Gaijin Page 7

We drove straight to his “fort,” a term that struck me as odd, not something that most men had, but that’s what Owen called it. We bypassed the main house and arrived at a grey wooden shed that he’d turned into a sneak-away space. Inside, my eyes strained to adjust to the dimness. There were two lumpy beanbag chairs, a small television, and a tea set sitting on a tray on the floor. The pink roses I had given his mother a few nights before were on the tea tray and they blanketed the enclosed space with their perfume. I was pleasantly dizzy, tipsy with the scents of sugar and must. I sank down onto a beanbag and Owen cracked the door so that the afternoon sun shone fiery crimson on the tea set.

  “My grandmother gave this tea set to me when I was twelve,” he said, “a month before she died. She told me it’s infused with love and that it’s impossible for tea served from it to be bitter.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, fidgeting in my uneven seat, leaning forward for a better look. The set was four small red teacups, a matching pot and bowl, each painted with delicate pink flowers, and a small ivory cloth, arranged neatly on a matching tray.

  “Those are sakura flowers, cherry blossoms,” Owen said. “The traditional flower of Japan. When you come visit me in Tokyo, I will show you,” he said. “Until then, this tea set will help you remember me. I’d like you to have it.”

  Stunned, I didn’t respond. He wanted to gift me his grandmother’s tea set? And he was speaking to me about flowers and infusions of love? I was floating outside myself, and Owen glowed in the semi-darkness like an angel or a ghost.

  “My family, the Ota family, has always been successful in business. We are well-known in Tokyo,” he said, in a new proud tone. “We have interests in wireless, media, transportation and fishing. Japan’s strongest industries,” he said.

  Wireless, media, transportation, fishing. The imaginary construct I was starting to build about Japan was a jumble of crowded trains where girls got groped by perverts, glamourous people like Owen’s mother wore rich red silk and had glass-smooth skin, where the food was spicy and squishy, trees sprouted delicate pink flowers, families had eloquent, generous grandmothers, and now, also a place where big buildings housed important people who dealt in wireless, media, transportation and fishing. Fishing? The only fishing I knew was in a rowboat on Walloon Lake, Michigan, where my dad had taken me one summer. Owen’s Japan beckoned me, gorgeous and sparkly and shrouded and mysterious by turns.

  “Wow,” I said, chagrined by my ignorance, thrilled he was willing to share bits of his world with me. I was desperate for him to show that he loved me at least a fingernail as much as I already loved him.

  Owen laughed and his small perfect teeth shone shiny white. His face was half illuminated by the sun sneaking in. “Wait,” I said, struggling to keep my thoughts square. “You said the tea set would help me remember you. But I don’t need to remember you. You’re here.”

  The fort door creaked shut in the breeze and now it was darker, the air thick between us. “Mmmm,” he whispered, and reached around me and rested his arm on my shoulder so that his fingers lightly encircled the side of my neck. Then he leaned in and kissed me while I held my breath. I began to open my mouth, but he gently squeezed my neck, just below my ear, a gesture at once odd and intimate. He pulled back so that our lips were close but not touching and he breathed in a quiet and steady rhythm. My insides were compressed, contracted with the effort I was exerting not to grab him closer.

  “Won’t you visit me?” he said, still not releasing his grip on my neck; I could feel each of his fingers pressing their prints into my skin. Then he put his closed lips against mine, pushing flatly, a sensual moment turned steel by a concrete kiss. A bubble of alarm popped into my throat. His first kiss was too soft, his second too hard. I was wobbly with confusion.

  Panic and attraction washed over me in a simultaneous double wave. Off-kilter, I hovered over the scene, seeing it at the same time as experiencing it. Owen and I alone together, just as I’d wanted, kissing and building up to more, just as I’d wanted. We were sitting close, our legs touching like they’d done the night before, but there was a chasm between us, a blank space. I’d longed for the chance to be with Owen to slide his shirt over his head, run my hands over his taut torso. But his kisses seemed careful, choreographed, not what I’d anticipated after a month of waiting, hoping. He was holding me, but he was uneasy too.

  “I want you to visit me in Japan,” he said, trying to salvage the moment.

  I blinked a few times, calming myself. “I’ll visit you,” I said, and closed my eyes, exhaled my disappointment. A visit someday? That’s all? It didn’t compute. I was in love, believed he was falling for me too. But we’d just agreed to a visit, someday, nothing more definite.

  “Good. Now, tea,” Owen said, forcing a light tone. “Let me do a little tea ceremony for you.” He squeezed my shoulder hard and I jolted. Bewilderment rippled the lines of my logical thinking and I sat still in my beanbag.

  I shifted my focus to the tea set in front of us, recalling what I’d read about Japanese tea ceremonies, and how methodical and elegant they were. Tea hosts would lay out cups and other items so that their placement was most convenient for their guests. To the Japanese, a tea ceremony was not only a way to share refreshments but also a beloved art form to be practiced and perfected. With the beginning of a tea service, the odd and romantic moment with Owen took on a formal, distant feeling.

  He sat forward and removed his shoes, placed them off to the side on a little mat. After who knows how long, I did the same. In slow precise movements he scooped powder from the bowl on the tea tray into one of the cups, poured in hot water from the pot and whisked as steam rose in a wisp. He sipped from the cup, picked up the ivory cloth, wiped the edge, turned the cup around and passed it to me. I imitated him, sipped and wiped the cup with the ivory cloth and handed it back to him. We continued in this way until the cup was empty. The tea tasted lemony and good and I began to believe he might kiss me again soon, that we might be more intimate before this encounter was complete.

  “Tea is a special Japanese tradition,” Owen said. “This was not an elaborate ceremony, but I am honored that you joined me.” He spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

  My head felt foggy, sandbagged with the weight of my feelings for Owen, this dark, uncomfortable scene, and now a new and foreign ritual. “Thank you,” was all I could muster.

  After a few quiet moments, Owen leaned in to kiss me again. This time it was luxurious, passionate, and I was liquid with expectation. I moved closer, touched his neck, felt his pulse with my fingertips. Suddenly, he recoiled and yanked himself away from me. He dropped his head into his hands and gulped deep breaths. I was unsure of what had just happened. After a moment I reached out and touched his arm.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice wavering.

  But I told him not to be sorry, it didn’t matter, that I loved him. “It’s all too fast,” I said, and he nodded. For the first time in my life, I wanted to have sex, was willing to. But Owen slid away from me.

  With nothing left to say or do, I gathered myself, put on my shoes. We stood and he wrapped his arms around me. “I love you,” he said. “You are a true friend,” and the word friend sliced the edge of my heart like a precision paper cut.

  * * *

  I walked home and the stars kaleidoscoped around my foggy head and my heart pounded in my ears. What had just happened? Our lovely, intimate moment had gone sour. It felt as though Owen wanted to back away from me at the same time as he kissed me. Cooler night air did nothing to calm my hot cheeks as I stumbled back to campus. I was as jittery as the leaves fluttering on the trees around me, could have let go and tumbled to the ground at any moment. Owen had apologized. For what? The word friend bounced back and forth like a ping-pong ball in my skull. I almost veered into the bright entryway to NU Tap Room, but instead shuffled back to my dorm, a hunched and cowered zombie.

  I lay on my bed, closed my eyes and tried to recast our encounter. Surely i
t wouldn’t be like that all the time. I ruminated about the Japan Owen had revealed to me via the lovely tea service, the haiku lesson, his pride in his family business. And I pondered what he said about his father’s disappointment with him. That was hard to clarify in my mind. How could any father not be proud of Owen? I stared into the dark of my lonely dorm room and considered his invitation to come to Japan, his intention to give me his grandmother’s tea set, his comments that I was beautiful and understood him. That was love, wasn’t it? To be understood by someone you considered beautiful? I grabbed on to these notions as if they were life rafts that saved me from an undertow or balloons that soared me up to a new universe.

  * * *

  The next day, Owen texted and asked me to go for a walk. I was eager to see him so we could talk about what happened in the fort, and what didn’t happen. We met in downtown Evanston, shared turkey sandwiches at a little café. We reread our report and our haiku, and I started to believe the apprehension I’d felt in his fort was gone. He smiled and put his arm around me as we made our way past shops and restaurants. He was at ease, comfortable, and I felt warm from within.

  “Lu, when you hear your father in the wind, it’s not just in your head,” he said, jolting me from my happy reverie. “It’s really him. That’s what Japanese believe and that’s what I believe.”

  “Oh? I kind of thought it was just that I wished I could hear from him, so I imagined it.”

  “No, no. That’s not right. When a strong bond of love exists, the loved-one’s voice can travel from the other realm. The dead comfort the living in this way.” He looked at me intently, seriously, then leaned over and planted a small kiss on my lips. “Be grateful for a loving father,” he said. “He will always be with you.”

  Surprised by his mystical commentary, I didn’t agree or disagree. I wanted to ask him more about his father, about why his father didn’t approve of him. “What about your father?” I said, fishing.

  “Nope, don’t want to talk about him,” he said. “But I do want to talk about you visiting me in Japan.” He told me I could come over as a student, or possibly even get a job there after college. He would act as my tour guide and maybe I could even stay with his family in Tokyo. The city is cosmopolitan, he said, and decorated with temples and gardens. When he walked me back to my dorm, he kissed and hugged me in the doorway. I was giddy, excited about where the relationship was going, relieved it didn’t feel off-kilter anymore.

  “It would be amazing to go to Japan,” I said, and he agreed. I slept soundly that night, peacefully, looking forward to our haiku presentation and eager to spend as much time with him as possible.

  Chapter Ten

  Then, nothing. No call, no text, no visit. Silence where Owen should have been. I knew something was wrong for him not to contact me at all, but I couldn’t imagine what. For two days I was ill with dread, on the verge of vomiting. Owen and I had deepened our relationship during the past month and though it had been a bit off at times, I dreamed of everything. Not just sex with Owen at some point, but a life with Owen, a future in Japan with him. What happened in his fort was because we were nervous. We had already started to fix it with our lovely walk, hadn’t we? But the following days, which should have held more whispers and kisses, were barren. I struggled with the impulse to run to a package store and buy bottles of wine, and instead passed the weekend sulking inside.

  And then it was Monday and he didn’t show up for English class. “Where’s Owen?” Rose said, and I shrugged, wouldn’t look at her. Reluctantly, I presented our paper to the class and read our haiku aloud by myself. I fought back tears as my concerned peers looked on.

  That afternoon I texted and called Owen, but he didn’t answer. I started to walk to his house but turned back. Instead, I hid in my room and tried to concentrate on homework but mostly half-watched Japanese music videos on my computer. In the early evening, after an eon of waiting, I finally got a text from Owen. “I’m downstairs.”

  I hurried down and found him near the dorm’s concrete courtyard fountain. Students walked and talked around us, ridiculously upbeat and happy. The evening air was chilling down. Fall had tiptoed in to replace summer all in one sad afternoon as I hid in my bedroom.

  Owen stared at the ground, pushed browning leaves around with his foot, and then said, “I have to move back to Tokyo. Now.” A pile of dead branches blew across the courtyard, scattering across the stone.

  “Oh.” A strum, like a discordant guitar chord, rippled through my gut. “But you just got here.” I sounded stupid and small.

  “My mom is quitting her job to run the Ota family’s media businesses. My dad won’t let me stay.”

  Not understanding, I said, “But, it’s not like you can run the company.”

  “My father says I have to go back. He already dislikes me. I have to do what he says.” Owen sounded defeated, older, deflated.

  I hesitated, then, “Why does your father dislike you?”

  “I’m just different….” His voice trailed off. “A gaijin in my own family.”

  “You’ve said that before, but it’s not true. I’ve seen how your mother loves you.”

  “In Japan, father’s approval is most important.”

  The chilly breeze tousled my hair and I shuddered. “I’ll visit soon, or take a study abroad program,” I said, repeating the ideas we’d discussed, though I hadn’t any idea of how one could get to Japan from Evanston or Oakville. I didn’t even know if there was an academic program from Northwestern to Japan. Everything had happened so fast I hadn’t had time to research the possibilities.

  “My life in Japan is complicated.” His vulnerability was palpable. “Just know, I do love you.” Again, he’d said it. “It’s just, I’m sorry.” Another apology. For being so affectionate and awkward by turns? For being about to leave me? He stared past me into the distance and pain floated behind his eyes.

  “Owen, I don’t want you to go…” I started, and he stopped me.

  “I can’t. I can’t discuss anything more,” he said. “Sorry, Lu.” Then, a quick, hard half-hug and he drove away, gone in the same startling way he’d arrived a month earlier.

  I stood for a time in the cool stone courtyard and felt lonelier than the empty year after my dad died. Upstairs I burrowed into my bed. I was flooded with regret and my chest was needled with pain. Why hadn’t I soothed Owen in the fort when he was obviously distressed? Why didn’t I make him explain why he had to leave? And anyway, why would he woo me, entice me with poetry, and exotic food and tidbits of the life we might share, the gleaming wonderland of Japan, and then abruptly leave me? Owen’s departure left me in pieces, with the throbbing regret of lost potential and a list of unanswered questions. He had mesmerized me while he was with me, then snapped me in half with his impersonal brush-off.

  Over the next weeks I slipped from sad to inconsolable. Owen inhabited both my waking thoughts and my subconscious, especially as I fell asleep each night. Owen came to me as a semi-illuminated figure in his fort, hovering over me as I tried to sleep, both alluring and threatening. Several times I reached up to touch him only to be stunned awake by the chilled dormitory air blowing on my outstretched fingers.

  I had dealt with the death of my dad. But Owen vanished and I didn’t understand. He was gone, yet still here, alive on the other side of the earth. His vanishing could be undone, he could come back, or I could go there, not like my father who was nowhere or somewhere I couldn’t access. Owen had given me a lame excuse for why he was returning to Japan, something to do with his mom being called back to the family business. But why couldn’t he have stayed at Northwestern to finish college? There had to be some real reason for his hasty departure, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Why would his rejecting magnate dad call him back to Tokyo so soon after he’d arrived in Evanston?

  I refused to text, email or look him up on social media. I’d be damned if I was going to be one of those girls who chased after guys who showed no interest. I s
logged through my classes and homework for the rest of the semester. All young women fall in love, but for me, my love was magnified and intertwined with an exotic foreigner who was out of my reach, in a faraway place, one that up until recently, I hadn’t thought of at all and now, thought about constantly. Owen. Owen in Japan. Owen and me in Japan together. And now a layer of mystery. Was the family business the real reason for their sudden departure? Why did his father disapprove of him? And why all the push-pull, hot-cold behavior with me? He said he loved me, but, even those simple words seemed more complicated than they should have been.

  I walked around aimlessly one evening as the semester drew to an end. The bitter wind from Lake Michigan cut through campus. I thought about how deliberate Owen had been about holding my hand until his mother saw. And our time in his fort, not only the abrupt end to our kissing, but also the strange aggressive way he’d grasped my neck. Had I felt anger oozing from him? Maybe it was chemistry I’d felt, burning through his fingers on my neck.

  He contacted me once, two months after he left Illinois, by text. “Sorry Lu. Sorry.” Another apology, but no explanation of why he hadn’t been in touch. Nothing hopeful or promising, just those sparse fragments of sentences. I texted him back, asking when I could visit. He didn’t reply. I was destroyed. I’d believed him and now, more silence. Thoughts of Owen clutched at my chest and burrowed into some side space of my brain, where they remained, confounding me. I grieved again as I’d done after my father died, but this time my sorrow was tinged with shame at the incomprehensible way he’d abandoned me. I hoped his grandmother’s tea set had gotten smashed to bits on the trip back to Japan.

  My pain lingered into the holidays, until Rose threatened to call my mom or take me to a psychiatrist. When Chris Tidy, the captain of the men’s tennis team, asked me to a New Year’s party I accepted. Since Rose thought that was normal behavior, she didn’t force me to visit the campus shrink. But I only went out with Chris one time. I hated dancing close to him and I jumped back when he tried to kiss me on the dorm’s snowy doorstep at the end of the night. I could only imagine two kisses I’d ever want again, from my father or from Owen. All others seemed irrelevant, wrong.