Mika in Real Life: A Good Morning America Book Club PickAudiobook

Chapter One

Fired.

Mika blinked. “I’m sorry, what?” she asked Greg, in his shoebox of an office. In fact, it wasn’t really an office. It was a cubicle carved out of the large copy room at Kennedy, Smith & McDougal Law. But Greg wielded the tiny space like a corner office on the thirtieth floor. He’d even decorated it—a bonsai tree in the corner of his desk, a cheap samurai sword tacked crookedly to the wall. Greg was white and a self-described Japanophile. On more than one occasion, he’d tried to converse with Mika in Japanese, and she’d demurred—she was fluent, she just wasn’t fluent for him. So yeah, that guy.

Greg leaned back in his chair. “This shouldn’t come as a surprise,” he said, steepling his fingers together and placing them under his hairless chin. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.”

Mika nodded vacantly. A senior partner, a rainmaker, had recently departed for another firm. Profit shares were down. She opened her hands. “But I make twenty dollars an hour.” A pittance compared to the other salaried employees. Did the powers that be think laying off a copy assistant would make a dent in their financial woes?

Greg waved a hand. “I get it,” he said. “But you know how these things go, last in the pecking order . . .” He trailed off.

“Please.” She hated begging, especially to Greg. “I need this job.” She liked it at Kennedy, Smith & McDougal. The work was easy. The pay was good. Enough for her to make rent and utilities every month with a little left over to buy groceries, mostly of the soft cheese variety. Plus, the building was located near the museum. She went there on her lunch break, letting her food digest while gazing at Monets and strolling through the antiquities section, her soul at rest. “What about Stephanie?” She’d been hired after Mika.

“Stephanie has more paralegal experience than you. The decision came down to who was a better asset for the company. Look, I’m sure you’ll find something else. Unfortunately, you won’t qualify for severance since you’ve been here for less than a year, but I’ll give you a great recommendation.” Greg started to stand. End of discussion.

“I’ll take a pay cut,” Mika blurted. Her gaze landed on the floor, near where her pride was. She couldn’t handle it. Tears threatened to spill. Thirty-five and fired from another job. Again.

Greg shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mika. It’s no use. Today is your last day.”

---

The faint scent of stale popcorn. The emotionally healing candles on clearance. What was it about this particular store that sucked Mika in? She stood in the home section, examining a pillow embroidered with the saying money can buy a house, but not a home. On the phone, Hana laughed. “So, let me get this straight. He asked you out at the same time he was firing you?”

“Directly after,” Mika corrected. Greg had escorted her to her desk, watched while she packed up her stuff, and then asked if she’d like to see a movie later or maybe attend the Cherry Blossom Festival at the university next weekend. The angry humiliation ran deep.

Hana snorted another laugh.

Mika’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Please don’t. I’m in a very vulnerable place right now.”

“You’re in a Target,” Hana pointed out.

Mika tilted her head, contemplating the pillow. It was designed by a couple who had become filthy rich making new houses look old. It was all about the shiplap. The pillow could be hers for $29.99. “I never thought I’d be laid off and sexually harassed all in the same day. It’s a new first.” Mika bypassed the pillow and went on to the wine section. Her pocketbook was lighter, but a five-dollar bottle of wine was a necessity.

Hana made a sympathetic noise. “It could be worse. Remember the time you were fired from that donut shop for keeping a box of maple bars in the freezer and eating them between filling orders?”

“That was in college.” Mika tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder. Finished choosing wine, she was in the food aisle now, filling her basket with Cheez-Its. Class all the way.

“Or that nanny job for showing the kids The Shining?”

“They said they wanted a ghost story,” she defended.

“How about when you wrote X-rated Predator fan fiction, then left it open on your work computer?”

Confusion rippled across her face. “That never happened.” Hana laughed again. Mika rubbed her forehead, feeling as if she’d fallen from an unlucky tree, hitting every branch on the way down, then landing in a pit of snakes and bears. “What am I going to do?”

“I don’t know. But you’re in good company. I found out this morning Pearl Jam chose Garrett for their summer tour.” Hana was an ASL interpreter for bands, and Garrett, having recently crossed over from the Christian alt-rock circuit, had edged into Hana’s territory. “I’m probably going to have to do a bunch of Earth, Wind & Fire gigs now. Fucking Garrett. Come home. We’ll eat and drink our feelings together.”

“Will do.” Mika hung up and dropped her phone in her purse. A minute passed. Mika wandered. Her phone rang. Might be Hana again. Or her mother—Hiromi had already left a message that morning. I just stopped by the church and met the new congregant. His name is Hayato, and he works for Nike. I gave him your number.

Her phone rang again. Sometimes Hiromi called two, three times in a row, inducing panic. Last time Mika answered breathless, reaching for her keys, ready to head to the hospital. What’s the matter?

Hiromi replied, Nothing. Why do you sound so winded? I wanted to tell you Fred Meyer is having a sale on chicken . . .

Mika listened, temper rising. You can’t call so many times. I thought something was wrong, she said.

To which Hiromi scoffed, I’m sorry I’m not more dead for you. The ringing continued. Mika fished the phone from her purse and peered at the screen. A blocked number.

Curious, she swiped to answer. “Hello?” she said, brows knitting together. Shit, she thought too late. It could be the new congregant, Hayato. Quickly, she cycled through possible excuses. My phone is dying. I’m dying.

“Oh, wow! You picked up! I wasn’t sure if you would!” a hyper-positive young voice said. The connection became muffled, as though a hand had been placed over the phone’s speaker. “She picked up. What do I do?” the voice said to someone in the background.

“Hello?” Mika spoke louder.

“Sorry, my friend Sophie is here. You know, for moral support? Is this Mika Suzuki?”

“It is.” Mika set the basket down at her feet. “Who is this?”

“This is Penny. Penelope Calvin. I think I’m your daughter.”

---

Mika managed to keep a hold on the phone even as her limbs went completely slack. Even as the blood raced in her veins and her vision blurred, then tunneled. Even as she hurdled back in time, back to the hospital, to Penny as a newborn. The day returned in heart-stopping flashes. Holding Penny in the crook of her arm. Kissing her brow. Slicking her hair away to place a thin blue-and-pink-striped cap on her head. All so unbearable and beautiful.

“Are you still there?” Penny asked. “Is this the right Mika Suzuki? I paid for one of those online search finder thingies. I used my dad’s credit card for a free trial. He’ll kill me if he finds out! But no worries, I’ll cancel before they charge.”

Silence then. Penny was waiting for Mika to say something. She closed her eyes, opened them. “That’s very clever,” she murmured, trembling. Sit. She needed to sit down. She stumbled back into a plastic outdoor chair, gripping the armrest to regain her balance, her knuckles turning white. How had she wound up in the garden section?

“I know, right? My dad always says: ‘If only you’d use your powers for good!’” Penny lowered her voice an octave, impersonating her father. Mika almost smiled. Almost. “So, is this the right Mika Suzuki? There aren’t very many in Oregon. The only other two candidates were older. I mean, I guess they could be my bio mom. There was, like, that lady who gave birth to twins at the age of fifty? But I was pretty sure it was you . . . Are you there?”

Mika was sweating, the phone slippery against her ear. She breathed in and out. In and out. “I’m here.”

“And are you Mika Suzuki? Did you give a baby up for adoption sixteen years ago?”

A throb settled in her temples. “I am. I did,” Mika said, her throat dry. Secretly, she’d dreamed of this moment. The day she might hear her daughter’s voice. Talk to her. Sometimes the fantasy bordered on delusional. Over the years, she thought she’d seen Penny a couple of times. Which was ridiculous. She knew Penny lived in the Midwest. But then she’d spot a dark-headed little girl with blunt bangs, and Mika’s body would swell with certainty. She’d feel an invisible tug. That’s my daughter, she’d think, only to deflate when the girl turned around, and the nose was wrong, or the eyes were green, not a deep brown. Not Penny. An imposter.

Mika released the lawn chair from her death grip, her legs wobbly as she stood. She began to wander the aisles. She needed to move. It helped to ground her, to keep her in the present. Helped to exorcise the storm of emotions brewing.

“This is awesome!” Penny squealed.

“I can’t believe you found me,” Mika said, still just so stunned. She passed a display of purple-bottled magnesium tablets.

“It wasn’t hard. Your name is super unique and cool. I wish I had a Japanese name,” sighed Penny wistfully.

“Oh.” Mika frowned, not knowing what to say. She’d chosen Penny’s name. Had made a big deal about it, insisted it be part of the legal agreement. You can have my daughter, but you cannot have her name. While Mrs. Pearson had tried hard to make the adoption feel less transactional, certain parts couldn’t be helped. There were lawyers. Negotiations. Ironclad paperwork that leaned slightly in the adoptive family’s favor. But the name . . . the name was Mika’s. At first, she’d considered Holly—a plant that blooms in winter. It was traditional in Japan to select a moniker based on your hopes for the child. Mika’s name in kanji translated to “beautiful fragrance.” It told Mika much about her value to her mother. As an accessory. As something meant to attract. She didn’t want that for her child. So ultimately, Mika settled on Penelope, meaning “weaver,” from Homer’s Odyssey. It was a strong, resilient, and aspirational name; it fit the life Mika wanted for her daughter. The person she thought she might be. The family she might belong to.

She had also hoped a more American-sounding name would ease Penny’s way in life. Mika had years of mispronunciations and misspellings under her belt. She’d been called Mickey more times than she could count. She’d wanted Penny to blend in. But it didn’t seem the right time to say all this. Instead, she said, “I was sorry to hear about your mom.” When Mrs. Pearson had informed Mika five years ago that Caroline Calvin had cancer and was dying, she’d begged to be put in touch with Penny, swore she could feel her daughter’s grief pressing against her skin like a hot iron.

She needs me, Mika had said.

I’ll try, Mrs. Pearson had replied. Then Thomas Calvin denied the request. I’m sorry, Mika, Mrs. Pearson said, Caroline doesn’t have much time. Cancer. Stage four. Very sudden. He wants it to be the three of them these last few days.

“Yeah.” Penny’s voice dimmed. “That was a bad time. We just came up on the fifth anniversary. I kind of can’t believe it’s been so long.”

Quiet fell on the line again. Mika kept walking. Destination unknown. Her entire body was in an uproar. She passed the aisle of pregnancy tests. Nearly seventeen years ago, she’d picked through Hana’s car to find enough money to buy a test at the dollar store, then peed on the stick in the bathroom of a grocery store nearby. She’d barely wiped when the two pink lines appeared, when her world fell apart.

Mika realized she’d gone silent for too long. “She wrote me letters, your mom, and sent me packages with pictures of you, drawings you made. She had nice handwriting,” she blurted. Mika didn’t know much about the couple who adopted Penny. She’d chosen them from dozens of scrapbook family profiles. She used to stare at the photographs of Penny’s future parents. At Thomas, a copyright attorney, pictured in college on his rowing team. She would focus on his hands wrapped around the oars, at the scowly dent between his green eyes. He is strong, Mika remembered thinking. He’d stand up for Penny. Then she’d peer at Caroline, also in college wearing a sweatshirt with Greek letters, her smile wide. It was easy to imagine her smiling the same way at Penny, saying wonderful things like I’m proud of you. I’m so happy you’re mine. I’d run blind through the dark for you.

“She did have nice handwriting. It was perfect,” Penny said warmly. It didn’t surprise Mika. Caroline seemed perfect in all aspects of her life. “Mine is so sloppy. I always wondered if that was something genetic?”

Mika didn’t think it was. But she longed for a connection to Penny, any way to bind them together. “My handwriting is terrible too.”

“It is?” A note of hope in Penny’s voice.

Mika slowed. Calmed a little. “I like to think of it as my own font. It’d be called ‘too much coffee and donuts.’”

Penny laughed. It was a pleasant sound, full-bodied and earnest. Her daughter. “Or ‘clean up your mess.’”

Finally, Mika paused in the detergent aisle. No one was in it. She leaned back, inhaled the scent of clean laundry. She’d thought in time the memory of Penny, what happened before, might fade, but it only grew sharper against the blurred, less important memories of her recent past. Graduating college, her first paying job, even some of the pregnancy—the ever-ticking clock had worn smooth all those rough edges. But Penny, the baby, Mika’s baby, had stayed, a hand cast in concrete. She wished she knew then what she knew now. That every day she would wake and think of Penny. Of how old she was. What she might be wearing. Whom she might be smiling at. That her love would be teeth and nails, unwilling to let go.

“Are you okay?” A mother with two kids rounded the corner.

Mika jolted upright. “Fine. I’m fine.” One of the children had chocolate all over his face. He licked a slow circle around his lips. The mom waited until Mika got moving before moving on herself.

“Is someone else with you?” Penny asked.

“No. I’m shopping. I’m in a Target,” Mika said before she could think better of it. She wanted to punch herself in the face. Hard. What would Penny think? A grown woman in a Target on a Wednesday afternoon. Would she wonder why Mika wasn’t at work?

Penny swore. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked if now was a good time to talk. I should let you go.”

Mika didn’t like the sound of that. The threat of this tiny tenuous string being cut again. Could Penny feel it too? This flow of bliss-like energy between them. “No. It’s okay.”

“I should go anyway. My dad will be home soon.”

No. Keep talking. I’d listen to you read War and Peace. She stifled the sudden urge to cry. “Of course. It was nice speaking with you.” Mika stepped out of the store. The sky was gray—end of winter in Portland. A couple of crows picked at trash in the parking lot. She blinked and, on the inside of her eyelids, saw another set of crows. From a long time ago, fighting over a discarded watermelon container. She pushed the memory away. “If you ever need anything. If I can ever do anything . . .”

“Actually.” Penny exhaled audibly. “I’d like to keep talking. I’d like to call you again. Maybe even Skype? It would be nice to see each other face-to-face.”

“Oh,” Mika said, too stunned to breathe, too flustered with disbelief. Penny wanted her. Penny wanted her. And Mika was pierced with such an acute longing she feared she might crumble. So she spoke on impulse, on raging desire, and answered, “Yes, of course. I’d like that.”