Page 38 of The Arrival
Before she was born, Nino knew that he would care for their child when the time came. He had to, right? He wasn’t sure, but he assumed that it would be an inherent feeling. Something organic that automatically sprang up within him that he wouldn’t be able to explain.
Now that she’s here, he realizes, it isn’t like that. At first, it was a little awkward. She screamed a lot and it was annoying. She kept them awake at night for weeks, and the flow and peace of their nest were completely disrupted by this small, helpless creature.
But then, there were moments strung together over time. Radiant instances like stained glass glowing in the sunlight. She’d open her golden-rosy eyes and smile at him, leaving him breathless. Or she’d grip his finger within her tiny palm and hold on to him tightly even as she slept. Watching her learn to crawl, sit upright independently and marvel at the sound of her own voice.
One by one, these instances threaded themselves into the depths of Nino’s heart, filling it with a profound glow. A different, new kind of love that he’s never quite known. Soft, but powerful and fiercely protective. Suddenly, he understands the complexities of Giovanni’s feelings toward him, and also why his mother reacted the way she did toward his uncle. If anyone ever dared to harm a hair on Nami’s coppery head, he would, without question, respond the same way.
Nami pauses in her messy devouring of the strawberry and whips her head toward the kitchen doorframe. There’s no one there, but Nino smiles. “Smart girl.”
A moment later, Haruka walks into the room. Nami bounces in her high chair, her mouth red and messy with smooshed strawberry as she squeals in delight. Junichi swaggers behind him, winking at Nino.
“Hola, papi. Hey, pretty girl.”
“Hey,” Nino says, adjusting the small bowl of banana oatmeal in his lap. “How was the new restaurant?”
When Haruka reaches them at the table, he kisses Nino first in a swift greeting, then turns to Nami in the high chair. She looks up at him, still holding the squished fruit in her small grip. “Haahaa.”
Haruka shakes his head. “Hello, sweetheart.” He leans in, scooping his hands underneath her armpits and pulling her from the chair. “Not ‘haha.’ Watashi wa okaasan janai yo. Otosan da yo. O-to-san.”
Junichi frowns. “Why is she calling you ‘Mom’?”
“She’snot.” Nino chuckles. “She just can’t say ‘otosan’ yet. Jesus. She can only string together two syllables, everyone relax. Plus, she hears me call him by his name all the time. You should pick something simpler. Maybe ‘toto’?”
“I’d take ‘haha’ over ‘toto,’” Junichi says. “What is this,The Wizard of Oz?”
“Haahaa.” As Haruka holds her, Nami brings the half-eaten, sticky strawberry up and presses it to his mouth. He closes his eyes, parts his lips and takes the offering.
“Ugh.” Junichi shivers. “Kids are so gross.”
Nino laughs. “Oh, look at this.” He stands, scooping a spoonful of banana oatmeal and bringing it toward Nami’s mouth. “Take a bite, topolina.”
Nami’s cheerful face falls flat. Her bright eyes flicker away as she draws her head back, mouth firmly shut.
“Look at that face,” Nino says. “I made this from scratch but she isnothaving it. That’s exactly Haru’s face when I launch into some pop culture reference that he doesn’t care about.”
Junichi nods. “It’s the same face I get when I try to explain that not all smooth jazz artists sound like Kenny G.”
Haruka looks at Nami, who is looking away from all of them in a distinct attempt to flee the banana oatmeal situation that Nino is holding. He shrugs. “I don’t see it.”
Nino flips the spoon and puts the contents in his own mouth. “Mmm, it’s so good! See?” He grins, but Nami’s face remains flat. Unconvinced. She buries her face into Haruka’s neck, hiding.
“You do thatexactsame thing to me,” Nino says, pointing with the empty spoon and with one eyebrow lifted. “When it’s too early and you don’t want to get out of bed, this is how you act.”
Haruka chuckles. “Alright, I suppose I do recognize this behavior.”
“She might have my face,” Nino says, “but lately, I feel like her personality is all Haruka. Through and through.”
* * *
Twelve months
GrippingNami’s hair between his fingers, Haruka twists, threading the strands against her small scalp the way that Cellina has instructed. “Like this, correct?” he asks.
“Yup,” Cellina confirms, seated beside him on the floor in the bright nursery. “Now thread that other strand over, then keep repeating the pattern until you’re satisfied.”
Haruka does so, quietly marveling at the clean, textured pattern materializing before him. Nami’s coppery hair has grown so much in a very short time. It is lustrous and shiny, soft as he braids its length with his fingertips. When he reaches the end, he grabs a pearly-white bauble and twists it onto the strands to hold the style in place.
“How is it?” he asks his sensei.
