Chapter 13 Come on, Get down with the Homesickness
Come On, Get Down with the Homesickness
I’ve finished sewing my first-ever yukata. By myself. No online tutorials. No mentor hovering over my shoulder. Just me and my memory. And if someone dares to touch it before I’ve shown Mrs. Matsumoto, I will bite their finger off.
My green yukata hangs from a padded hanger wrapped in a protective sheet of plastic.
I’m carrying it gingerly as I enter Matsumoto Alturations for my lesson.
If Mrs. Matsumoto likes what she sees, we can work on sewing the first design for my application submission.
And if she doesn’t like what she sees…well, I can’t think about that right now.
The bell atop the door jingles when I step inside the shop.
Once more, the smell of silk, cotton, and wool wraps around me like a blanket fresh from the dryer.
Yua’s cashing out a lady and bagging several yards of linen for her.
Her back is to me, but she glances over her shoulder the moment the front door shuts. And she smiles, red lipstick and all.
I swear my vision tunnels. I’m back on that river in the park, and the waves are rocking me like a cradle.
Even the scent of fabric is replaced by that of running water and rolling hills.
But, no. I’m here in the store even though it feels like Yua and I are somewhere else.
A puffy shirt with long sleeves covers her arms while sleek black slacks cover her legs.
Her rainbow hair is down, but I catch a simple Hello Kitty tattoo behind her ear just as she tucks her hair back.
Something about the way the black lines bleed and the lopsided football shape of Hello Kitty’s head tells me this may have been one of her first tattoos—one she got in London after her infamous frog.
Yua finishes the transaction before giving me her full attention. “Whoa, I didn’t realize Mum was trusting you with her silk already,” she says, nodding at the bag in my hands.
A flood of heat rises to my cheeks. The plastic bag containing my yukata is transparent.
It’s not my best work. In fact, it’s kind of boring.
The colors are simple because Mrs. Matsumoto needs to see that I can follow a pattern before I start mapping out the designs I sketched for her.
And now I’m finally here for my moment of truth—in more ways than one.
Yua glides across the floor, attention fixated on the yukata draped across my arms. Her deep gaze slides over the piece quickly before rising back up to meet mine.
“Looks good. Simple yet very clean. I don’t want to speak on her behalf, but I think she’ll let you start your collection once she sees how well you’ve done. ”
I gulp. I have three dresses to make and a little over two months to do so. Considering that one of my yukatas will be a recreation of Amah’s uchikake, who knows if I’ll have enough time to finish them all? Especially since I plan to hand-stitch the materials from Matsumoto Silk Mill.
“So, which designs did you officially land on?” Yua asks. “Has Mum picked them out yet?”
“Um, not quite. We’ll go over that today. Hopefully. We’ll see. I don’t know,” I ramble. God, what am I talking about? Why does Yua make me lose my mind like this? “You’ll definitely see the final project before I go home.”
Yua’s smiling with her lips but not with her eyes. I’m holding her gaze when I realize what I’ve just said. Before I go home. Other unsaid words linger in the air: And never see you again.
I fidget with the hanger in my hand, not wanting to think too hard about our relationship and the heartache I’m risking. “Where’s your mom?”
Yua drops her tense shoulders and juts her chin up to the ceiling like she’s pointing at something over my head. “She’s eating lunch upstairs.” After a pause, she hesitantly asks, “Are you ready?”
I swallow the dryness in my throat. I need to make the most of my time in Tokyo, and there’s no room for another hiccup.
As much as I don’t want to tell Mrs. Matsumoto what I’ve been doing in my free time, I also can’t afford not to tell her.
She needs to see me as someone who is talented and trustworthy.
“It doesn’t have to be today.” Yua lightly thumps her forearm with her fingers. I’ve seen this gesture before. During Blood Donation Week at school, the nurses would do the same thing to swell our veins and take our blood. That was also the week I learned how squeamish Whitney gets around blood.
I nod toward Yua’s arm. “Are you getting ready to donate blood?”
Yua looks down like she’s now noticing what she’s been doing. “Oh. Ha. No, actually…”
She glances over her shoulder to ensure that the shop is clear.
Finally, she rolls up her sleeve to reveal the latest addition to her forearm tattoo.
The last time I saw it, the outline had been completed.
This time, it’s been colored in. The dragon is orange and yellow like the scales of a goldfish.
Flames shoot from its head as if its mane is made of fire.
Surrounding the dragon are resting waves.
Black lines separate the orange scales from the blue water, emphasizing the difference between warm hues and cool tones.
The ink is so saturated that all of Yua’s skin is covered from her wrist to her elbow.
“I finally got it filled in,” Yua says. There’s still a sheet of plastic covering her tattoo, and she taps on it once more. “Sometimes my skin gets itchy after a fresh tat, but you’re not supposed to scratch it. Tapping it is the best thing I can do.”
A part of me winces because it looks uncomfortable. There’s a gloss over Yua’s skin that reveals how stretched and inflamed everything is. Still, I marvel at the design because I had no idea ink could be so pigmented.
Yua rolls her sleeve back down. “I’m beyond ready to take this whole thing off. But I’ve got to butter up Mum before she sees it.”
Just then, the door chimes again. Yua’s attention shifts away from me.
An older lady has walked in with a roll of lace protruding from the tote on her shoulders.
Yua greets the patron in Japanese, then she changes back to English and says to me, “I’d better focus on work.
You’re welcome to go upstairs to let Mum know you’re here. ”
I nod and weave my way between the rows of draped fabrics. I feel like I’m invading Mrs. Matsumoto’s privacy by going up the stairs. At the same time, I’m genuinely curious. What does Yua’s home look like?
I stomp up the steps, platform shoes thumping as I climb, so Mrs. Matsumoto will hear someone coming up them. Before I even reach the top, the lingering smell of breakfast wafts out of the kitchen above.
My stomach churns. The scent of hot black tea, savory soy sauce, and fried eggs reminds me of the Friday nights before Ma spent all Saturday working at the hospital.
Since she wouldn’t be home, she made me tea eggs the night prior so that I wouldn’t go hungry.
Even though Aiko made me a big breakfast this morning, a wave of emotion washes over me.
I’m not homesick, though. For once, this knot in my stomach is twisting because of the opposite.
In two months, all this—the clothing, the food, the culture—will be left behind.
I’ll bring back nothing but the memories of my first real date.
My first summer away from Ma. Even if I could stain these memories into my skin like a tattoo, they wouldn’t replace the reality of being here in this moment.
Once I’m gone, I’m gone. Who knows when or if I’ll return to Japan?
I reach the top and find myself in the Matsumotos’ kitchen.
Light shines in from the sliding glass doors leading out to the patio.
Mrs. Matsumoto sits at a table facing the TV.
She’s watching some swoony drama. I’m not sure what’s happening on-screen, but it looks intense.
Two love interests dressed in business suits are about to kiss each other. I can tell from their body language.
I clear my throat. Apparently, she didn’t hear me coming up the steps, despite my clomping.
Mrs. Matsumoto glances my way. The moment she realizes I’m not Yua, her eyes widen. Wrinkles pinch between her brows like she’s a sleeping bear who was woken up from a winter hibernation too early. I just hope she doesn’t tear me apart.
“Yua said I could come up here,” I say quickly, holding out my yukata so she can see I’m here for my next lesson.
Mrs. Matsumoto snatches her remote and turns off the TV. She gets up from her seat, setting her cup of black tea down on the place mat. “This is my home, Lilyn. That was rather friendly of my daughter to invite you up here.”
Why’d she emphasize friendly? Crap. Did she figure out that I’m the one Yua has been seeing? Yua and I were supposed to tell her together. Today. But Mrs. Matsumoto’s not looking at my face; her gaze is on my yukata.
Mrs. Matsumoto sighs, changing the subject for me. “Let me see what you’ve worked on.”
I don’t give her time to circle back to what she said about Yua. I strip the yukata out of its plastic covering and hold it up for her to see. She crosses the room and takes the sleeve in her hands.
From where she is, I doubt she can see the bead of sweat rolling down my temple. Even though I’ve examined the stitches three times already, a part of me wonders if maybe I’ve still messed up somewhere.
Mrs. Matsumoto says nothing, but her lips are pursed. She moves from examining the stitching to tugging on the yukata. She checks the hemline and makes sure none of the threads come apart. Finally, she releases the yukata. The material flutters to a stop at my shins.
“Good.” It’s the only word she utters.
Okay, but is it a good good? Or is it a try harder good? I open my mouth to ask, but Yua appears at the base of the stairs.