Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(18)

Mariko glances at the walk-in closet, complete with a marble island. Dresses hang. It is a pastel massacre. “No black,” she says, then sighs. “The yellow will have to do.” She nods as if reassuring herself. Sallow complexion is a risk we must take.

In less than ten minutes, I am outfitted in the pale yellow dress that actually fits rather well and I’m herded to a vanity. Bright lights are flicked on. Mariko laments I don’t have bangs.

“What should we do with it?” Mariko asks, lifting my hair and studying the thick strands in the mirror.

“I like it down,” I offer, thinking she wants my actual opinion.

Mariko’s mouth thins. She sweeps my hair back and pins the mass into a bun. My scalp is screaming by the time she’s finished. So she likes it rough, got it. To counteract the buttercup dress, a bit of rouge is applied to my lips and cheeks.

She mumbles something about the color of my nail polish—kinky pink—being too bright, but there’s no time for a manicure. She places Mikimoto pearl studs in my ears, and a matching strand around my neck.

“Welcome gifts from the empress. She regrets she cannot be here to greet her newest granddaughter in person.” Mariko secures the clasp.

In the mirror, I see a different person. It’s me, yet it’s not. A royal avatar. I’m not sure what to think, how to feel about it.

There is a knock on the suite doors. Mariko lets Mr. Fuchigami in. He’s here to escort me to my father. “Ready?” he asks, eyes appraising, then approving.

I want to say yes, but whole galaxies of words die on my tongue. I am minutes away from meeting my father, who I’ve waited to meet my entire life. The urge to breathe into a paper bag is strong. But I keep my cool, at least on the outside. On the inside, insecurities rise up. I want my father to like me. I want to like my father. Is that too much to ask, Universe?

All I can do is nod. All roads lead to this. No more wandering down streets and wondering if strangers could be related to me. The answers to my questions are a few steps away. Who is my father? Does he want me here? Is this just a political stunt? Shoulders straight, steps sure, I follow Mr. Fuchigami out the door and into a new life.





7


The walls in my father’s office are cedar and lacquered to a high shine, every vein in the wood highlighted. For the moment, I am alone. Mr. Fuchigami deposited me here and slid the doors closed. I understand. The Crown Prince doesn’t wait for anyone. This is fine; it gives me free rein to snoop.

Like my room here, this one is sparsely furnished. I know why. There’s money, and then there’s wealth. I’m pretty sure I’ve stepped into the dark heart of the latter. Each item on the bookshelf is given a wide berth from the others. Built-in lights, personal bolts of sunlight, highlight the pieces—a porcelain cobalt blue China vase, a Spanish silver tobacco box, some type of sword with a golden dragon winding around the handle. Each item is old, rare. Priceless. Here, families aren’t measured by dollar signs but in historical pieces and provenance. And, what’s mine? Everything about my life suddenly seems cheap.

There are photographs, too. Simply framed between two sheets of glass are images of my father, all in black-and-white. There he is as a young boy against a shoji screen backdrop, piano keys beneath his fingertips. In another, he is older, dashing and very militant in a brass-buttoned uniform. Then there are the candids. He cuddles a koala in front of a eucalyptus tree. He drinks beer with his brother at a pub. There is a photograph of the empress and emperor on their wedding day, in full imperial regalia, kimono and hakama.

The doors slide open and I straighten, smoothing out the skirt of my dress. My heart pounds. He is framed in the doorway, cutting an imposing figure in a white shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons and black slacks.

He inclines his head and speaks in Japanese to the men behind him. The doors are closed. We’re alone. We can

(a) hug;

(b) shake hands; or

(c) smile genuinely.

But then, we choose

(d) none of the above—stare awkwardly at each other.

Outside, the gray clouds have moved on, and the sun is setting. The light is different here—burnt oranges and golds, colors I thought could only be mixed by a master artist. Shadows play in the room and cast the hard planes of my father’s face into sharp relief. He is aloof. I am adrift.

“You look like your mother,” he finally blurts out.

I have the distinct sense of whiplash. Am I reading his tone correctly? Was that accusatory? I clench and unclench my hands. My worst fears might be coming true. He doesn’t want me. This was a mistake. I’m ready to burn the whole thing down. “I thought I looked a lot like you when I finally saw pictures.”

“You do. It’s the nose. The imperial family is known for passing down a small bump.”

I reach and trace the tiny ridge along the spine of my nose.

“You also look like the empress, my mother.” His tone warms. “An elfin chin and wide-set eyes. She was a great beauty in her time. It’s good you don’t look too much like me. Your mother once told me I often appeared as if I’d just eaten sour grapes.”

I laugh. Cancel the fire for now, I guess.

His jaw flexes. “I never cared for her colloquialisms.”

I sober.

We lapse into awkward silence. What had I pictured? That we’d run into each other’s arms? That our shared DNA would act as opposite ends of a magnet pulling us together? He is not a dad returning from deployment. I am not a child eagerly awaiting his arrival. There are no memories to anchor our relationship. He did not tuck me in at night, hold me while I raged with a fever, or cheer me on when I stole home playing softball. All those missed moments build up between us. I don’t want to blame him for his absence, but I kind of do. All of this is so unfair.