She has called me, and I have arrived at her door. She is my dearest friend, older than I, and in failing health, so I do not hesitate when she summons me.
I knock.
Once.
Twice.
No answer, so I call her name.
“Akemi! Akemi! I am here. Open the door.”
A soft faint voice answers,
“It is open.”
I step into the semi-darkened room. The only window is covered by a large Japanese fan, which only lets in light on its edges giving the room a strange mix of muted afternoon sunlight and darkness. The only other light comes from the TV, which is tuned to her favorite show, Wheel of Fortune. Akemi is sitting on the sofa opposite the window with half of her face in light and the other half seemingly gone. On the lit half of her face I can see she is wearing her trademark plum lipstick and not a hair is out of place.
I lock the door behind me and sit in the chair facing her.
“Why is the door unlocked?”
“Why should it be locked?”
“For protection and safety, Akemi. For keeping out danger.”
“From what do I need protection? Safety is no longer an issue. Danger has come and is sleeping upstairs in my bed.”
“What are you saying Akemi? What is wrong today?”
“This did not just happen today. This started a long time ago.”
I do not want to have this conversation.
“Akemi did you ever see the episode of Wheel with James Brown?”
She turns to look at me, momentarily exposing her entire face to the dim light. I see that she is wearing her subtle make-up as usual and her close-cut salt and pepper hair is shining despite the lack of light. I think she looks like a beautiful Japanese painting.
She sighs.
“No, I did not see that one.”
“Well James Brown asked to buy a vowel. And Pat says, ok. And James says, ‘Pat, I would like to buy a W.’” I laugh at my funny story.
Akemi does not laugh.
“This just did not happen today. This started a long time ago,” she says again.
****
We are out shopping. Akemi is slow and not used to her new walker. I am never in a hurry. We are a curiosity to many. They see the unlikely pairing of the older Japanese woman and the middle-aged Black woman. We live a fierce, unwavering friendship built on common ground.
The salesperson at the Neiman Marcus Estee Lauder counter in San Francisco has known Akemi for many years and is anxious to wait on one of her best customers. When it is my turn to make a purchase, she turns her back and walks away.
Akemi turns toward the door and wanting her to wait; wanting her to be there, yet again, so I can I tell the saleslady I am not the maid, the help, the servant, I touch her on her shoulder. She shudders. Her shoulders droop and her knuckles turn white from her too tight grip on the walker.
“I am so sorry, Akemi. I did not mean to startle you,” I say.
“That is how it started. He came up behind me,” she says softly.
It is not the time or place for her to tell me the rest.
We head back to Oakland.
****
“I was born and raised in Oakland, she begins.
My family started the rose industry in 1930’s Oakland and owned many flower shops.
I played among the roses as a little girl. One day I saw a picture of a sunflower and I asked my father to buy one for me. He did and soon they were a regular feature at the shop.
I don’t think my mother was my real mother. I think my real mother gave me away.
In 1942, I was in English class at Edgemont High School when they came and took me to the Camp. My future husband was in WWII in the all-Japanese 442nd Regimental Combat Unit. What kind of place is this?
I finally received my high school diploma in 1974. Big ceremony in the Edgemont auditorium just for me. No prom. No yearbook.”
“I went to Edgemont,” I say.
Akemi smiles slightly. She turns from me to the covered window that puts her face in fuller shadow now that the sun has begun its descent.
“I wonder what my Nirvana name will be,” she says.
****
“I am wearing my favorite bright yellow dress. My black hair is cut into a bob with full bangs. My new Mary Jane shoes are polished in a startling white.
The boy my parents have hired to work at the flower shop will be here soon.
I have not told my “not really my mother” that he sneaks up behind me and touches me.
By now we have an entire section of sunflowers. People are coming to Oakland from everywhere and they seem to want them now more than the roses.
In my daily dance of escape, I weave in and out of the sunflowers pretending to be one.
I hear the boy approaching. With my yellow dress and black hair he does not see me.
Akemi, Akemi he whispers.
I weave and weave, in and out and around and around.
My body stretches and becomes a tall stalk.
Today the boy cannot find me. He shrugs his shoulders and walks away.
Today, I am a sunflower.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pushcart Prize nominee Sheryl J. Bize-Boutte is an Oakland multidisciplinary writer. Her autobiographical and fictional short story collections, along with her lyrical and stunning poetry have been described as “rich in vivid imagery,” “incredible,” and “great contributions to literature.” Her first novel, “Betrayal on the Bayou,” was published in June 2020. She is also a popular literary reader, presenter, storyteller, curator and emcee for local events.