Memory Lane

Part 8: Family

I've caught glimpses of my mother's fiance before. They met when she was a waitress at an upscale restaurant, one of her better-paying jobs that managed to keep the bills off the table.

She stayed at the restaurant longer than I thought she would have, lasting a whopping six months and getting the most tips out of all her coworkers. If someone had told me a year before that being a waitress would make her a happier person, I would have thought it was a cruel joke.

Yet that's exactly what that job did. After she was fired from being a cashier for failing to show up for her shifts on time, she was forced to find another way to feed us. My part-time job organizing books at the local library wasn't going to put food in the fridge, at least not beyond a carton of eggs and a pint of milk.

She had found the job serendipitously when someone overheard her speaking on the phone to my grandmother in Japanese. As luck would have it, that person needed someone who was fluent in the language to serve customers who preferred not to use English. And it didn't hurt that she had a face that would add to the reputation of the establishment.

Although she was skeptical of the spontaneous offer, she went out on a limb and took it. After all, she had been approached while using the last of her paycheck to buy groceries.

It turned out better than either of us could hope for. I saw her become herself again and slowly the light returned to her eyes.

She was already an attractive woman, but over the first few days at the restaurant, she became even more so. I thought it was because she finally smiled again, but whatever it was, it made her age backward.

It started with her hair. A cheap box dye took a decade off her life by darkening her gray roots. Then came the Shiseido makeup and suddenly I wondered if the woman I was looking at was my mother anymore.

I quickly found out that the source of her transformation was a regular who was coming in often to see her. His name was Kenzo Watanabe and he visited the house once to take her out on a date. That's how I knew he had salt and pepper hair, a full beard, and a stylish pair of tinted glasses. I could tell he didn't like where we lived since he refused the simple courtesy of having a seat and a glass of water while he waited for my mother.

He didn't seem like much to me with his soft voice and awkward demeanor. My father had been a taller man with an open face that compelled many strangers to engage in deep conversations with him. By comparison, Mr. Watanabe was a stone wall, his face only changing when he saw my mother.

In front of her, he made clumsy attempts to be friendly with me. He quietly offered a fistful of strawberry candy, which I accepted to be polite. Privately, I was offended that he treated me like a kid even though I would eat the candy later.

I tried not to take the gesture personally. As my mother would later explain, he was also a widow raising a daughter, albeit one younger than me. He was in California for a business deal, but he was returning to Japan soon and wanted my mother to join him.

She agreed, which was why we were at Haneda Airport waiting for him.

I fidget nervously, unsure if we left through the right terminal. My nightmare on the plane left me paranoid and a dozen disastrous scenarios sprouted in my mind, rampant and unwanted like a crop of weeds. I wanted to trust that my mother was doing the right thing, but I had too much common sense for blind faith.

I would never admit this to anyone, but she has a history of letting me down countless times due to her nasty streak of irresponsibility. Whether she couldn't keep a job or show up to pick me up from school on time, I couldn't rely on her to be there when I needed her.