Memorial(81)

Mitsuko stops cutting at her food. She looks at the space between us in the booth.

I told Eiju that it hurt more to find out that way, and he said it wasn’t the same thing. Not even a little bit. He said there are some things that it’s better for us to find out on our own. He didn’t want to be the one to tell me that. It wasn’t how he wanted me to think of him.

And that was it, says Mitsuko. Eiju walked me back home. He didn’t even pay for my meal. Barely had enough money to pay for his own.



* * *





By now, Mitsuko’s finished slicing up her meal. She’s also tanked her third margarita, fondling the lime beside it. Behind us, a quartet of teens has assembled in mariachi gear, settling into their stances to start in on a birthday tune. The woman they’re serenading beams beneath a hijab. Her friends sit alongside her, clapping as the teens strum along.

So, says Mike, what was the point of all that?

Point, says Mitsuko.

The point of your story, says Mike.

What are you talking about, says Mitsuko.

The point is that this is how you came to be, she says. One thing happened, and then another thing happened. We didn’t think about whether it would work or not. We just did it.

You’re not making any sense.

You just don’t want it to.

No, says Mike, laying down his silverware.

Dad told me, says Mike. A few days before he died, he told me about how he waited for you. I didn’t even ask him. He just told me.

Dad flew to Japan, said Mike, and we were supposed to follow him. You made sure that we didn’t.

I look at Mitsuko. I look at the saltshaker on the table. The noise in the booths surrounding us seems to decrease all at once.

Of course that’s what Eiju told you, says Mitsuko.

Because it’s true, says Mike, isn’t it?

Dad told me how we were supposed to follow him to Japan, says Mike, wiping at his eyes. That’s why he left. He went ahead, and we were supposed to follow. But we didn’t, because you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to put us back together.

Mike’s looking at his mother now, staring her straight in the eyes. Only, now, he’s tearing up. When the tears start, they roll down his cheeks. I start to pass him the napkin in my lap, but he lets it fall, and Mitsuko’s right there beside him, but honestly, she’s already looking past him. She takes another sip of her margarita.

Look, says Mitsuko.

Let’s say, hypothetically, that you’re onto something, says Mitsuko.

If you were right, says Mitsuko, it would change a few things. It would mean that Eiju really isn’t a monster like I’ve been telling you for the past sixteen years. Hypothetically, it would mean that I was at fault. That I broke up the family. For all his flaws, that would make me worse than him.

Mitsuko runs a finger over her earring. She taps at the side of her margarita glass.

But, she says, imagine what it would’ve taken to make that decision. To pull you away from your father. Think about how I would’ve thought that through. How it would’ve eaten me up. That would mean that I’d taken stock of the situation, and I’d decided that you growing up without him was better than growing up with whatever man your father could potentially become, whatever he had become when he left. That would mean that I believed in us—in you and me—more than I did in whoever your father might, just maybe, someday, become. And I would have to live with the consequences of knowing that I might be wrong. And that, if I was wrong, I could never take it back. If I was wrong, I would bring that decision to my deathbed.

Mitsuko turns to watch the teens play their song until they’ve finished, cheering entirely too loudly. They look our way. One of them raises a fist.

When our waitress reappears, she asks Mitsuko if she wants another margarita. She nods, and Mike shakes his head. He tells his mother that she’s finished.

Bullshit, says Mitsuko.

Ma, says Mike, still crying.

Don’t Ma me. I made you.

You haven’t taken a bite of your food.

Benson. Tell him.

I don’t really think it’s my place, I say.

That’s your problem, says Mitsuko, crossing her arms. Both of you. That’s your issue right there.

I’ll have one more, says Mitsuko, turning to our waitress. And I think that I’ll take all of this food to go. I think I’ll finish all of this later.



* * *





Mike takes the short way home, but there’s still a little time to look up at the sky. Once we’re in the neighborhood, he parks fast and unevenly, gets out of the car without looking at either of us, walks even faster toward the door, past the neighbors calling his name. I wait for Mitsuko, who steps out of the car, gingerly, before she ambles to the porch and plops down on our steps.

Mitsuko opens her to-go box, unpacking the fork and knife. As she starts to eat, she looks at me. I sit down beside her.

Fireflies buzz under the lone light above us. Everything is shrouded in gold. The Venezuelan mother next door is sitting on their porch, too, and she waves at Mitsuko, who raises her plate in return.

We sit there, sweating, saying nothing. Fanning herself with her free hand, Mitsuko squints into the neighborhood, kicking her shoes off.

And then, Mitsuko says, All I’m saying is, you two are fine.