How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [87]
The images were printed on card stock like the one Mom had of her old boyfriend. The one of my grandparents was high-contrast, their faces so white they had lost all definition. In Mom’s, a crack ran through her face. I gingerly put them down on the stack.
I turned to him. Mom’s face flickered across his. In the strong light, every wrinkle was cast into high relief. How much time had passed without us knowing him, and this family. “I guess it’s time to say good-bye, Uncle. Or sayonara.”
“We don’t say sayonara.” He inclined his head. “Sayonara means good-bye forever. We say dewa mata. See you later.”
“Yes. Dewa mata.” I hugged him.
He held me tight, then patted me strongly on the back.
“I’m glad you didn’t throw us out, Uncle.” I stepped back and bowed.
“I never threw anybody out. Sometimes they leave because of what I say.” He smiled ruefully, then bowed back. “Say hello to Shoko for me. I will see her soon.”
I did not know if he was talking about here on earth or in the afterlife. “I’ll tell her you say hi, Uncle.”
PART THREE
Tokidoki
It is difficult to keep one’s figure with all the rich foods being eaten in the States. Americans like fried food and rich sweets. The Japanese woman, who stays naturally thin with her regular Japanese diet, may be constantly challenged. But she must keep her figure to keep her dignity.
The best way to control your figure is through having small portions. Avoid potatoes if you can.
—from the chapter “Cooking Western-Style,”
How to Be an American Housewife
Sue
Dad’s thousand-yard stare was trained on the TV in the hospital waiting room. Mom was still in the operating room, where she had been for the past ten hours. I had come straight from the airport, leaving Helena at her other grandparents’ house.
I had not told my father anything about Japan. It was as if I had come to the hospital from my home, and not another country. Somehow, I wanted to save it all for Mom. This trip belonged to her.
I yawned loudly.
Dad never took his eyes off the television. Out of nowhere, he said, “Mommy didn’t breast-feed you kids.”
I shifted in my seat. “I know. She said she didn’t have enough milk.”
“She did.” Dad tsked softly. “She didn’t want her breasts to sag.” Finally he looked at me, his eyes intensifying into aquamarine. “I wanted her to. It would have been better for you.” He stared at his hands. “I wanted you to go to church, too, meet other kids, do activities. She wouldn’t hear of it.” He spread his arms, then crossed them. “She did the best she could, though. I should have done more.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” I gave him my best cheerful smile. “I turned out fine.”
He smiled back. “Are you happy, Sue?”
“Of course,” I said automatically. “I have a steady job and a great daughter. What else do I need?”
“If you wait for happiness to find you, you may be waiting a long time.” He reached over and patted my hand.
“Now you sound like a fortune cookie. Go home and get some sleep.” I didn’t want advice from Dad. Not now. “Mom won’t be ready to see anyone for hours.”
He leaned back. “I can sleep sitting up, you know. Haven’t you ever seen me watch TV in the evenings?” My father continued to sit there, stubborn as ever, content to suffer through the hours until Mom awoke. He finally drifted off halfway through a soap opera. A kind nurse put a blanket over him.
A figure entered the room and I looked up, expecting, dreading: Mom’s surgeon. But it was Mike, bearing two cups of vending-machine coffee. His wild hair was neatly tied back and his eyes were clear. I blinked. “Hi,” I said in a small voice.
He nodded, sitting down with the coffee. “I accidentally got one with sugar. Want it?”
“Thanks.” You couldn’t pick Mike out of a crowd as my brother. He was a stranger off the street. I had never run out to the tree on Christmas morning with Mike, to see what Santa had left us.
But Mike was there when we needed him to be. Once, when I was six, a wildfire burned up the mountain behind Jacaranda Street, and we were evacuated.
“It’s only a precaution,”