Mary Waters - The Favorites

“Has Sarah-chan been telling you lots of stories about America?” Mrs. Asaki asked.

“Yes indeed. The child’s a hard worker,” said Mrs. Kobayashi proudly. “She tells me she works long hours. Large companies are very demanding, you know.”

What Sarah had not mentioned was how disillusioned she was by her career, how little it had lived up to her expectations. She remembered her view of life as a child: a maze in which a perfectly good path sometimes veered off in an unexpected direction. She wondered now if that was the norm rather than the exception.

“Maa, you have a good appetite,” Mrs. Kobayashi said. “That’s very healthy. Old people like us, we have to keep up our appetites or else we’re done for.”

Mrs. Asaki, who had been greedily focused on her bowl, came to with a little start of embarrassment. If her wrinkled skin could have blushed, it would have.

“It’s good to eat,” Mrs. Kobayashi reassured her. “Don’t worry about appearances, Granny-san. We’re past that, you and I.” She covered the old woman’s gnarled hand with her own. “We’re the only ones left. We have to keep on living, with all our might. Ne?”

Mrs. Asaki nodded her head, like a child.

“Let’s enjoy our food to the fullest, Granny-san,” Mrs. Kobayashi said. “Let’s not leave a single bite.”

Sarah watched them. Both women, in their different ways, had forged through life as best they could. Mrs. Asaki had used foresight and strategy. Mrs. Kobayashi had followed a linked chain of great loves. In the process, they had caused damage-to each other, to innocent bystanders. And although they would never be true friends, each understood what the other had gone through. Each understood the nature of the journey. Life was difficult. Safe havens were few and impermanent.

Something of that hardship and peril transmitted itself to Sarah. Life will be hard, she thought, harder than I know. She wondered how she herself would make her way through life.

Was she equal to it? She thought so. For she could feel the women’s reserves passing down to her, reserves she would draw on in years to come. She felt a dim premonition of her power, similar to what she had felt the summer she was fourteen. Her mind flashed back-instinctively, as if fingering a talisman-to the summer day when her mother had held her hand in hers.

“You’re right, Granny-san,” Mrs. Asaki said in the singsong accent of old Kyoto. “We have to keep on living, with all our might.” Nodding her aged head, she looked over at Sarah. “Ne?” she said.

And Sarah affirmed it with vigorous nods of her own.

MARY YUKARI WATERS has been anthologized in The Best American Short Stories, The O. Henry Prize Stories, and The Pushcart Prize. She is the recipient of an NEA grant, and her work has aired on BBC and NPR. Her debut collection was a Discover Award for New Writers selection, a Book Sense 76 selection, and a Kiriyama Prize Notable Book. She received her MFA from the University of California, Irvine. She currently teaches in Spalding University ’s Brief Residency MFA program.