in now?”
“Yes,” she says, and pulls the heavy red door open.
It’s like walking into a shrine. There are no windows. The room is lit only by candlelight. Five low tables are arranged on the stone floor. Cushions in dark colors—crimsons and royal blues and forest greens—surround the tables instead of chairs. It is traditional Japanese seating. Each table has a tea set as a centerpiece—small cast-iron kettles flanked by cups without handles. Kana points to my shoes. I slip off my flip-flops and place them in a wooden cubby. Kana removes her massive shoes. A woman wearing a green kimono emerges from behind a wood door. Kana speaks to her in Japanese. The woman gestures to one of the tables, and we sit.
“Are we supposed to drink this Tatsuma? Even though we’re not sick?” I whisper.
Kana nods and then reaches for my hands, one hand in each of hers. She bows her head and whispers words I don’t know and don’t understand. I follow her lead, bowing my head too. She looks up and smiles a peaceful smile. She was frenetic, manic energy spilling out of her until we arrived here. Now she is calm. Maybe this place does have magical powers.
Soon the woman swoops in, scooping up the tea set in the center of the table and replacing it with a new set, a steaming teapot and two mugs. She raises the pot severalfeet in the air and tilts the spout down. I watch as scalding liquid pours out. I hope she has good aim. I hope it’s as good as mine when I was in the zone on the pitcher’s mound. Actually, I hope it’s better.
She fills the cups. Then she looks at Kana, and more words rain down. The woman chatters for a minute, then another, Kana nodding and smiling the whole time. The only words I understand are the last ones that she says to me, “
Domo arigato
.”
“
Domo arigato
,” I repeat, wondering what I’m thanking her for.
“She says she was honored to take care of your mother,” Kana says.
“Take care of her?”
“Yes. She served her tea. Like I told you.”
“But how is that taking care of her?”
Kana shushes me and urges me to drink. I take a sip. It tastes like barley. Like hot barley. What’s so special about this
healing tea
?
I press. “How was she taking care of my mom if she died?” I am sick of beating around the bush. I want to know what all these legends, all this tea and happiness and healing cures, are supposed to mean. “In case you didn’t know, she died. Okay? There was no cure. The tea didn’t work. Turns out it’s not mystical after all. She’s gone. Done. Sayonara. The jig is up.” My voice is caustic, the words corrosive, but inside I just want so badly to know all the things my mom never told me.
“It’s not that simple, Danny,” Kana says in a soft voice. “Nothing ever is.”
I push back from the table. But it’s not too easy to make a swift exit when you’re sitting barefoot and cross-legged on a pillow. I fumble around, trying to scoot back more, but my legs feel stuck.
“Stay.”
I obey, because it’s easier than untangling myself from this table. But I don’t drink any more tea.
“So you are here. In Tokyo.”
“Obviously.”
She rolls her eyes pointedly, then pats the small handbag she carries. It looks like a stuffed panda with handles. “Danny, I carry a panda purse. Do you think sarcasm bothers me?” She holds out her arms wide and smiles big. “I am impervious.”
I nod, giving her a tip of the hat. “Fair enough. I’m sorry.”
“Now, would you like to see the pictures?”
“Yes.”
She reaches into the purse and places some photos on the table. My mom in her hot-pink wig holding up a cup of tea like she’s making a toast. “I loved her wigs. All of them,” Kana says wistfully, reminding me that I still have to decide what to do with those wigs—and all my mom’s other things.
“Was she at this same table? The same one we’re at?”
“She liked this table. She called it her lucky table.”
I take that in, the idea
“Yes,” she says, and pulls the heavy red door open.
It’s like walking into a shrine. There are no windows. The room is lit only by candlelight. Five low tables are arranged on the stone floor. Cushions in dark colors—crimsons and royal blues and forest greens—surround the tables instead of chairs. It is traditional Japanese seating. Each table has a tea set as a centerpiece—small cast-iron kettles flanked by cups without handles. Kana points to my shoes. I slip off my flip-flops and place them in a wooden cubby. Kana removes her massive shoes. A woman wearing a green kimono emerges from behind a wood door. Kana speaks to her in Japanese. The woman gestures to one of the tables, and we sit.
“Are we supposed to drink this Tatsuma? Even though we’re not sick?” I whisper.
Kana nods and then reaches for my hands, one hand in each of hers. She bows her head and whispers words I don’t know and don’t understand. I follow her lead, bowing my head too. She looks up and smiles a peaceful smile. She was frenetic, manic energy spilling out of her until we arrived here. Now she is calm. Maybe this place does have magical powers.
Soon the woman swoops in, scooping up the tea set in the center of the table and replacing it with a new set, a steaming teapot and two mugs. She raises the pot severalfeet in the air and tilts the spout down. I watch as scalding liquid pours out. I hope she has good aim. I hope it’s as good as mine when I was in the zone on the pitcher’s mound. Actually, I hope it’s better.
She fills the cups. Then she looks at Kana, and more words rain down. The woman chatters for a minute, then another, Kana nodding and smiling the whole time. The only words I understand are the last ones that she says to me, “
Domo arigato
.”
“
Domo arigato
,” I repeat, wondering what I’m thanking her for.
“She says she was honored to take care of your mother,” Kana says.
“Take care of her?”
“Yes. She served her tea. Like I told you.”
“But how is that taking care of her?”
Kana shushes me and urges me to drink. I take a sip. It tastes like barley. Like hot barley. What’s so special about this
healing tea
?
I press. “How was she taking care of my mom if she died?” I am sick of beating around the bush. I want to know what all these legends, all this tea and happiness and healing cures, are supposed to mean. “In case you didn’t know, she died. Okay? There was no cure. The tea didn’t work. Turns out it’s not mystical after all. She’s gone. Done. Sayonara. The jig is up.” My voice is caustic, the words corrosive, but inside I just want so badly to know all the things my mom never told me.
“It’s not that simple, Danny,” Kana says in a soft voice. “Nothing ever is.”
I push back from the table. But it’s not too easy to make a swift exit when you’re sitting barefoot and cross-legged on a pillow. I fumble around, trying to scoot back more, but my legs feel stuck.
“Stay.”
I obey, because it’s easier than untangling myself from this table. But I don’t drink any more tea.
“So you are here. In Tokyo.”
“Obviously.”
She rolls her eyes pointedly, then pats the small handbag she carries. It looks like a stuffed panda with handles. “Danny, I carry a panda purse. Do you think sarcasm bothers me?” She holds out her arms wide and smiles big. “I am impervious.”
I nod, giving her a tip of the hat. “Fair enough. I’m sorry.”
“Now, would you like to see the pictures?”
“Yes.”
She reaches into the purse and places some photos on the table. My mom in her hot-pink wig holding up a cup of tea like she’s making a toast. “I loved her wigs. All of them,” Kana says wistfully, reminding me that I still have to decide what to do with those wigs—and all my mom’s other things.
“Was she at this same table? The same one we’re at?”
“She liked this table. She called it her lucky table.”
I take that in, the idea
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