How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [90]
I leaned closer to my mother in her hospital bed.
“An old bamboo cutter found a beautiful baby girl in the bamboo,” I said. “He took her home to raise her as his own, and in three months she was full grown and beautiful. She shone light in the house, even in the night. Word of her beauty got out and suitors came to call. Her father set forth five knights to get impossible items. They all failed. Then the Emperor himself came and begged her to come live in the palace with him. She said, ‘If I have to live in the palace, I will become a shadow.’ She got homesick and the Moon People came to get her. She didn’t want to leave, but she couldn’t survive where she was.”
“And she left potion that make live forever with Emperor. He burn on Mount Fuji. That why smoke go up.” Mom smiled. “All I ever want is you be happy. Don’t forget, you hear?”
A knock-knock-knock sounded. “Come in!” Mom called. It was Dr. Cunningham. Mom grinned. “Dr. Cunningham! This my daughter, Sue.”
I felt shy. He was exactly as my mother had described. Handsome, with kind eyes. “Hello. I thought you worked at Balboa.”
“I do. I always come see my patients if they go elsewhere.” He smiled. “Nice to finally meet you. I’m Dr. Cunningham. You can call me Seth.” He shook my hand warmly, then felt Mom’s ankle for puffiness. “Dr. Su’s the best,” he said. “I want to make sure your recovery goes as well as your surgery.”
“Much better now you here, Doctor,” Mom purred. I laughed.
He glanced at me, one black eyebrow raised. “I would guess she’s on the mend.”
“Another minute with you in here and she’ll be doing the samba.”
He laughed, patting Mom’s leg, then checked all her vitals. “Looking good, Mrs. Morgan. I’ll see you at my office in a month for a follow-up.” He took a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Let me give you my card. Call me if you have any questions.”
I watched him leave.
Mom did, too. “Now you see what I talk ’bout?”
I put my head down by hers. “Mom, when you get out of the hospital, can we write down how you cook your pizza? And spaghetti?”
“Pinch of this, little bit of that, hard to write down. But I show.” She patted my head. “You strong girl. You can do whatever you want.” Her arm gestured around the room.
I smiled, surprised. “You think so?”
“I know it. All the time I am proud of you, Suiko-chan. All the time. You much more better mommy than me. Patient. No like me.” She paused. The machines whirred mechanically. “Maybe videotape my cooking? I always want be movie star, you know that?”
“I know.” I smiled at her.
She wiped away the mascara smudges from under my eyes. “If doctor like you like that, he like you no matter what. You better fix face before see him ’gain, huh?”
I nodded. “I will, Mom.”
The concept of shame (haji) is unheard of in America. This is why Americans often don’t understand Japanese. Americans feel guilt rather than shame.
During samurai times, public shame was as good as death. Americans cannot comprehend this. There are very few things that bring about shame in America. Americans usually do what they want. This is both good—Americans marry Japanese women, providing them with better lives—and bad. Americans may not feel shame for committing crimes or failing their parents, among many other things.
—from the chapter “Turning American,”
How to Be an American Housewife
Shoko
A week and a half passed, or so Charlie said. I didn’t bother keeping track. As I dozed in my hospital bed, I dreamed about my brother and me, hiding in our darkened house. I was kneeling, my head on a blanket so my bottom was in the air like a stinkbug. My parents held Suki close by. Taro got next to me. “Little big sister,” he crooned, his cheek pressed to mine, “all will be well.”
“How do you know?” I asked, opening an eye. All I could see was the shiny white of his eye, glowing in the near total blackness. A plane