Love & Other Natural Disasters Read online

  I step back, and she gives me two more pats on the arm before she surveys me and pronounces, “Nozomi, too. You’ve grown. You’re more like your mother, now that you’re older.”

  “Oh. Um. Thanks,” I say, out of reflexive politeness—she is my grandmother, after all. Still. Was that supposed to be a compliment or a dig? She can’t possibly be happy with Mom, now that Mom’s divorcing Dad.

  “Don’t you wear the makeup yet? Or are you still a tomboy?”

  My heart starts thudding. Is this totally random or is she dropping a hint about my sexuality? I mumble vaguely, “Um, not really.”

  “I wonder if you do remember at all inside the house,” Baba says, apparently without having registered my nonanswer, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. “It’s been so many years.” She turns and walks toward the house, and Max and I follow silently, with Stephen behind us.

  4

  THE INTERIOR OF BABA’S HOUSE IS COOL AND dim, the decor old-fashioned and fussy. She leads us through the foyer, where we stop to take our shoes off. “There’s the kitchen,” she says, gesturing to the left at a narrow room with a view of the street. I peek in, and without warning, a memory surfaces: making plum jam with Baba. I stood on a chair and stirred the cooking plums as they bubbled on the stove. Baba poured ruby-red spoonfuls into a tiny porcelain bowl and blew on it to cool it before she held it up for me to taste. I wonder if Baba will have her own kitchen wherever she ends up moving to one day.

  In the corner of the dining room is a fancy glass-fronted cupboard crammed with framed family photographs. There are tons of photos of Stephen and Dad, from childhood all the way through high school, when Dad was a star tennis player and Stephen was a theater kid. There’s a photo of Mom and Dad’s wedding, and assorted school photos of me and Max. There are no photos of Stephen and Lance’s wedding—no photos of Lance anywhere, in fact. I feel a stab of grief for the two of them, a surge of anger at Baba, and a creeping sense of foreboding for me. Does she think that if she doesn’t have to see Lance’s face, she can pretend that Stephen never married him? That he doesn’t even exist? I can see now why Stephen doesn’t think it’s safe for me to come out to her.

  To distract myself from the photographs, I walk toward the back window, which looks out on a tiny yard, covered with yellow-green grass and surrounded by a fence that leans and sags at surreal angles. The sound of a buzz saw breaks the quiet around me.

  “That’s Clifford,” Baba says. I see an older white guy sawing redwood planks in the corner of the yard. “Stephen hired him to replace the old fence for me.”

  “He’s going to replace some of the decorative elements on the inside as well,” says Stephen.

  Baba frowns. “Okane mottainai.”

  “It’s not a waste of money, Mom. When Cliff’s done, it’s going to look gorgeous.”

  “But no need for looking gorgeous. I am the only one who sees.”

  Stephen ignores her and explains to me and Max, “Cliff’s an artist friend of mine. He does some carpentry on the side to help pay the bills. And I actually meant to tell you, Nozomi—he’s building an installation at the museum right now, and his daughter will be coming to help him out. She designed it—and it won a grant contest for young artists. Isn’t that fantastic? She’s exactly your age and she’s half Japanese. I think you two would be great friends. I’ll introduce you and you can chillax, or kick it, or whatever you young people are calling it these days.”

  “She’s a gay,” says Baba in a stage whisper, leaning in dramatically as she delivers this information.

  “Ah,” I say, and for the second time since we got here, I’m fighting a panicky suspicion that Baba has secret gaydar and she’s low-key calling me out. My throat goes dry and my heart starts jackhammering away, as if Baba were standing in front of me wielding a queer-slashing battle-ax in her wrinkly, age-spotted little hands. Which is preposterous. Calm down, Nozomi. Breathe.

  “Yes, she is, Mom. And it’s fine,” says Stephen acidly.

  Baba looks offended. “I didn’t say anything bad.”

  Stephen sighs. “Not technically.”

  “So many young people are gay now. It’s a fashion.”

  It’s fine. It’s fine. Who cares what she thinks, anyway? She’s just an ignorant old lady.

  “It’s not a fashion, Mom,” Stephen says. “It’s an identity. It’s part of who we are.”

  “It’s a fashion for young people to have the ‘gay identity,’” Baba persists. “It’s true! My friend says all her granddaughter’s friends say they are the bisexual even though boys and girls date each other. Some of them don’t even have boyfriend or girlfriend. How can they know they are gay? It’s just a fashion to say so.”

  Now my heart is pounding because I know I’m going to say something. No, not that something. But I have to say something. Sexual identity may be fluid, but it’s not like Rainbow Looms or tennis skirts that everyone tries for a minute before moving on to the next cool thing. And you can know who you like without dating anyone (Exhibit A: me). And being bisexual literally means you can be attracted someone who’s a different gender than you. Why is it so terrifying to defend my identity in a totally general, not-coming-out way to a frail old lady like Baba? What am I afraid of?

  But I know what. I’m afraid that she really is a homophobic monster, and she’ll say something that will make it impossible for me to love her, or that will make it clear that she’ll find it impossible to love me if she knows I’m queer.

  Why do I even care?

  I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

  But I do.

  And I can’t let it go.

  “It’s not just a fashion,” I finally blurt out. “It’s real. And you can’t always tell from the outside who a person is in love with.”

  There. I said it. Well, I’ve said something, anyway. My heart is pounding so hard now, I can feel it in my ears.

  Baba looks a little startled. I can’t tell whether she’s surprised by what I’ve said, or by the fact that I said it, but anyway, she doesn’t argue. “Really. Hm.”

  I expect to feel my terror replaced with triumphant euphoria, or at least intense relief, and I’m surprised when all I feel is more trepidation. I hope I’ve done the right thing. I hope she doesn’t get angry or suspicious or start pushing me away for some made-up reason.

  “Well, that’s enough conversation about the controversial topic,” Baba says briskly. “Max, do you still like tonkatsu? I have all the ingredients to make.”

  As Baba slices the pork, pounds it with a wooden mallet, and dredges it in flour, eggs, and panko while the oil heats up, Stephen leafs through a stack of envelopes on the dining room table, muttering, “Where is it, where is it, where is it,” until suddenly he goes, “Aha!” and opens one. I lean over to see what it is. “Medical bill,” he explains. “I’m handling most of her finances now.” He doesn’t need to tell me it’s because she can’t do the handling herself, and I wonder if she really has only let him back in her life because he takes care of things like this for her. How depressing for both of them—and yet, weirdly, how lucky. I wonder what Baba would do if it weren’t for Stephen. She must appreciate him helping her like this. Assuming she knows how much he’s helping her.

  “Listen, both of you,” he says under his breath. “Your dad and I have put Baba on a bunch of wait lists for some assisted-living places in the area. You know that, right?”

  Max and I nod.

  “I’m going to bring it up at dinner, just casually, to keep it on her radar. Can you back me up when I do?”

  “Is it really that bad?” I ask. “She seems pretty sharp to me.”

  “We’ve found ways to help her manage from day to day. But it’s not sustainable.”

  Baba calls me into the kitchen and asks me to set the table, which is when I begin to see what Stephen means. There are labels on every cabinet, every drawer, neatly printed in English, Japanese kanji, and Japanese letters:

  SILVERWAR
E

  PLATES

  FRYING PANS

  SHOYU, SALT, PEPPER

  Next to the labels are whimsical drawings of the items—Stephen’s work, probably—and I wonder if they’re supposed to be cute, or if they’re in anticipation of a time when Baba forgets how to read.

  Baba spends most of her time at the stove while we gorge ourselves on crisp, succulent pork cutlets. “Sit down, Mom,” Stephen entreats her, but she looks at him incredulously.

  “Who will make tonkatsu if I sit down?” she asks.

  “Just make it all at once and then serve it,” says Stephen, and she purses her lips and shakes her head.

  “I can’t do. If I do, then it won’t be hot.”

  Finally, when all the tonkatsu have been fried, she joins us, smiling happily at how few are left in the serving bowl. She takes two pieces for herself and encourages us to eat the rest.

  Stephen tells a rambling story about his coworker’s parents, who recently sold their house and moved to a retirement community in San Jose. He paints a rosy picture of an easy, air-conditioned life with movies and lectures and art classes, rides to church and trips to the mall. It actually sounds kind of appealing.

  “So.” He clears his throat. “Would you ever want to move somewhere like that, Mom? It sounds great, doesn’t it?”

  Baba doesn’t answer right away, so I figure now’s when I should chime in and help Stephen. I make my voice bright and enthusiastic. “It sounds amazing. I would totally live there.”

  Max shoots me a warning look.

  “What?” I say. “I would. It sounds like college, but for old people.”

  Max’s jaw drops and Stephen snorts with laughter, but Baba frowns. Crap.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” I start, but she interrupts me.

  “I don’t like the mall,” she says peevishly. “It’s a too loud and crowded place.”

  Of all the reasons not to like a place, she’s choosing “trips to the mall?” Oh well. At least “college for old people” didn’t upset her.

  “You don’t have to go to the mall,” Stephen reassures her calmly, as if the mall were a perfectly reasonable hill for her to want to die on. “All of these places have lots of activities to choose from.”

  “But just the play activities. Just a hobby and games.”

  “That sounds like fun, though,” says Max casually, but Baba shakes her head stubbornly.

  “I feel useless without a good work,” she says. “I need a purpose every day.”

  “There’s volunteer opportunities. And you could still volunteer with your church,” says Stephen.

  “And gardening! I bet they have gardening,” I add, thinking of her flowers.

  Stephen nods enthusiastically. “They definitely have gardening. And exercise classes. Mom, I really think you should consider—”

  “I am not a child!” Baba bursts out angrily. “I can decide for myself what I want to do.”

  Which is such a childish thing to say that I feel a little embarrassed for her. On the other hand, I do feel like when I was a camp counselor last summer and it was my job every morning to convince this one sad, weepy kid that camp was going to be So! Much! Fun! Am I treating my own grandmother like a five-year-old?

  “You can still make those decisions,” Stephen is saying. “I just wonder if it would be safer and easier for you if—”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Baba snaps. “I am healthy. I don’t need old folks’ home.”

  “It’s not an old folks’ home,” says Stephen. “It’s an active elder community with continuing care.”

  “It’s a same thing,” she says fiercely, and to be fair, she’s not wrong.

  “Okay, okay, Mom, I got it. We’ll stop. But we have to talk about it sometime.”

  Baba ignores this and starts clearing the dishes from the table. With an apologetic look at Stephen, I get up to help her. One by one I bring the leftover grilled eggplant with miso sauce, salted cucumber slices, and bright yellow triangles of homemade pickled daikon to the counter. It occurs to me that she made this entire dinner on her own. Maybe Baba’s right. Maybe we’re not giving her enough credit. She’s just a little forgetful, really—how many due dates have I forgotten for school? She might need a little help, but she probably doesn’t need to move.

  “Thank you, Nozomi,” says Baba brightly, as if nothing has happened. “What a good, helpful girl.”

  When Stephen comes in and offers to help, though, she turns away from him and pretends not to hear him. He shrugs at me and goes back out to the dining room.

  Once the table has been cleared and the dishes washed, Stephen pops into the kitchen again, this time with a lemon-yellow bakery box in his hands. “Would anyone be interested in dessert? I got Beard Papa,” he says to no one in particular.

  Baba has a deep and abiding love of sweets, and Beard Papa cream puffs, I remember, are her particular favorites. Her mouth is still tight and angry, but her eyes flick to the distinctive yellow box once, twice, three times. She takes her rubber dish gloves off, very slowly, and glances at the box again. This time her gaze lingers a little, and I see Stephen noticing it. He says nothing.

  “Nozomi, would you like some cream puff?” asks Baba casually.

  “I would love some,” I say.

  “Do you remember where the dessert plates are?” she responds. “Get four of them. I’ll make some tea.”

  Stephen says lightly, “I’ll just bring these out to the table, then, shall I?”

  Baba scowls. “No, no! We are not barbarian. Put them on a serving plate. Here.” She thrusts a porcelain platter with white, fluted edges at him. “I thought you know better.”

  I shrink a little at her sharp tone—it’s so weird to hear her scolding Stephen like he’s a child—but he’s grinning broadly, and I realize that he was trolling her, and he’s enjoying himself.

  “Of course, Mom.” He kisses her, but she harrumphs and shoves him away.

  “Kashikoi, ne,” she says, which kind of means “Aren’t you clever.” Baba’s mouth is still puckered into a disagreeable little frown, but it’s less committed than before. And that shove she gave him—it was almost playful. I realize that maybe she’s enjoying this, too, that this is a script they’ve played out a thousand times, that they take comfort in repeating. Parts of their relationship have survived the damage. There’s still love underneath, like muscle memory, like a song you know by heart.

  At the table, though, I start worrying again, about everything. Baba takes a sip of tea and accuses Stephen of switching the cups; she’s sure she put sugar in her tea. Then the talk turns to church. Baba’s church has a new junior minister. Stephen raves about him; he’s warm and funny, and his last sermon was about building a loving community that accepts all people, regardless of race, sexual or gender identity, or even politics.

  “He is a liberal hippie minister,” Baba announces. “I like Pastor Joe better.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to try expanding your horizons,” says Stephen, without looking at her.

  But Baba is adamant. “No. It doesn’t work. I have lived the long life and I know well what I think. The old people don’t need to expand the horizon or change their mind before they die.”

  I listen to them and wonder, how much damage can our relationship take? How strong is her love for me, underneath it all? I think back to the way she talked about Cliff’s daughter—how Baba treated her being queer more like a juicy piece of gossip than a reason to reject her. It gives me hope that she wouldn’t outright reject me if I came out to her; but I don’t know if that’s enough for me. Should it be?

  If I could write a perfect ending to this story, Baba would come around to see me and embrace me for all that I am, and I wouldn’t have to sacrifice anything. But even then, I think, looking at the labels on the kitchen cabinets—even if I get the warm, fuzzy coming-out scenario of my dreams and we resurrect our old bond—there’s a chance she’ll forget it all. If she’s goi
ng to forget everything, does it even matter whether I tell her or not?

  5

  I’VE NEVER BEEN GOOD AT DRAWING; NOTHING comes out the way I see it in my head. But my great-great-great-somebody was an apprentice to Hiroshige (one of the most famous artists in the world, so look him up if you’ve never heard of him), and he ended up making a small name for himself as a woodblock artist in his own right. Baba has a bunch of his original landscape prints hanging on the walls of her house. I used to spend hours making up stories that took place in those pictures, which is how Baba began teaching me to appreciate art, even if I couldn’t make it.

  “What story do you see?” she used to ask as we flipped through big coffee table books about Michelangelo, or the Impressionists. Later, Stephen taught me how to look at color and space, how to find and follow directional lines, and how artists use those tools to add layers of meaning to their work. I loved all of it, and I got pretty good at understanding how art works, if I do say so myself.

  This summer, I get to use everything I’ve learned in an actual, real job. I’m supposed to update the digital records of all the pieces at Stephen’s museum, and write little blurbs about them to help kids understand and appreciate them. I made up a title and put it on my Achievements and Accomplishments list that the school academic counselor makes us keep online:

  Digital Archive Intern, The Harrison Collection, San Francisco

  It gives me a little thrill every time I say to myself, “I’m Nozomi Nagai. I work at the Harrison Collection in San Francisco in the Digital Archives department.” I sound like someone who lives in her own cool apartment in the city and wears cool designer clothes and goes to cool parties with her cool friends. Thank god I’m not Max: Educational Software Intern doesn’t have the same ring to it.

  The only problem is that the Harrison Collection is devoted to contemporary art, most of it very abstract, which is my least favorite kind of art. I like art that suggests a story, and it’s hard to find a story in a 36-inch glass cube, which is an actual, literal thing in the collection. But we Digital Archive Interns can’t be choosy about what we digitally archive.