How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [35]
I bowed my head down, my heart breaking. Pan pan was a horrible insult, worse than whore, what they called prostitutes who sold themselves to the enemy to make money. “If that is what you want.”
He bent down by my head. “All I wanted was a simple sister, a sister to be proud of.”
Taro straightened and turned to my husband, his expression implacable. Charlie’s forehead crinkled. “Good luck, Chuck.” He bowed to Charlie, then turned and left my parent’s house.
At our wedding in my father’s church, Charlie and I wore traditional kimonos. As we were purified, as Charlie carefully read the Japanese words of commitment, as we drank our sake, I kept expecting Taro to walk in and take his place next to my mother. He had to. I was his sister.
I never saw him again.
It is important to support your husband’s work endeavors. In America, the Wife tends to complain if the husband spends many hours at work. The Japanese Wife should know this is only good and natural. The American Wife is too demanding. Be sure to guard against this tendency once you are assimilated.
—from the chapter “A Map to Husbands,”
How to Be an American Housewife
Ten
The day after my visit to Dr. Cunningham, I awoke with my heart pounding and the taste of tin in my mouth, the image of Taro still swirling in my head. I would not be able to go to Japan. No. It couldn’t be. I could not wait for another year, until after a surgery that might go bad. Until after I was dead. I got up and counted my secret money again, just to make sure it was all still there.
I looked at myself in the mirror, at my wild hair sticking up, at the new wrinkles on my forehead that had formed overnight. No longer was this the face of my mother—she hadn’t lived this long. I thought about what I should do and who should do it. Someone to go in my stead. My stand-in.
Sue. My daughter. She was my only choice. Mike could not do it. He gave up too easily; if Taro turned him away, Mike would shrug his shoulders and disappear into the backcountry of southern Japan. Sue would be the one who would not give up. I hoped all these years of toil and disappointment had not worn her down too much, yanked her spirit out as it had Charlie’s. No. She still had time. She would do this for me. I would pay. She couldn’t say no.
My granddaughter Helena could do it alone, if only she weren’t so young. She was a bright girl, smart, outgoing. The kind of girl who wouldn’t be happy in the life that I had had. Or her mother’s.
I took care of Helena often when she was young. Day care was tough on her; anyone could see that. She was left from six in the morning until almost six at night. Every time I saw her, even when she was two years old, she had bags under her eyes. I wished I could do more to help out.
“You can’t take care of her. You don’t have the stamina to run after a toddler,” Sue told me over and over. I thought if I willed it, I could do it. “All she would do at your house is watch TV. At day care she plays with the other kids.”
Sue would leave her here for short periods, though, and I would take her in the backyard, or on a little walk up the street. Her toddler pace, stopping at every crack and ladybug, suited me.
Last week, Helena had come over while Sue went to the gym. She was looking more grown-up these days, beginning to get hips and breasts, and her skin was still unmarked by the acne that had plagued Sue.
Helena surveyed my curio cabinet in the bedroom, which held my shrine and some Japanese dolls. “Aren’t there more dolls?” she asked, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “I remember Doll Day.”
“Yes. Girls’ Day.” I smiled, pleased that she remembered. On March 3, I would have Helena come over and we would get out all my Japanese dolls. You were supposed to have the Emperor, the Empress, and all their retinue, but we made do with what I had: some wooden kokeshi dolls, simple wooden figures made on a lathe, with spherical heads on sticks poking into their bodies; and