Lillian Hsu

His mother had said one o’clock.  He had time to find her a fresh bouquet at Al’s greengrocer on Broadway if he left now. Only a scattering of people dotted the sidewalk despite the beautiful September Saturday.  Most restrictions had been lifted, but it would be a slow road to clear the pandemic off the mind. It had been nearly two years since he had last seen his mother. Normally he came every few months. Oliver headed west down Eighty-ninth.

The smells were different in New York than in Tokyo.  Seven years ago, when he was standing outside Narita Airport for the first time, he remembers thinking, “It smells different in Tokyo.”  Was it the food, the people, the trees?  Now he wonders if he himself smells more like Tokyo than New York.

The pandemic had reduced pollution. The skies were clearer, the air cleaner. The sidewalks were less crowded.  His eyes could wander upward instead of looking out for people and things he was about to bump into.  He noticed rooftop gardens, sign lettering, a solitary soul leaning out of a fourth-floor window, gazing like they were in an Edward Hopper painting, present and absent.

           He should have brought his mother something from Tokyo. A real gift, not a bunch of bodega flowers snagged along his way. Well, too late. He’d add some chocolate to the flowers. She loved chocolate.  He turned right on Broadway.

            Oliver was glad to see the greengrocer was open, old Al out front surveying the produce display and saying hello to the few regulars walking in. 

            “Hey, buddy, Ollie!  Where you been?!” Al was a neighborhood anchor and sentinel.

“I live in Japan now and haven’t been back since everything shut down,” said Oliver, remembering Al’s warm humor. “Been there some years, sent to help set up a Tokyo office for the company. Good to see you! My mom must have been in a few times during the pandemic?”

“Oh sure, sure.  She’s looking great, like there wasn’t such a thing as a pandemic - cheery and always put together. I hope Japan is treating you well.  What can I get you?”

Oliver selected some yellow freesia and white lilies, plus a bar of chocolate Al recommended, with nuts. Flowers in his arms, he strode uptown, then right on West Ninety-third. At least he brought pictures. He would show his mom recent photos of his favorite Tokyo spots, his apartment, his Japanese friends.  At the portico he hit the button near the bottom of the doorbell list, “Zeller”, and pushed open the door at the sound of the buzzer.

Standing in the elevator he remembered being a child. His mother’s dramas as they went up and down for fun, the double column of buttons like a height chart for Oliver and his brother Cedric as they grew.  Oliver or Cedric would choose a floor, and their mother would narrate the stories – Mia Pesce, on nine, who kept tropical fish in her bathtub; Mr. Baumgartner, on twelve, who used to be a baseball player and grew a mini orchard on his balcony; Mrs. Chlebek on sixteen, who baked twisty rolls flavored with almond and covered with poppy seeds; Sam Coppola, who made paper shoes.  None of the people ever seemed to be home.  His mom made it all up, but to young Oliver it was all real. Only later did he understand the effort she put into the make-believe. Oliver recalls the store where he picked out a tropical fish, which they then left, swimming in a little plastic bag of water, just outside Mia Pesce’s apartment.  His mother made twisty poppy seed rolls while they were at school and presented them to the boys as though Mrs. Chlebek had delivered the gift that afternoon. One day, there were two beautiful pairs of paper shoes sitting just outside their door, lying in an open shoe box: “To Oliver and Cedric, I hope I got the sizes right. Your neighbor, Sam”.  

Oliver swung the brass monkey on his mother’s door three times.  Then there she was, one arm swinging open the door, the other stretched out for a hug.

“A sight for sore eyes if there ever was one!  At long last, my son, or one of them anyway!” 

“Hi, Mom!” A hint of incense hit Oliver’s nose as he gave his mom a long hug. “What a time it’s been!”  Looking over his mother’s shoulder, Oliver had a straight view to the bank of south-facing windows along the living-dining room.  A small table at the window was set for lunch – plates, silverware, goblets, napkins. It looked like food was already out. Oliver presented the bouquet. “Flowers and chocolate from Al’s. Glad he’s still going.”

“Oh, thank you, Sweetheart.  Al is essential.  He’s always getting new things in, like chocolates, I think to keep us regulars from getting bored.”  She buried her nose in the bouquet and inhaled. “Beautiful.”  She turned towards the kitchen to find her flower snips.

Oliver set his bag down and followed his mother.  She was dressed like they were heading to a four-star restaurant rather than lunch at home.  Brown leather oxfords with neat white ankle socks, navy dress with white collar, bold sculptural jewelry on her wrist, neck, and ears.  In Oliver’s memory, her hair was always swirled into a knot, with a big clip of some sort that he would unclasp as a kid. He found a vase above the fridge and began filling it with water. 

His mom’s voice was low, slight New York accent interlaced with Midwest, where she grew up.  She snipped and arranged the flowers while she talked. “So, tell me everything.  What would you like to drink?  How does it feel to be back in New York?”  She turned to look at Oliver. “How good it is to have you here, really here, in the flesh, not a virtual thing!  And how is life going?  At this point I’m quite sure I’ve lost you to Japan for good, no?”

Oliver opened the refrigerator to browse for a beverage.  “It feels weird and good to be back.  The streets are oddly quiet, eerie, but beautiful.  Same in Tokyo.” He grabbed the seltzer.  “How has work been?”

His mom reached around Oliver to pull a chilled bottle out of the fridge. She poured herself a glass of wine. “Oh, advertising is all deception and slant.  But the work still interests me – some of my colleagues are fantastic. Companies need us more than ever, now that consumers are no longer touching products, browsing in stores.  Everyone must be told what to buy, led to it.  You said you’re here for a few days?  Do you have time for a walk along the river? The pandemic didn’t slow down construction, and they renovated Riverside Park.”

“Sure, that would be nice,” said Oliver as he took his glass into the dining room.  He stood at the window and looked down on West Ninety-third Street.  He heard his mother pulling out drawers while chatting from the kitchen.

“The place looks great, Mom!  You still love living here?” 

“Oh my, yes, I love this place, love the location; some new residents of course, but all basically the same types.  My work keeps me busy, and I’m often out in the evenings, so how much time do I spend in the hallways?”  His mother laughed, “Not like when you were little.”

            Oliver looked down the length of the long room.  It was one big playroom when he and Cedric were small. When they started high school, the divorce happened, his dad moved out, his mother started her career in advertising, and the apartment got a makeover like she had decided to move the family from the nineteenth to the twenty-first century.

He felt a little hungry, although he didn’t smell any food.  He wandered over to the table, draped with the tablecloth he had sent his mom as a birthday gift.  He scanned the dishes between the two place settings – a bowl of red grapes, a chopped salad, two bowls of pickles, something that looked like barley with veggie chunks and cured meat, a baguette, a block of butter under glass.  Oliver reached for a grape.  

The instant he touched the grape, he recoiled, pulling his hand back.  He lowered his head and stared.  It wasn’t a grape. He touched the baguette.  It wasn’t bread.  He bent closer and looked at the barley salad. It wasn’t a real salad.

“Hey Mom!  What’s going on?!?” he called toward the kitchen. “Come in here!  This lunch is fake!”

A pause, then his mother exclaimed, “Oh, Ollie, we’re going to go out, don’t worry!”

“But Mom, what is this??”  Oliver stepped towards the kitchen. What was she doing in there if she wasn’t preparing any real food? “I saw the table set when I walked in the door. I thought we were going to sit down at that spread.  Then I go for a grape, and it’s plastic!”

“Oliver, it’s okay. I’m taking you to lunch in the park.  We’ll pick up the best sandwiches to be had on the Upper West Side and find a beautiful spot.”

“But, Mom, that’s not the point. Why the plastic lunch?  It’s weird!  This isn’t one of your photo shoots.”

“Of course not.  I merely wanted to set a welcoming scene for your first visit in nearly two years!  I’ve missed you!” His mother’s voice got quieter. “And I wanted to be a good host.”

“I don’t want you to ‘host’ me. I’m not just a luncheon guest, am I?”

“No, and you are always quite casual.”

“That’s not the point either. Even if hosting was the important thing, why would you need plastic food??  Do you use plastic food when friends come over?  Obviously, I would see it was plastic pretty quickly, don’t you think?  Were you imagining us sitting down at this pretend meal like when I was four?  I don’t get it.”

His mother sighed, looking down at her hands clasped in front of her. Then she waved her arms and shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not that complicated. I just wanted to present a warm home setting to welcome you, dear. What’s wrong with that?  It doesn’t matter. We’re going to go for a walk on this gorgeous September day, my goodness your birthday month, you’re turning thirty-five, how time plays tricks, and we’re going to find something good at my favorite deli and go sit by the river.”

Oliver had set his eyes out the window for a moment but turned to look at his mother. “But, Mom, you’re leaving out the word ‘fake’: you wanted to present a fake setting.  You knew I would think there was a real lunch on the table, for a moment, making me feel whatever you wanted me to feel, but why would you want to fool me even for a second?”

“Goodness, Ollie, you always analyze everything. Let’s go. Let’s go get some real food, okay?  Aren’t you hungry?  I am.  We can come back here afterward, leave your satchel.” His mother laughed, took his arm, and led him to the door.  

Walking to the elevator, she continued, “I had no desire to fool you.  Between your age and mine, I don’t think I’d be capable of it anyway.  But don’t you sometimes just want to believe in Mrs. Chlebek’s treats and Sam Coppola’s shoes?  Was I ‘fooling’ you all those years ago?”

            Oliver had grown quiet. He was searching for a way into his mother’s logic.  How old was he when he stopped wanting to believe in Mrs. Chlebek’s twisty rolls?  Was it just that he was no longer a believer?

            They walked five blocks to Three Sisters Deli.  Standing at the counter with his mother, Oliver thought, this is not a smell I find in Japan. Now he was very hungry. Maybe lunch would ease his agitation.

With sandwiches and drinks in hand, they strolled into the park and found a bench facing the water.  “The river is calm,” he said, as though talking to his stomach.  He unwrapped his sandwich – bread crunchy, soft, and airy, moistened by the chili mayo and pickles layered between eggplant and cheese – real food that might shed bits on his shirt.

            His mom ate her sloppy sandwich meticulously. Chewing, she said, “Sometimes I come here to walk in the winter, rather than going east to Central Park. The river can feel raw, the wind colder. But there are days when I need something bracing and a wider view rather than the canyons of tall buildings.  My sandwich hits the spot; how about yours? Shall we go to the museum after we eat? The Metropolitan is open now, with masks and spacing.”

            Oliver’s eyes were fixed on the slow water and objects on the riverbank.  Benches were good for parallel conversation, like a car.  “Could we just walk?  I know we’ve been denied culture for a long time, but I came to see you, and I don’t think I could focus on paintings right now.  Could we go back to the fake lunch?”

            “I wish you wouldn’t call it a fake lunch, dear.”

            Oliver turned to look at her. “But, isn’t that what it was?”

            “Choice of words is important, though, Ollie. My plan was to get sandwiches and walk with you to this beautiful park. I decided not to make lunch at the house.  But I wanted to welcome you with the feeling of home.  Just because the food is not real doesn’t mean it can’t evoke a bit of the same emotion as the real thing. Gosh, listen to me, analyzing like you. We make meaning. Sometimes we make it up. Sometimes out of nothing much at all.”

            Oliver was trying to follow, to feel less puzzled. He kept replaying the moment when he saw the table, then when he reached for the grape. “Well, your fake food was convincing, to a point.”

            “That’s all that is necessary. That’s what I do for a living, Ollie. We use only the best to makes things convincing for as long as we need them to be.”  

            “But I don’t need to see food on the table to feel I’ve come home or to feel welcomed. It was confusing,” said Oliver, brow furrowed, eyes on the Jersey shore.

            “I guess I failed on the intended effect,” his mother replied.

            “No, it worked when I entered, but then discovering it was fake was worse than if there had been nothing there at all.”

            “Remember when you and Cedric were little, I told you not to believe what your friends said about Santa Claus. There was no chubby guy who floats on a sleigh and drops down everyone’s chimney.  It’s just a story. But we could still play as though it was real. You and Cedric wrote Santa letters; he left treats in your stockings. You knew who put those treats in there.  Should we not have done all that? You can call it fake, but I call it imagined.

Oliver’s mother seemed to be so clear.  He wasn’t feeling much more settled.

His mother scooted closer to him. “This is real, isn’t it, dear?  You’re here, I’m here.  And as soon as travel gets safer, I’m coming to visit you.  It’s been too long.”

After the park Oliver retrieved his bag from his mother’s place and said goodbye, agreeing to dinner Sunday evening, before he flew out on Monday.  Oliver walked back to the building where he was staying. On the way he called his old friend, Lee. He’d confirm plans and then walk his old haunts for a couple of hours before meeting Lee in Central Park.

Lee picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Oliver!  I have two reasons to be excited today - to see you and to take us to live theatre.  Last time I saw you or live theatre was pre-pandemic.”

Of all of Oliver’s friends, Lee was probably the sunniest, even during a global pandemic.  Oliver remembers the feeling early in their friendship of trying to match Lee’s unflagging bright optimism.

“Can’t wait!” said Oliver. “Thanks for finding an outdoor play and getting the tickets.  Let’s meet at the Seventy-second Street entrance.  6:30 still good? We’ll have time to talk and stroll before heading over to the Delacorte.  Then late bite to eat afterward?” Oliver asked.

“Sounds good. See you soon!” 

            When Oliver last lived on his own in New York, he had lived downtown near the Village, but a photo album of his childhood would contain more pictures of Central Park and the Upper West Side than anywhere else. He had to admit he was glad his mother still lived here; he could still call it his neighborhood. He walked until his legs felt the familiar fatigue of the city.

            At a quarter past six he approached the park entrance at Seventy-second. The September light hit the first leaves beginning to turn. In addition to being cheery, Lee was always punctual, like he was making a statement, “I will always respect your time.”  Oliver tried to be early, afraid of disappointing others.  He looked around, and there was Lee, coming from the zoo end.  An image from their U.C. Berkeley campus days flashed through Oliver’s mind, Lee approaching to meet him in front of the library.  He considers how the pandemic had made him look backward more often; time stretching and contracting.

            Lee caught sight of Oliver and swung his arms open. “My old buddy!” He was practically hollering from forty feet away. It made Oliver smile.

            “God, I know everyone’s been saying this, but it’s been so long!” Oliver exclaimed into Lee’s hug.

“What a time. How are you?  I figured you needed a New York experience – theatre in Central Park.  I sent you the review of this play, right? Did you read it?  ‘A tragedy about fiction – both the kind we read and the kind we live.’  I think that was in the Times.  Rapp wrote it before the pandemic, but really, haven’t we all been living in a true fiction?” Lee’s laugh – a robust laugh from a thin body.

  “I’m happy,” said Oliver. “For this, the experience of theatre, under the New York sky, with a friend.”

Lee feigned a pout. “I’m not just A friend.” Oliver laughed.  Lee became wistful, “I was remembering…”

“I was remembering, too,” interrupted Oliver. “College, right?”

“Right.” Lee allowed himself a two-second reverie. “But we’re too young to reminisce. I want to hear about Japan.” Lee put his arm around Oliver’s shoulders and pivoted them northward.  “Let’s head in the right direction at least. You can let your mind wander. I want to see the turtles and then we can grab seats.”

At the open-air theatre they settled in, far apart from any others. There was an intimacy to sitting side-by-side in a theatre, in a shared state of expectation, close but parallel, like the park bench where he had been with his mother.

As if Lee knew what Oliver was thinking, “How was lunch with your mom? And by the way, when are you going to tell her?”

Oliver sighed a deep one. “I’m a coward, Lee. I keep saying I’m going to tell her, and then I don’t.  This morning I thought, maybe this time. I haven’t seen her in almost two years. I live far away, I can control what she knows, what she sees of my life.  But I was distracted by a weird thing she did for lunch, or it wasn’t really our lunch. But anyway, I’ve sent her selected pictures of my friends over the years, and I know she thinks, “maybe one of these is Oliver’s girlfriend,” but maybe she’s afraid, too, and doesn’t ask, and I lose my resolve and don’t tell.”

“We’ve heard this story before. It’s boring. Just tell her.  Good god, you’re thirty-five.  It’s not 1978. Free yourself, my friend.  She’s an important person in your life and you’ve been carrying around this deception, for what?  She’s an open-minded modern woman and she also loves you to death.  She’s in advertising, so she’s no stranger to queer. She would never reject you or do any of the other horrible stuff some of our friends had to suffer with their so-called families.  I bet she’ll hardly skip a beat.”

“I know, I know.” Oliver was staring at the empty stage.  “Okay, I have one more chance when I see her tomorrow. I know I cannot do it from Japan; I have to do it in person.”

“Good. I’m going to text you a reminder in the morning and follow up for a report before you fly out. I’ve missed having you around!  I hope you come back for a longer visit soon.  Or else I’ll have to schlep to Tokyo.”

Oliver laughed. “Not the worst place in the world to visit your best friend.”

The stage manager came out from behind the trees, walked up to the mike, and was welcoming the audience with an introduction to the play, The Sound Inside.

Oliver was passing phrases around in his head. “Mom, I have something to tell you.  Mom, I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Mom, you know the guy I told you about – the guy I toured Honshu Island with?  Mom, you probably figured this out a long time ago… Mom...”

Oliver forced his attention to the story on stage. He could feel Lee was already immersed. It had only two characters, both writers. The playwright’s question for the audience was obvious – was the main character narrating her life or living it?  Every so often Oliver looked up at the sky, or off stage at a dog-walker or bicyclist in the park.  The sun was setting.

            On Sunday Oliver wanted to sleep in after the very late night with Lee, but he felt an obligation to himself to be awake. How often did he get to New York these days? He answered Lee’s reminder text with a strong-arm emoji.  He plotted a long walking route heading downtown.  That would allow him to feel the city while remaining inside himself, to just be, to think. He’d stop for coffee at Drip and Crumb in midtown. Maybe he’d make it down to Chelsea. Maybe he would call his friend Brice. He’d be back at his mother’s around five.

            At four-fifty Oliver rang his mother’s buzzer and then headed up to the fourteenth floor. He did not reminisce in the elevator. When he greeted his mom again with a hug, he noticed the little table by the window had only a vase on it holding the flowers he had brought from Al’s.  He felt a tinge of disappointment.

            “What a lucky mother I am, to catch you twice in one brief visit!  It feels like a special occasion.  It is a special occasion!  Wish your brother was here, and we could all be together for a spell, so rare these days. When was the last time you spoke with Cedric?”  His mom was nudging his arm and leading him again into the kitchen.

            “We talk often. Sorry, we both ended up living so far from here. He seems to love Seattle.”

            “Yes, he does, and when this sad pandemic is over, I’ll fly west again.  How was Lee?  I’ve always liked Lee, ever since you brought him home from college that one summer.  And the play? And what did you do today?”

            “The play was well done. Just good to see live theatre outside. Lee is great. Today I walked a lot. Hey, how about we talk over happy hour at the restaurant?” asked Oliver.  “We go early, go now in fact.” He felt the need to keep moving, to be amongst some strangers while talking with his mom.

            “Great idea!  Your favorite restaurant - gosh, so many birthdays we went there - I called them. They set up outdoor dining for the pandemic.  It won’t be crowded, but I made a reservation anyway, and they won’t care if we’re early. Let’s go.”

            Oliver had decided to tell his mom over cocktails, to give them time for whatever might come after. He’d been carrying this around for years, his fear getting the better of him.  Lee was right, Oliver had an imagined event with his mom etched into his head.  What would be the big deal?  He lived openly.  Why hold back from one of the most important persons in his life?  Because that was why. His mother had always been his ballast, his refuge, the counterpoint to his dad.

            The wide sidewalk in front of Mokara had been transformed into a twinkly dining patio, with fake flowers, real flowers, tall grasses spraying out of floor pots, rattan chairs, and festoon lights bouncing illumination off the glass table tops. Except for the masks, one could believe the world had never been shut down by a pandemic.

Oliver opened the menu, remembering the spring rolls and Pad Thai of his youth and judging them now as common.  He had become a more adventurous eater, thankfully. He scanned the cocktail list. 

His mother looked up from her menu. “Let’s order drinks, and then I want to see pictures!”       

Letting the first sip of his drink cool his throat, Oliver pulled out his phone and began with the photo of his favorite garden in the Shimokito neighborhood where he had moved just before the pandemic.  He held up his phone so they could both look – views of his street, a group selfie of his co-workers in the office.  He found some photos of his apartment taken soon after setting up the furniture and hanging his wall art. He handed the phone to his mom so she could scroll through the series.

His mother was smiling. “I love this corner here - is that a favorite reading chair? With the lovely window ledge and a very nice mid-century lamp!”

“It is, actually, a favorite place to sit. I got that lamp from a friend who has great taste, over-buys, and was moving.  She had some goodies.”

“And who’s the friend you’re with here?” his mother asked, turning the phone so Oliver could see the photo.

“Oh. That’s Yori.”  Oliver paused. His mom swiped left, then right. What else should he say?  He hadn’t meant for his mom to continue through the album; who can remember what photos are where?  The photo his mother had landed on was taken by Oliver’s close friend, Tomoko, when a bunch of them were celebrating Tomoko’s new job. Yori’s body language definitely made him and Oliver look like a couple. Oliver recalled Tomoko theatrically directing Oliver and Yori to vamp for the camera and drape themselves over each other. It had been a happy night. Tomoko had become a close girl pal.  On first meeting her he remembers thinking she was an atypical Japanese woman - a demonstrative, goofy saxophone player. He still thought that, even though he had shed his Japanese stereotypes. He swirled the ice around in his cocktail. His mother was swiping back and forth, still smiling.

“Tell me about Yori, dear,” said his mom, handing back his phone and holding her drink now in both hands, peering over the glass at Oliver, intent on getting the most out of short time with her son who had moved halfway around the world.

“Oh, we met at a work event. He works for another American company with an office in Tokyo, doing something I barely understand – I just call it language analytics for computer programs.”

“Does he live in your neighborhood?” asked his mom.

“No, in another part of town.  He was born in Japan but has traveled around a bit. He’s been here – New York, San Francisco.” 

“I must visit soon,” said his mom.  “I’m missing important parts of your life now.” She handed Oliver the menu again to order food.

Oliver was beginning to think his mother knew. Over dinner she returned casually to questions about Yori – what his interests were, had Oliver met his family, what kinds of things they liked to do when they were not working.  He thought about how people talk sometimes, usually between people who are close. They know you, you know them, and, over time, words become unnecessary on some terrains, undesirable in fact - mutual non-gestures to make an important feature a non-topic. It relied on the unspoken. It relied on trust.  Somehow it worked.  It had just worked with his mom.

            His mother put her drink down and reached to squeeze his hands over the table, giving him a look he remembered from only a few times in his life. “I’m happy for you, Ollie.”

Oliver returned her gaze and smiled. “Thanks, Mom.”

When he and Cedric were children, his mother had invited her sons to join her in her world of Mr. Chlebek and Mia Pesce (and all the other fantasies she concocted for them over the years).  To her it was a world of imagining, as though she was teaching them that to imagine was to resist - to resist the guardrails and the paved roads everybody else was traveling along.  Now he was inviting her to join him, but she was already there, had been there all along.  He thought he needed to catch her up on his life, but it was the other way around. She had been up ahead, waiting for him to catch up with her.

There still was the oddness of the plastic lunch. He’d figure that out another time.