I didn’t actually hate having nothing to do. I’m sure if I were seriously looking I’d be able to find a place to work that I could get to in under an hour by bus or an hour or two by bike. If I were truly desperate, I could dip into my savings and buy a moped, which would allow me to cast a wider net. In short, I couldn’t really say there were no jobs to be had. I just wasn’t putting much effort into it. It’s not like I was hung up on finding some high-paying gig as a permanent employee. I didn’t feel the need to work. I couldn’t see the benefit. I didn’t need it. I could live without working. My husband’s salary had improved, at least a little, and his commute was covered. Plus, he was collecting overtime on a nightly basis. On the other end of things, we were spending less money than ever before. We weren’t buying convenience-store food or frozen dinners. The local supermarket was a whole lot cheaper than the one in the city. At our old place, I would have to wait every week for the milk to go on sale, but out here it was cheaper than that sale price all week long. It was better milk, too. We could afford to stock up on vegetables here. But more than anything else, we were getting by without paying any rent. My old job in the city paid just enough to cover our rent — and I could pitch in with some of the expenses as long as I was working overtime. Compared to a permanent employee, I probably had it easy there, but that job came with a fair amount of hard work and responsibility. I put myself through that pain so that we’d have a place to stay, but now, through the good graces of my mother-in-law, there was no need to worry about any of that. Endless summer vacation. But it didn’t feel right. My husband was working late every night while I was at home, on my own, with all the time in the world? I had to work. Even if I couldn’t find a job, I had to do something. My body was getting heavier with every passing day. Not that I was gaining weight. On the contrary. But I could barely move. It was as if every muscle and joint, every cell in my body, was stuck. Putting it that way makes it sound like I was blaming my body, like it was beyond my control. I was slipping, and it was completely my fault. It was only a matter of time before Grandpa or Muneaki or Tomiko tore me apart for being so lazy. And they’d be right. Except — would any of them ever say something like that to my face?
Sera continued, indifferent to my silence. “What can you do for fun, right? I’d tell you to come over and talk to me whenever you want, but I’m a little older than you, and I have a child to look after. If you had a child, you’d have your hands full, believe me . . . But why not have a kid? Can you?” I sighed. I wanted to answer, but I realized my voice wasn’t coming, so I tilted my head to the side and tried to smile. Children. Having a child would change things, but it wasn’t exactly the change I was looking for. Besides, was this really the right environment for raising a kid? The buzz of cicadas, the splash of Grandpa’s hose, Tomiko’s weird doggy slippers, and my husband and his phone. Just imagining myself breastfeeding a baby in the middle of all that was enough to depress me. I didn’t exactly hate the idea of having a child. Maybe it could make me happy. Maybe it was the best thing to do if I wasn’t going to go back to work. Sera looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, “I understand. I was older when I had my son. I had to stay at the hospital. We were there for a while, too. In the end, my baby was fine, but they had him in an incubator for a long time . . . I couldn’t do anything but watch. It was so hard. It wasn’t easy for my husband or his mother, either. I can’t even imagine what my son was going through. He’s five now. I’m sure you can hear him sometimes. He’s not as mature as the other kids his age, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I suppose that’s half nurture, but it’s also half nature. Anyway, you’re still so young — with so much to look forward to. I’m sure Matsuura-san has told you some stories. I know Taka-chan wasn’t easy for her . . .” “Taka-chan?” I asked back. Sera clicked her tongue, then contorted her face in apology. “No, wait, hold on. Did I say Taka? I got mixed up. Sometimes I have these thoughts in my brain, but the words that come out are completely different. You’re too young to know what I mean, but sometimes I just space out . . .” “No, no. I understand.” I nodded. I was pretty sure I was more spaced out than she was. If I were fully awake, I wouldn’t know how I’d get through each day. Sera touched her lips with her fingers. Unlike the other day, they were glistening red. “Mune-chan, Mune-chan. I remember when he was only a baby. To think of him, all grown up, going off to work, then coming home with a bride of his own . . . Matsuura-san must be overjoyed. It’s a lot sometimes, I know, but I’m sure you’ll do fine. What am I saying? Just listen to me go. That’s not why I came by. I wanted to give you these. No one in my family likes them, but what about you?”
She reached inside her cotton bag and pulled out a smaller plastic bag — inside were a few green things shaped like spindles. “What are they?” “Myoga. You’ve never had myoga?” She was looking at me like I was an alien. “No — I have.” I’d just never bought any. Besides, they didn’t look anything like the little reddish things I was used to seeing piled up at the supermarket — these were large and bright green. Toward the end, they exploded into large, unwieldy fingers. “Um, this is what goes on hiyayakko, right?” “Yeah, exactly. You chop it up. It goes well with tofu and noodles. You can pickle it in sweet vinegar, too. We’re not even trying to grow myoga anymore, but they still pop up in our garden every year. Tons of them. I used to eat myoga all the time, but no one else in my family likes it, so it didn’t make any sense to keep growing it . . . But it’s great with vinegared miso dressing. Throw a little sugar in, too, to sweeten things up,” Sera said, dangling the bag between us. I thanked her and took it. I could feel its coolness through the plastic. Clutching one of the plants, I found it surprisingly hard. It was covered in fine hair and didn’t feel like any leaf or stem or fruit I knew. “What part of the plant is this?” Sera tilted her head in response. I could see more plastic bags full of greens. She must’ve been going around the neighborhood, handing out myoga. I guess she really did have tons of the stuff. “This is the whole thing. They shoot out of the ground, just like this. If you let them grow, white flowers come out of the tips. It’s pretty. They look a little like orchids. You can eat the flowers, too.” Looking inside the bag, I could smell rain mixed with earth.
Once Sera left, I put the bag of myoga in the fridge, then went to the living room window. I could see Grandpa outside, crouching down. There was something black at his feet. It looked like he was petting a cat. Whatever he was doing, it had to be better than running the hose in the middle of the pouring rain.
“What’s in this?” “Myoga.” “Myoga?” my husband asked, spitting out the vinegared miso he’d had in his mouth. Looking around online, I found that myoga buds are also called “spikes.” I took Sera’s advice and used them in a dressing. When I tried it, I thought it was pretty good. It had a unique texture to it, and I’d never smelled anything quite like it — it would probably go well with sake. “Myoga?” my husband said again after he’d washed his mouth out with mugicha. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want.” “Sorry, I don’t think I can handle it. What made you buy myoga? Was it on sale or something?” “No, Sera-san came over and gave me a bag.” “Sera-san?” My husband sounded like he had no idea who I was talking about. I ate the myoga I’d dished out for him. Tasted fine to me. It was nice and light. I could even smell the rain mixed with the vinegar and miso. “The woman on the other side of my parents’ house?” “Yeah.” “Huh. I didn’t realize you knew her.” “Well, I’d hardly say I know her.” My husband’s free hand glided over the surface of his phone while he snacked on other things. I didn’t know who he was writing to, but I’m sure he was typing something like “I can’t believe my wife just tried to make me eat the world’s shittiest myoga.” I sighed. “What?” He looked up at me. “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head.