Castles on the Sand

Eighteen

I wake up to the sound of Alex pulling the parking brake and wonder when it was I drifted off. It must've been a while ago because my legs and back are cramped from me being curled up. I unbend slowly, wincing at the muscle twinges as I extend first one leg, then the other. We're in a parking lot of a large, concrete building that looks more like a prison than a hospital. There's even a fence with razorwire. We're inland now; I can't tell how far, but there's no hint of beach or bluffs in any direction, just forest. My back pops as I sit up straight.

“Call your brother,” says Alex.

I tap out a text instead: I'm not dead.Call off the dogs.

Alex gets out his side and through his open door comes chill air that smells like pine sap. I zip up my coat before I get out my side and I wonder if I've got weird marks on my face from his upholstery. I can't feel any with a brush of my fingers over my skin. I'm sure it's very red, at least, and that my hair's flat on one side. As I follow him towards the building, I do my best to fluff it, running my fingers through the roots and teasing it back into shape.

The front door of this place leads into what looks like a hospital lobby. Alex goes straight to the desk and leans against it. When the woman talks to him, he answers her, so I hang back. He seems not to need any help from me.

After a brief exchange, the woman directs us to sit on a row of chairs, the generic industrial kind that are all welded together with shared armrests. Alex is fidgety, his fingers tapping together. I can almost see him mime the act of flipping his lighter.

But before we can even get comfortable, if it even is possible to get comfortable in chairs like that, the elevator door at the back of the lobby opens and out walks a guy in scrubs and Grace Katsumoto, who wears her usual skirt, sweater, and blouse. She looks so normal. I hadn't known what to expect. A hospital gown, maybe? A straightjacket? I figure this is a good time to keep my mouth shut and my ears open.

She looks at me with curiosity before giving Alex a warm hug. “Are we going home?” she asks.

“No. Just getting dinner.”

“When am I going home?”

“I'm working on that, okay Mom?”

Her face crumples with disappointment for a split second, and then she turns to me and looks me over, very much like Alex does. “You're from his school?”

“Yeah. Hi. My name's Madison.”

“Madison, right. I know you. Your mother works at the market.”

“She's a potter.” I'm not sure what she even means by “market”. Supermarket? Crafts stall? Probably not worth obsessing about.

She looks sidelong at Alex and says something I don't catch. It takes a few seconds for me to realize she's speaking in Japanese.

That I might have expected, but what I do not expect is for Alex to respond, also in Japanese. All these years I wondered if he talked at all, and he's actually bilingual? “'Kay, Mom, English,” he says. “Don't be rude. Come on. Let's go eat.”

“McDonald's?”

“There isn't a McDonald's in town, but it's okay. I got all the toys that you missed.”

“No McDonald's?” This seems to genuinely distress her.

Alex puts his hands on her shoulders and looks her straight in the eye. Whatever he says, he says in Japanese, but his tone is calm, soothing.

She listens, then nods. “No Burger King?”

“All they have is Subway.”

“Subway doesn't give toys.”