Chapter Twenty-Five #2
On the few occasions Lee did sight younger tourists, she would strain for the sounds of English.
So far she had spotted at the Okura a group of Australian women with deep tans and massive jewelry, and then the next morning several Americans at breakfast. The Americans had exchanged pleasantries with Lee but quickly moved on once Joan appeared, which was embarrassing.
Some of the issue was that the eateries and shops Joan selected were expensive (not that Lee minded— not exactly).
The next evening they dined at an Italian restaurant.
“Maybe we should pick some less expensive places,” Lee remarked. “Some spots normal people would eat at.”
“What’s normal?” Joan asked. “I thought this was normal. You like Italian.”
“Yes, but we’re in Japan.”
“The concierge said this was a favorite place for locals.” This appeared true; the space was filled with Japanese. “What kind of place do you want?” Joan pressed.
“Somewhere with ordinary people.”
“So you want to be with people with less money? Can you explain?” Joan was genuinely curious; it hurt Lee to see how much her mother was trying to understand.
“Forget it.” Lee studied the dessert menu. “Are you having a good time?”
“Yes. I am having a good time. Why do you ask like that?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Lee sighed.
Joan was having a good time. This was the most fun she’d had in a long while, perhaps years.
She’d forgotten how pleasurable it was to travel.
When the children were little, it had been stressful—the tracking of items, the sleep schedules, the snacks and picky eating.
But now, with Lee as an adult, it was like being on a shared adventure, the sort Joan had enjoyed with Bill.
So maybe I don’t like being alone as much as I thought, Joan mused.
She had not, as her children assumed, been entirely devoid of male companionship since Bill.
For now that she was a widow with children, Joan felt she understood with real clarity the cycle of life—the ultimate end and all that currently lay in between and the eternal problem that there didn’t seem to be enough there.
And so Joan had been open to relationships with a casualness that would have shocked her earlier self.
Her courtships usually began with something like coffee and ended with lunch.
Almost never dinner. A few times, an overnight at the Sheraton.
In the end, these encounters had not been fulfilling but, more importantly, not been absent of fulfillment; it was exciting to have someone to think of, to wonder over, to look forward to.
Joan knew not every activity would carry the color of an international trip to Asia.
But it would be nice to have a steady drip of companionship, of conversation, of whatever the opposite of loneliness was.
Just enough to bring her along day by day.
But for now Joan was with Lee. In Tokyo! The sights! The fashions! Even the food, Joan could admit, was quite decent (though overpriced).
“Nelson did a wonderful job with the hotel, didn’t he,” Joan remarked one morning. “I especially like the furniture. This bedside lamp.”
“You should ask the hotel where they found it. Get one for Falling House.”
“Maybe.” Though since arriving in Japan, Joan had trouble imagining Falling House.
She didn’t know if it was being in a different country, the foreignness of it—because when she thought of Falling House, it seemed foreign now too, as if it weren’t Joan who was building it but someone else.
She had the feeling of purchasing a beautiful gown without a proper occasion, of a potential serious misallocation of resources.
You’re being ridiculous, Joan chided herself. A house is so much more than a dress. Remember how devastated you were after the fire? Remember how much you loved the camellia bushes, the sunroom in the early evening?
They went to Takashimaya that afternoon, where Joan purchased gifts for back home: lacquer teacups for Patty, pearl earrings for Misty, a handmade umbrella for Mrs. Kim next door.
She found a beautiful navy coat for Jamie that reminded her of Bill and lifted it for Lee to examine. “Do you think Jamie would like this?”
“I don’t know where he’s going to wear it,” Lee said.
Jamie no longer worked in finance but had moved to San Diego, where he was in training for the navy.
His decision to join the military had been shocking to Lee and Joan; each privately believed he was undergoing some form of personal crisis, though neither had voiced this out loud.
When they visited him in Coronado, he had worn T-shirts with cargo shorts all weekend, which he said were provided free as part of his “gear.”
Joan didn’t like to think too much about what Jamie was doing in San Diego—and what he would be doing once deployed in an active war zone.
Joan had felt as if her heart would break watching those buildings collapse in New York.
She had never imagined, however, that the tragedy would have led to Jamie—quiet, obedient Jamie—voluntarily placing himself in danger.
She was faced with the idea that either her son had drastically changed once leaving her home or he’d possessed something unknown to her all along.
“I’m going to get the coat,” Joan declared. That way she could imagine presenting it to Jamie when he came home. Maybe next year they could have Christmas at Falling House. Joan and her children back in its rooms, drinking eggnog and strolling the garden at sunset. Wouldn’t that be nice!
In the evening, after dinner, Joan suggested they visit the bar at the hotel. Nelson had said the Okura had a famous bar—a “scene” was how he described it. The space was sleek and cool, and in the dark the white chairs resembled petals strewn on the floor.
“I didn’t know,” Lee said, “that you were the sort of person to go to bars.”
“You don’t know everything about me.” Though Joan had never gone to a bar on her own. She’d only ever visited them with Bill.
There was a group of Americans at a table, the same ones Lee had met earlier at breakfast. Joan saw Lee’s glance. “Do you want to be with younger people?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“You can go.”
“Well, maybe just for a little,” Lee said. And then she was gone.
Joan watched Lee across the room. There was one American in particular she seemed engaged with, a clean-cut young man with dark hair.
At least this one looked to be in his twenties.
Joan had once made the mistake of telling Lee she should date men her own age, that there was nothing a fortysomething could give her that a twentysomething couldn’t—at least nothing that would matter to Lee later.
“It’s nothing serious,” Lee had said. “It doesn’t mean anything.” She was still young enough to believe every avenue was open, that every bad decision could be mitigated. That recklessness was simply fun, another good memory added to your scorecard without trade-off.
Lee was laughing now. Her hair swung and was sleek and shiny, complex with dimension and color. Ah, how pathetic to be jealous of your own daughter. How nice it would be, though, to feel that sort of possibility again, if only for a while.
She’d dreamed of Bill last night. This time they’d been back at Stanford, at their usual bench watching the Screamer, although the Screamer wasn’t screaming but, rather, sharing a Chinese fruitcake with his audience.
“It’s just so much lighter, don’t you think?
” Bill remarked, even though he hadn’t liked such cake when he was alive.
He’d preferred the heavier sorts, with layers of chocolate fondant and marzipan.
And the Screamer said yes, it was very nice indeed…
Joan had been sorry to wake from her dream.
When she read about the latest technology innovations in Silicon Valley, she often wondered why those big brains couldn’t invent a device that let you continue a dream.
There’d been times where the only joy in her life came when she was unconscious—and given that she’d had such a nice life, with plenty of enjoyable moments, she knew this must be true for others.
It was this conviction of a global deficit in satisfaction that had obsessed Joan as of late; she had been thinking of it more and more.
She decided to order a drink. This was how uninitiated with the world Joan was: she had not planned on drinking. But drinking was what people did at bars! Someone took the seat next to her; it wasn’t Lee but another woman.
The bartender came. “Chardonnay, please,” Joan requested, and then waited for some judgment, confirmation that he knew she was a pretender.
When the verdict didn’t arrive, she felt encouraged and studied her neighbor, a young Japanese woman.
She must work in business, Joan decided.
She had that sort of air; she wore a sleek black dress and a Chanel tote, although what Joan really noticed was her black jacket.
Where did these Japanese women find their beautiful clothing?
Joan tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Can I ask where you bought your jacket?”
“Jacket?” The woman repeated the word slowly.
“Yes,” Joan said. She motioned to the garment, though she was careful not to touch it.
“Ah,” the woman said. She removed from her bag a little gold pen and a notepad. She wrote: “Oscar de la Renta.”
“Thank you,” Joan said.