Gaijin Page 8

  It was the same story for the other dates during my last year of college. When a boy tried to hold my hand or give a goodnight kiss, I turned to ice. Rose dated, went to parties and movies and dinners out, told me about her kisses and more. She snapped sexy selfies and posted them online or sent them to boyfriends. But I was not only celibate after Owen left, I was utterly uninterested. Nothing in my Illinois world could live up to the mysterious appeal of Japan, the memory of Owen and the fire I felt when he touched me.

  It was the mystery of Owen’s departure and the alluring, alarming nature of my love for him, comingled with the appeal of exotic Japan, of Owen and me in Japan together, that drove my decisions, good and bad, for the following years. A catalyst, I guess that’s what you’d call it, a force powerful enough to alter the trajectory of my life. Like the mist that rises off of Lake Michigan and dissipates into the open sky, magnetic Owen and his beautiful mom had flown off into the ether, away from Evanston toward their rising sun homeland, the place where I longed to be. Without fully or even partially comprehending all the “whys” of my behavior, I was driven forward by Owen Ota.

  Partly, it might have been that the raw combination of losses, losing my father then losing Owen in such quick succession, pushed me over the edge into obsession about Owen, about Japan. Or that Owen’s and my shared status as fatherless—me, because my father was dead, him, because his father disapproved of him—caused me to fixate on him as my male “other,” a man to fill my emotional void, while I believed I could fill his need for love and respect.

  On a snowy evening before my last semester I tried to look up the haiku Owen had published, to find it online, but couldn’t. Each promising link said, “content removed,” or “link broken.” Frustrated I told myself I didn’t care what he wrote in his stupid haiku. But the fact was I couldn’t stop caring. And in my memory, more than the fancy dinner at his house, or the hand holding, kisses or the time we spent in his musty, rose-scented fort, the heat of his fingers on my neck is what stuck with me most. Owen Ota had burned himself into me.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the spring semester I enrolled in “History and Culture of Japan,” “Japanese Language,” and “U.S. and Japan, Military Ties,” and declared Japanese history as my new minor for my journalism major. It would be a crunch to squeeze in the requirements during my last semester, but I was determined. “An unusual combination,” my mom said. “When did you develop an interest in Asia?”

  “Japan, Mom. Not all of Asia. I read about it and it’s fascinating. Since they offer it as a minor, I figured why not?” It was a fib. My mom and I didn’t talk about meaningful things anymore and I’d never told her about Owen.

  “Okay. Whatever you say, Dear. As long as you’re happy.” I pictured her on the other end of the phone, smaller and skinnier than she used to be, curly hair like mine—the only trait she, my dad and I shared—pale skin from months inside, perched these days on a kitchen stool.

  Though I’d been wallowing in self-pity over the past few months, I’d also been tracking my mom, calling her three times a week. She’d become as predictable and routine as the sunrise; up early, work hard teaching her second-grade class, eat dinner alone at the kitchen table, call me once a week. It used to be that she and my dad would drink too much wine at home on Friday nights and go out with friends on Saturday. But she didn’t see friends anymore and spent her weekends volunteering at her school, at the women’s shelter, at the church thrift shop, at the senior center. I worried about her, but only when I wasn’t wondering about Owen. How was he? Where was he? Did he miss me as much as I missed him? He’d said he loved me, and I clung to that notion. Maybe his father wouldn’t let him contact me. Stubbornly, I still refused to search for him online or contact him by phone.

  I immersed myself in my Japan studies and in North by Northwestern. Rose and I drifted apart over the winter, she with her new, serious boyfriend Marcus, me with the journalism clique. As the snow drifts piled shoulder-high on the edges of Northwestern’s campus, I dug myself into a cave of loneliness, busying myself while keeping social interaction at bay.

  I found slight relief in North by Northwestern and worked my way up from the “Life & Style” section to front-page stories. The editor assigned me a headline piece about the dean’s sudden and surprising resignation. I located the dean’s near-campus house and waited for him to return, then persuaded him to answer a few questions. My story, “Dean Heads Home to Montana Ranch,” garnered good reviews from my peers. I found that story research and writing gave me a glimmer of peace. Journalism was the only thing other than Japanese studies that could hold my interest.

  I tackled a story about accusations of racism in the Greek system, and another about the lack of adequate funding for low-income students. By researching topics and especially by interviewing people—a student who believed he didn’t get accepted to a fraternity because he was from Sudan, a woman from Rockford who had to drop out because her loans and scholarships weren’t enough to pay her tuition—I got a worldly education without taking a beating from the real world. Through college journalism I matured in a specific, limited way. Being a college reporter gave me a view of the broader world, but at a safe distance from real-world conflict, protected by the incubator of academia.

  I finally learned to put together a presentable outfit—I had to, so I could conduct in-person interviews for my stories. I had the dim realization that I might be a grown up, with two broken hearts behind me already, one from my father and one from Owen Ota. And there was the burning hope that Owen would unbreak my heart, if only he’d contact me, invite me to Japan again. I’d happily graduate and move to Tokyo.

  On one of our infrequent dinners out Rose asked if there was anyone special and I told her that men were boring. Compared to Owen Ota, I could have sworn I heard her say, though she didn’t say anything.

  As senior year ended, my mother hinted that she’d been trolling back home for boyfriends for me. “The Winkler’s son, Gregory, he’s moving back to be the bank manager,” she said. “He was always so polite. Good-looking too.” Her voice was loaded with shaky hope. Most small-town girls like Rose and me tended to stay close to home and marry salt-of-the-earthers like Marcus, who came from a nice family in Springfield. That was the safest path, the expected trajectory.

  “Mom, I don’t know that I’m moving back to Oakville when I graduate. I’m looking for jobs in Japan.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve got applications out to ten newspapers there.” Good for you, Lu, my father whispered in my ear.

  “Okay, Dear.” Sad, tolerant acceptance. That was the best I could hope for from Mom.

  She would have been aghast had she known the relentlessness of my fixation on Owen. She’d hadn’t a clue about why I’d minored in Japanese history. Admittedly, it was a somewhat unusual combination. A major in journalism and a minor in Japanese history didn’t seem like an obvious combination. And I hadn’t been able to use my growing knowledge about Japan at North by Northwestern. The demand had been for stories about politics, and issues of interest to the Middle Eastern student population, stories about their religious practices or their immigrant families, their opinions about North Korea and Isis. No one in my Illinois world talked about Japan at all, outside my classes. “Japan isn’t really on the radar these days,” the editor said.

  A month before graduation Rose and I reignited our friendship. “You actually learned how to dress,” she said, poking me on the arm, fingering the red silk blouse I was wearing, the closest I could find to the luxurious color Mrs. Ota had worn. Rose was incredulous when I told her I’d changed my minor to Japanese history. “You’re fixated on Owen. You realize that,” she said.

  “I don’t think about him,” I lied.

  “You don’t have to think about someone for him to be part of you,” she said. “A person or a memory just sits inside you and you have no choice about it.”

  * * *

  Rose married Marcus rig
ht after graduation and moved to Springfield with him when he got a job at the community college. While searching for jobs in Japan, I got an offer from the Chicago Sun-Times as an education reporter. To save money, I stifled my pride, moved back in with my mom and took the L downtown every day.

  And so, my life after college was much like my life during college. Writing stories about people living in the broader world—teachers, union activists, low-income students struggling to thrive in school—while I remained cocooned in the familiar shelter of my Illinois home. On days off I continued my Japan job search. I concocted a plan to show up in Tokyo, as a professional woman by then, and confront Owen. I’d tell him I forgave him for leaving me and hoped, against hope, we’d pick up where we left off.

  * * *

  Every day after work, I combed through newspapers, magazines, online publications and blogs in Japan. I’d taken to sipping wine at the kitchen table the way my father used to do. I never got drunk but was often pleasantly blurry when I shuffled up to my bedroom. My mother would come by my room, see me on the bed with my computer and a wine glass on the bedside stand. She’d roll her eyes and I knew what she was thinking, but she never said anything.

  For a year, things carried on this way, more or less the same daily routine: work, job search, drink, fall asleep. Then one night in May, exactly a year after I’d graduated from college, I sat at the computer, tipsy, and found a small English-language newspaper, Okinawa Week, with a promising opening, “local reporter.” I scrolled through its content, mainly stories about American military and their interactions with the Japanese: “U.S. Marines Host Naha Schoolchildren,” “Dragon Boat Races, U.S. Navy versus University of the Ryukyus.”

  Okinawa was an island south of mainland Japan, more rural and less developed than cities like Tokyo, and full of American military people. Owen had mentioned that his “successful” brother worked in Okinawa. I wondered how many newspapers there could be on the island. I scanned the masthead and boom! there it was, the name of Owen’s brother, “Hisashi Ota, Photographer.” I could hardly believe it. Knowing I’d never get the job, I filled out the online application anyway, attached my resumé and clicked “submit.”

  One day later, the publisher of Okinawa Week e-mailed me with an offer. “We don’t usually get applications from the U.S. Your credentials are excellent,” he’d written. He didn’t even ask for a phone interview. Stunned, I emailed my acceptance. The company would pay for my move and in one short month, I’d be in Japan. It was almost too much to take in.

  I called Rose to tell her about my new job in Japan and she laughed. “You’re going to hunt down Owen?”

  “No. I studied Japanese history and culture. I want to experience what I read about.” I realized my voice was soaked with defensiveness. I decided not to tell her about Owen’s brother.

  “Okay. Whatever you say. I’m happy for you then.”

  When I told my mom, she was silent. In the year since I graduated from college and moved back home, we’d managed a predictable routine as roommates. We ate dinner together most nights and watched TV news before she went to bed and I’d stay up later, prowling for jobs online, drinking. Mom hadn’t perked up much in the three years since my father died, but seemed okay with her quiet, small life, with just two years to go until she could retire. Her face went blank when I told her I’d be living on the island of Okinawa.

  “Are you upset that I’m leaving?” Our roles had reversed, and I fussed over her well-being as if she were my kid. I worried she’d become more depressed when she was alone in the house again.

  “Not exactly. Surprised, yes, but not upset. Your focus on Japan has been a surprise to me since it started.”

  I’d never told my mom that Owen existed, much less that I was willing to move to Japan in part so that I could find him. She’d treated my interest in Japan with amusement, and she’d humored me when I talked to her about news from the country or showed her photos of pretty tea sets.

  “Hey, maybe I’ll meet a nice military man there,” I joked, but she didn’t laugh.

  “If you’re happy, I’m happy,” she said, her lips trembling. “I mean it.” She hugged me and I felt her tears on my neck.

  Startled by her unusual display of emotion, I mumbled, “Thanks.” I headed to my bedroom. It must indeed seem strange to her that I would pick up and move around the world, especially since I’d never been out of the Midwest. Pity poked my throat. My mom was where she’d always been and where she’d always stay.

  * * *

  Okinawa wasn’t Tokyo but it was Japan and I couldn’t believe my luck at landing a job there, especially since so many of my journalism peers were unemployed or only had part-time gigs. I fought off my desire to call Owen. I wanted to wait to contact him until my arrival in his country was imminent. Waiting was excruciating – I was nervous he wouldn’t be happy to hear from me. When my move to Japan loomed a week away, I gave in and texted him. My hands shook as I told him I’d be moving to Japan. “Will be living in Okinawa,” I texted, “working with your brother. See you soon?”

  For an entire day, there was no reply. I was incredulous that he was ignoring me. Could he be mad that I’d be at the same newspaper as his brother? Maybe that was weird. Should I ask Rose if it was weird I’d be working with Owen’s brother? She’d tell me the truth.

  I sat in my bedroom on the verge of panic. Then, my phone rang. It was Owen’s cell number. I composed myself, took a deep breath and answered.

  “Lucy?” It was a woman’s voice, not Owen’s. “Is this Lucy?” The sudden realization that Mrs. Ota, not Owen, was on the other end of the phone.

  “Mrs. Ota?”

  “Yes, Lucy. I’m sorry to call you, but I saw that you texted Owen.”

  “Yes,” I stammered, dumbfounded.

  “Lucy,” her voice cracked. A long, silent pause, then, “Owen’s not well. He won’t be able to see you. I’m sorry.”

  I sat down on my bed. The walls of my room were undulating, liquid. At some point Mrs. Ota repeated, “He’s not well.” I managed to get out one question, why? “He’s not a happy person. He tried to take his own life.”

  Ice washed over my skin and tears burned down my cheeks. I don’t know what I said to Mrs. Ota in that moment, but she said to me, “I have the tea set Owen wanted to give you. When you come to Japan, it’s yours. My husband and I don’t want to leave Tokyo right now, but my older son has promised to deliver it to you in Okinawa.” So, Owen had told his mother about gifting me the tea set and his brother, my soon-to-be coworker, knew that I was coming.

  “Where is he?” I had to ask.

  There was silence, then her voice, barely audible. “Owen is in Tokyo, but he won’t tell us where he’s staying. We know he recovered, but he doesn’t want to see his family.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, and added I hoped to see her in Japan.

  We hung up and I slumped on the bed. Mom called for me to come down for dinner. But I couldn’t get up. Owen tried to kill himself. The heavy truth throbbed in my skull with the rush of my pulse. Why? Why didn’t I call him after he left?

  I berated myself for being stupid and stubborn. How could I be so shallow and full of pride? What if I had called him? Would it have made a difference to know I still loved him? I recalled his empty eyes in my dorm courtyard the day he left, and his strange push-pull behavior with me all along. I should have known something was wrong. I was stupid, assuming his erratic behavior was about me.

  I don’t know how long I stayed on my bed, but the room was dark, and the house was silent. I opened my computer. In a few clicks I found a link to a newspaper article in the Japan Times. “Ota Heir Attempts Suicide in Aokigahara.” It was dated December 20, 2016, two months after Owen left Illinois. Needles ripped across my skin.

  “Owen Ota tried to hang himself on a dismal November day, a day that saw suicides by a gunshot to the heart, an overdose of Percocet and another hanging on another dark tree limb. Busy, even for Suicide Forest,
Aokigahara,” the story began. I could barely breathe. “A source close to the family said that Ota’s mother, Mika Ota, and father, Kenzo Ota, would take a short leave and then carry on with the family business. Ota has a brother, Hisashi, who lives and works in Okinawa. Ota’s father released a statement. ‘Mika, Hisashi and I are deeply ashamed by the actions of my youngest son.’”

  His father said Owen brought shame to the family. I’d read about the Japanese culture of shame, so many reasons for people to feel ashamed. Poor performance at work, financial troubles, relationship issues, it seemed that anything could cause a Japanese person to be riddled with shame. But Owen?

  It was too much. He’d not only abandoned me; he’d brought shame to his family. My throat clutched shut and tears soaked my already wet pillow. Another thud of sorrow hit me. Owen had gone into a Japanese forest and tried to hang himself, in Aokigahara, Suicide Forest.

  The name caused a chill to roll up my spin. How could such a place exist? In all my talks with Owen, all my studies at school, I’d never heard of it. A new image of Japan swirled and bubbled through my brain. It was a country with a forest devoted to suicide. I didn’t dare look it up because I wasn’t willing to learn where it was or what it was. My imagination painted it in dark green and black with heavy, threatening trees and quicksand mud on the ground, and my sweet Owen swinging from a tree branch. I choked back another flood of tears.

  I started to compose an email to the publisher who’d hired me, to tell him I wasn’t coming to Okinawa. My mom padded down the hall past my door, slowed, then kept going downstairs. A Japanese island without Owen was not a place I had ever considered. All my imaginings of Japan featured Owen by my side. I let fly one primal yelp that drew my mother half-way back up the stairs.