The Carbon Copy

by Christopher R. Martin

Chapter 9 – Loose Ends


I slather the cushion with my makeup and dab it on my cheeks, first my left and then right. Last comes the cardinal-colored, raspberry-scented lipstick, which I apply deftly, liberally, and put away in my purse once finished. A few more inspections of my sides, and I move away from the mirror.

Meanwhile, Richard is struggling to slip into his pants—again—to which I groan and pinch the bridge between my eyes. My husband isn't what I'd call in-shape, but it's ridiculous that he can't fit himself into a one-size-fits-all pair of pants. But unlike our parent-teacher meeting with Lucy—I'll be damned if I have to call that baboon 'Ms. Simian'—he is not going out tonight pantsless.

"Here, let me help," I approach him, grabbing both ends of his pants and pushing his abdomen in. "Tuck your stomach in, honey."

"I don't know if that's gonna work," objects a doubtful Richard, hard of breathing as I force his pants up.

"It will, just do as I tell you," I prod him, making it past his waistline. I pull the two ends together and button them up. "Breathe, Richard, breathe!"

"Trying…to…breathe," my husband rasps.

I almost do his zipper up, but I use too much force when I pull. Richard loses his balance and falls on the bed, taking me with him. The both of us yelping and shrieking. I land on top of him, and the first chance he gets to breathe, he laughs. And I laugh along with him, slapping him playfully on his chest.

"Look what you made me do," I giggle, resting my forehead on his. "This was tailor-made for you, y'know?"

"Sorry," is the most he can say, his laughter getting the better of him. "At least it's not snapping off."

We laugh some more and almost forget about our plans for today. It takes my mother unceremoniously entering our room to make me remember, but in doing so, she causes Richard and me to bump our heads together. I rub away the hurting with my paw, and he gets up and stares at her awkwardly, searching for an explanation even though he doesn't owe her one.

"Oh, my," the woman remarks, her paw an inch away from her lips. "I apologize, I should have knocked."

"You think?" I reply lividly, rubbing my head three more times and then getting up. "What is it, Mother?"

"There's someone at the door. It's that Yuki girl that you used to be friends with and her husband."

"What? She's already here?!" I pull Richard off of the bed, fasten his tie for him and drag ourselves out of the room. "They said they'd pick us up early, but I didn't think it'd be this early."

As we hurry, Mom adds, "I hope you don't mind, but I told them to come inside. They're in the living room."

"Okay! Thank you!" I shout at her to keep her quiet. If I have to hear more of her voice, I'm really going to lose it.

We dash through the hallway and down the stairs. The kids are at the dinner table, where Anais lends Gumball and Darwin a helping hand with their homework. We go on to the living room, where, as my mother described, the Yoshida's are waiting. Yuki is seated on one end of the sofa with her legs crossed and her hands on top of them, while her husband is at the middle, arms folded. I don't see him that often, but from the few times that I've met him at the Rainbow Factory, it would appear that he's a man who thrives on punctuality. That's what I deduce from his calm, closed body language.

As soon as they see us, they bow to us, as they feel is customary for any and every circumstance – a common trait amongst the Japanese that is worthy of admiration. Richard and I do the same after I prod him into doing so.

"Nicole-san, Richard-san, how nice to see you," accosts Yuki, who's wearing a black, silken dress that really shows her well-built frame.

"Same to you, Yuki and Mr. Yoshida," I respond, going stiff not of my own choosing.

Yuki catches this and chuckles. "Relax, Nicole. We're not in a dojo, we're in your house, which I must admit is rather nice. I have never been here before, although I hear that my husband has."

"Sou desu ne," starts Mr. Yoshida, who wanders his eyes with unease. "But I recall that the last time I was here, your children were embroiled in a bit of tomfoolery with Masami." He holds his hips and quirks his eyebrows curiously, sternly.

"Nani?" asks a shocked Yuki.

"What?" I include.

Yuki and I glare at Gumball and Darwin, who've overheard Mr. Yoshida's recollection. Their only reaction is to nervously chuckle and sweat buckets. Anais eyes them with equal disappointment and annoyance, and then palms her face and shakes her head.

The two boys then sigh, admitting their guilt.

I anticipate that they have a long-winded explanation as to what they and Masami were doing and why, so I tell them before they can utter a single word, "We'll talk about this when we get home. I am really sorry about what happened, Mr. Yoshida."

"I'm sure you are," Mr. Yoshida replies. "Shall we get going?"

"Yes, we should," Yuki agrees, checking her stunning designer watch. "We don't want to be late."

"Late for what?" I ask her.

"It's a surprise."

When Yuki invited me and Richard to dinner, she informed me that she and her husband were going to pick us up from the house. A couple of days ago, she called me again and told me about a few small change of plans, and that they would pick us up in the afternoon instead of the evening.

Obviously, these changes wouldn't be as small as she says they are, otherwise they wouldn't arrange for us to be picked up earlier. I get the feeling that Richard and I are in for more than just a fancy dinner.

"Shall we get going?" asks Yuki, getting her purse from the sofa.

The four of us then make for the door, but not without me taking care of one last thing. Just when I need her, there she is walking down the stairs.

"Leaving already?" my mother inquires.

I nod and then say to her with much reluctance, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm counting on you to watch over the kids. Can you do that?" Can you act like a parent for once and not like the perfectionist you always are?

"I'll take good care of them," she assures, which leads to me breathing, like I'm taking a huge risk. I hope this isn't the case. I honestly hope that I can rely on my mother for once in my life. "Trust me. Now go, have fun."

She doesn't have to tell me twice.

After waving goodbye and blowing kisses at the kids, Richard and I exit the door and walk across the lawn. The Yoshida's have gone ahead, waiting in the passenger's seat of their limousine, the driver holding the door open. We sure didn't see this coming.

"Mr. and Mrs. Watterson," the driver hails us in a pronounced French accent. I enter first and then Richard. "Enjoy the ride."

To say that this is nothing like a regular car would be a huge understatement. Everything about a limo just screams sophisticated, from the seats that face each other to the smooth touch of their leather surfaces to the adjustable lights to the sunroof to the cylinder stool in the center to enjoy a nice drink over. The easy-listening music is the cherry on top of a slick, sweet and stylish cake.

I have to be dreaming. I must be. The closest that I've come to riding a limo is picturing what riding in a limo is like, and needless to say that it doesn't hold a candle to the real thing.

Yuki and Mr. Yoshida are seated facing us, Yuki in particular smiling at me and Richard, crossing her legs and resting her arms on top of the backrest. This is the surprise that she's had in mind.

"Are you comfortable, Nicole-san and Richard-san?" she asks, commanding an aura of class and discipline.

"Uh…" That's it. That's all I can let out of my mouth.

"I would take that to mean 'yes'. What do you say to a nice little drive around Elmore before our reservation for tonight?"

"Yuki, I… I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to think too hard about it, Nicole-san. For the sake of our friendship, it's the least that I can do."

I stall on my response, and I give her the one she wants to hear. The one that I mean to say. "Alright. Thank you, Yuki."

I was asking myself why Yuki would allow me and my husband to partake in a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity such as this. Since receiving her invitation a few days ago, I was curious to know what drove her to approach me on these extravagant fronts.

The second she mentioned 'friendship', I had it figured out. Mostly. Of course, I already had a hunch. I guess the right way to put it was I was curious to know if there was a sincerity behind her offer. Her saying that word was the confirmation I was looking for.

One possibility that I consider is that this must be her way of bridging that gap, of repairing what had been broken before. I want to tell her though that she doesn't have to try so hard. That though she may think she lost me as a friend, I never thought of her as anything other than a friend.

Another possibility is that there is nothing else to her offers but as a way to buy me back. To be honest, I don't know why I would ever consider this. I know Yuki better than that. She was the sister that I never had. I know her better than to be shallow.

Then there's a third possibility. Like any other best friends out there, like any other sisters out there, we're always so eager, so ready, to share parts of ourselves. It's likely that Yuki wants to share a part of herself with me, with us. Even with her wealth, a get-together here and there is a nice change of pace.

We all drive from one part of Elmore to the next until we've covered virtually the entire town. Along the way, we partake in menial conversation, bringing up whatever arises in our minds. Yuki makes mention of her recent trip to Europe, while Richard talks about his experiences working as a pizza delivery person. Mr. Yoshida might blurb about a new employee or two at the factory, and I could then mention my study load at Elmore University. There's no rhyme or reason as to how these topics switch between each other, not that there's any need for them.

Our time together is enjoyed over an expensive-looking champagne conveniently stored in a mini-fridge in between Yuki and Mr. Yoshida. The bubbly texture takes a bit of getting used to, which I really can't. Not as much as my boss and my childhood friend. Nevertheless, I sip my drink so as to not make them mad.

Richard seems to be liking it if his casual sips are anything to go by. As he downs his drink, his breath becomes strong and noxious. I persuade him to mind himself as he drinks.

We talk some more about this and that, myself and Yuki on the verge of getting tipsy. Seeing this, Mr. Yoshida proceeds to take the glass off of his wife's hands, but she protests. She moves her glass away from him, but spills some of her drink in the process. It doesn't land on her dress, thankfully, landing instead on the carpet.

"That might be enough for now," she says with some sobriety, fitting her glass in a holster on the stool. "Sumanai, darling."

Mr. Yoshida chuckles to himself, hiding his irritation at his stained carpet. He keeps himself in check and asks me, "So Nicole-san, will you be at the next Yoshida-Ryu kumite?"

"Hm?" I ask absently, swirling my sparkling drink.

"Our daughter told us that your son has recently been studying the art under your supervision," Yuki includes, her intoxication suddenly having disappeared. "I would assume that she gave him a flier for the kumite during school."

"Yes, she did. Gumball also told me that Masami encouraged him to come by."

"So she did." Yuki touches her chin. "And likewise, I would like to ask you, Nicole-san, if you can come. It would be an honor to have you there and train side-by-side with you once more."

Her words prompt a flush to rise on my face. Amongst our peers, Yuki and I were regarded to be the finest students to ever learn Yoshida-Ryu. But between the two of us, the others always regarded me as the better karateka. I didn't act on any of their claims that I was better than Yuki because I didn't believe that. If anything, I was the one who admired her. She was a spitting image of her father, the founder of her family's form of fighting, and embodied his own tempered will. Even if she didn't have the fortune she has now, she'd still have so much going for her. She'd still command respect from those around her, including me.

To hear her say what an honor it would be for me to be at the kumite, to train together as we used to back then, it sends my heart afloat. My stomach transforms into a myriad of butterflies.

I ponder on this with favor, but there is one other thought that pervades my mind. This one, I ponder with reservation. That thought is of my son, my flesh and blood. My greatest treasure, my greatest source of joy. I have already taken a gamble by allowing him to learn about Yoshida-Ryu. His incredible progress, his dedication, his passion, beat by beat, I'm seeing myself, who I once was, all over again. And I hate it. The path I've taken doesn't have to be his, too, but since he's so adamant about this, there isn't much I can do.

Richard puts my paw between both of his, and he and I stare into each other's eyes. His smile is one of encouragement. As if to say 'don't worry', 'it will be okay' or 'you can trust your son to do the right thing'.

"I'd be happy to come, Yuki," I give her a reply. She enacts a bow, and I repay her in kind.

Our chatter and our ride continue. The limo takes us to wherever Yuki tells the driver, Perry, to take us to, only stopping once at a gas station for a refill. When the sun begins to set, Yuki orders Perry to drive up to the highest lookout point in Elmore – the place where Richard and I nearly kissed, but couldn't because of our car rolling downhill.

The four of us step out of the limo and watch as the sun descends to make way for the moon. Richard leans forward on the railing, admiring the view. Mr. Yoshida joins him and shares a few words with him. They appear to be getting along just fine. Yuki and I are a little farther away from them, marveling at the scenery in our own way. She sits on the railing, unafraid of the height.

"Sugoi ne," my old friend comments, the breeze deftly blowing her hair back. "This is what it should have been like from the start: uncomplicated."

"Mmm," I concur, breathing in the crisp cliffside air. "Hey, Yuki."

"Nani?"

"You seem to want to bury the hatchet, and you're doing well at that, might I add. How do you do it?"

An odd question to ask, I know, and Yuki agrees, evident in her countenance shifting. She holds her hair back to keep strands of it from flickering into her face. "It was never always easy. In fact, it started out difficult. I won't lie about that. For a while, all that ever mattered to me was being better than you. I cared more about settling our score, about tying those loose ends more than anything. I might have also hated you for a time. Actually, I did. I was so driven to be the one to shoulder the legacy of our family. Chichi-sama wanted that from me. He expected it. Out of those expectations and fear of disappointing him, I grew to hate you. But y'know what, Nicole?"

"What is it?"

"That wasn't the way to live. My father told me, in his last breaths, that as much as he wished for me to carry that heritage, simply knowing that I am living my life the way I hope to is enough for him. He put my happiness above his. I understood what he meant, but never really took it to heart. It took nearly getting ourselves and our kids killed to get a firm grasp of that. It took almost losing myself and what I hold dear to me to snap me back to my senses." She tilts her head down, burying her face in shame. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular. Thank you, Yuki, for being honest with me."

"Anything for a friend."

'No reason in particular'. That's what I leave her with, and nothing more. I don't have it in me to let her in, or anyone else, for that matter. Those wounds don't need to be aggravated.

"Time to get going. We don't want to be late for our reservation," Yuki declares, walking ahead to the limo. I follow suit, and our husbands do the same.

The restaurant in question is a fifteen-minute drive from where we are right now. We might have arrived a little earlier than that, though; according to my phone, we have ten minutes to seven o'clock. The Yoshidas exit the limo before Richard and I do, and upon beholding what the restaurant is, I feel the breath being forcefully yanked out of my lungs. This is a well-renowned French restaurant reserved for the highest of the upper crust. Not really, but you won't see anyone of a lesser social standing dining here anytime soon.

I guess except for Richard and me just this one time.

After giving Pierre some money for his own dinner, Mr. Yoshida leads the way, opening the door for his wife, and Richard following his example by letting me inside first. The maître d', Larry, says his hellos to the Yoshida's, but greets me and Richard with shock and aversion. He groans to himself, lamenting that no matter where he goes, there will always be a Watterson at every other turn to totally ruin his day.

Yuki provides Larry with crystal clear instructions, and he hands us a menu each. He ushers us to our table, affecting professionalism despite his most unexpected, and likely unwanted, customers.

We promptly seat ourselves at the table. I wander my eyes to every inch of this establishment, immersing myself in this atmosphere. This ambience. The slow-paced piano music, the neatly-dressed customers and their indecipherable chatter, the fresh scent wafting from the kitchen and into my nose. I can feel my mouth watering from the smell of what I presume is a lobster dish being masterfully prepared by the chefs. Looks like I know what I'm getting.

Larry returns to our table bringing for us a basket of croissants. Richard wastes little time in digging in, to the horror of the other customers. Fortunately, he wises up and calms himself. Mr. Yoshida is dumbfounded, but Yuki giggles at him.

"Be careful, Richard-san. You just might end up eating the table cloth," she banters.

"Sorry," says Richard abashedly, his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. He presents one of the croissants to Yuki, but she cordially declines. Then he shows it to Mr. Yoshida. "Here, sir. You can have it."

"Perhaps I'll pass," my boss responds, cringing. He faces me and asks, "First time here?"

"Yes, sir." I bow to him. "I apologize. My husband can't help but get carried away at the sight of food."

"I can see that. You and Yuki must have had…quite the intriguing history."

"Yare yare." Yuki shakes her head, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Says the one with a big stomach. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why you aren't a nimbus."

"What are you talking about?" refutes Mr. Yoshida, going on the defensive.

"You know very well what. Tell me that what I saw was your lip and not a mustache made of frosting."

"That was one time, Yuki. One time. You know how it is with me, I like to eat away my sorrows, and…" Mr. Yoshida sheepishly sways in his seat, his cheeks bright red. "It just so happened that there was nothing else in the fridge but that cake." His eyes begin to dilate, and he forms a goofy looking smile as he blankly stares into nothing, a strand of drool streaming out of his mouth. He then muses, "That delicious, thick, moist, boysenberry cake with the strawberry frosting and the processed flowers and—"

"That cake took me four hours to bake!" She huffs at him, turns her back on him and folds her arms.

"Come on, Yuki. I said I was sorry," says Mr. Yoshida sweetly and playfully, laying his arm around her. "How many times do I have to apologize?"

Yuki is an immovable tower of frustration and disappointment. Richard and I laugh from watching their little quarrel.

Coming to the rescue is Larry, holding a pen and pad. He clicks his pen and asks for our order. Yuki orders the Ratatouille, Mr. Yoshida the cheese omelet—or the omelette du fromage as it says on the menu—Richard the Coq au Vin, and myself the Lobster Thermidor. For the drinks, Yuki orders a bottle of Calvados after asking for my preferences. Larry then scurries off to pass the orders on to the kitchen. One waiter appears in his stead rolling a cart with the apple brandy bottle cooled off in a bucket of ice, which he pops open and pours into our champagne glasses.

I relish the beverage as it caresses my taste buds, making the most out of the apple flavor. The other three are partaking in their drink at a slower pace than I am, taking casual sips as opposed to my decisive swigs. In short order, my head turns heavy, and so do my eyes. My vision would blur, then normalize, and repeat the processes in an unending cycle. People start passing me unpleasant gazes from having to bear with my unhinged belching.

"Now, Nicole-san, don't get ahead of yourself," advises Yuki, who in my eyes flashes in the colors of the rainbow, and bends into unnatural contortions. "Our food hasn't arrived yet."

"Oh, don't mind me, dearie. I'm just…admiring the view." Any control I've had over my words, and the rest of my senses, has left me. What the heck am I even saying?

"Nicole, honey, put the glass down," says Richard, tenderly grabbing my arm and removing my glass from my paw. He fixes me up a glass of water and pours it into my mouth.

It's somewhat helpful, but not quite. Come on, Nicole, get yourself together. Not in front of your friend and your boss.

A hiccup or two later, and I'm back on planet Earth. Just in time for Larry to stroll by with a cart holding our food. He passes us our respective dishes, handling mine with extra care. After he leaves, we dig in. No wonder this place is so well-known across Elmore, and perhaps even across the country. Everyone in the table is in a state of bliss, not just me. Well, not so much Yuki and Mr. Yoshida, seeing as they've probably been here more than once, but Richard and I can't get enough.

The Calvados on top of this food makes it even more complete. This is one kind of recipe I could try next. A recipe that Gumball himself can try for himself aside from desserts.

That reminds me, I wonder what the kids are up to tonight. I wonder if their grandmother is being a nuisance to them or, dare I say it, hit it off. Contemplating on this is making me anxious. It's making me angry. So much so that I could use a distraction. Something like a drink.

I take a rather large swig of my Calvados to drown the notion. To remove that heinous thought from my consciousness. It's still there. Damn it, I want it to leave. But it persists. So I take another drink, downing most of the brandy until a sliver remains.

"Nicole, honey, control yourself," advises Richard. His words fall on deaf ears as I down the remaining sliver of Calvados.

My mind is clear. It took a while, but I've perished the thought. I'm feeling much better. Much, much better.

Too much.

This isn't good.

I can't see right.

I can't think straight.

Another serving of Calvados would be nice.

I fetch the bottle, but Richard grabs it before I do. He glowers at me disapprovingly, urging me to eat my meal. I feed myself forkful after forkful of butter-drenched lobster and salad, waiting for an opening. Eyeing the bottle intently. He lets go of the bottle, and I reach for it before he has the chance to react. He's fast, but not as fast as me.

He tries to pry the bottle out of my paw, putting up a better fight than I expected of him. In the end, I still get my drink, to which my husband palms his face in disappointment.

Nothing comes between me and my Calvados.

That should do it for now. I resume with my food, eating at a leisurely pace. My fork and knife slip from my grasp and continue to slip as I try to hold them. Yuki and Mr. Yoshida are staring at me.

I think.

I don't know.

I don't even know if that's them or not.

Dinner carries on not in the way that either of our hosts anticipated or wanted. We decline when Larry asks if we're interested in their dessert menu. The conversation after the meal is half-comprised of unintelligible nonsense coming out of my mouth. Nonsense that I have no control over. The drink has robbed me of that control, and I won't be regaining it tonight.

After the bill is paid, we take our leave. Mr. Yoshida is the first one out of the restaurant, with Yuki tailing him. Richard sees that I can barely stand on my feet, and walking is utterly out of the question, which is why he's forced to carry me back to the limo, as difficult as it may be for him. So his fat is just fat, no kind of muscle hidden underneath those calories.

He sidles out the door, where Yuki watches on and asks him, "Are you sure she'll be okay?"

"She will be," Richard responds, chuckling sheepishly as to not lose face in her presence. "This is nothing new for her. Or me." He mutters that last phrase under his breath.

Inside the limo, Richard sits me down on my side of the seat. Yuki provides me a bottle of water from the mini-bar, and I cool my head off by downing half of it. I rub my head to sober up faster, feeling ashamed about my less-than-graceful conduct just now.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," I apologize to the Yoshida's, looking away from them.

"I have seen this one plenty of times before," states Yuki, crossing her legs and touching her chin. "When someone has one drink too many, it's often to forget about something. Is there something you want to forget, Nicole?"

"Huh? No, no." I really hate to lie to her, but I have to. This is none of her concern. By that token, it's not really any of Richard's business, either, but here he is, roped in.

Yuki doesn't press any further and does away with the topic.

Pierre drives me and Richard back home. We thank our hosts for the hospitality they've shown us and for allowing us to have such a rare experience. They are ready to leave, but not without Yuki putting her hands out of the window and placing them between my paw.

"I know you very well, Nicole. If you ever need my help, you have my number on your phone," she tells me. "Goodnight, Nicole-san. Goodnight, Richard-san."

The limo drives off from the curb, and Richard tends to me wondering if I still need him to carry me. I turn him down and walk next to him.

Though I appreciate Yuki's bid to help me, I don't need it. Just because I'm dealing with a burden—one that I believed I had done away with—doesn't give me the right to be a burden to other people, much less my closest of friends. This is my problem, and I'm going to deal with it, confront it, as I have before.