Southern Fried Sushi (15 page)

Carlos knew he’d blundered. “I don’t … know why I said it. Forget Mia. I don’t care about her. I mean, I do of course, as a … as a friend, but not … I just …”

“What did you say?” I gasped, trying to count how many times he’d stuttered.

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing!” His Latin temper flared, and he muttered something in Spanish. “And you think I’m … with … you’re accusing me?”

“Should I?” My voice rose to meet his like a twisted tango. Appropriate, considering Carlos’s Argentinian roots.

“I don’t need the third degree. How about you? How do I know who you’ve been seeing back home?”

“You wouldn’t because you don’t call me! And Virginia isn’t my home.”

“Like that would stop you.”

My eyes bugged. “Me? You’re the one rooming with another woman. Go ahead—tell me you don’t have feelings for Mia!”

“You’re crazy! I don’t care one bit for her,” he barked. “There, are you happy now?”

Happy? Happiness sank to the bottom of my barrel like homemade Japanese pickles, fermenting under layers of sour mash.

It occurred to me as I sat there, staring up at Faye’s floweredwallpaper, that Carlos’s words were as fragile as folded origami paper.

How could I know if he was telling the truth? After all, I played hide-and-seek with lies all the time. No didn’t always mean no. And now, when I really wanted the truth, Carlos handed me paper. Which took the shape of anything he decided.

First a lily. Now a crane with folded wings. Fold and unfold, running a brown finger along the crease.

If I didn’t cradle it carefully, it might crumple in my hands.

“I’ve gotta go.” Carlos’s voice was cold. “Call me when you’re in a better mood.”

“Fine. And take your own advice.”

“Whatever. Bye.”

I took out my ring and watched it sparkle in the morning light, like cold, unfeeling snow—beautiful, but dangerous.

Faye was sitting at the kitchen table reading a Bible devotional, a mug of coffee by her down-turned head. Bacon and eggs waited on the kitchen stove, covered by a napkin.

“You awake, lamb?” She looked up. “Sleep okay?” If she’d heard me arguing with Carlos, she didn’t mention it.

“Fine. Thanks.” I awkwardly sat down at the table.

“How about some breakfast?” She didn’t wait for me to answer, just got up and served me a plate. Put some fresh bread in the toaster.

“You look good in green, honey. Brings out the green in those pretty eyes. How ‘bout some coffee?”

I nodded. I couldn’t talk; I could only eat and feel pain rising steadily in my chest in waves. I gazed out the window at the sunny morning, which looked too happy for me.

Something mushy and ivory-colored stared up from my plate—like soft rice, but granulated, almost like sugar. “Uh … what’s this?” I poked at it with my fork.

“Grits, honey. Ain’t ya ever had ‘em?”

“No. Are they … potatoes?”

She chuckled. “Corn, sweetie. White corn. With butter.”

I reluctantly tasted. Soft and salty. Strange. Almost tasteless. I took another smaller forkful and swallowed then downed it with toast.

Japan had ushered in a whole new world of food: sweet azuki bean paste, squid liver sushi, sea urchin. Fermented squid intestines, a sticky pink paste on rice. I thought I’d seen it all. The South, though, offered an equally formidable culinary adventure.

“Takes some gettin’ used to, people say. I’ve ate grits all my life.”

I ate in silence. “What do you do when everything’s falling apart?” I finally asked, stabbing a piece of bacon.

“Pray,” she replied with a little smile.

I glared at my plate. “I mean practically. What helps you? Any … secret?”

“None that I know of, sugar. I prayed through all my hard times. They didn’t always get better right away, but I always had the Savior holdin’ my hand.”

The … who? Oh. I get it. I kept forgetting the Bible Belt thing.

“My relationship with Carlos stinks,” I retorted as if I hadn’t heard. “Nothing’s going right, Faye. It’s hopeless.”

“Nothing’s hopeless, doll.” She hesitantly patted my hand. “You’ve jest been through a lot a changes. A lot a loss. Give yerself some time.”

“You can say that again.” I stared into space, swirling my coffee in my mug and trying to jog my exhausted, jet-lagged brain into action. “I just want to go back to Japan. I’ve got to renew my visa, and …”

I set my mug down hard. Renew my visa. My journalism visa, tied with AP.

“I know, sweetie. I’m sorry. You do have a return ticket, ya know. You gonna go back?”

“Of course I’ll go back!” I shot back as if she’d asked me to stop breathing air. “I can’t leave Japan.”

And then as I picked at my grits, I realized the absurdity of what I’d just said. Go back to Japan for what? To hang around Shiodome? I don’t even have an apartment anymore! And without a visa?

I felt that same panicked haze closing over my mind like when I fled to Jerusalem Chapel, not caring where I went.

“Maybe I can find a job somewhere and … teach English … or …” I pushed my plate away, sick to my stomach.

I’d need a different visa for teaching and probably a degree in education, too, which I didn’t have. Japan was a stickler for proving job skills for foreigners—especially teachers.

I wasn’t a teacher. I was a reporter. For AP.

Only suddenly I wasn’t.

My breath came in shallow waves, and I felt the room spin. My stomach churned.

“You okay, doll?” Faye put a hand on my arm. “Ya look awful pale.” She quickly opened a window and fanned me then pressed a glass of water into my limp hand.

“Shiloh?” She knelt next to my chair.

I looked up, unseeing. Tried to make the two images focus into one.

I had become, in one night, a girl without a home.

I
drank and rubbed my temples, letting the feeling ooze back into my head. I needed something familiar, something that reminded me of my roots. Despite my best intentions, I needed a mom.

I set my glass down and pushed back my chair. “Let’s go see Mom’s house.”

“Now? Are ya sure?”

“It’ll do me good.” I balled up my napkin and reached for a fresh one. Wished I could do the same with my life.

“You wanna take a shower first?”

“Yeah.” I started to head back to the room then leaned over and gave Faye an awkward half hug. “Thanks. You’ve really helped me out a lot. I mean it.”

“Aw, shucks, sweetie. Don’t ya worry about it. You just git on your feet again, and ev’rything will fall inta place.” Her eyes reflected so much sympathy I turned away. “You know yer welcome ta stay here as long as ya like. Don’t forget that.”

Faye gave me soap and towels, and I found myself in an unfamiliar pink-and-white bathroom decorated with candles and smelling of rose-scented soap. Yet somehow I felt more comfortable here than I did at the hotel—as a friend on some(strange) level and not a patron.

I couldn’t fathom not going back to Japan. I’d find a way. I’d sell Mom’s house and use the money to … I don’t know. Pay my debts and beg Dave to change his mind.

I picked up the pink bar of soap and determined to push all my bad luck behind me—the way I’d done with tragedy all my life.

I rolled down the car window and let the sun stream in, watching the two-lane country road meander into a green forever. Fields of emerald and apple-green glided by, crooked creeks reflecting the blue sky.

“It’s beautiful,” I managed, watching the mountains over a splash of white wildflowers.

“I think so. I like it here. It’s always beautiful no matter what time a year.”

“I’ve heard.” I tried not to think of Japan’s red maples or the snowfalls of pale pink cherry blossoms. “Aren’t I keeping you from … work? Something?”

Faye laughed. “I’m not as busy as you are, hot stuff. I take care a my house, cook good meals, help with a ladies’ Bible study, go to church … those sorts of things. I work at a greenhouse, too, doin’ bookkeepin’ just to keep the bills paid and give me somethin’ to do.”

“A greenhouse?”

“Sure. Not far from my house. It’s so fresh and beautiful, just like Eden.”

“Sounds like something Adam would like.” I almost made a pun about Eve, too, and thought better of it.

“Who?”

“Oh, just the gardener I met at the hotel.”

“Adam Carter?”

I turned in surprise. “You know him?”

“‘Course I do. He goes to my church. Runs a landscaping business.”

I rolled my eyes. “Everybody knows everybody around here, don’t they?”

“Well, not always, I reckon, but … sorta. A good guy, that Adam.”

“I thought so. He brought gas out to my car. Seems young to have his own business.”

“I reckon he’s about twenty-two. He’s been through a lot, he and his family. With his brother and all.”

“His brother?”

“Ah.” Faye waved a hand. “I shouldn’t chatter on so much about somebody else’s business.”

I laughed. “Twenty-two? He’s practically a baby.” I graduated from Cornell at twenty-two, giddy and full of plans. Before AP. It seemed like an eternity ago, although really not that long. The thought stabbed fresh pain through me.

“Not Adam,” said Faye gravely. “He’s one grown-up young man.”

We passed a field full of something yellow, and I forgot our conversation. “What’s all that?”

“Reckon it’s dandelions. Pretty, ain’t it?”

I stared out the window, wondering if Mom’s lawn in Churchville was splashed with yellow, too. In the past, the only houseplants that survived her mayhem were of the hallucinogenic variety.

“So Mom lived near the funeral home? In one of those big farmhouses?”

“No. It’s farther out, in a little neighborhood called Crawford Manor.”

The name conjured up images of a stately English cottage, all covered with roses with horse stables behind. “What’s it look like?”

Faye cocked her head. “Well, it’s perty nice, you could say. A

little neighborhood with family homes. Small, mind you.”

“How small?”

“Smaller than my place. Two bedrooms or so. Maybe three. One bath. Little starter homes just right for families with kids.”

Something in my look must have given away my thoughts. “Ellen wasn’t a rich woman, honey,” said Faye gently. “She did a great job with what she had. Got financial help. Started savin’ and puttin’ her paychecks in the bank. Bought and paid for one of them little houses and was so proud. I think you’d a been proud a her, too.”

I gulped. If I’d put my AP checks in the bank and started a savings program, I could probably own two or three of those “little” homes myself.

“So what do people do in Staunton?”

“Lots a farmers. Don’t sniff at ‘em. Their farms are worth millions, and the prettiest land you’ve ever seen.” I believed her. “Teachers. Real estate. Small businesses. That sorta thing.”

We followed the road through a lightly wooded valley and came up over a hill. The mountains and a stretched-out patchwork of blue, green, and gold suddenly appeared, like a mirage. I felt on top of the world.

“What’s yer daddy do?”

Besides pamper spoiled, belly-dancing Tanzania and her two kids? “Sales. He retired early after making it good some years ago. And finding a freak wife who’s closer to my age than to Mom’s.” My jaw tightened.

“That’s a shame, honey. Have ya talked to your daddy any?”

I stiffened. “No. Why should I?”

“Well, he’s yer daddy. He might not be the best of men, but …”

“I don’t want to,” I said sharply. “End of discussion.”

Faye made no response but kept driving.

I hung my head. She’d picked me up in the middle of the night, made me breakfast, and was driving out to do my business

just out of the goodness of her heart.

“I’m sorry, Faye. I didn’t mean to speak that way. I just … don’t want to talk about it. Dad’s not a nice person. He was never there for me growing up, and I don’t want anything to do with his life. He can call me a thousand times and apologize, but he can never fix the mess he made.”

“I understand, sugar. But I still think ya might try. People change.”

“Dad doesn’t. Or rather, he has. For the worse.” I crossed my arms. “I’ll never forgive him. Or Mom either.”

“You’re just awfully alone in the world is all, honey.” She gave me a sympathetic look that struck me to my core.