* * *
I don’t know when my father found out about my mother, exactly, but eventually Carlotta stopped coming around. And then my father didn’t leave the house for a while.
He mostly sat on the porch.
He started saying please.
* * *
One morning, around that time, the doorbell woke me up. It couldn’t have been past four. These two guys were holding my father, in a tank top and briefs, slumped on their shoulders and looking uncertain.
Es tu papa? said one of the guys.
Sí, I said, lo siento.
Lo encontramos por allá, said the guy, pointing across the block and over some trees.
Es not safe, said the other guy.
Lo siento, I said again, and they handed him off.
Necesitas cuidarlo, said the first guy, scratching at his shoulder.
* * *
Afterward, my father laughed and hiccupped the entire morning, speaking all sorts of gibberish, before he suddenly, thoroughly, knocked out that afternoon.
The next day, he called me downstairs before breakfast. He said he had something to tell me. Something about my mother.
I tried to make the appropriate face of surprise.
3.
It’s still dark when I’m up the next morning, but Mitsuko’s mincing shrimp. She’s hunched over the cutting board, beside eggs, flour, and honey.
Do you eat, she says.
I tell her I do.
We don’t say shit while she’s working. Mitsuko blitzes everything in a food processor. Drops the mixture in a skillet, dabbing everything with soy sauce, folding the batter gradually. I take my pills, watching her do all this, and she ignores me the entire time, working at her own pace.
When I sit on the sofa, Mitsuko stops rolling. I stand to set the table, and she starts rolling again.
Once she’s finished, she fills a bowl with some pickled cucumbers, with a plate for the omelette, leaving another one out for me. We chew hunched over the counter, hip to hip.
So, Mitsuko says, how long have you been sleeping with my son?
Or is it casual, she says.
Not really, I say.
I don’t know how it works, says Mitsuko.
I think it’s the same for everyone.
It isn’t, says Mitsuko.
She says, I’m sure you can tell that Michael and I are very close.
We’ve been together for four years, I say. More or less.
More, Mitsuko asks, or less?
A little more, I say.
But just a little, she says.
Mike’s better with numbers, I say.
It occurs to me, out of nowhere, that my posture is entirely fucked up. Mitsuko’s is impeccable, even at a lean. So I straighten up, and then I stoop, and Mitsuko raises an eyebrow.
She snorts, and says, My son could not be worse with numbers.
After that, we eat in silence. Scattered Spanish filters in through the window. The kids next door kick a soccer ball against the wall, until their father steps outside screaming, asking which one of them has lost their minds.
While Mitsuko’s focused on her food, I really look at her. It’s clear that, at one point, she was a startlingly beautiful woman.
Then she meets my eyes. I blink like something’s in them.
She says, I realize that this must be strange for you, too.
No, I say, it’s fine.
So you’re a liar, says Mitsuko.
I’m being honest. Really.
I’m fluent in fine, says Mitsuko. Fine means fucked.
Did my son tell you how long he’d be gone, she says.
A month, I say. Maybe two. I don’t know. We didn’t talk too much about it.
Of course not.
But did he tell you?
Tell me what?
How long he’d be gone, I say. Or that he was leaving?
Mitsuko looks me in the eyes. She cracks her knuckles on the counter.
No, she says. My son neglected to give me that information. But this could be a good thing. I needed to get out of Japan for a while. No sense in rushing back to Tokyo to look at a dying man.
So, I ask, you’re staying here? Until Mike gets back?
My voice cracks, just a bit. But Mitsuko spots it. She grins.
Would that be a problem, she asks.
No, I say. That’s not what I meant.
Then what did you mean?
I’m sorry, I say. I really was just asking.
It’s enough for Mitsuko to cross her arms. She leans on the counter, and her hair slips down her shoulders. I make a point to slow my breathing, to let my shoulders droop just a bit.
Then I think staying here is exactly what I’ll do, says Mitsuko. I could use the time off. Your place is filthy, but it’ll work until Michael makes it back.
And that’s absolutely okay, I say. Totally perfect.
Remember, says Mitsuko, you’re the one who let him leave.
You’re right, I say. I’m the one who let him leave.
How generous, says Mitsuko, but then she doesn’t say anything else.
* * *
Once Mitsuko’s finished her bowl, she drops it in the sink. She turns on the faucet. Reaches for mine. The omelette was delicious, the sort of thing Mike would cook, because he did everything in the kitchen, and I think that this could have been the problem to begin with.
Nice chat, says Mitsuko, and I apologize, but I’m not sure why.
* * *
• • •
At some point, Lydia and I started talking about our mother’s new family. I never asked when my sister found out, or from who. But she never asked me either.
4.
The next day, Mitsuko’s cooking potatoes and okayu and a sliver of fish. She sets a bowl aside for me, with some scallions dashed over the porridge. Then she sips tea by the counter, and I drink water like a drowning man, and I never see her take a pill or check her blood pressure or anything else.
Once she’s finished, Mitsuko slips on a jacket and shoes. I don’t ask where she’s going. I won’t make the same mistakes twice.
* * *
• • •