“I mean, it’s not fair,” she said, her voice echoing. “We’re doing the same work as them, right? So what’s the deal with these stupid envelopes? I want a bonus, a real bonus. Yeah, I’d take a permanent position. And I’d go to all the lunch meetings, do all the business trips. At least I’d get maternity leave. What do I have now? Think about it: What if I got pregnant and they let me go right before I had the baby? Then what if there was an opening a year or so later and they took me back? They’d hire me as a part-timer, right? That’d be the best I could hope for. And if there was no opening, I’d get nothing, obviously. But what if I was permanent? I could take a year off, work limited hours for the next three after that, collect every bonus and paycheck — even if it’s not the full amount — and even get financial support from the government. Come on! Are we even human? I’d definitely do it. You really wouldn’t take a permanent spot if they offered you one?” “I don’t know. I guess I don’t like the idea of being any busier than I already am . . .” “By the way, what did you get for overtime last month?” She turned her head toward me. I could smell her minty toothpaste — mintier than mine. “About what I was expecting.” “I got maybe 70,000.” “Same here.” We were only paid for what we reported in thirty-minute blocks. Whatever didn’t fit in those blocks was lost. I reported everything I could last time, and the amount was larger than what I was used to seeing, but it didn’t bring me any joy. The figure under “base pay” was exactly what it had been. “It’s crazy if you think about what we usually make. Compared to a month without overtime, we’re making almost fifty percent more, right? But they’re having us do a lot more work, right? Let’s face it. We’re corporate slaves. I mean, we’re not even permanent.” “But the overtime definitely helps.” “Oh, I know. My boyfriend doesn’t get paid for overtime. The grass is never greener, right? But I don’t have time to make us dinner anymore. I think my boyfriend’s about to snap. Nothing but premade dinners from the supermarket every night . . . Hey, what have you been eating?” “Curry — four nights in a row. I guess I’ve been making a lot of soups and stews. That’s it, though . . .” “Ha, you deserve an award. I mean, you’re still cooking. Can I tell you something? Sometimes, just sometimes, when my boyfriend gets home before me, I wish that he’d have dinner waiting for me. Does your husband ever make you dinner?” “Not really. I mean, he would, if I asked . . . But, how can I put it . . .” While I searched for the words, she faced the mirror, glared at herself, and said, “Oh, I get it. Believe me. I never say anything either. I think it — but I never say it. Like, ‘Come on. It’s your turn.’ Sometimes I wonder what’s stopping me. Maybe I’d feel better about it if I had a permanent position. Maybe not. I don’t know . . .”
I looked down at my watch. It’s important to get some rest during lunch to keep from dropping dead, but I was ready to get back to work. I was going to have to stay late again today — and probably every day until I left. “So, wait, when you leave, who’s going to do your share of the work?” I looked at her in the mirror. She was holding her hand out, scrutinizing the stones on her nails. “I need to go back to the salon. I think I’ll use my overtime pay to get a few more rhinestones,” she muttered. White spots of water had dried on the mirror, covering her body from the chest down.
We moved in on a Sunday — and the only day it rained in an otherwise dry rainy season. In some areas, the river flooded and people had to evacuate their homes. When the movers came early that morning, they looked as though they felt sorry for us, but we felt sorrier for them. They were the ones who had to carry our furniture in the heavy rain. Once all of our belongings had been loaded onto the truck, my husband and I got into our car. He put on some music, something between jazz and new age. I was asleep before I knew it. When I woke up, we were already there, parked in front of my husband’s family home. His mother, Tomiko, was standing by the door. It seemed like the rain was coming down even harder than when we’d left. It was so dark out that it could have been the middle of the night.
As they got out of the truck, the movers nodded to Tomiko while giving questioning looks to me and my husband. Before we could say a word, Tomiko asked, “You’re going to sleep upstairs, right?” She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, her round, babyish forearms showing. “Uh . . .” “Asa, did you just wake up?” As I rubbed the corner of my eye, a stray eyelash got caught under my fingernail. “Yeah, Muneaki did the driving . . . Sorry.” “Oh, it’s fine. I’m sure it was just the packing. That kind of work takes more out of us women. So — sleeping upstairs?” “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Why?” “I told you over the phone about the curtains, right? The Katos left theirs up. I took them down and washed them this morning, but I had no idea it was going to be raining all day. We can’t dry them like this. How about staying at our house tonight? Or I could run over to the laundromat and use the dryers there. It’s not too far from here. Just a quick drive.” “We’ll be fine without curtains.” The mover leaned in and quietly asked, “Who’s she?” “Oh, that’s my husband’s mother. She lives next door.” “Oh, okay,” he said, smirking. The smell of his sweat mixed with the rain. The hair showing from under his hat was wet, but his uniform was completely dry. Maybe it was sweatproof.
The movers started unloading and Tomiko took command immediately. “Are you boys doing this part-time? This weather is the worst, isn’t it? I put mats down in the entryway, so come on in . . .” In the house, the movers took off their shoes, revealing bright white socks, then stepped inside carrying wall and floor guards under both arms. My husband’s mother showed them around the house. “Over here’s the closet. That’s the kitchen. West is this way, so this room gets a lot of sunlight. Oh, maybe you don’t need these, but I brought them over to put under the furniture, to hold everything in place. You know, for earthquakes. What do you think? Do you need them?” The movers looked at my husband, who glanced at me. “Thank you, that’s great. We didn’t bring any.” As always, my husband’s mother was extremely well prepared. She had brought over a cooler stocked with plastic bottles of tea and vitamin water. She also had a few big bags with towels, duct tape, a tape measure, and some other useful items. She reached into one of the bags and pulled out a blue package with SIR GRIPS-A-LOT printed on the front. She handed it to the movers and asked, “You know how to use these, right? With anything heavy — the fridge, things like that — just slip these under it, nice and tight.” “Great, thanks.” “How many do you need? I brought seven. Did you bring any bookshelves?” “No . . .” “Okay. So, you have your fridge, cabinet . . . Did you bring a dresser?” “A dresser..? Uh, yes.” “Okay. Are you going to keep it upstairs?” My husband’s phone rang. “Sorry, I need to take this.” He stomped upstairs, his phone already up to his ear. His mother watched him go, then looked at me and shrugged. I bet most people would think she’s still in her forties. She never wore much makeup, but her cheeks were a healthy red. My mother was probably ten years younger than Tomiko, but definitely looked older. On some level, I guess I thought this was because my own mother became a full-time housewife when she had me. Tomiko was still working. I could hear my husband laughing. Tomiko dabbed at the sweat forming on her forehead. “He should be in charge of this. Well, I guess we’ll have to sort things out without him. Okay — how about putting the dresser upstairs?”