When You Were Here

maybe even touched it, maybe even remembered the girl who would never live.
    And I know—no, I believe —that this is all necessary, that this is all deliberate, that my mom in some greater cosmic, karmic, Buddhist sense somehow left these clues for me. Kana, Laini, Sarah. Soon, Takahashi. That if I can figure them out, I can heal.
    But if my mom were here now, I’d tell her that she has given me the best of her, but that she messed up on this one count. I’d tell her I could have managed. I would have wanted to know. I’d tell her that this is the part of her I don’t want to be like. She may have had her reasons, and I think—now, here , after these weeks in Tokyo—I can respect that. But as for me, I will not be someone who harbors secrets, because secrets eat away at love.
    Maybe this is what she wanted me to figure out. My own path.
    I leave the cemetery because I have to be somewhere right now. Tonight is Kana’s show. She’s performing with her band. I texted her earlier to tell her. Guess what? Holland showed up last night. And I also need the address of your show.
    I grab my phone to see if she sent me the address.
    I WANT ALL THE DETAILS! Can’t wait to see you at the Pink Zebra tonight!
    There’s an address and a time. Her show starts soon. I shift into high gear and hop onto a train. I must tease her about the name Pink Zebra. It sounds like a gay bar or a strip club. Once I’m in Roppongi, I find the Pink Zebra at the bottom of a hill, the far end of a slim alley, down a set of stairs, underground. There is no flashing sign to guide you, just a faded dark pink one with the name in curvy letters. I walk inside, and there she is onstage, blowing air into the sax, her cheeks like chipmunk cheeks, like Dizzy Gillespie on his trumpet. She is playing some jazz number I don’t know. She wears a green sequined T-shirt, a jean miniskirt covered in ironed-on patches of brand names like Coca-Cola and Crest, and then rainbow knee-high socks inside a pair of pink Converse sneakers. Her sax is covered with stickers of pandas.
    She plays with her eyes wide open, with her body moving, like she’s giving life to the instrument, or maybe its notes are what give her so much life, so much zeal. She notices me at the end of her solo, and her eyes light up likesparklers set off on the Fourth of July. She is a beacon of light, a magnet; she is Tokyo itself, vibrant, twenty-four-seven, nonstop, and neon.
    The song finishes, and she points to me and then bangs out a few notes from “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” I laugh and point back at her as I sit down. I drink a Diet Coke the waitress brings me as I listen to the rest of their set, and when it’s over, Kana jumps off the stage, sits down in my lap, wraps her arms around my neck, and stares at me with her big brown eyes. “What did you think?”
    “You were amazing.”
    “I’m so glad you’re here.”
    “Me too.”
    “So.” She says it like a command as she gives me a pointed look.
    “So?” I repeat back to her.
    “So how did it go with Epic Superwoman last night?”
    I give her the details. Her eyes grow wider and wider.
    “And have you seen her today?”
    I shake my head. Kana swats me, then scoots off my lap and into a chair next to me.
    “Hey! That hurt!”
    “Good. It should. You are madly in love with this girl, she flies to Tokyo to tell you everything, and you are here with me? You are an idiot who deserves to be swatted many, many times!”
    I hold up my palms.
    She puts her hands on her hips. “Go see her now.”
    I shake my head again. She peers at me, staring hard, and leans closer and closer as if she is burning a hole in me with her eyes.
    “Kana. It’s not that simple!”
    “It is that simple.”
    “No.”
    “Yes.”
    “No.”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay. You win. Why is it that simple?”
    “You love her, right?”
    I shrug.
    She waves a hand. “Allow me to answer this question. Yes, Kana, I love her. So move forward.”
    “How? She kind of kept a big secret from me. And she kind of broke my heart in the process.”
    Kana places her index finger next to her lips and looks at the ceiling. “I’m thinking. I’m thinking. Wait. Was she pregnant and didn’t know if she was going to keep the baby when all this happened? And was your father gone and your mother getting sicker at this time?”
    I roll my eyes.
    “It’s not easy being a teenage mom. Just ask my mom. The point is, my pigheaded, wonderful, amazing American