Rika what confrontations became once they spiraled out of control? Like volcanoes. Once it erupted, nothing stopped the lava from crawling down the slope; nothing stopped the spewing white plume from engulfing plants with ashes. There was no end to the destruction. The only means of survival was dormancy.
Mina stepped out into the sunbathed backyard, placed the salad bowl on the picnic table, and set a folding chair by the woman whose name she did not remember. Before being asked, she told the couples that Jun had to play golf with his clients, he’d miss the fun, and promised he’d be there the next time.
“Cheers to Ken’s hamburgers,” the couple said. The aluminum beer cans made a dull sound as everyone gave a light toast. Mina wore her smile, quaffed her beer, and filled her empty stomach with bubbles.
“You’re not drinking.” The woman beside her had just a sip and put down her beer can. “Do you want me to get you some wine?”
“I’m fine,” she said and leaned toward Mina. “I might be pregnant. You know, I should play it safe.” She put her hand on her husband’s lap, who beamed bashfully at Mina.
“Congratulations. I’ll get you a glass of water then.” The moment she stood up, the BBQ King apron, Rika handing out paper plates, Yumiko laughing with her long tail dangling like an umbilical cord, and her mother disappearing into the sunset—all rolled around Mina like a merry-go-round. Everybody was opening their mouths soundlessly like goldfish. Perhaps they were talking to her, calling her name, but Mina could not hear them.
***
Anemia was the diagnosis given at the ER. The doctor said not to worry too much, pointing at the blood test results. By the time Jun finished filling out all medical forms and paid the bills, the sun was starting to set beyond the welded mesh fence that separated the parking lot from the bank. Across the river, a few windows of a run-down apartment lit up against the pale pink sky.
“Are you hungry?” Jun started the engine, but instead of releasing the brake, he gripped the steering wheel and said, “Anchovy 18mg, pork liver 13mg, clam 8.3mg.”
“What are you reciting?”
“Iron-rich food. I saw a list tacked on the hospital wall.”
“So you memorized them?”
Jun nodded. “Did you know our body can absorb more iron in spinach if we saute it with pork? A combination does the magic.” He handed the recipe card to Mina. “I’ll give it a try next weekend, but I might need your help.”
The card was labeled Cooking for Beginners. “Where did you get this?”
“At a supermarket a few blocks away. It was in a giveaway rack. Let’s swing by their deli and grab a pack of stir-fried liver and garlic chives.”
Mina could not believe she had slept on that hard bed with a flat pillow for three hours. She packed her pillow whenever they went on a vacation, no matter how much space it took. Jun joked about it, telling friends they would have bought more souvenirs if not for Her Majesty Queen Pillow.
As Jun backed out and headed toward the exit, Mina watched the silhouette of the apartment disappear from the rearview mirror. The car slowed to a halt at the exit, and Jun waited for the right moment to merge with the traffic. His profile in the dusk looked gentle, like that of her father, who fell asleep at the kitchen table the night before her wedding, the only time he’d gotten drunk at home after her mother left them.
“Maybe,” Mina mumbled.
“What?”
Instead of smiling at him, Mina shook her head and thought, later. Maybe she could explain to Jun why she did not attend the funeral. She might write a letter to her brother. But first of all, Mina would get some real sweetheart roses at the supermarket.