Chapters (77)
- Cover
- Dedication
- 1
- 2
- A Series of Screw-ups: The Chisaki Joan Katsuyama Story, Part I
- 3
- The History of My Beef with Brynn Foer-Preston
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part I
- 8
- 9
- A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part I
- 10
- 11
- 12
- A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part II
- 13
- The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part II
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- The Complicated History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Imaginary Relationship with Her Nonexistent Dad
- 20
- 21
- 22
- A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part III
- 23
- 24
- 25
- A Brief, Backward History of the McAllister Family, as Paraphrased from the San Jose Mercury News
- 26
- 27
- 28
- A Quick and Eerily Relevant History of Asians in America
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part IV
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- A Series of Screw-ups: The Chisaki Joan Katsuyama Story, Part II (Or Maybe It’s a Prequel)
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part III
- 54
- A Note from the Author
- Index of Flowers and their Meanings
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Praise for This Time Will Be Different
- Books by Misa Sugiura
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
“Just try a bite,” she’d said. “You have to develop your palate. You can’t go around refusing to eat things because you think you remember a time when you didn’t like it.”
I’d managed to choke down one bite. As I chased it with big gulps of water, Mom had frowned at me as if I had chosen to hate raw sea urchin out of sheer orneriness.
“Remember that?” I say, and she nods.
“You ready to try it again?” she asks with a smile, and I almost wish we could just stop the conversation here, where it’s safe.
I shudder. “No. But I was thinking. Maybe it’s hereditary. How I don’t like uni. Like how some people taste cilantro differently.”
One eyebrow twitches, and she uncrosses and then recrosses her legs. Swivels around to face her desk, and then back to face me. She says, “What exactly are you asking me?”
“I just. I just wish you’d tell me who my father is,” I say quickly. “I’m old enough to know. I can take it.”
Mom exhales slowly, her eyes closed. Thinking about what to tell me, maybe. After a long silence, she opens her eyes and says, “Hon, I’m sorry, but I really, truly don’t know.”
Impossible. “How can you not know?”
Another sigh, and she looks longingly back at her laptop for a moment before she says, “I was a little out of character that night, Ceej. Granddad was dead, Hannah was pissed at me, I was working my ass off at MVC . . . I was a mess. I wasn’t using my best judgment.”
“Well, duh.”
“The truth is, CJ, I didn’t know who he was to begin with.”
I feel like I’ve caught a cannonball in my arms. I stagger around with it, trying to find my footing. “What even . . . does that mean? Are you saying you don’t even know his name? You didn’t even get his phone number?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”
“How could you be so irresponsible?” I hear the shrill note of accusation in my voice, and I’m aware of the hypocrisy in calling her irresponsible. But I have to blame someone.
“What do you want me to say, CJ? I said I was sorry, didn’t I? I told you I wasn’t using my best judgment.” I can hear the mounting irritation in her voice, and it pierces me. I’ll never know. It’s her fault. And she’s sitting here all, Yeah, I fucked up, get over it.
I gather my memories of a similar conversation from last year, when I was pregnant, and fling them back at her. “You weren’t using any judgment, sounds like.” I hope that hurts.