How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [74]
“So that’s what one looks like,” Helena murmured.
“Helena!” I was the panicking mother that I never wanted to become. “Calm down.” I was really talking to myself.
“What?” She crossed her arms, blushing a deep red. She pulled her short-sleeve cardigan together over her tank top. “I didn’t say I wanted to see one, you know. Sheesh, Mom.”
I pulled myself together. She was almost thirteen. It was natural to have that curiosity. “It’s a bit—exaggerated.”
Helena rolled her eyes. “Obviously,” she repeated.
I took out my little guidebook and found the shrine entry. “Those who want to be blessed with fertility, or who have been blessed as a result of a previous visit, write their notes or prayers on little white papers and fold them into the dry splits of the wood,” I read aloud.
Helena backed away. “These people are so superstitious.”
Her tone was contemptuous. “These people,” I said tightly, “are your people.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Mom. But you’ve got to admit, Obāchan’s a big fan of old wives’ tales.”
I smiled. “I would admit that.”
To my mother, the number four was bad. “Never take four,” she admonished me when I took four dumplings once at dinner. “Mean death. Or two. Bad manner. One or three or five.” Same with sticking your hashi straight up and down in the rice bowl. “Only at funeral!” Mom admonished.
Mom also advised me to clean the toilet bowl when I was pregnant, “so have pretty baby.” Spiders shouldn’t be killed in the morning; they were good luck. At night it was okay. Flowers had to be arranged in a trio. “It for balance. Sun, earth, sky.”
People were putting coins into a wooden box and pulling out small sticks with writing on them. “Sumimasen. What is that for?” Helena asked an older man, pointing to the stick in his hand.
“Dai-kichi.” He bowed with his stick, his face crinkling into a smile. He gestured at the box.
I dug into my pocket. “It means good fortune.” Five hundred yen. I dropped the coins in for both of us. We each took a stick.
“I can’t read it.” It was in kanji, the symbolic alphabet. I could barely read the phonetic alphabets. “We can ask Taro to translate.”
“Are they like a fortune cookie?” Helena stuck hers into her little knapsack.
“I would assume so.”
“I can’t wait to see what mine says!” She whipped out her small digital camera and took a photo of the penis. I mentally groaned. “Imagine seeing this in America, right next to a cross. There’d be so many lawsuits your head would spin.” She took a picture of me next to it. I set my mouth in a disapproving line.
“Let’s walk,” Helena said, shifting her traveling backpack. “It’s only a couple of miles, right?”
“If you can make it, I can.”
A sign pointed to the sex museum up the street. I steered Helena away. “Let’s get going before this fertility magic rubs off on me.”
“Don’t you want to give me a sibling?” Helena asked as we walked back to the road. “I always wanted one.”
“You did?” Helena had seemed content on her own, a mini-adult among us. “But you’re too old to have a sibling now. Look at the age difference between me and Mike. We’re not close.”
“That’s not because of age difference, Mom. It’s because he doesn’t like kids. Or people.” Helena stopped to tie her shoe. “I’m different. I’d babysit and everything.”
“I decided to stop with perfection.” I gave her a hug.
“Why didn’t you ever marry somebody else?” Helena straightened. “Like a billionaire hedge-fund trader.”
I laughed, a hollow sound. We began the walk down the road. “Guess not many men are in the market for a single mom.”
She gave me a hurt look. I squeezed her shoulders. “It’s not that, really, honey. It’s me. I’m—me. Nothing special. I go to work and I’m your mom and that’s enough.”
“Mom.” Helena shook her head. “Everybody’s always told me what a beautiful mother I have. I always dreamed I could be like you.”
I laughed again, genuinely. I could not believe this for a moment. After all I’ve taught her, she would still want to be like me? “You don’t want to be like me,