“But you’ve always known the right way to move through the world,” her coach said. “All I did was lend a little guidance here and there.”
“And we can still give you guidance,” his wife said kindly. “In the form of good dinners and good conversation. No advice.”
By the end of the night, Yoko had donated the most money of any former player at the tennis charity event, proving to herself and to everyone else how much this old world still meant to her. It would have been simply a wonderful evening if it weren’t for a final conversation she had with another former tennis player, a woman a few years younger than Yoko who’d made a bid at the junior league before getting injured too soon.
“Yoko!” The woman weaved through the crowd as they prepared to leave, waving. “I wanted to say hello. It’s been years. You look incredible!”
For the life of her, Yoko couldn’t remember the woman’s name, no matter how she fought through the cloud of her mind. But she pretended to be just as happy to see the other woman as she was. “What have you been up to?” Yoko asked.
The woman told her she had children, a husband, and a carpentry business. “I work long hours, but I love it,” she explained. Then, she snapped her fingers and said, “In fact, one of our old tennis friends came in the other day to buy a piece! I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t seen him in years. What was his name?” The woman concentrated hard. “Akira! It was Akira. Remember him?”
Yoko felt the words like a fist in her stomach. She wondered if the woman sensed how frightened she was. “I remember Akira,” she said. Her mouth was dry.
“I’m sure he’d remember you, too,” the woman said, her eyes twinkling. “If I remember correctly, he was sweet on you. Right?”
The next afternoon, after a long jet-lagged sleep, Yoko tracked down Akira’s new phone number. It was right there on his company website, proof that his documentary career had grown and expanded and then, at some point in the 2010s, fallen off. He now filmed commercials for various Japanese brands. But that was all Yoko could glean from a brief online search. Himari was nowhere to be found. She wondered if they’d divorced, or if Himari didn’t like being seen online so many years after her acting career had faded.
Yoko meditated for a few minutes before calling Akira. She hadn’t meditated since she was a girl, back when all Japanese children were taught to control their thoughts and emotions (to the best of their ability, anyway). Focused and tuned in to herself, she asked herself what she wanted out of calling Akira. Just to reconnect, she offered herself. That was all.
Akira answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
Yoko couldn’t believe it. He sounded almost the same as he had all those years ago. The Akira she pictured on the phone was in his twenties, handsome and a little rugged, eager for the rest of his life to begin. But she knew that wasn’t so anymore.
“Akira, it’s Yoko,” she said softly.
It took a moment for Akira to speak. Yoko’s heart pounded.
“Yoko,” he whispered. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
Yoko explained that she was in Osaka and that she’d love to see him if he had time. They planned to meet for dinner that very night, which was both exciting and terrifying for Yoko. She didn’t know anything about Akira. Was he going to bring Himari, as he had after the 1995 Wimbledon championships? Was it going to feel just as it had then, with Yoko as the outsider?
The restaurant that Akira picked for dinner was located six blocks from Yoko’s Nipponbashi hotel. Yoko walked through the dark and muggy night, frightened of what awaited her at the restaurant. She searched her mind for escape options, things she could lie about when she arrived.
But she shouldn’t have been afraid.
When she entered the restaurant, the fifty-something man with the salt-and-pepper hair in the corner stood and looked at Yoko, captivated. Yoko tried to remain cool and collected. She handed her coat to the host and walked toward Akira, her heart ballooning. He was all alone.
Akira and Yoko bowed to one another, as was their custom. But then, Akira couldn’t stop herself from performing an American action. She threw herself forward and hugged him. Akira stiffened for a second and then burst into laughter. He’d traveled all over the world and met all kinds of people and learned so many customs. He understood her hug as proof of how different her life had become—and proof of how much she cared for him.
“Yoko,” he said when they finally settled down with glasses of sake. “You are more beautiful than ever.”
Yoko felt as though she was levitating. “I don’t know what to say.”
Akira raised his glass. “I want to know everything. Everything you’ve done. I want to know about even the most boring day.”
Yoko let out a soft laugh. Why did it feel as though she’d only just seen Akira? As though they were recounting the events of their weekend rather than the events of their entire lives.
“I’m getting divorced,” she said finally. “I’m thinking of moving back to Japan. I’m homesick. I think I’ve been homesick since the beginning.”
“I spent a lot of time outside of Japan and always felt the same,” Akira said. “But you must feel that your son is your home?”
“He is,” Yoko agreed, thinking of Liam, of how arrogant he’d been lately, how brash. “He’s my home, and I’ll always love him. But he has a lot of learning to do. I don’t think I can teach him anything else.”
“He has to fall on his face like we did,” Akira said.
“Something like that.” Yoko allowed herself to fall into Akira’s eyes. “What about you?”
Akira looked unsteady for a moment. “I’m a widower,” he explained. “Himari died about twelve years ago.”
