Mom and Raoul don’t go on a honeymoon trip. We’ve just been to France, and the school year has already begun, so we spend the next week settling in, getting used to each other, and finding space for Raoul’s stuff.
All of this helps the week go by quickly, bringing me to Saturday morning and my first meeting with my half brother.
I show up in front of the computer thirty minutes early. I boot up, check into Skype and arrange my Japanese cheat sheet. I check the number of hits to my website—twenty more since yesterday—and my e-mail inbox. I wait for my brother to call.
And then Junpei is up on my screen. His hair is super short, like an army recruit’s, and he’s wearing glasses with heavy black rims. I can see a shelf lined with books in the background. A pennant from some baseball team.
“Konnichiwa!” I say. I’ve got my greetings down pat.
He looks a little confused. Was my pronunciation that bad? Or was he just surprised to hear me speaking Japanese?
After a few seconds, he replies. “Konbanwa.” Good evening.
Oh, right. I forgot about the time difference. It’s already evening on the other side of the globe.
“Watashi wa Aiko desu,” I say, forging on. Duh. Like he doesn’t already know who I am. Who else would be at this number? But I’ve about exhausted my conversational Japanese.
“My name is Junpei.”
“Watashi wa ju go sai.” I tell him my age.
“I’m thirteen years old,” he replies.
“Watashi wa manga ga suki desu.” I tell him that I like manga.
“I like manga, too,” he says. “And baseball.”
Apparently, that’s about all he can manage in English, because we’re both silent after that. We seem unable to do anything but grin at each other like a couple of fools.
Finally, he holds up his hand and says, “Chotto matte.” His body unbends and he disappears from the screen. To go get his dictionary? Or something to draw with?
But then I hear muffled voices, and a new face appears. A kind, sad face with wrinkles raying out from the corners of his eyes. A wide forehead like mine. Eyebrows, short and fat, like a couple of caterpillars stuck on his forehead. My father’s face.
“Hello,” he says.
A lump forms in my throat. For a moment, I can’t say anything at all in any language.
I feel like Dorothy, meeting the Wizard of Oz at last, and finding out that he’s just an ordinary guy. He doesn’t look evil, or like a hero. He looks normal. Hopeful. Like someone who messed up and wants to do better the next time.
“Hello?” he says again. “Can you hear me?”
I take a deep breath. “Y-yes. I’m here. I’m Aiko.”
He nods. “I know.” And then it’s as if he’s the one with the lump in his throat. He swallows hard, brushes a hand over his eyes, and says, “My daughter.” His voice breaks, and I almost wish I could reach into the computer screen and pat him on the shoulder. I feel kind of sorry for him.
There are so many things that I want to say—too many—but for now, all I can do is stare. With his head bent toward his chest, I can see that his hair is thinning on top. His shoulders are a little slumped. I wonder what about him attracted my mother back in the day, in Paris. I wait for him to collect himself. When he does, he holds up a leaf.
“Where did you get this?” he asks.
It’s the indigo leaf that I’d sent to Junpei, and it’s looking a little tattered after that transoceanic flight. “I grew it myself,” I say. A burst of pride shoots through me. “I wanted to learn to be an indigo farmer.”
He smiles. “Maybe you’d like to come and see our farm.”
Yes, I would, or I thought that I would. I don’t know any more. My feelings are in flux. I understand that this is an invitation, but I haven’t quite forgiven him yet. And my heart is still back in France, with Hervé. I wouldn’t mind going back to Paris. “Maybe,” I say.
“My wife would welcome you,” he continues. “She has always wanted a daughter.”
And my grandparents? I wonder, but I can’t bring myself to ask. Does he want me to go live with him, then? Does he think that I would abandon Mom, just like that? After all we’ve been through?
“Maybe next summer,” I say. “I could go for a visit.” That gives me nine months to get into the right frame of mind.
He nods. “I will be waiting for you.”
After a moment, he bows and moves away from the camera. Junpei reappears. He holds up a manga—Black Jack, one of my favorites.
“I love that,” I say, nodding. I grab some of my own manga to show him.
We take turns sharing, nodding and smiling, and finally I hold up the first page of my new story, Indigo Girl.
He gives me the thumbs-up sign.
I silently vow to work harder on my Japanese, and we sign off.
When the screen goes blank, I sit there for a long time, frozen, trying to absorb what just happened. A few months ago, I would have been thrilled to connect with my father, to be invited to Japan. I would have had my suitcase packed by the end of our conversation. Now I’m not quite sure how I feel. But he is my father. And I can tell that he’s sorry. I should give him a chance. And Junpei is my brother. As the knowledge seeps in, I begin to thaw. A seed breaks open and something begins to grow. Something like possibility.
“Otosan,” I whisper. Father.
I hear voices calling me from somewhere else in the house. I pull out of my deep thoughts and go into the kitchen, where lunch is laid out on the table, to join Mom and Raoul, my ever-growing family.