Unbreak My Heart(12)

I turn around, and he’s a snapshot of a man caught taking a step toward a woman.

I’m a woman wanting to catch him. That’s what the camera captures when it trains on me. “What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking of what to do this summer.”

“What do you want to do?” I ask tightly, possibilities winding up in me, wishes and hopes I can’t let myself entertain.

His phone buzzes. He grabs it from his pocket and swipes the screen. “It’s Jeremy. I told him I’d meet him for a beer. We’ll talk later?”

I nod. “Of course. Absolutely. You should go.”

“I should go.”

I try not to let on how much I don’t want him to leave as I say goodbye and wrap my arms around him in a hug that lasts longer than it should.

Then it lasts a few more seconds still as his arms tighten around me, and I lean my face into his neck, stealing a quick inhale of his scent. He’s the scent I like best.

Moments later, I untangle myself from him and watch him walk away, even though I ache seeing him go.

Sometimes, I think we’re both stuck in the same quicksand of the past and the present. The only way to escape is to stop letting my head get in the way of my heart.





9





Andrew



The next day I check the mail for the first time in days. There are no more sympathy cards. They have all come and gone. The sorrys, the prayers, the my thoughts are with yous are over. Everyone has said what they need to say, and everyone has moved on to their noisy, everyday lives. They’re all back on the merry-go-round of life—a merry-go-round I’m nowhere near ready to climb onto.

The mail brings only memories. A cooking magazine. A baseball card catalog. Ian’s alumni journal.

I drop the catalogs and everything else from the mailbox into the green recycling bin at the end of the driveway. As the papers fall, I spot something that doesn’t look like a catalog. It’s a letter, addressed to me, my name written in calligraphy with some sort of felt-tip pen. The postmark is Japanese, and the name in the return address—Kana Miyoshi—startles me.

Holland’s friend.

The caretaker for the apartment.

My brother’s girlfriend.

I walk back into my eerily quiet house and sit at the kitchen counter. My hand shakes as I slide a thumb under the envelope flap. My heart is beating quickly too, like I expect this letter to unleash secrets.

I turn to the dog, who’s stretched out on the nearby couch. Her legs poke up in the air, the back ones looking like drumsticks with those meaty thighs she has.

“What do you think it says, Sandy?”

She tilts her head toward me and waits for an answer.

I pull out the letter, and as I unfold it, I’m not in Los Angeles anymore, but thousands of miles away. I can see and smell and hear and taste Tokyo. Even the paper looks Asian.



Dear Andrew—





Hey! I tried to email you, but I never heard back. Perhaps it went to spam? I thought I had your phone number, but I might be a digit off since I kept reaching a dry cleaner in Santa Monica. I can tell you there are very many affordable options for suits there!





In any case, I’m resorting to this most old-fashioned method of communication. As you may know, I’m the caretaker for your apartment on Maruyamacho Street, and I was also a good friend of Ian’s.





I smile at the euphemism.



We were cleaning the apartment recently, and we discovered several medication prescriptions on the shelves.





She lists the medicines and notes whether each bottle had been opened. Most are marked as unopened. Odd.



Would you like us to make arrangements to ship them to you, leave them here, or dispose of them? I’m sorry to trouble you with this seemingly trivial matter, but we try to be careful with how we handle medication and other related items. Please advise.





Also, since I am writing to you in a professional capacity, as well as a personal one, it is customary in situations like this for us to inform the family of the personal effects in the apartment.





She lists things like clothes and photos and other items, but what catches my attention are the next few lines.



There are also several crossword puzzle books, a stub from a John Legend concert, some cards and your brother’s favorite Dodgers cap. Perhaps you know it? It is the one that says World Series Champions, even though they didn’t win. He had a friend in charge of the printing of the caps so they would be ready for either team—he snagged one before the boxes were sent to a village in Africa. He must have left it here on his last visit in late February. He wore it when we visited his favorite temple. I have a photo from that day, which I can send, along with any other items you might want.





He was an amazing man, the most joyful at times, and very funny too. He liked to take me to tea with him occasionally at the Tatsuma Teahouse, and he said playfully he was simply following doctor’s orders by going there. While we were together, he told me such wonderful stories of life back home and stories of you. I am sorry we never met, and please accept my deep regrets, once again, that I couldn’t attend the service. Ian expressly asked that I not attend, and I protested many times. But, as he often did, he had the last word. Please know Ian was so proud of you, and of how hard you worked, especially during the last year of school. He talked about you all the time, always with so much happiness in his eyes. He loved you so.