Kira-Kira (18 page)

Here is a special memory about my sister, Lynn. One day in Iowa there was a strong wind, the kind of wind that seems to go up and down and back and forth. I could hardly see because my hair was blowing around my face. Some of the corn blew almost flat. Lynn and I climbed on a ladder to the top of the roof with two boxes of Kleenex. She said to take
the Kleenex out one at a time and let the wind catch it. In a few minutes hundreds of tissues sailed over the cornfield. I held the hair out of my eyes to watch. The tissues looked like giant butterflies.

Later we got in trouble, and our allowance was docked for the price of the Kleenex. We had to go and pick up every single piece. It was worth it to see the butterflies flying over the corn.

Lynn could take a simple, everyday object like a box of Kleenex and use it to prove how amazing the world is. She could prove this in many different ways, with Kleenex or soap bubbles or maybe even a blade of grass. This is the main theme of my sister’s life.

chapter 16

W
E MADE
L
YNN’S
altar on her desk, facing the big magnolia, which kept its leaves all winter. Uncle made me a beautiful wooden box in which I placed her chewed-up pencil, a lock of her hair my mother had cut, her toenail clippings, and other really sacred items like that. He’d even inserted a piece of removable glass in the wood under which I could place a picture of Lynn. I started to make our daily rice instead of my mother, and I put a bowl of fresh rice out every day for Lynn. I also kept her favorite water glass full. Sometimes I gave her
milk and treats. Other times I would have a feeling that she might want fresh air, so I would open the window over her desk.

My mother and father became like zombies. They ate but didn’t seem to taste their food. They slept but never deeply—I often heard them get up in the middle of the night. During the days we talked to one another but without joy. Sometimes I felt they were even disappointed in me because I wasn’t Lynn. Other times they got the “We should haves”: “We should have fed her liver from when she was younger”; “We should have taken her to that doctor in Chicago”; “We should have tried to buy a house sooner.”

Every day for dinner my mother fed us either SPAM and rice or sardines and rice. The dishes piled up. It looked as if we might lose the house because my parents still owed money on Lynn’s medical bills and my mother wouldn’t work as many hours any longer. I think she felt there was no reason to work hard anymore.

I got so sick of sardines and SPAM that I started to make dinner for the family. The first
five nights I made my favorite dinner: ramen noodles with fish cakes and green onion. The sixth through tenth nights I made my second favorite dinner: pizza. Ramen and pizza were the end of my repertoire. Every night after dinner I washed the dishes and cleaned the counters with a new sponge my father had bought me. I did all this so that my mother wouldn’t go insane over how messy the kitchen was getting.

My mother, already thin, still cried all the time and lost weight. My father grew thin, and his skin became waxy and pale. I needed to fatten them up. I borrowed a cookbook from Mrs. Kanagawa and made a different dinner every night.

On the forty-ninth day after Lynn’s death I opened all the windows in the alcove, even though it was raining. I closed my eyes and tried to feel Lynn’s spirit. A leaf suddenly fell off the magnolia tree and flew in the wind and hit the screen right in front of me. I believed that leaf was a sign from Lynn.

When she first died, I felt sorry about all the pills I’d given her that made her feel so miserable. But now I didn’t feel so many
regrets. Lynn wanted her life. I thought she was willing to suffer if she could still taste her food, if she could still talk about the sea, if she could still feel a breeze across her face, and even if she could still argue with her crazy sister!

I cried and cried. But then I had to stop. One thing about me was that when I was having a serious wish session, I tried never to wish impossible wishes. I might have wished for sixteen crayons instead of eight, but even when I was little, I never wished for a thousand crayons, because I knew a thousand different crayons did not exist. So on that forty-ninth day I did not wish that Lynn could be alive again, because I knew she was gone. I was worried that her spirit was watching me every time I cried. I was worried that if she saw me crying, she would be very unhappy and maybe she wouldn’t be able to leave the earth the way she was supposed to. So even though I wanted her to keep watching me, I wished she would forget about me and never see me crying and never worry about me anymore, even if that meant I was now alone.

I worked harder at school, because that was one of Lynn’s last wishes. It was pretty boring. I hoped Lynn wasn’t watching me, but just in case she was, I spent a lot of time on my homework. The first time I got an A on a math test, my parents were so surprised and proud, they found a frame and hung up the test in their bedroom. That A actually brought a bit of life into their eyes. They mentioned it to everyone they talked to. It was strange to see them so excited about one A, since Lynnie had gotten a zillion of them.

Sometimes, no matter how hard I tried, I got a C. That happened a lot. But when I worked hard, I got better grades. This surprised me. I guess because Lynn was so smart and it had seemed easy for her to get good grades, I never noticed how hard she worked. I thought getting an A was something that happened to you, not something you made happen. But after Lynn had died and I’d spent a lot of time thinking about her, I remembered how often I’d seen her sitting at her desk, chewing her pencil as she worked for hours on her homework.

When summer came, I turned twelve. For my birthday my father took Silly and me down to Lynnie’s grave. We cleaned the grave and planted some flowers. Then we did a dance in our persona as the Shirondas. We’d been practicing almost every day in preparation for performing for Lynn. Silly was Wanda Shironda, and I was Rhonda Shironda. We knew all the words to quite a few songs, and we had worked out some special dance steps just for today. My father watched proudly while we performed “Hit the Road, Jack,” “Where the Boys Are,” “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” and “Twisting the Night Away.” He even laughed a little. That little bit of laughing changed him. He seemed surprised that he could still laugh.

When we got home, he walked into my bedroom and just stared at Lynn’s bed. Then he said, “I guess you and Sammy need more room in here. Why don’t you help me?” My father’s eyes filled with tears as he and I lifted Lynn’s mattress and bedspring out of the room. We didn’t throw them away, though. We called Uncle to ask him to store her bed in his attic.

When Uncle came for the bed, I heard him say to my father that Mr. Lyndon was not going to give the factory workers a raise that year. I said, “Why not bash his car again?” Uncle and my father looked at me, then at each other, and then at me again.

When Uncle Katsuhisa had left, my father told me to get in the car. My mother was sitting with Sammy in the living room.

“What about me?” said Sammy.

“Just Katie,” said my father.

We got in the car and drove and drove. Eventually, my father turned up a long private road, a road I’d traveled on once before with him. Mr. Lyndon’s mansion rose in the distance. My heart sank. I thought my father was going to bash another car.

“Dad!” I said. “I’m sorry I said you should bash his car again!”

He said, “We’re going to apologize for what I did to Mr. Lyndon’s car.”

That seemed just as bad to me. “Apologize! But he doesn’t know it was you! Dad! He doesn’t even know. You don’t have to apologize.” He looked at me as if he was very
disappointed I’d said that. I didn’t care. I just wanted to protect my father. “Dad, you’ll get in trouble!”

He parked close to the front of the mansion. When I got out of the car, the house seemed as big as a castle. It was so big and beautiful, it made me gasp. It seemed a thousand people could live in that one house.

“Everyone says Mr. Lyndon is mean,” I said.

“I believe I’ve heard that too.”

My father rapped hard on the front door. It was the most exquisite door I’d ever seen. Roses and vines were carved into the rich wood. A maid opened up. She wore a little outfit just like the maids I’d seen on TV. She was very beautiful. Her skin was the same color as my brown silk hat my mother had made me for my birthday.

“Hello!” I said, surprised.

“Hello!” she said, equally surprised.

My father said, “I’m the man who wrecked Mr. Lyndon’s car. I’ve come to apologize.”

The maid hesitated. “Wait here, sir.” She closed the exquisite door.

“Dad, you didn’t really wreck it.”

He didn’t answer. We stood looking not at each other, but at the door. The door opened again. “Come in,” the maid said.

She led us to a room and directed us to sit on a couch covered in plastic. The ceiling, which was twice as high as the ceiling in our house, was painted blue like the sky, and there were clouds and angels.

Mr. Lyndon came in. My father and I stood up. Mr. Lyndon was big, and he looked as if he may have been strong when he was young. But now he was old. His chin jutted out, and his face was cracked like a field suffering from drought. Two gray dogs followed Mr. Lyndon in. They growled but didn’t move from Mr. Lyndon’s side. They sat when he sat. We sat too. Mr. Lyndon looked right at me! It was as if he didn’t even notice my father was in the room. Mr. Lyndon gestured toward a bowl of candy on the table.

“Take all you want, young lady.”

I took a lemon drop, even though I didn’t like them. “Thank you,” I said.

“Take more!” he bellowed.

I took two more.

“Go on, eat them!”

I put all three of them into my mouth. That seemed to satisfy Mr. Lyndon, who turned to my father and waited.

“I’m the man who wrecked your car,” said my father. “I wanted to apologize. My daughter died that day, and I wasn’t myself.”

“Are you one of my sexers, Mr. . . . ?”

I could see the question annoyed my father, but I didn’t know why. “I’m one of
the
sexers,” said my father. “I’m Masao Takeshima.”

“I’m very sorry about your daughter. Another of my sexers lost a child once, and he didn’t wreck my car. You won’t be returning to work in my hatchery.”

I wondered if the worker he referred to was my uncle.

If my father was surprised, he didn’t show it. He said, “I’m going to reimburse you.”

Mr. Lyndon stood up. “Of course you are. You’ll hear from my attorney.”

I started to stand up but remained seated because my father did. The backs of my legs were already sweaty from sitting on the plastic
covering the couch. The lemon drops made me thirsty. Then when my father stood up, I did too. I saw my father was not intimidated by Mr. Lyndon. And that was how I learned that even when you’re very, very wrong, if you apologize, you can still hold yourself with dignity. “Good-bye, Mr. Lyndon,” my father said. We walked out.

When we got into our car, I saw the maid peeking out the front window. She waved slightly, and I waved slightly back. Before he started the car, my father said, “I don’t ever want you to be afraid to apologize.”

I said, “Dad, you don’t have a job!”

“I still have the other hatchery,” he said. He thought a moment. “I’ve heard there’s an opening at a hatchery in Missouri. If it’s time to move on, it’s time to move on.”

Missouri! We didn’t speak again. I saw that my father was a little shaken up over being fired, but at the same time he didn’t seem to regret apologizing.

He ended up getting a job at one of the few hatcheries in the state that wasn’t owned by Mr. Lyndon. He had to drive a little farther,
unfortunately. But he never complained. I think that summer, when my father moved Lynnie’s bed, and when he went to apologize to Mr. Lyndon, he’d realized that we had a choice: Either we could be an unhappy family forever, or not.