Read When You Were Here for Free Online Page B

to drum up a memory. Kana Miyoshi. I say the name silently, then whisper it. “Kana.”
    My mom mentioned Kana a few times. Kana is the teenage daughter of the woman who took care of the apartment when my mom wasn’t there. Kana lives in Tokyo. Kana knew my mom.
    Kana knew my mom.
    Everyone else is forgetting my mom. But maybe this girl remembers her.
    I peer quickly at Mrs. Callahan. She is watching me without watching me, her eyes alternating between her book and me. I know she doesn’t have bionic eyes. I know she can’t read the letter from across the street.
    Still, this is not a letter I will open in front of anyone.
    I walk back into my eerily quiet house and sit down at the kitchen counter. I slide a thumb under the envelope flap, but before I rip it open I realize my hand is shaking. My heart is beating quickly too, like I expect this letter to unleash secrets. I know it’s not from my mom; I know that. But right now it’s the closest I’m going to come to a connection to her. To anyone.
    I turn to my dog.
    “It’s a letter from Kana,” I say to Sandy Koufax, who’s stretched out on the nearby couch. Her legs poke up in theair. The back ones look like drumsticks with those meaty thighs she has. She tilts her head toward me. “What do you think it says, Sandy Koufax?”
    Sandy Koufax listens to my question and waits for an answer.
    I pull out the letter and I feel like I’m not in Los Angeles anymore. I’m thousands of miles away, in Japan, in Tokyo, in the Shibuya district. I try to shake it off, but as I unfold the letter, I can see and smell and hear and taste Tokyo. Even the paper looks Asian.
Dear Daniel—
Greetings! I am Kana Miyoshi and my mother, Mai, is the caretaker for your apartment on Maruyamacho Street. We were cleaning the apartment recently and we discovered several medication prescriptions on the shelves.
    She lists the medicines and notes whether each bottle had been opened. Most are marked as unopened. Odd.
Would you like us to ship them to you, leave them here, or dispose of them? I am sorry to trouble you with this seemingly trivial matter, but we must be careful with how we handle medication and other related items.
Please advise.
Also, it is customary in situations like this for us to inform the family of the personal effects in the apartment.
    Then she lists things like clothes and photos and other items, but what catches my attention are the next few lines.
I have sorted through the bills, and I have gathered the cards and the letters. I can send them along if you wish, or leave them here.
There are also several crossword-puzzle books, a packet of lilac seeds, and your mother’s pink wig. Perhaps you know it? It is the hot-pink wig, and, as I’m sure you know, it was her favorite. She must have left it here on her last visit in the winter. She wore it when we visited her favorite temple. I have a photo from that day, which I can send, along with any other items you might want.
Your mother was a lovely woman. We had tea with her occasionally at the Tatsuma Teahouse, where she told us such beautiful stories of her family, especially you. She was quite fond of the teahouse and liked to laugh and say that she was just following doctor’s orders by going there. I would also like to let you know that she was always happy when she was here. She was the most joyful person I think I have ever known, perhaps especially in the last few months.
    Best,
    Kana
    Then there’s a phone number and an e-mail address under her name. But I don’t dial and I don’t type because I’m already up the stairs, turning the corner, opening the door to my mom’s room for the first time in two months, a room I’ve avoided purposefully because the emptiness might kill me. I don’t look around; I head straight for her bathroom.
    I yank open the medicine cabinet, hunting for pill bottles. But there are none in here. Just toothpaste, lipstick, nail polish, lotion, and a nail file. Did Kate clean them out?