Chapter Twenty-Four #2
She knew she was exciting to Ryo exactly because of the things that felt so ordinary to her.
For once, it wasn’t her origin story or her ambiguous ethnicity that piqued a person’s interest. The picture she painted of her home was of an America that seemed so pedestrian to her.
He just didn’t know it. The vast vistas of land, everything that was big and a little bland at times, including the cars, the food, the houses, even the highways.
She talked about the parties on the beach during summer breaks, and the family trip to Los Angeles, as though it were a regular occurrence and not something that happened four years ago, when she sulked in a hotel room for most of it because she was bored and embarrassed following her parents around Hollywood Boulevard.
Ryo had interests that were different from the boys back home.
He read books, he visited museums. She learned during the second week at his house that he went to a boxing club on Tuesday and Thursday nights.
She wanted to go and watch, but didn’t dare ask.
She couldn’t imagine him punching someone’s face.
Sometimes he came back with a bruise on his shoulder.
“Have you ever been hit in the face?” she asked.
“No, I’m good at defending myself. Everything happens from the waist down in boxing,” he explained, “that’s probably the most important lesson I ever learned there.
Not how to throw a punch. I know it sounds weird, but I feel like it’s kind of a reflection of life too.
It’s not the things on the outside, the punch, it’s the things happening underneath that count. ”
He didn’t look like a person who acted on impulse, but to her, boxing seemed so violent, so rash.
“The training and everything I do stops me from acting out of panic. I’m on autopilot—I know what to do to avoid the punch and put myself in the best position.
And striking first, that’s important too.
It’s hard because you have to control your emotions.
Getting hit in the face, you’re going to get upset.
But you have to push it down and keep moving forward, to stay in the moment. Man, I sound like an ass.”
But he didn’t. He sounded smart. He sounded measured. He sounded like someone who made cautious, considered decisions. Someone she could trust in an emergency.
Three and a half weeks after Kit arrived in Tokyo, the Buchanans threw their annual midsummer party.
She was not prepared for the effect Ryo’s mother wearing the traditional pale blue and delicate yukata would have on her.
She greeted Kit with a bow, hands together, her thumbs lightly hooked together in front of her body, and when she raised her arm to gesture guests into the house, the swooping sleeve of the robes floated against a breeze that rushed through the doorway.
Her steps were small, weightless, and silent beneath the swathes of fabric wrapped tight around her body, and when she turned around, the flourished finish of the knot against the back of her obi-belt looked like the sudden blossoming of a flower.
Everything was tucked in and restrained except the final burst of this knot.
Kit felt big-boned and clumsy next to Yuriko’s tiny frame and intricate kimono.
The paper lanterns that swayed in the garden took on a yellow tinge and blurred in the distance.
Frosted glasses of beer were passed around by Linda, who smiled passively.
Yuriko placed her small, birdlike hand on Kit’s shoulder, and she felt the warmth of acceptance flood through her.
“Katherine-chan, youkoso , welcome,” she said, bowing and revealing a lacquer comb that was placed in the ribbons of her hair.
Kit bowed in response and tried to think of how far she should bend her head, recalling a documentary that explained the direct relation of the depth of bow and social status.
Her green floral dress that she always reserved for special occasions back home felt ordinary and plain.
She pushed her hands deep into the pockets, her favorite thing about the dress, and rubbed her leg through the fabric.
“Ryo and Amy are somewhere around here. Make yourself at home. Try the food, have a drink, enjoy yourself. Ryo is planning a Kyoto trip for you all, I believe. You will love it.”
“You look beautiful, Mrs. Buchanan.”
“Oh thank you. You are always so charming, Katherine. I keep saying this, but you really must call me Yuriko, please.”
“Sure, Yuriko.” Kit felt her cheeks color.
“We always say Missus or Miss back home.” She heard herself unable to pronounce the r— or was it an l— in Yuriko’s name.
For Ryo and Amy it rolled off their tongues, but when she said it, heavy with a foreigner’s accent, it sounded forced and so clumsy to her ear.
But Yuriko politely ignored her mispronunciation and smiled.
“Well, no need here. Please, make yourself at home, Katherine.”
Yuriko guided her out toward the lawn and then vanished through the entrance without a sound.
Kit started to walk toward the garden to seek out Ryo but turned to watch Yuriko expertly meet every guest, offering refreshments.
She would look up and signal to Linda with a carefully lacquered hand.
Once she caught Linda’s attention, Yuriko then tilted her head toward a tray that needed to be taken away or a guest who needed a drink.
She saw Ryo dressed in a white shirt with chinos, no shoes, as he spoke to an older couple, a blond man and a Japanese woman with dyed platinum hair. Kit stood on the periphery of his eyesight. They could have been her parents, she thought.
Kit watched Amy standing against a wall wearing a tank top with thin straps that revealed her stomach and showed a neon yellow bra strap slipping down her shoulder, engrossed by the numerous insistent pings from her phone.
As Kit approached her, Amy then put her finger up to Kit, just a second, honey , and prowled the edges of the outside bar with her face scrunched up over her phone.
Kit wondered who she was messaging. There was a gentle hum created by the guests talking, but there was no breeze, and the air felt like it was closing in on her, like she couldn’t take in a deep breath.
She heard an American woman with a Midwestern accent greet Yuriko.
“Oh my, you are so beautiful, Mrs. Buchanan, oh Japanese women are so elegant. We visited Hong Kong before coming over here and the traditional dresses there are so intricate and wonderful too. What are they called? I can’t remember.
This is exquisite.” Yuriko nodded, her lips pursed, and said thank you.
Only Kit could see the sharp minuscule breath she took in as she looked away from her guests.
Kit saw Amy signal the other maid from across the room.
Kit sipped her drink and watched the girl, dressed in a blush-pink uniform that was made up of a ruffled apron and skirt and fell at an unflattering length blow her knees.
Amy used the same hand gesture her mother used, fingers flipping inward to call her over.
To Kit, Yuriko had become an almost mythical creature, a movie star she watched from a distance.
The way her clothes hung from her thin shoulders, her protruding collarbones and milky white skin.
Her hair was black with a glossy shine and her eyes were always open and alert to everything that happened around her.
Her gestures were deliberate and elegant, and she never spoke over a certain volume.
Yuriko looked to her children with a pride that Kit recognized in her own mother’s eyes.