“And you can cook, right? Ever thought about pursuing that?”
“I dunno. I’m not so sure. Takanori mentioned something similar.”
“He did?”
“Yeah, when I was at his workshop. Are you close with him?”
“Ah, the Christmas cake one? And yeah, somewhat. He was close with both my uncle and Ayako, so he visited often—less so lately, though. Not with how busy he is.”
“Oh, I see…”
I relayed the advice Takanori had given me that day, which elicited a “Sounds like something he would say” from Towada.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I hastened to add, “I’m happy he sees something in me, but I only took up cooking when my mom was hospitalized; it’s really not all that deep.”
That had been two years before, when I was in sixth grade. She was expected to need ten days to recover, and with Dad away on business, my brother and I had to step up. Mom had already taught us the basics: laundry, cooking, and cleaning, and somehow, we managed in her absence. Although the surgery was routine and Grandma came over to help, that mattered little to my anxiety. There were no certainties in life, especially on the operating table. What if Mom went under and never woke again?
Needless to say, those were the longest ten days of my life, and they changed me. I couldn’t help but think that if only I’d been a little more capable, done more around the house, maybe Mom wouldn’t have required the surgery. Chores were my refuge that week and a half, offering a mild distraction, and my culinary ventures traced back to that time. I hadn’t started cooking out of genuine passion, so to claim it as my future felt disingenuous.
“I just feel like I don’t have anything,” I admitted.
“I’m sure everyone feels that way.”
“You too?”
“Yeah. It’s not like you’re pursuing a specialty that requires you to start training in high school. I don’t think you need to force yourself to decide.”
His words, spoken with such casual conviction, caught me off guard.
Maybe that was true. Maybe it was okay for me to explore and wander, to find myself. A weight seemed to lift from my shoulders at the realization. “You’re probably right,” I said, sensing the hint of a smile finally returning to my face.
Towada pulled a small, festive package from his coat pocket. “Here. It’s not exactly a stoat, though.”
“For me?” I said in disbelief. He placed the present in my hand, and I unwrapped it to find a collectible keychain featuring a brown ferret character. “It looks just like an oatie! Thank you!”
As appreciation tumbled from my lips, I felt a gentle touch on my forehead—over the old scar that my headband had exposed. I recognized the pressure as Towada’s finger, and my breathing stalled. A wave of stillness washed over me; I was paralyzed. What’s happening?!
“Were you taken to K University Hospital for this?”
“Y-Yes,” I heard myself say.
He was so close. I remained rigid, my body so stiff it might have creaked. He was calm, whereas my heart betrayed my composure. I could hardly discern my voice over its wild beat.
I could’ve easily taken a step or even a half step backward to break contact, but I didn’t. Instead, I began to clumsy retell the story: “I hit my head and lost consciousness—which wasn’t great. They took me to a big hospital for tests.” The sentences careened out faster than I intended. “They didn’t keep me long, but I had memory issues afterward. It happened the spring break before I started elementary school, so that entrance ceremony is a blur.”
“You had memory problems?”
The scar was a testament to the severest injury that accident-prone me had ever inflicted on myself. An accident, loss of consciousness, and ambulance ride—though I was standing in the freezing cold, my face was aflame.
“That’s why you don’t remember,” he murmured, finally dropping his finger. With a resolute nod, he said, “I was at that hospital too.”
“What?”
“My father took me there for an EEG and counseling for my ‘condition.’ You and I crossed paths in the courtyard.”
As the icy evening wind swept through me, a dormant memory awakened in vignette: a diminutive clearing; towering, sterile white walls, a sliver of a cerulean sky. Right, this is what I was trying to remember the other day. The distant sounds of hospital activity, the sunlight filtering onto the earth, the bright-green clovers, and his hand on mine. I’d glanced up, and he was—
“I remember now.” My voice quivered. “The four-leaf clover?”
His eyes softened behind his glasses.
“That was you?” I whispered.
“I never got the chance to thank you for it. I’ve thought about it ever since.” Relief seemed to flood his features as though a long-standing burden had been lifted, and I—
“Haruka,” a voice asked, “where are you going? That’s a dead end.”
“Oh, oops.”
Crap. I’d been lost in my recollection of Christmas Eve. I lightly clapped my hands on my flushed cheeks, attempting to wrangle myself back to the present. But hold on—a dead end?
“Grandma, wasn’t there a field here?”
Directly ahead, at the end of the narrow street, should have stood the small meadow where I once played as a child. Yet the space was obscured by a chain-link fence, blocking it from view.
“They’re building something. Construction began last spring,” Grandma said.
“I see…” I’d hoped to revisit my old clover patch once more, but was evidently too late.
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, a little. But it’s okay; there were no four-leaf clovers there anyway.”
I’d found that elusive variety much closer to home—in that hospital courtyard, for instance. No, stop. I vigorously shook my head, dispelling the memory once again. Momo gazed up at me with a puzzled look. Gently tugging the leash, I said, “Let’s head home, Grandma. Mom’s probably getting impatient.”
“You might be right about that.”
As we walked, I heard the clink of the keychain Towada had given me in my coat pocket. I’d attached my bike lock and house keys to it immediately. The memory of that night refused to abate, sending a warm rush to my cheeks. Raising an elbow, I tried to shield my face from sight. Sneaking a glance beyond my arm, I observed the dark clouds from earlier advancing ever closer. I wondered if Towada was under a clear sky at the moment. Japan wasn’t all that big, yet what we experienced could be so different.
“That reminds me, Haruka,” Grandma mused, pulling me from my reverie. “Your brother used to dart about everywhere, but you were always crouching down, searching for something. You were hunting for four-leaf clovers in that field, were you? Ever find any?”
“Nope, I never did.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” She let out a soft chuckle, and the rest of our journey home was interspersed with her amusing anecdotes of my younger days.