Kiara—

Quietly, I poke my head into the room. Mama and Shyba are sitting together on the bed while she holds him and strokes his head. As I walk in, I realize he is passed out on her shoulder.

“Is he okay?” I mutter, clutching the bottle of alcohol. “I was outside watering the garden when I heard shouting and glass breaking. The bottle landed in the rose bushes.”

“What happened?” I hear behind me as Jeremiah enters the room.

Mama takes a deep breath. “It was my fault. I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.” She speaks quietly so as not to wake Shyba and looks at the bottle in my hands. “The scent of the alcohol triggered him.”

I recall how he had knocked the bottle out of my hands before when we first found him. What is his relationship to alcohol? My heart aches for him as I look him over--his skin has lost a bit of color.

“Anyway, we need to get the glass cleaned up first,” Mama says. “Jer, come move him.” 

Jeremiah takes Shyba from Mama’s arms. Then Mama and I proceed to clear the bed of any glass and move the bed to a wall away from the broken window. Once the bed is ready Jeremiah lays Shyba back down. He hadn’t budged. The ordeal must have really worn him out. Then Mama sits next to him to tend to the cut on his hand. Thankfully, it was only a minor wound.

“What do we do about the window?” Jeremiah asks.

“I’ll call Hank and see if he can come fix it tomorrow. For right now let’s just cover it with some cardboard or something,” Mama replies.

“On it,” he says, and leaves the room to grab supplies.

As Mama gathers the stuff up in her first aid bag I look over at Shyba, my mind reeling. “If the smell of alcohol sets him off, what will you do about taking his stitches out?” I ask.

“I could try white vinegar or some hydrogen peroxide. But that’s not the real issue.” She grins to reassure me and ushers me out of the room. “You still have the phrase book you got from the library, right? I want to look up a few things.”

“Sure.” Maybe another way we can bridge the gap is learning more about his language and culture. The more we know, the more we can help him. 

Shyba—

As I slowly regain consciousness I feel my body ache as though I had run three laps around Shibuya. The room is dark and there is not a sound. It must be the middle of the night.

I notice the room has been rearranged, realizing the bed has been turned to the side wall. I suddenly recall the incident and jolt up to look over at the window. It has been patched up with some cardboard and gaffers tape. So, it really did happen. Surely, I am no longer welcome here.

But then I notice the bandage wrapped around my hand where I had cut msyelf with the glass shard. I remember the gentle way Reba soothed me, and how she stayed with me and walked me through my panic attack. She was much too lenient with me. I do not deserve her mercy. Though I hate to admit it, I know what must be done. I will only be a burden to this family.

Quietly, I change into more travelable clothes. Once I’ve gathered up enough clothes to last me a few days, I soundlessly make my way downstairs. I find a big cloth bag in the kitchen to put my clothes in then go to the pantry. However, I am unable to decipher what most of it is, whether it needs to be cooked or not.

On the counter I see some fruits and vegetables from the garden. That should do for a while if I ration it efficiently. After gathering a few each, I take a few bottles of water also.

I head toward the door when I suddenly become aware of someone’s presence. I whirl around, facing the stairway. There stands Reba in her housecoat and slippers, watching me. My heart starts to race, and without thinking my hands go up in a defensive stance. I didn’t want her to see me like this, she has already seen me at my most vulnerable point. Now she has all the ammo she needs to get me arrested, deported… 

But when she speaks, it’s the same soft, soothing voice. “I won’t stop you from leaving, Shyba, but I would like to know what you plan to do about the stitches,” she says.

I remain silent. That was the last thing on my mind.

“Before you go, would you care to sit with me for a moment? I couldn’t sleep so I’m going to have some warm milk,” she says, going to the kitchen. “Would you like some?”

Not a word escapes my mouth and I continue to stand frozen in the same spot, waiting for her to snap. After a few moments in the kitchen, she sets two cups down on the table. Then she sits and motions toward the chair diagonal from her.

“I think you will like it. I put honey in it,” she says.

I hesitate, but the least I could do was appease her and stay on her good side. Silently, I go over, placing the bag on the table and sitting in the chair. Before me is a mug full of milk, steam slowly wafting off it. There is a slight sweet smell to it. I glance over as she takes a sip from hers and I notice the cup she is using has several cracks in it, having been glued back together. 

“You do not throw a broken cup to trash?” I mutter before realizing.

Her hands seem to squeeze affectionately around it as she places it back down on the table. “This is my favorite cup. Jeremiah made it for me when he was little,” she explains. “Over the years it has been dropped a couple times, but I’ve been able to piece it back together.” She lifts it up to her face and traces the cracks around it with her finger. “Just because something is broken, doesn’t mean it can’t be used again. It may not be in perfect shape, but not everything has to be for it to be treasured.”

For a moment I linger on her words. All I have ever known is to strive for perfection. Failure is intolerable. This mindset conflicts with everything she is telling me. 

“Actually, I think you have something similar back home, Shyba.”

“Similar?”

“I don’t know if I’m saying it right, but I think it’s called ‘kintsugi.’ When a piece of pottery is broken, they repair it with gold paint, making it even more valuable than before. Am I right?” 

I nod. I have never thought of it that way before.

“Are you going to try it? It’s better warm,” she says.

I look back at the cup before me and take it, the warmth radiating into my hands. Hesitantly, I bring it up to my lips before tasting it. Somehow, the sweet warmth is rather soothing. For a moment, we both sit in silence.

“Shyba dear, may I ask you something personal?” she asks.

Silently, I nod. She can ask, but that does not mean I have to answer.

“Earlier you had said ‘otou-sama’, which means ‘father’, correct? Is… he the one who hurt you?” she asks gently.

I can feel fire erupt in my gut upon hearing the word. “I do not have a father.”

“I see. I am sorry for assuming,” she mutters and sets her cup down. “You see, it was my father that hurt me.” She then pushes up her sleeve, revealing several circular burns on her arm, faded from age.

“I was three years old when it started,” she says. “He would beat my mom just for stuff like getting home late from work or talking to people he didn’t approve of. It went on for years. My mom finally snapped one night, packed what we needed, put me in the car and drove. She drove for three days, not even knowing where she was going. I remember sleeping in the car on the side of the road those nights. The car finally broke down right outside of a little town in Texas.” A smile forms on her face. “A man named Charles and his son Paul stopped to help us.”

I silently listen to her story, sipping from the cup. Why does she tell me this?

She then looks up toward the mantle. “Paul and I fell in love and married years after that. The man had so much patience and was kind. After all I had been through, I was so untrusting, afraid to speak up and fearing the worst all the time. I would have panic attacks quite often when we first started dating. He would find me and say, ‘broke down again, darlin’? I can fix it’.”

Tears form in her eyes. “He is the one who taught me that even things that are broken can be put back together if given the time and care they need. That even after that, they are still worth something.”

I stare at the table, still holding onto the cup. I find myself becoming restless.

“Shyba, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to, but I want you to know that you are welcome to,” she tells me. “You can stay as long as you like, and whenever you feel ready to leave, you can. I don’t know exactly where you could go, but I don’t want you to feel trapped here.”

“But I… broke the window. I am only burden to you. I do not deserve the kindness. ” I stare at the bandage on my hand. “Why… do you not punish me?”

“You think I should punish you for something you couldn’t control?” she asks.

My thoughts become jumbled. “I…”

“No one was hurt, and a window is just a window,” she says.

The relief I feel… It is so unusual. 

“You don’t have to decide whether to stay or go tonight, but I would like it if you at least stay until I take the stitches out. I might have some alternatives so we don’t need to use the alcohol for now, okay?” she says.

Silently, I nod. “Could you take them out now?” I ask quietly.

She chuckles. “Of course, sweetie.”

After removing the last stitch Reba gives a nod of approval. My tense muscles finally relax. 

“It might itch some, but don’t scratch. You could hurt yourself more,” she says.

“I understand,” I say, pulling my shirt back on.

She disinfects her tools and meticulously returns each one to its proper place before  tossing her gloves and other disposables  in a plastic bag. “I have a friend who will be coming tomorrow to fix the window. Kiara and I need to go into town during that time. Would you like to go with us and see the town?”

I ponder for a second. It would be a good idea to get to know the surrounding area. “Okay.”

“Great,” she says, smiling. “Rest easy, okay?”

She gently rests her hand on my head. Once again, my body becomes rigid, but she only strokes my head briefly as she smiles softly at me. Then she gathers her things and leaves the room, bidding me good night. 

For a long while I sit in the dark, mulling over everything she had said to me. These people have a bizarre approach to life. Or rather, maybe everything I knew before is wrong.