Author's note: The point of view (POV) always shifted between the author's POV and Sakura's POV only, so don't get confused since I wanted to make the story flow naturally.
Manhattan, New York, December 2005
Unbeknownst to me, today marked my final day in New York, the culmination of two summers and two Christmases spent with my foster parents, Adam and Margareth Whitney. They were an enchanting elderly couple, inseparable in their affection, their smiles as radiant as the sun and their cheeks aglow like ripe tomatoes, especially in the scorching heat. Adam, a retired lawyer, and Margareth, a former banker, had toiled tirelessly over the years, reaping the rewards in the form of a home nestled on a vast expanse of land where their twin Doberman dogs frolicked and chased one another.
In contrast to conventional Japanese familial expectations, their own twins, a son and a daughter, had chosen independent paths after high school graduation. They had woven their lives with their respective partners, distancing themselves from their parents. In Japan, turning eighteen bestows legal freedom to live wherever one pleases and engage in pre-marital relationships. However, marriage remains a deeply sacred institution, and forming a connection with one's future in-laws is considered indispensable. Parental involvement persists until an emotional or legal separation is formalized.
My future seemed likely to diverge considerably from that of the Whitney couple's children, who enjoyed the autonomy to navigate their own paths, be it for better or worse. It was noticeable that the Whitneys experienced solitude, particularly during the holiday season, when their children could have graced them with their presence, even sporadically, to alleviate the emptiness of their parents' twilight years during Christmas and Thanksgiving.
Thus, it was no surprise that when they "adopted" me, they were quite pleased, akin to adopting a charming, tail-wagging puppy rescued from the confines of a puppy mill. My quirky sense of humor, often lost on kids my age, brought laughter to the Whitneys' Christmas and Thanksgiving gatherings. Perhaps thinking about a career in nursing at a senior care facility might be worth considering, given my knack for humor that seemed well-suited for the elderly.
After the Christmas party with our neighbors concluded, my foster mom, with a curious look, asked me to follow her. I was genuinely puzzled but obliged, much like a curious kitten. I couldn't help but wonder where she was leading me to.
The hallway we ventured into was bathed in a soft, dim light, and the guardian's footsteps, though barely audible, seemed to carry a sense of anticipation. Each step she took echoed softly, like the subdued whispers of time held within the walls.
As we entered the room, a calm silence enveloped the air, and it felt like we had stepped into a world frozen in the amber of memory. Dust motes, stirred by our presence, danced in the slivers of sunlight filtering through heavy curtains. The room, adorned with faded wallpaper and aged furniture, bore the marks of time's tender but unyielding embrace.
"Come, my dear, into my daughter's old room. I want to share something special with you."
Her words carried a tone of quiet reverence, as if this room held sentimental value, and the memories it contained were treasures to be appreciated. She wore a gentle smile, and her eyes, deep pools of experience, cradled the weight of years gone by.
My curiosity peaked, and I stepped cautiously into the room, my gaze drifting over the faded wallpaper and aged furniture.
"What is it?"
My foster mom approached an old, weathered cupboard, its hinges protesting with a creak as she swung it open. Inside, a collection of elegant dresses lay waiting, their fabrics hinting at stories from a bygone era.
"These dresses and clothes belonged to my daughter when she was teenager."
My eyes widened in awe, and my fingers caressed the intricate embroidery on one of the gowns.
"Your daughter's clothes? But she never visits..."
Her voice held a delicate strain of nostalgia as she replied, "No, she doesn't, but I've come to see you as my own daughter. Let me share stories of her while you try on one of these old dresses."
As she shared, her words painted a picture of memories, each sentence revealing moments from a time long past. I was touched by the sincere tales of love and laughter, of shared dreams and kept secrets.
Approaching her with a measured pace, I showed respect for the room and the memories it held. Gently, I took my place beside her on the edge of her daughter's old bed. The mattress seemed to cradle our presence, carrying the weight of bygone moments and faded dreams.
My words, spoken in a soft whisper, conveyed a genuine interest. "I'd love to hear about her." It was a request filled with a desire to bridge the gap between the past and the present, to connect with my foster mom's memories and to understand her daughter who had left her mark on this room.
Margareth held up a black cocktail dress, its hem appearing to stop just above her thigh. "What do you think? This was the dress Agatha wore for her sixteenth birthday."
I couldn't help but note the coincidence, as I was nearly sixteen myself, only two months away from that milestone.
"Hmm, not bad," I replied, a hint of jest in my tone.
Without hesitation, Margareth pressed the dress against my chest. I wondered how it would look on me. "It looks like this suits you. Your body shapes are not that different."
"Is that so?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. I instinctively stood up and faced the dressing table mirror, where I caught a reflection that left me momentarily stunned. The dress had transformed me, making me appear older, more sophisticated, and undeniably attractive, a far cry from my sixteen-year-old self. I couldn't help but wonder if this was the kind of allure that made it easier for girls to navigate the world of adulthood.
"You know, Agatha really idolizes actresses from the '50s, especially Grace Kelly," my foster mom shared, breaking the silence as I examined my reflection. "To Catch a Thief, for her, was like a holy book, or something. She memorized every dialogue and scene."
My admiration for Agatha's taste couldn't be contained, and I offered my praise with a faint smile, "Wow, I didn't expect your daughter's taste to be so good. I mean, I idolize Grace Kelly too."
"Really? Why didn't you tell me earlier?" My foster mom's enthusiasm was evident. "Wait a minute, it looks like there's another dress that suits you."
Returning to the bed, I settled down once more, taking in the room's ambiance. The walls adorned with posters of Golden Hollywood actresses and actors exuded a sense of reverence for a bygone era. But it was Agatha's particular taste that caught my eye. She admired the slender figures of Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly, and Sharon Tate, aligning herself with their elegant, timeless beauty.
Unknowingly, my gaze wandered to a nightstand bearing dusty figures, capturing Agatha's essence through the years. In one photograph, Agatha stood poised and elegant, her wavy blonde hair cascading freely. She was on the edge of a yacht, embraced by a brunet-haired man, their intimacy palpable. Another photo depicted her confidently ascending a staircase in the same black dress I now held, exuding the aura of a top-tier celebrity. The dress clung to her curves, accentuating her beauty, while her bun and tiara transformed her into a blonde incarnation of Audrey Hepburn. Her expressive eyes, mischievously squinted like a fox, framed by thick eyebrows, and her plump lips formed a smile that radiated charm. She embodied the allure of the sexy, chic, upper-middle-class Valley Girl, perpetually hungry for attention.
In that room, filled with echoes of time and remnants of a past era, I sensed a connection with Agatha. Her legacy lingered in the memories and dresses left behind.
"If only Agatha hadn't left so soon," Margareth sighed, a hint of sorrow in her tone. But her mood quickly shifted, and she grinned. "Hey, check out this sleeveless red cocktail dress. What do you think?"
"Wow, that's cool!" I said with excitement, my eyes lighting up like a kid eyeing cotton candy. "Mind if I try it?"
"Of course. Besides, it would be a waste to leave it lying around in this old cupboard," Margareth replied as she quickly pulled out several other clothes and placed them on the bed.
I moved behind a nearby wall, feeling a bit shy as I took off my brown sweater and mom jeans. Margareth teased, "Sakura, you're being silly! Why so embarrassed to change in front of your foster mom? We've done it countless times when I used to take you to the gym."
I chuckled, replying, "Yeah, but you know I'm not your biological daughter."
Without hesitation, I slipped into the dress, finding it a perfect fit. However, I struggled with the zipper at the back, my fingers fumbling in panic. Finally emerging from behind the wall, I approached my foster mother, reaching for the stubborn zipper.
Margareth wore a warm smile. "Why didn't you just call for me? You never ask for help."
"Sorry," I admitted with a grin.
With a gentle touch, she placed her hands on my waist, adjusting the dress. Turning to the mirror, I was amazed. I had transformed into an elegant young woman, and the reflection seemed to pose the age-old question, "Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"
"You look great, Sakura," Margareth praised genuinely, her hand on my shoulder. It was a sentiment seldom expressed by my own mother. Strangely, others often showed more motherly affection toward me.
"It's a shame a girl as lovely as you doesn't have a boyfriend," Margareth continued. "Are there no boys at school interested in you?"
I grimaced and bit my lip. Jesse from my sophomore class had invited me to watch movies, but my heart was already occupied by thoughts of Sasuke. My time in New York was, in a way, a release for my feelings, as the man I longed for in Japan had not openly expressed his affection.
"To be honest," I began, turning to her, "there's someone I've liked since I was a child."
"Really? Who's the lucky guy?" Margareth gently tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.
"Sasuke. But... it's just..." I hesitated.
Margareth regarded me curiously. "It's just what?"
"He never seemed interested in me," I admitted, my tone tinged with pessimism.
"Ah, don't say that!" Margareth chided gently. "How could there be a man who wouldn't be interested in you? Could it be that he's gay?"
"Gosh, you're teasing me," I protested, affirming, "Sasuke clearly still likes girls!"
"How can you be so sure?" Margareth teased again. "You never know."
"Because... Because he once told everyone that he prefers girls with long hair."
"Even with your short hair now, you look charming," Margareth assured me. "A man won't care about your hairstyle or clothes if he's truly enamored with you. First impressions matter, but what's even more crucial is... self-confidence."
Margareth gently grasped both of my arms, her unwavering gaze fixed upon me. "Honey, take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror."
Turning to the mirror, I saw a girl with pink hair and a somewhat pensive expression looking back at me, as though from another dimension.
"What if all this time, that boy liked you? What if it's just that you were too anxious and worried about yourself, which prevented you from having the confidence that one day the man of your dreams would love you back? That's probably why you haven't noticed it yet."
"Margareth, please don't tease me like this," I said, my patience wearing thin.
"Sakura, Agatha used to be an innocent child, just like you," Margareth continued gently, her tone now tinged with empathy. "But one day, she decided to change. She started wearing the best clothes, applying natural yet classy makeup, and walking with her head held high. From that moment, no man could look away from her."
"I don't understand," I admitted, feeling a sense of confusion.
"You need to have more confidence in yourself," Margareth implored. "Believe that you are genuinely beautiful and make yourself happy. Happiness will find its way to you."
Margareth's words sparked motivation within me, reigniting a fire in my soul. Perhaps she was right. I'd been so focused on worrying about Sasuke's feelings that I neglected my own happiness. If only I had prioritized building self-confidence and finding contentment within myself, life might have been more enjoyable.
A sudden realization struck me. What if I became someone different? Someone I aspired to be, not just any guy's dream girl, but my own dream girl?
...
JFK International Airport, January 2006
After two weeks, I returned to Japan with a suitcase full of Agatha's once-opulent wardrobe, now left unused. To top it off, Margareth insisted on sending another parcel of goods to meet me at Narita airport in Tokyo.
"Take care, my darling. Look after yourself, and send my warm regards to your mother!" Margareth's voice echoed across the terminal as she waved.
"Farewell, Sakura!" my foster father chimed in, his hand joining the farewell wave. To my surprise, I noticed a hint of emotion in his eyes as he bid goodbye.
It was clear that both couples regarded me as their own daughter. The depth of their love, forged in just a few short years, left me humbled and overwhelmed.
It was evident that both couples regarded me as their own daughter. The depth of their love, forged in just a few short years, left me humbled.
Perhaps this was what people called an invisible bond. Maybe, in some distant past, these two had been my parents. This wasn't to say I wasn't grateful for my biological parents. It's just that, had my mother chosen to support rather than torment me, and my father chosen to listen to my grievances rather than laugh them off, maybe I wouldn't have yearned for different parental figures.
"Goodbye, Dad, Mom!" I called out from the passport control queue, waving with excitement. The two couples seemed almost disbelieving when I addressed them as father and mother. Their teary eyes and bittersweet smiles marked my departure for Japan.
For at least three years, I had been preparing for this moment.
Sasuke-kun, just you wait. I'll be back before you know it, and you'll regret letting me slip away.
- To Be Continued -
