Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(8)

The sun shifts, descending. The tall grass in our backyard sways.

Soon, I know everything. My parents met at a party. It wasn’t love at first sight, but there was a connection. The connection led to phone calls, then to meetings, then to overnights. They agreed to keep their relationship a secret. Mom didn’t want the attention. “I worked so hard to get where I was. I couldn’t risk it for a boy,” she explains. “He respected my wishes. We had fun. But we both knew it wasn’t meant to last. Our worlds were too different.” She laughs. “He didn’t know how to iron a shirt, do laundry, or make a cup of soup. He drank like a fish, loved microbeers. And he was funny. He had this dry sense of humor and a wicked wit. You wouldn’t know you were at the receiving end of one of his barbs until you were bleeding and he was gone.”

My eyes crinkle at the corners. “You kept the book he gave you all these years?”

She gazes at her lap. “It’s a rare edition. I forgot the poem was in there.” We both know she’s lying. My mom still totally holds a candle for my father. The secret is hers to keep.

Mom stands and withdraws a slip of paper from her pocket. “I have no idea how to get hold of him now, but we did have mutual friends. David Meier is a chemistry professor at the University of Stockholm. He and your father were close. They might keep in touch.” She places the slip of paper next to my hip and touches my shoulder, then my cheek. “Try to eat something.”

As she goes to close the door I say, “I’m sorry … for what I said before.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she says. “For what I never said.” A bridge forms over the gap between us—rickety, but passable. Everything will be okay.

I’m itching to grab the paper. “One more thing,” I say. “You really don’t mind if I try to get in touch with him?” If we connect, we’d be diving headfirst into the fishbowl. Our lives might never be the same.

She hesitates. Apprehension sits heavy on her shoulders. A single headshake, and her spine straightens. It’s a signature Mom move, bracing for the hard stuff. I’ve seen it before, like on my first day of kindergarten, when I clung to her ankles and cried as she pried my fingers from her body. Or the time she cut her hand making me a sandwich. Blood was everywhere. She wrapped it in a towel and we drove to the emergency room, but not before she packed my lunch and some books. She’s always put me first.

“No, I don’t mind.” Her voice is so gentle, so understanding I want to spontaneously burst into tears again. “I’ve accomplished what I wanted to and more. Our life is small in comparison to his. But I’m happy.”

She leaves and I pick up the slip of paper. On it is an email address, [email protected]. I press the envelope icon on my phone.

Dear Mr. Meier,

My name is Izumi Tanaka. My mother, Hanako, graduated Harvard in 2003 and she believes you may have kept in touch with my father, Makotonomiya Toshihito. It is my hope you will be able to connect me with him. Below, I’ve included a note that you may forward to him.

Thanks,

Izumi



I take a deep breath and start a letter to my father.

Dear Mak,

You don’t know me but I know you.



Ugh. Too creepy. Too casual. I delete and start again.

Dear Crown Prince Toshihito,

I think I’m your daughter …





4


“Nothing?” Glory asks, balling up a bit of napkin.

I lean back in the red vinyl booth and rub my overfull stomach. Black Bear Diner is a Mount Shasta institution. It is known for its newspaper menus, kitschy black-bear-slash-lumberjack decor, and dinner plate–sized biscuits. We frequent here on the regular. We come. We eat. We conquer. This is where we live our best lives. “Nope.”

Hansani’s smile is gentle. She pats my hand. “Give it some more time. It’s only been a week or so.”

Actually, it’s been thirteen days, two hours, and five minutes since I sent the email to David Meier. Not that I’m counting or anything. I stopped compulsively checking my email every five minutes yesterday. Now I only check it every hour. Progress.

I pull my hand back and shoot Hansani an appreciative glance. I have a special place in my heart for Hansani. She has a resting happy face and a total America’s Sweetheart vibe. To boot, she’s the size of an Ewok. I mean, if she’d let me, I’d carry her around in my pocket. Sometimes, our opinions differ. Like half of Mount Shasta’s residents, she loves The Grateful Dead. I think their music is self-indulgent guitar noodling. There, I said it—fight me.

Noora says, “Maybe his email went to junk mail?”

Hansani makes a low humming noise of agreement.

“Already checked. Nothing.”

Up until now, I hadn’t considered the possibility my father might not want to know me. Ouch. The thought hurts. I care much more than I should. After all, he’s nothing but a biological stranger.

Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it.

Our bill arrives and we dig through our pockets and bags. We pay in crumpled ones and tip in change. I offer the waitress a shy, apologetic smile as we leave. Sorry about the twenty percent in pennies.

We load into Noora’s hatchback, complete with peeling paint and a rock chip in the window shield. I claim shotgun and we head on to Lake Street toward Glory’s house. Mount Shasta looms in the distance, a lonely white pyramid. Behind us is Main Street—one stoplight, half a dozen crystal shops, one indie bookstore, and one coffee shop. “We’re dropping you off first.” Noora peers at Glory in the rearview mirror. We pass a family on horseback. “And I need you to never wear those pants again.”