Cherry Blossoms

Kim Hooper

Description

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POWERFUL AUTHOR: Kim Hooper is the author of the hit debut People Who Knew Me (St. Martin’s, 2014) and has a strong fanbase for her stories about the resilience of the human spirit.

UP LIT: Hooper’s writing is strong enough to make her a dominating presence in the currently popular “up lit” movement.

MULTICULTURAL: The book tells a relatable story of experiencing new cultures that readers will find captivating and undeniably informative.

Sujets

• Literary
• Literature
• Cherry Blossoms
• Japan
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Turner Publishing Company
• Date de parution: 30 octobre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781684421787
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

CHERRY BLOSSOMS
CHERRY
BLOSSOMS
KIM
HOOPER
TURNER PUBLISHING COMPANY
Cherry Blossoms Copyright 2018 Kim Hooper
All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Design: Maddie Cothren
Book Design: Meg Reid
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hooper, Kim, author.
Title: Cherry blossoms / Kim Hooper.
Description: Nashville, TN : Turner Publishing Company, [2018] |
Identifiers: LCCN 2018014788 (print) | LCCN 2018015278 (ebook) ISBN 9781684421787 (ebook) | ISBN 9781684421763 (softcover) ISBN 9781684421770 (hardcover)
Classification: LCC PS3608.O59495 (ebook)
LCC PS3608.O59495 C48 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018014788
9781684421763 Paperback
9781684421770 Hardcover
9781684421787 eBook
Printed in the United States of America
17 18 19 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Turner Publishing Company
Nashville, Tennessee
New York, New York
www.turnerpublishing.com
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Note from the Author
Baka wa shinanakya naoranai . Unless an idiot dies, he won t be cured.
-Japanese Proverb
I am standing in drifts of dry sand, alone, coaxing the waves to crash harder, extend their reach far enough to touch my toes, maybe wet the cuffs of my jeans. I can hear Sara at an undefined distance-that high-pitched, breathless laugh of hers. She is happy, running, with an energy normally reserved for children in wide-open fields.
The sun is swallowed whole by the horizon, and the moon takes its place, assuming the night watch. It casts a path of light on the water, and I hear Sara in my ear, whispering Let s swim out there. Let s go. I can feel strands of her blond hair grazing my cheek. But she s not here. I am alone. My mind deceives. Still I say, to this empty space beside me, I ll swim anywhere for you.
I close my eyes-for how long, I don t know. The rhythm of the waves fades and the ocean starts to seem far away, as if I am being carried inland by a god I believed in when I went to Catholic school all those years ago. But when I open my eyes, I am sitting in the same spot. I haven t moved. God hasn t moved me. It s the water that s moving-receding, pulling back slowly.
Jonathan! Come! Sara says. She is out there, somewhere, seemingly unconcerned with being swept into the unknown. It ll be okay.
I believe her because I always have. I ve always seen having faith in her as better than the alternative-having faith in nothing.
I run toward the water, stepping on now-exposed shells and flopping fish, nearly slipping on mounds of seaweed and scraping my feet on coral.
I don t see her. Sara?
My voice has that artificial quality, like when you hear a recording of yourself. I keep running, wondering how it is that I am not out of breath. It must be that adrenaline they talk about, the kind that allows weak-armed women to lift cars off their unlucky offspring.
I stop, blink hard, confirming the impossible. Yes, the water is returning. I know what this is; I ve heard of this phenomenon before, seen footage of it on CNN. Tsunami: standing wave in Japanese. That s exactly what it looks like-a gigantic wave, paused at its greatest height and pushed forward by some hidden, malicious force. It s as tall as the high-rise where I work-fifteen, maybe twenty stories.
Sara!
I m here, she says, her voice coming from land now. How did she make it to land? I still can t see her. Her voice becomes frantic: You have to run, Jonathan. Run!
And I do. I run. But the wall of water is moving faster than my legs, catching up with me, about to overtake me. When it slams into me, it s like every bone in my body breaks. I am a miniature version of myself, tossed around in a washing machine of chaos. I flail and thrash, struggling to keep my head above water and, when this proves impossible, struggling to simply find which way is up. I can t close my eyes, won t close them, withstanding the sting of salt in hopes of seeing her. I know we-the water and I-have reached land when I fly past tree trunks and nearly miss slamming into cars. My lungs start to fill with water. My arms hurt with attempts to swim upward, to find air, to find Sara. When I reach out, desperately, I realize I ve been swimming downward this whole time. I touch concrete, what used to be a road. I panic.
This is the end.
I have eight months to live. No, there was no dramatic diagnosis of a tomato-sized tumor in my brain. There was no tragic scene in a doctor s office, complete with a nurse placing her compassionate hand on my shoulder and telling me to hang in there. I do not have a terminal illness, unless you consider humanity itself a terminal illness. In any case, you shouldn t feel sad for me. I deserve to die. You ll see.
I didn t know I was going to die until I went to see the curiously named Dr. Bitterman. He s not the type of doctor you re assuming he is. He s a psychologist. Or psychiatrist, rather-he doesn t just listen and nod; he can dispense drugs to take away your problems. That s what I figured I needed. Google revealed lots of his kind near me, but I chose him based on the name. When he shook my hand, I fixated on his royal blue cuff links-who wears cuff links ?-and thought about walking out. But then I saw the Stanford diploma on his wall, next to a framed picture of a happy family that appeared to be his, and figured maybe he was worth the $225 for forty-five minutes of wisdom.
Dr. Bitterman sat in an oversized chair designed for grandfathers who enjoy cigars in front of fireplaces. I sat on the couch across from him.
I m not here because I want to be psychoanalyzed, I told him.
He tilted his head to the side like a curious dog in response to the rising inflection of its owner s voice. Then he wrote something on the notepad resting on his knee, seemingly already ignoring my request.
Then why have you come to see me? His voice was calm, soothing, the type of voice parents use with children when they want them to behave: Now, Billy, why don t you sit at the table like a big boy?
His blue-framed glasses sat on the very tip of his nose, ready to slip off with just the slightest sneeze. Watching them, anticipating their fall, caused me almost as much anxiety as my reason for making this appointment. I wondered if I should leave, if he d charge me a prorated amount for the five minutes of his time. I felt like a schmuck for coming, for thinking he could help me. His wealth-visible in the wood beams of his ceiling, the Zen water feature in the corner-relied on schmucks like me. That s what he should have called his practice: Schmucks for Bucks.
I keep having this dream, I said, figuring What the hell?
The damn tsunami dream. I must have had it a hundred times in the last several months. It feels so terrifying, so real, that I ve started to adopt a lifestyle of insomnia just to avoid it. Whenever I do slip into slumber, it s like I can feel my lungs filling with water. When I wake up, gasping for air that is in plentiful supply, I m wet, drenched in sweat-or evidence of a parallel universe.
What is this dream?
I told him about it-the receding water, looking for Sara.
Who is Sara?
My ex-girlfriend.
When did the dreams start?
About eight months ago.
When did the relationship with Sara end?
Ten minutes in and he was already going for the easy explanation. I wanted to tell him that it s not all that simple, but I figured he should work for his money, go down the rabbit hole of my life and try to find his way out.
Right before Christmas.
So, about eight months ago?
Yes.
He paused a moment to write in his notes.
Did you break it off, or did she?
A good question.
She did, I guess. But it s my fault.
Do you want to say more about that?
Nope.
He did the dog-head-tilt again.
Look, I d just like to stop drowning every night, I told him.
Fair enough, he said, showing me his palms, the way criminals do with cops when they don t have any weapons. What do you think the dream means ? He squinted his eyes, hard, when he said means.
I don t know. That s why I called you, I said. Can t you just hypnotize me out of having this dream? Or give me a pill so I can sleep dreamlessly?
He smiled a tight-lipped grin that did not bare any teeth, a grin that said Sorry, asshole, that s not how it works .
I think dreams are meant to share information with us, information that we re repressing from our consciousness for some reason. He crossed one corduroy-pant leg over the other, slowly and deliberately. Corduroy and cuff links. Sara would find this hilarious.
Well, if this dream is telling me that my swimming skills need work, I m not so sure I have time to address this. I m very busy.
He sighed. Jonathan, do you think you re depressed?
If I say yes, will that get me a prescription for a pill to make me sleep dreamlessly?
He rested his chin, precariously, on the top of his pen. You are very evasive, he said.
Maybe, but I m not depressed, so let s just get that out of the way.
Do you get enjoyment out of the things you used to enjoy?
I m hard-pressed to remember the things I used to enjoy. The idea of a future with