How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [93]
Sumiko smiled coyly as we rubbed soap across Taro-chan’s back. “You hear from nice doctor man?”
I smiled. “Sometimes.” Seth and I had been e-mailing each other, and he had promised to visit as soon as he got time off.
Teaching was enough, for now. “Sensei,” the students called out all day. It took me a while to get used to the title. I taught teens in the daytime, and adult classes two evenings a week. They asked about everything, from American celebrities to how to salute the flag.
I wondered why I hadn’t changed careers before. I knew why—too complacent at my old job—I chastised myself for the lost years, until I realized that chastisement and what-ifs got me nowhere.
I left Sumiko attending to Taro-chan and went into the main room. Helena sprawled on the floor, chatting on the phone with one of her new Japanese friends. I grinned. Some things knew no cultural boundaries. “Hey”—I patted her leg—“you better be talking to the Emperor if you haven’t done your homework.”
“In a minute.” She rolled over. As the sole American at her school, classmates congregated around her, wanting to know if she knew any celebrities, touching her hair, asking her to help them with their English. She loved being the center of attention. Diving headfirst into Japanese wasn’t easy, but her teachers were understanding.
Yasuo invited Helena to an art class he taught on Saturdays, and she’d gotten into anime. We had already been to Tokyo a couple of times, where she made it her mission to try to outdress the funkiest Japanese teenagers, which meant she looked like an anime character herself. Her hair was now dyed purple at the tips. At least she’d return to the States with plenty of pink vinyl jackets.
I had worried that the relatives would be upset at our leaving, but Helena’s grandparents on both sides had been unexpectedly supportive of our move. Mom especially. “Big adventure,” Mom had said at the airport as she saw us off. “Good luck.”
Helena hung up the phone with her friend. “When’s dinner, Mama-chan?”
“Soon.” I picked some blocks off the floor and threw them into the toy box.
“You should make Taro-chan do that,” a deep voice boomed from the door. Taro held a black umbrella over his head. He snapped it closed. “Never too early to teach responsibility.”
Taro, telling a boy to clean up? He must be softening in his old age.
“Hi, Uncle Taro.” Helena bounded over to give Taro a peck on the cheek.
He smiled. “Helena-chan, did Taro-chan dress you today?” He pointed to her hot-pink pleated skirt and her swirled black-and-white tights, worn with red Converse hightops.
“Very funny.” She ran off.
“They still wear uniforms, right?” Taro said worriedly.
“No, they require pink hair at her middle school.” I grinned. “I’m just kidding. Come in and sit down.”
He knelt near the dining table. “Ah, you are going to make me fat and butter-kusai.” He sniffed the air. “Is that beef I smell?”
“Sukiyaki.”
Sumiko returned from her bathtub foray, wiping her hands on a towel. The front of her shirt was completely soaked. “Suiko, have you clean shirt?”
“In my closet.” I went into the kitchen to get the bowls and chopsticks.
“What day is your mother coming?” Taro took the rice bowls and filled each with steaming white sticky rice.
“Next month, the third. They’re flying into Kyushu.”
“I will pick them up,” Taro said. “You still might get lost, you know?”
“We’ll go together.” I put the sukiyaki pot on the burner in the middle of the table, then turned it on.
Taro-chan clambered up and reached for the pot. “No, no! Hot!” Sumiko said, grabbing his hand.
Helena picked up some vegetables with her chopsticks. Taro had already dug in. Sumiko wiped a stain off Taro-chan’s lemon-yellow Pokémon shirt.
I put my chin on my hand and stared, still not quite believing where I was. My American life seemed like it had happened to someone else. Only Helena was proof of its existence.
“Mom?” Helena said, her face abruptly in front of mine. Her mascaraed lashes blinked rapidly.