The next three days pass in a blur. Between hanging out with Mindy, last-minute trips to Target, and actually packing, I expect to fall asleep the second I sit down in my premium economy aisle seat en route to Japan. Instead, I spend fourteen hours flipping through movies and watching reruns of old TV shows. No wonder I wake up at two in the afternoon my first day in Tokyo. I have to glance at the clock twice to believe I really slept sixteen hours. Although my head feels it and so does my bladder.
I use the tiny bathroom and then spend three minutes finding the right button to flush. I’ve never seen a toilet with so many buttons, and according to Dad, this one has a heated seat for winter, in addition to everything else. He doesn’t actually know which button that is, of course, but since it’s something like one hundred and five degrees outside, it’s a nonissue right now.
Not only is Tokyo hot, it’s humid. I’m pretty sure my hair frizzed the second we walked out of Narita Airport; by the time we got to the apartment, it was wilder than I’d ever seen it. We took a train into the city, and one brave little kid asked in pretty good English if he could touch my hair and I let him because I didn’t know what else to do. His mother was horrified and gomen nasai’d me to death in between saying lots of things to him in Japanese that I’m pretty sure meant he was in trouble for the rest of his life. I tried to tell her it was okay, but in the end I just said sorry to the kid a couple times.
I walk into the little alcove kitchen and flip the switch for the electric kettle. From the doorway, I can see the entire apartment. Not that it doesn’t have everything, as Dad pointed out at least six times. The living room has an actual couch and a coffee table thing, which Dad says is called a kotatsu. Like the toilet seat, it heats up, and in winter apparently you can put a blanket between the top and the base, flip a switch, and sit there to keep warm. Either the Japanese have a thing about the cold or it’s the equivalent of Siberia here in the winter.
The kettle whistles and I get the instant coffee from the shelf. I make a face, but instant is better than none at all. Dad doesn’t drink coffee and has already said a coffeemaker is out of the question since they’re expensive and it will take up valuable counter and/or storage space. Admittedly, the kitchen has little of either. There’s an L-shaped counter along the wall with a sink on one end and a stove top on the other, but the actual amount of free space is about three feet, which already has a toaster oven, a kettle, and a rice cooker. I say ditch the rice cooker, but it came with the place.
I fix my coffee and wander out to the living room, which is really only four steps, and settle on the couch with the laptop. I checked my email last night, but I’d been too tired to type and Dad had been too excited to let me. Now, I settle in to read through my inbox. A long email from Mindy. She’s at camp, the same summer science camp where she’s worked for the past three years, and she’s already got stories to tell. The first day they get the kids acclimated by doing outdoor experiments, like putting Mentos into a bottle of Coke. She got sprayed right in the face by the Coke geyser and sent me a picture of her soaked and sticky, but smiling. A couple of emails from friends on the swim team. Short email from my future roommate Sarah, hoping I got to Tokyo all right.
I email her back first because it will be the shortest. Thanks, I’m here. Hope you’re well. Blah, blah, blah. I haven’t gone to get my stuff for our room yet, despite her asking repeatedly if red is okay with me. I’ve told her it’s fine and it won’t upset me at all if our stuff doesn’t match, but I can tell it will upset her, even if she doesn’t come right out and say it. I have a feeling until I send picture proof I’ve gotten a comforter with red in it, I won’t be hearing much from Sarah.
I click on Facebook and scan through the updates. Some of them are funny, but nothing exciting. And nothing from Finn. I’d searched for him on Facebook after that night at the playground, thinking for sure he wouldn’t even be on. But he was and his profile isn’t private so now I stalk him because I’m too chicken to send him an actual friend request. Not that he would notice since he has over three hundred friends—half from Boston, half from Baltimore, and mostly jocks, judging by their profile pics. And those friends seem to know him and like him if his wall posts are anything to go by.
I feel like a voyeur looking through them, but that doesn’t stop me from reading them almost every time I log on and today is no different. Dude, is the world really flat? Where the hell are you? Another one with a Betty Boop profile pic. Bummed you’re not coming to the beach this summer. This is me pouting. And the one that makes me click on the photo near her post: Miss you, but oh that goodbye…
Lexy Newton. Relationship status: It’s complicated. Long blond hair. Tan. Big smile. Big boobs. I scan her wall for posts from Finn, but I have to go back to April to find a post from him. Made it back to the armpit. Heading to Beantown. See you in a few weeks.
Back to his profile. Relationship status: Single. Photos, all of which I’ve scanned before: no Lexy. Hers, however, once it occurs to me to click on them, are a different story. Her and Finn arm-in-arm. Her on his lap. Him kissing her on the cheek. All of them scream couple to me, no matter how complicated it is.
I close the tab and lean back into the couch. Okay, so that explains some things, but not a lot. He never mentioned a girlfriend, just his best childhood friend. But he didn’t kiss me that night either. Not that it matters. I didn’t see him again before I left town, and the odds are slim to none now.
I take a sip of coffee. If I’m honest, I’ll probably never see him again, except through Facebook. That makes me feel more wistful than it should and I turn back to the computer and type Yokohama into Google. I need to focus my efforts on something else, anything else, and figuring out where I am and what’s here seems like a good start. Especially with 15 million results in .26 seconds.
I get so sucked into the Japan Guide and all the links to temples and train maps that I lose complete track of time. So when I hear the key in the lock I’m surprised and even more so when I look at the little clock in the corner of the laptop and it says 5:27 AM. Dad stands in the middle of the living room as I’m trying to do the conversion from New York time. Is Tokyo eleven hours ahead? Or is it thirteen?
“Zo? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Are you?”
He’s frowning, so maybe not. “Are you going out?”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Um, I don’t know. Am I?”
“We’re supposed to go to dinner. Remember, I was going to come home to pick you up so you didn’t have to find your way? Sorry I’m a little late. I said I’d be home by six.” He eyes the cut-off sweats and tank top that make up my pajamas.
Thirteen hours ahead, then. It’s almost 6:30. “Oh God. I totally forgot. But we can go. I’ll get ready.”
He looks a little relieved. Maybe he thought I was depressed instead of lazy, because before I decided to be “fine,” there had been weeks after Mom died when I lived in my pajamas outside of school hours and acted like it was totally normal.
“We’re supposed to be there at seven. I’ll just call Eloise and tell her we might be late and they should go ahead and order.”
“It will take me ten minutes, Dad. Don’t worry.” I’ve already got one foot in the bathroom and I hear him on the phone, although I pause before I click the door shut. Because even though he doesn’t say anything out of the ordinary, something in his tone makes me think Eloise was the woman on the phone that time calling him “sweetheart.” Eloise, his so-called colleague. Wow.
I would think about this more if I didn’t have to wrestle with the shower, which I’m hard-pressed to call a shower at all. It’s a hand-held nozzle with a hook on the wall that’s barely high enough for me to stick my head under and the water pressure is nonexistent. I abandon all hope of even running conditioner through my hair if I’m going to make good on my promise of ten minutes and just manage a basic wash before I give up completely.
My suitcase takes up half the floor in my room, and I wish I’d spent some time today putting things away or at least hanging them up on the rolling rack in the corner because everything is crumpled. I pick a green cotton tank dress close to the top that doesn’t seem as bad as the rest and throw it on with a wide leather belt. Hair goes up in a high ponytail, a trace of mascara and I’m back in the living room where Dad surveys me with a smile.
“You look great.”
He always says that, and I nod vaguely as I dig through my purse for Chapstick. “Remind me to unpack when we get home instead of getting sucked back into the Internet. So where are we going?”
Dad tells me that we’re going to a hibachi place two stops from here and we need to move it, so I follow him out. Our apartment is on the third floor and we wind down the stairs, our shoes slapping on concrete the only sound. In fact, I’m stunned at how quiet it is because I remember from last night we’re not far from a major street.
And that major street is insane. Cars, motorcycles, sirens, people. And all the neon on top of that. We’re not even in Tokyo proper and it feels like Times Square. The train station is only two blocks away, and by the time we get there, I’ve got a serious case of swivel head because there’s so much to see.
“Wow, it’s overwhelming,” I say.
“It’s like New York. You get used to it.” Dad buys me a ticket from a machine that seems to have an English option, although what buttons he pressed to get that, I have no idea. He hands the ticket to me with a bunch of bills. “You should have money in case you need it. I’ll get you an ATM card tomorrow and we can get you a cell phone, too.”
“Who would I call?” I can’t imagine being without a cell phone in New Jersey, but here it seems completely unnecessary.
“You might make a friend.” Dad smiles and leads me to a platform where we stand with everyone else waiting.
There’s a timetable on a sign above our head, displayed in military time. 18:57. “We’re meeting some of the other expats for dinner.”
“Oh good. I can get hooked up for babysitting.”
“Some of the kids are older. Eloise…”
Right. Eloise. “Dad…” I interrupt him and then stop because the train approaches and a million people get off. Honestly, I have never seen so many people exit a train at one time, in such an orderly way. Not like in New York where, even though you’re supposed to step to the side to wait, people shove on anyway. Here, everyone on the platform waits for the passengers to get off and then they file in.
Dad and I end up in the middle of the car, which makes me a little nervous because he said we’re only going two stops and there are approximately three hundred people between us and the door. And, okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, but very slight. The girl next to me wedges herself into my ribs, and we both have to be fine with it because there’s literally nowhere else for her to go.
Dad laughs at my expression. “If you think this is bad, stay away from the trains in morning rush hour for a while.”
“I read about that, where the men shove you onto the trains because it’s so crowded.” I read one blog post by some girl who’d passed out standing on the train during morning rush hour and no one around her noticed until the train emptied seven stops later. The whole thought makes me shake my head in disgust. “No thank you.”
“It won’t be as bad coming home. This is still the work crowd.”
I notice people glancing at us, although they’re trying to hide it. Dad said I’m bound to get some stares because my red hair is so completely foreign, and I wonder if they’re staring because of that or because we’re speaking English? And if it’s the fact we’re speaking English, how much of it do they understand? If it’s a lot, they might get an earful in a second.
I clear my throat. I don’t know how to do this, but I know I have to before we get to the restaurant and come face-to-face with Eloise. “So did Eloise mind that we were going to be late?”
Dad shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. There are about twenty people going. They’ll just start to order and we can join in.”
“Do you go out a lot then?” The train lurches to a stop. One stop to go.
“Some. More than in New York. It’s different now that you’re here.”
“I know, but it doesn’t need to be, Dad. I mean, I can take care of myself, and you shouldn’t curb your social life because of me.”
“I want to spend time with you, Zo.” Dad looks confused. Shoot. I’m blowing this.
So I do the only possible thing and blurt it out. “I want to spend time with you, too, Dad. But I don’t think your girlfriend will understand if you just put her on hold all summer.”
“My girlfriend?” Dad says this slowly, and the girl to my right jabs me in the ribs. It feels like she’s chastising me for my lack of tact, although she’s staring straight ahead, so probably not.
“Eloise? Or maybe I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure there’s someone and you shouldn’t be worried about telling me. Mom died a long time ago and you should… be happy.” My palms are sweaty on the pole as I say it. I’m right. I know I’m right. Mom would want him to be happy. I want him to be happy.
Dad gapes at me now, but before he can respond the train stops and he pulls me toward the door. I half-expect the girl to follow us just so she can jab me again if I need it, but she’s still on the train when it pulls out and Dad and I stop in the middle of the platform as all the businessmen, aka salarymen, swarm toward the stairs.
“This isn’t how I imagined telling you, Zosia.”
He calls me Zosia, which means I am right. About something. “I’m a big girl. I can take it, Dad.”
He either agrees with me or feels backed into a corner. “Eloise and I have been seeing each other for a couple of months. But we were both offered the move to Tokyo before anything happened between us. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
I put my hand on his arm. “You have a certain tone, Dad, when you like someone. Everyone does.”
Dad looks confused by this. “They do?”
The platform fills up again with people for the next train. “They do. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
We don’t talk as we leave the station, but Dad stops about twenty steps outside. “If you’d rather not meet her yet, I understand.”
“Dad, I want to meet her. And I’d rather know meeting her she’s your girlfriend than find out a week from now or a month from now because that would be weirder.” I laugh, trying to make light of it. “I mean, what if I said something bad about her and then I found out?”
His face falls. I’ve said the wrong thing. Again. “I think you’ll like her. She’s not your mother, but she’s genuine. And she’s had a tough time—her ex-husband, her son…”
“Dad, stop. I’m sure she’s fine.” It’s the magic word and it propels Dad down the sidewalk with me a step behind.
I drag my feet. It’s not fine. I’m not ready to meet twenty people I don’t know, and I’m sure as hell not ready to meet Dad’s girlfriend. His first girlfriend since Mom. The fact that he didn’t warn me—wasn’t going to warn me—worries me more than anything because I know what that means. It means he’s already assumed “fine” on my behalf.
The whole way to the restaurant I imagine backing out. I’m exhausted. My stomach’s upset. I might throw up. I even open my mouth when we’re in the elevator like the most believable excuse might come out. But Dad’s not looking at me, talking about how most department stores have restaurants on the top floor and supermarkets in the basement, so you always know where to find food. He’s babbling like he’s nervous and this makes me nervous, too.
When the doors open, I smell cigarettes and food, in that order. My stomach lurches. All I’ve had is coffee all day, and the cigarette smell makes me feel like I really could throw up. If I don’t wet myself first. Neither my bladder nor my stomach is used to all that coffee.
“Um, Dad, I’m going to hit the ladies room first.”
“I’ll wait for you here.” He looks around and waves toward the far side of the room.
“No, really. I’ll find you. You’ll be the one with all the gaijin.” I move off before he can protest. There’s a sign for restrooms. Thank God that’s universal.
Inside the bathroom, I push the door open to a stall and stop dead. In front of me is a ceramic trough-looking thing in the floor. Toilet paper hangs on the wall on one side and a bar on the other. Seriously? I push open all the other doors. All the same.
You have got to be kidding me. I’m either going to pee or puke and my only option is the equivalent of a hole in the ground?
I know this is a traditional Japanese toilet. I saw pictures online. Mindy and I laughed. But I didn’t think I’d have to use one because the same site that had the pictures also said Western toilets were becoming more and more popular. And I thought the buttons were bad. Ha.
I step into a stall and lock the door behind me. My bladder reminds me it’s full to bursting and I glance again at the floor. Okay, this is like squatting in the woods. I’ve done that before. Not in a long time, but it’s certainly not hard. I crouch over the hole and pull my bikini panties down to my knees, holding them forward with a thumb. But I don’t grab both sides and end up soaking the back of them. So much that there’s no way I’m putting them back on.
I back away from the toilet, afraid I’ll stick my foot in it, and slide my panties down, holding the wet part away from my leg. They dangle from my finger, deep blue on one side, lighter on the other. So gross. There’s no choice but to throw them in the sanitary bin at the back of the stall and yank my dress down hard over my hips. I feel naked, even though my dress is more than long enough. Practically to my knees.
Still, looking in the mirror while I wash my hands, my cheeks are pink. A girl comes in and the pink deepens, as if she can tell. I take a deep breath and shake my head at myself, tightening my ponytail. Okay. I’m going to meet my father’s new girlfriend and I’m not wearing underwear. That feels all wrong, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
I pull the door and head out. The restaurant is crowded, but I see Dad’s group from the entrance. Eighty percent gaijin, a few Japanese. Dad leans down talking to a petite dark-haired woman. Eloise? My heart thuds, but I plaster a smile on my face and set out across the room.
I’m about six steps from the table when a guy sidles up next to the woman and puts his arm around her shoulder. Dad sees me and waves at the same time the guy says, “Mom” and they both turn toward me.
And I’m standing two steps away from Finn O’Leary.