-I-

The air inside the family mausoleum smelled of wet lichens and dirt, but as I inhaled the cold air looking at my mother's tomb, it triggered something intrinsic--my mother's scent. Powdery, with a mix of lavender, rosemary, and simply a mother.

I passed my brother's tombstone and headed to my mother's. Like every year, I climbed onto her tomb and lay on the icy granite, hugging the snow-white gardenia I bought for her. The scent was too feminine, too enticing; it gave me heartburn. I hated the smell, but my mother had loved it. She had grown a full garden of cape jasmine, as she called it, in our backyard. I wondered if my stepmother still took care of the garden now. I wondered if it was still even there after seven years.

"Konbanwa, mama." [Good evening, mom.] I kissed her copper nameplate.

Jitsuko da Graça.

I flinched from chest pain, so I rolled on my back. A small, dusty chandelier hung from the glass dome. One candle had died, the other five giving off a weak light. Outside, far far away, despite the dusty glass, I could see stars sprinkled the winter sky. No light pollution to hide them.

"Kotoshi wa osoku natte gomen'nasai. Watashi ni wa takusan'no koto ga okotteimasu. Sono koto ni tsuite hanashitemo īdesuka?" [Sorry I'm late this year. There're too many things happening to me. Can I tell you about it?]

I took a deep breath and told her everything about the Amazon, about my accident, about Karma that was expecting her pups. How I broke my hips and couldn't walk for two months. How Aarón had nursed me back to health. I told her about Luuk. How we got together after only weeks of knowing each other. My mother would prefer Aarón over Luuk though. She was a true-born Japanese, and politeness was the holy grail of being human for her. And Luuk wasn't exactly a Mr. Personality.

"You would probably not like him the first time. Luuk is a bit... conceited at times, but he's a great man. A language genius. You know, he speaks eleven languages. Wait, twelve now, after the Amazon research." I let out a small laughter and rested my head on my forearm. "Talking about conceited... he gave me a million dollars watch for Christmas. I had to force the price out of him yesterday." My fingers traced the diamonds on the watch's gold case around my wrist. "We've only been together for two months, but he gave me something this expensive. What if I left him and ran away? He's crazy, right? Or plain stupid."

An owl hooted behind the mausoleum. I turned to my side, tracing the engraved letters on the tombstone.

"But you see... The point is, I'm dating a man. Can you believe it, mama? You told me that one day, a miracle would happen, and I would meet a guy who loves me just the way I am. I didn't believe you. It was so farfetched back then. I knew you didn't believe it yourself. But it turns out, you're right, mama. He loves me. But he doesn't know about me. Can I still consider it a miracle?"

My shin spasmed in discomfort from the cold. I covered my frozen ears with the hood and zipped up the cotton-padded jacket. Pulling my legs to my chest, I hugged myself, trying to warm up—both from the cold and the longing in my numbing heart.

Ever since Luuk kissed me in the village, I knew what I wanted, no matter how much I tried to deny the change that was clawing in my stomach. I wanted my name back. I wanted to hear it in Luuk's voice. I wondered how it would sound coming out from his smart mouth. Junko.

I hugged the flower. "Anata ga inakute sabishi kattayo, mama. Kon'ya, anata no haka o kyōyū shite kudasai." [I've missed you, mama. Let me share your grave tonight.]

And like every year, I slept on top of my mother's tombstone, hoping that the next day when I woke up, I would be with her and my brother in heaven, and my sins would be forgiven.

But God had never heard my prayers.

-II-

I stood on the diverging narrow alley at the end of the sloping street. This used to be the same path I took when I walked home from school. There was a big field with a playground on the left side of the school, and the field separated the two houses that I grew up in. My childhood home and Kurosaki-san's house.

Every day after school, I would sit on the duckling spring-rider facing the darkening city far below me, waiting for the horizon to engulf the orange light before I walked back to the house. Today, there was no duckling, only rusted spring. And the sun wasn't setting at the moment. It was rising on the opposite side.

My father's bungalow stood proud at the end of the cul de sac. The biggest house in the neighborhood. I would reach the wrought iron gate in one hundred and eighty-eight steps from this junction. But I took two hundred and fifty-three steps in the opposite direction toward Kurosaki-san's house.

Somehow, I knew Kurosaki-san would be outside, watering his little Japanese garden. Despite the weight in my chest, my lips broke into a wide grin.

"Ossan!" [Old man!]

His head snapped to the right. Then he laughed and threw the water hose onto the flowery shrubs.

"Junko!" Kurosaki-san lifted me off the ground. "Kitekurete yokatta!" [I'm glad you're here!]

I laughed when he spun me around in his strong arms. "Kurosaki-san." I wrapped my hands around his neck, taking in the same scent he carried with him every day ever since I was a child. Tobacco, peppermint, and shaving foam. His scent filled a space in my heart—the spot reserved for a man called father.

"Samishikatta," [I've missed you,] I said.

He kissed my forehead as he kicked the pipe off with his foot. Then he put me down and flicked my forehead.

"Ow! What the hell, Kurosaki-san?" I rubbed my forehead, following him into the house.

"Anata wa mata haha no haka no nakade nemurimashita." [You slept on your mother's tomb again.] He closed the door. The tatami floor creaked under our weights. "I told you not to do that. You're freezing. You always catch a cold every time you come here." A big sigh escaped his dry lips as we headed toward the living room.

"What? You're finally tired of taking care of me?"

He flicked his stern eyes at me, and I dropped my gaze. "Sorry."

The place was unchanged. Every table, every Japanese kanji painting, every scabbard on the wall was on the same spot as it was when I moved away from Lisbon. Even the woody and tobacco smell in the place stayed the same. Every year I would try to redecorate the house but in vain. He left everything the way his Portuguese ex-wife decorated it before she left him for another man, taking their three-year-old daughter with her.

"And you broke your bones, you clumsy child. Why you didn't tell me? I would go to California and nurse you back to health if you told me sooner." He continued nagging about everything under the sky like the old man he was.

Kurosaki-san had just passed his retirement age, but he didn't look a day over fifty. The fine lines around his big, black eyes made him look more mature than aged. He scratched his head as he spoke, messing his already chaotic salt and pepper hair. Dye that bushy hair black, get rid of the heavy stubble, and he would as well pass as a forty-year-old.

"You have your own life here, Kurosaki-san."

"And none of it would mean anything if something bad happened to you, stupid kid." He slapped me playfully.

I giggled to gulp back my tears. I peeled off my winter jacket, rubbing my eyes secretly.

"Ashi no chōshi wa dō? Anata ga sono jiko ni atte ichi nen'chikaku ni naru." [How's your leg? It has been almost a year since the accident.] Kurosaki-san scrutinized my leg as if x-raying it.

"Ima wa daibu yoku natta. Aarón to Noel wa watashio ōini tasuketa," [I'm much better now. Aarón and Noel helped me a lot,] I said in what I hoped to be decent Japanese.

So I just sat there next to him, listening to him nagging in Japanese, hoping he would babble the whole day.

He suddenly glanced at the entrance. "Where's your bag?"

I gasped, standing up. "Oh, shit! I left it in the mausoleum!"

He stood to his full height, smacking my head onto his chest. "Stupid kid. I'll go get your bag. I've cooked breakfast. Eat. Then go to your room sleep." He shook his head. "You can't even open your eyes. God."

And so I did just that.

But not as long as I wanted it to be. I woke up three hours later to shouting and commands from the dojo at the back of the house. It was a Saturday, and like me, Kurosaki-san had martial arts class every week. Unlike me, he taught Jiu-Jitsu to adults. So I took a shower and dressed in my Jiu-Jitsu uniform to help him with the class.

"Junko. Come here." He dangled his arm around my shoulder. His gaze swept across the twelve blue belt students standing at ease in front of us. "Some of you might remember him from last year. For you new students, meet my child, Junko." He tapped his lips together.

Kurosaki-san had never called me Jona. Not once.

For the next two hours, I helped Kurosaki-san conduct the class. For some reason, I stopped training Jiu-Jitsu after the accident. Maybe I was heartbroken that I couldn't take the promotion test; maybe I thought it was useless to do something that wouldn't bare fruits. But once I did it again today, especially with Kurosaki-san, it was gratifying, and I wanted to pursue the brown belt training again.

I spent the whole day helping him with his classes. Then we cooked dinner together. I had learned how to cook from my mother, but half of my cooking skills were polished by Kurosaki-san. When he was younger and still living in Japan, he had a small izakaya (a small Japanese bar) where he was the cook himself.

"Kurosaki-san," I said at our dinner that night.

The wooden table was full of Japanese food. Sauteed vegetables, stewed meat, miso soup, grilled eggplant, grilled salmon. The kind I only got to eat once a year when I came home to him.

"Hai?" He chewed his stewed meat and nodded at me to speak.

I didn't exactly know what to say. There was something sharp in my chest; it pricked my lungs. But I couldn't find the right words to explain it. "Can I stay here forever with you?" I whispered to myself, sighing as I rested my head on the kotatsu table.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"Sure," Kurosaki-san said. "You can always stay here if things get too hard for you in America." His tone sounded like he was telling me the list of groceries we should buy tomorrow.

My chopsticks rolled on the table as I lay on the tatami; it was warm from the heating system. I accidentally kicked Kurosaki-san's shin when I straightened my legs. "Gomen." [Sorry.]

"Anata no shoku ryōo oenasai, Junko. Kyō wa amari tabenai." [Finish your food, Junko. You barely eat anything today.] It wasn't a request, it was a command. "What time are you going to the hospital to see that bastard on Tuesday?"

"Eight."

Kurosaki-san drank his water with a tight face. He was always angry at me for choosing to live this way, but he didn't show it. "Kare wa kokoni futagoo okurimasune." [He sends the twins here, you know.]

I sat up mechanically. "My brothers learn Jiu-Jitsu here?" A tangle of emotions formed in my stomach. I looked over my shoulder as if I could see them here.

"Karate. Benedita registered the kids here last month." He stared at me with a bitter smile. "It felt like teaching you all over again. They look more and more like you now. Though they have their mother's eyes."

I smiled visualizing their faces. Despite my Japanese appearance, every inch of me looked like my father. My black hair, my golden eyes, my straight nose, my thin lips. Everything.

"Karera no karate no kurasuwa asu da." [Their karate class is tomorrow.]

My heart swelled and stopped beating for a second. Then it picked up in speed so fast, I coughed when I breathed.

So many emotions flashed in my chest for the next few seconds. My first instinct was to hide. Hide and tried not to get involved in their lives. They were better off not knowing my existence. But even if I didn't hide, the twins wouldn't know me. The only times I got to see them from afar were on the day they were born and three years ago when my father was hospitalized for his bypass surgery, the day I secretly prayed that the surgery wouldn't be successful.

But God had never heard my prayers.

-III-

I hid.

My back was glued to my room's door, listening to small voices screaming and shouting. I tried to recognize my brothers' voices. But I didn't know how they sounded like, the way how they didn't know that I existed. The fear of them magically knowing who I was had prevented my legs from stepping out of the room. I sat on the floor for two hours, regretting every second of it as I debated with the insidious voice in my head that said: "You can't let them see you. They'll see that you look like their dad and ask things. Then they'll tell your dad and you'll get into trouble again."

"Go back before my sons see you," my father had said after his heart surgery three years ago, in the empathetic tone he would use in the psychotherapy for his transgender clients. "I gave you a second chance, not forgiveness. Don't push your luck. They don't need to learn that they have a murderer for a brother."

He was right. I was a murderer. With my own hands, I had killed two of the most important people in his life, in my life.

Knockings on the door. "Junko?"

Silence. Only then I heard myself sobbing. The puddle on the floor drenched my hairline.

"Ore wa haittekiteiru." [I'm coming in.]

Kurosaki-san knelt next to me, cradling me in his arms. "What else should I do for you to stop doing this, Junko? When will you listen to this old man? After I die?"

He rubbed my back when I begged him not to die too. He knew why I was crying. He knew what happened to me.

Guilt. That was what happened.

The guilt stood so heavily on my shoulders, it forced me to prostrate myself on my father's feet. The guilt was so massive, I couldn't afford to kill myself no matter how often suicidal thoughts had crossed my mind. I didn't deserve to live, but I also didn't deserve to die. I was stuck in between, and that was my father's punishment. Nothing could lift the burden off my shoulders. Not even God. I had always prayed for Him to take away my life without me having to take it myself. But I even survived the accident with the bus.

Because God had never listened to my prayers.

-IV-

I chugged down the last shot of the tequila at the same time my phone vibrated again on the table. The cheap drink didn't burn my tongue as much as I thought it would. It didn't inebriate me as much as it should.

I glimpsed at the woman sitting two stools away from me. The clanging of her silver bangles was damn loud despite the booming Christmas Carol in the packed bar. It was so annoying.

She grinned, looking a bit too satisfied with herself for successfully having my attention. Then she pushed her yellow leather purse toward me and staggered onto the stool next to me, her glass in hand.

"Ainda é muito cedo para beber," [It's kinda early for a drink], she said and sipped her own liquor.

The liquor trailed down her chin and dripped to her cleavage, wetting her low-neck purple dress. She laughed. "Oops!" She was drunk, so I had no idea if it was deliberate or not, but when she rubbed her neckline with her palms, one of her nipples got exposed.

The bartender saw it but went to entertain another customer without a second glance.

"Acho que precisa de companhia." [I'm guessing you need a little company.] She leaned closer to me. She smelled like Band-Aids. Scotch.

I flipped my vibrating phone on the table and chuckled. "Não sou eu quem precisa, acredite em mim, senhorita." [I'm not the one who needs one, miss.]

The guy at the round table a few feet away from us kept on glancing at the woman, at her chest.

I flicked my gaze at her breasts. Still exposed.

Damn this woman.

I scooted a bit on the stool, making sure my shoulder impeded his stare. I was trying to find the right words to tell her about it, but my drunken brain couldn't think much. The alcohol in my system had started to overfill my soberness.

The woman clearly misunderstood my gesture. She hummed and rubbed my inner thigh. "Foi por isso que eu perguntei. Você não tem ninguém para comemorar a véspera de Natal também. Quer passar a noite juntos?" [That was why I asked. You have no one to celebrate Christmas Eve too. Want to spend the night together?]

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, her face was a few inches away from me. She was quite pretty. Typical of Portuguese. Brown hair, brown eyes, thin upper lip, wide jaw. I stared at her red lips. I had never kissed a woman. Never touched one for pleasure. She looked so delicate, her full breasts looked so soft. Despite the alcohol stench, her fluffy hair smelled so sweet, like a mixed berry punch.

What does it feel like? To be a woman?

"Qual seu nome?" [What's your name?] I recoiled an inch when her lips almost touched my jaw.

"Leonor," she whispered into my ear.

"Leonor. Hey, posso tocar em ti?" [Can I touch you?]

She grinned, and I took that as a yes. Her hair was cold against my palm. I rubbed the strands between my fingers. So soft.

So this is how a woman's hair feels like.

She leaned forward, so I clasped her thin neck gently, keeping the distance. She swallowed. I hooked a finger on the neckline on her collarbone. As slow as the Christmas jazz song, I traced her supple chest. Her heartbeat was loud and fast against my finger. She gasped when I grazed her breast and tried to kiss me. I tightened my grasp around her neck, pushing her gently. Goosebumps raised on her skin. The mascara had started to look heavy on her eyes. She pushed forward and kissed me. I let her work her tongue into my mouth. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

No. Nothing. I has no attraction to a woman.

So I pulled away and let go of her dress; a weak smack covered her nipple.

"Devia proteger a sua decência, Leonor." [You should protect your decency, Leonor.] I stood unhurriedly and shoved the vibrating phone into my pocket.

She pulled my arm, standing up on her unsteady feet. "Vamos a algum lado?" [We're going somewhere?]

"Eu estou indo a algum lugar. Não você." [I am going somewhere. Not you.] Scattered light from the diamonds on my watch sparkled on Leonor's face. "Tens de ir para casa, está a ficar escuro." [You should go home, it's getting dark.]

"É isso"? [That's it?]

I stroked her hair. "Desculpe, Leonor. Eu não sou homo." [Sorry, Leonor. I'm not homo.]

She scrutinized me, blinking hard. "Quê?" [What?]

I paid for our drinks and left her there, stupefied on her stool.

The cold wind smelled like salts. Facing the row of the bars and night clubs was the waterfront. The sea gleamed in the orange reflection of the sinking sun. My eyes hurt from it; my heart too. I never liked the ocean. The pain from when I had drowned would come back, congesting my windpipe.

A yellow tram hindered my vision of the sea. I crossed the busy street, trying hard not to bump into anyone. I clicked my tongue when my phone vibrated again.

"What?" I answered the phone. "You've been calling me nonstop." My head spun. I leaned on the traffic light pole, waiting for the small stick man to turn green.

Silence. "What's wrong with your voice?" Luuk asked. His voice was so mechanical, I imagined Super Mario for some reason.

I tried to stifle my laughter. "Ha? Que tem a minha voz?" [What's wrong with my voice?]

"Jona. Estás bêbado?" [Are you drunk?]

I held an old man's arm next to me when my vision swirled. As if it were clearly written on my face, he helped me cross the road. "Not as drunk as I wanted." I laughed at my own answer, holding the man's hand like I was his five-year-old kid. It felt like forever since I last held my own father's hand. "But... But the woman was drunk."

"What woman?"

"Obrigado!" [Thank you!] I waved at the man when he walked away with a small smile, waving back. "Ah, that woman in the bar. Leonor. The funny thing is, you know, she tried to get into my pants, well, because I'm obviously a man." I broke into laughter. "And... And she showed me her nipple. It was so pink, it looked like pigskin." My hands and knees hit the ground when my stomach twisted from laughing so much. "Oh, shit, shit, fu—"

I vomited the shots I drank on a tree trunk on the sidewalk. I threw up everything I ate today but in a concoction of mashed food. Some of the fluid, whatever it was, bile maybe, oozed from my nose. It burned, and my tears gushed out. Sitting on the ground, I heaved a sigh of relief when I finally stopped vomiting after three times.

"Sorry, I vomited," I said into the phone. A tear dripped onto the screen. "Hello? Oi, Luuk?" My screen cracked in three spots. "Shit." The phone was still working, but the call got disconnected.

Whatever.

Shoving the phone into my parka's pocket, I pushed my trembling legs, willing myself to walk home. It was a thirty-minute walk up the hill to my neighborhood. Twenty minutes, if my legs would stop wobbling every minute and if the street wasn't full of parents waiting for their kids to finish school.

Along the way, I rehearsed what I would say to my father in two days out loud, ignoring the eyes on me. For some reason, this year was different. I was always reluctant to see my father, but not to get treated by him. I would always swallow whatever medicine he prescribed to me, shot whatever drugs he gave me.

But a small yet strong voice in my chest told me not to do it this year. The voice told me to tell him what I wanted. My drunk brain took a few seconds to connect everything.

"Ask. If you want something, just ask like that. I'll give it to you, Jona."

Luuk. The voice belonged to Luuk.

But it was such a ridiculous thing to say. My head hurt when I laughed again. I wouldn't be able to ask that. Even if I did, my father wouldn't give me what I wanted. He would kill me for real this time, like how he had just stood there, staring at me drowning when we went to the beach fourteen years ago before he decided to save me. Always made an effort to remind me how he had saved me, that bastard.

Turning left after the elementary school, I leaned on the wall and fished out a cigarette from my pocket. The tobacco cleared my mind a bit. I stared at the pinkish sky, looking at the crows flying home. Even crows have a home to go back to. The heavy shadow of the tall tree on the playground stretched out to where I was standing, so I straightened my back and hurried home.

But time moved painfully slow when two boys skipped past me. Their heads brushed my hip.

"Espere, filho. Não corra!" [Wait, son. Don't run!]

The kids stopped at the juncture on the hill.

"Você não pode me pegar, mamãe," [You can't catch me, mom,] they sang and turned around simultaneously, hands hooked under their school bags' straps. A big grin on their faces.

Then their mother ran past me.

My heart almost stopped when I saw the wavy black hair. I crouched down and pushed my forehead against the graffitied wall. I covered my head with the hood. My dry mouth felt drier.

God, please, please, don't let Benedita see me.

Noisy steps approached me. Five torturous seconds later, my brothers' small hands were all over my back when they asked me if I was sick. Benedita was saying something. It sounded like apologies for my brothers' behavior. But my heartbeat was too loud, all I could hear was the thumping in my ears. My eyeballs throbbed behind their sockets.

Then one of the twins peeked at me. His face was too close when he asked in a small voice, "Estás com dor de estômago? Porque estás a chorar?" [Do you have a stomach ache? Why are you crying?] His small fist shook my arm.

A strong longing built up in my chest. At the moment, I realized just how much I had missed them. I had never really gotten the chance to know my brothers, but the yearning to hug them was so strong. With the alcohol in my system, I could barely fight it off. My hands were shaking. But I stood, with my back on Benedita. I glanced at the twins. Kurosaki-san was right. They looked like me.

I swallowed my tears and touched their soft, reddened cheeks. "Não, estou bem, irmãozinho. Estou bem." [No, I'm okay, little brother. I'm fine.] I fisted my hands and turned around.

Then the struggle to stifle my tears shattered. I clasped a hand on my mouth when tears gushed down my cheeks.

No, I'm not okay. God, please. Please make it okay again.

But God had never heard my prayers.