I’ll take what I can get.

CHAPTER THREE

Kayla

After work I swing by my mother’s house. She lives across the bay on Alameda Island, just outside of Oakland, in the same house where I grew up. It’s a gorgeous narrow Victorian with gables and iron details. Out front there is a rose garden bordering the small yard that looks out onto the road where people and tourists bicycle past on warm days. It smells like childhood and sunshine and peace. The garden was always my mother’s pride and joy, but these days the roses are overgrown and pretty much fending for themselves.

A lot of the house is slowly succumbing to decay. My mom isn’t young and isn’t in the best of health. She turned seventy-one this year, something I hate to think about. My parents were much older when I was born. In fact, my oldest brother Brian is fifteen years older than me. My youngest brother, Toshio, is six years older. I wasn’t even supposed to have been born at all—my mother would describe me as a miracle surprise. The girl she had always wanted.

And I’m glad I was that miracle. My parents gave me so much love growing up to the point where I was spoiled, while my brothers acted overprotective, babying me to a fault. But shit, if it’s not hard having an aging parent, especially when you’ve just turned thirty and still feel like a kid—like you still need them.

My father died from prostate cancer when I was just twenty-three years old. It’s something that haunts me every day. He was sick for a long time and in a lot of pain, so when it happened we were glad he was no longer suffering, but even so…nothing can replace that loss. My father, for all his faults, was someone I loved without question, someone I idolized for as long as I could remember. I didn’t think I could ever get over his death, but little by little, year after year, I tried to move on. I had to.

My mother never had such luck. Her health has been testing her ever since. It was like she lost a part of herself when he died, and she hasn’t been the same. I worry about her all the time now and try and stop by the house as much as I can, which is way more than my brothers do. They only come by when I force them to, either to say hello and check in, to give her money, or to do repair jobs on the house. I know what they want for her—to move into a small apartment, or maybe even assisted living. But my mom hangs on to the house for dear life. She’ll never ever leave.

And I know the minute she goes into a home, that’s the moment we’ll lose her forever. The house is all she has left.

So even though it’s out of the way, I head on over there. She’s lonely and alone, and it’s something I understand a little too well.

It’s the start of August and even though summer is fickle in the city, on Alameda it’s warmer. I water her roses, run out to get groceries from the closest store, tidy up, and then settle down on her couch with her white fluffball of a cat, Mew Mew, to tell her the somewhat good news.

“So guess what?” I say.

She looks up from her knitting and gazes at me with so much…devotion…that I suddenly feel, I don’t know, unworthy of it. Funny how your mom can do that to you.

“What is it, sweetheart?” she asks in her gentle, lilting accent.

“Well, I’m branching out at work. I’m writing an article, and it looks like if all goes well, they’ll print it.”

She smiles broadly and I’m struck by how flawless her skin still looks for her age. Despite everything, she looks like she’s decades younger. I hope those Japanese genes have been passed down to me.

“That is wonderful. Oh Kayla, that makes me so happy for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yes. Look at you. You’re practically glowing. I was wondering if you would find that passion again.”

I purse my lips. I’ve always thought of myself as a very lively, passionate person. Had I really been lacking it that much?

“Well,” I say, trying to downplay it, “I mean it all depends on how well I write it. They don’t usually run articles by people who aren’t staff writers…or writers. You know, in general.”

“Yes, but when you were younger, I remember the stories you would write for the school paper.”

“Yeah, but those stories were, like, movie reviews and what band was in town that weekend.”

She shakes her head, still smiling elegantly, and goes back to her knitting. “It does not matter, sweetheart. I read every article, and I knew you had a talent. I knew you would go back to it.”

“Even though I’m old now.”

Her face falls slightly. “You are not old, Kayla. I am old.”

I sigh. “I’m sorry…I don’t mean that. It’s just, I felt like at this age I would have had my shi…my stuff sorted out. My life on track.”

“Your life is on the track it is meant to be on. This is not a contest or a race. Don’t compare yourself to others, only to the person you were yesterday.”

Yeah, but how do I explain that sometimes I feel worse than the person I was yesterday? Like I’m spinning my wheels before going backward. Losing character instead of gaining it?

But I don’t want to trouble my mother with that. I try not to trouble myself with those kinds of thoughts either, it’s just that they sneak up on you sometimes.

“I know,” I tell her. “I guess it’s never too late.”

“No, it’s not,” she says. “Just remember to keep an open mind. To take chances.”

I manage a smile. “Oh, believe me, I do.”

She studies me for a moment, seeing something inside me. I’m not sure what it is.

“I loved your father very much,” she says, her needles clacking against each other. The statement seems to come out of left field. “Very, very much.”

“I know you did. And he loved you.”

“He still does.” She gives me the sweetest, saddest smile. “Even though he’s changed his residency to heaven, I still hear from him from time to time. I know he’s okay. I know he’s waiting for me.”

My eyes begin to water. We don’t talk about my dad too much, maybe because every time he’s mentioned, the tears start to flow. My mother doesn’t cry though. She takes it all so gracefully, even though I know how sad she is, how half of her soul is missing.

“Don’t cry, sweetie,” she says gently and leans over, putting her hand on mine. “It’s okay, really. I’m just telling you because I don’t want you to be afraid of love.”

“I’m not afraid of love,” I say defensively, wiping a tear away with the palm of my hand.

She gives me a thin smile. “It’s been a few years since Kyle.”

Freaking Kyle. Why is she bringing him up? Kyle is my ex. Ex-fiancé. We started dating in college and stayed together for a long time after that. But things just weren’t working between us. There wasn’t anything wrong with Kyle, it was just that…I don’t know, I guess I got cold feet. But it wasn’t because I was afraid of love. He just wasn’t what I wanted from life.

“I’m happy, Mom,” I reassure her. “I loved Kyle, too. He just wasn’t the one.”

“Oh, I know he wasn’t. I know that. You did the right thing. But when you do meet the right one, I just don’t want you to run away. I don’t want you to be scared. Love is something you have to fight for.”

I roll my eyes. “Once again, Mom, I’m not afraid of love. I love love!”

It’s just that I happen to love fun and sex more.

She watches me closely. “Good. I’m just trying to say that even though I love your father and I’ll never be the same without him, the bad outweighs the good. Even if I knew I would lose him, I would have still fallen in love. I don’t regret a thing. I just want you to know, to realize, that even if you lose love, it’s never really gone. It stays in you forever. The risks of love are always worth it.”

I sigh, feeling a brick in my chest. “Okay, okay,” I say, but I’m not sure what else there is to add. I know how it must look to my mother, always perpetually single ever since I left Kyle. But I swear, I’m not afraid of love. There’s just no one out there for me and I’ve made peace with that. If you can’t find a man to share your heart with, well…share your vagina with him instead.