She called an English student for a lesson. He came with a car, a hot spring, and a life she had never imagined. Before she knew it, the lesson had turned into something neither of them had planned for.
Japan has a tradition of visiting the graves of deceased relatives during the Bon festival. The government declares a long holiday once a year for this purpose, usually in August. Families bring flowers and burn incense, believing the fragrance pleases both the dead and God. Relatives used to carry food and eat together at the graveside, though only a few places still allow it.
Mr. Ushio was at a graveyard when I called him one afternoon. He was not expecting my call, but it turned out he had been wanting to talk to me about a proposal.
I had woken up one day thinking of him. I remembered how we first met in class at Bob's World, how he used to look, how he had changed, how he spoke to me early that day at the school, how he had invited me to travel to Canada. I would smile remembering how he used to linger downstairs talking with the owner after class, leaving only after I had gone. He would maneuver his car at the traffic light so he would be at my side when it turned red — and still stop briefly even when he missed it, just to see if he had caught my attention. I remembered the evening he asked where I was going and offered me a ride, and how handsome he looked inside his car with the dim light.
I kept thinking of him all day and all night. He lingered in my mind as if his memories had been injected into my brain. After a few days, it felt as though I had known him for a long time. I had to do something. Since he was going to Canada but worried about his English, I went to a bookstore and bought an English-Japanese travel conversation guide. Then I called the former assistant at Bob's World to ask for his cellphone number. She had it saved.
After practicing how to begin and deciding what to say, I dialed the number. It began to ring.
"Moshi, moshi," he said. I answered in English: "Good afternoon, Mr. Ushio. This is Marisa from Bob's World." "Ah, haha, konnichiwa," he said. In Japanese, I apologized for calling so suddenly. He replied, also in Japanese: "No — actually, I had been wanting to talk to you. I wonder if you could teach me English in private." I was not ready for this. It was not in the script. I simply said, "Really?" then went on with what I had planned. I told him about the book for his trip. But by the end of the call, we had already agreed to meet. I would wait for him by the road outside my place on a particular day at a particular time.
I went outside earlier than the agreed time. I had been there only a few minutes when I saw his light blue car — easy to recognize because it was wider and longer than most. He stopped in front of me and opened the door from inside. We greeted each other and I got in.
He asked if there was any place I wanted to go to study, but I had none in mind. He suggested we drive while learning. His car was quiet enough for speaking, but I had brought books for the lesson. Not knowing how to start teaching inside a moving car, I began with, "Shall we start now?" "Yes, please," he said. I asked the same questions from class — review first, then questions about his day that required simple past, present, and future tense answers. Sensing I was not at ease, he switched to Japanese and changed the topic. We talked about my studies, how I came to Japan, my family. We shifted subjects and languages — but because my Japanese was better than his English, we spoke his language most of the time.
After driving for hours, we reached the foot of a mountain — a ski resort. People were falling in line for a rope car to the top. He asked if I wanted to try, and I did not hesitate. He bought two tickets and we were lifted up. The view of the mountain grew wider and more beautiful as we rose. Everyone seemed amazed, and Mr. Ushio was clearly enjoying the sight, too.
"It's a nice view!" I said in English. "Yes, it's a nice view!" he repeated loudly. He said it several more times before we left the resort, as if the phrase was worth keeping. We drove again, stopped to eat at a restaurant, and he brought me back to my place. Before we parted, he asked if we could continue the lessons that way — driving while learning. I said it was fine but warned him I might not be an effective teacher. He said it was alright. He wanted to learn while having fun.
The next time we met, he said we were going to a hot spring. I told him about my first experience at the aqua arena during my homestay. He said this place was different — natural and old, famous not only in the region but across the entire country. It was called Naruko. He used to live in the mountain nearby with a friend from school who was a veterinarian. They raised cows against all odds but eventually closed the farm. He became a businessman; his friend entered politics.
Because he was wearing his usual worn-looking pants, I asked him about it — carefully, saying "like that" in Japanese instead of "dirty." He laughed and explained it was because of his job. His business involved cleaning, and the stains were unavoidable. I told him how my father used to scold me when I did not clean the house to his satisfaction. He said he shared my father's principle in that respect.
We reached Naruko hours later and parked in front of an old structure at the foot of a mountain. He spoke with the staff, and a woman showed me around. There were two baths inside — one with white water, the other brown — and a clear outdoor one available to women after a certain time. He gave me a small towel and said to go to a particular room after bathing, but reminded me I could take my time.
I went to the outdoor bath while he went inside. Nobody was there, so I did not have to worry about undressing in public. I sat on a plastic stool, washed myself, and slipped into the water. The temperature was perfect. It gushed down from a small tube into a pool surrounded by beautifully arranged rocks, ornamental plants, and small pine trees. There was a fence with a roof over it. I was indeed taking my time — but a woman came, so I waited briefly, then slowly got out.
Mr. Ushio was already in the room, sitting on the floor beside a table, smoking a cigarette. I sat across from him. He had ordered food, but since I was late, he had already eaten his share while it was hot. He invited me to eat. On the table were brown noodles with green strips on top, fried shrimps and vegetables, a bowl of soup, another bowl without vegetables, a cup of tea, sliced Welsh onion, and wasabi. There was a small jar and an empty bowl. And I was going to have all of them while he watched.
I picked up the chopsticks and held them up, wondering which dish to start with. He guided me through it — what to pour where, how to dip the fried food. It would have been easier if he had ordered ramen, I thought. I was still not good with chopsticks after almost two years in Japan. Noel and I always used fork and spoon; at my room, I ate with my hands.
I was still eating when I noticed he had fallen asleep — lying on his left side, elbow on the floor, head drooping toward his shoulder. I got to look at him closely. He had broad shoulders, an elongated heart-shaped face, rosy cheeks, a long nose, red lips, and thick eyebrows. He showed no signs of hair loss. He was three years older than my father, but he looked younger and far more authoritative.
He was awakened by the sound of dishes when I was putting them away. He smoked another cigarette, and we left for Sendai. Our conversation that day turned out to be very revealing. He began by saying he understood how lonely it was to live in a foreign country without one's family. Then he asked if I ever had a boyfriend in Japan.
I said yes, as a matter of fact. He asked who. "A Monbusho scholar like me, from a small country in Southeast Asia," I said. He asked if I was still seeing him. I said no, because he had gone home to get married. He kept asking, and I told him everything — including how Noel had been kind and supportive. When I thought he was done, I threw similar questions back. I asked if he had a girlfriend. Surprisingly, he said he did — and they had been seeing each other for years. I asked whether she would be jealous if she found out he was going out with his English teacher. He assured me it was alright.
We were quiet for a while. I was embarrassed — I should not have mentioned jealousy. She had nothing to be jealous of. We were supposed to be learning while driving. Then I remembered the travel book and handed it to him. To my surprise, he said he was planning to cancel the trip even though he had already paid in full. I did not know what to think — and decided not to ask why.
My cellphone rang one late afternoon. It was Noel. He was back in Japan and asked if he could see me at my place. He knew men were not allowed, and I used it as an excuse, but he said he would not stay long and would be careful. I was lost for words. He had his wife now, and I had been spending time with Mr. Ushio. But how could I refuse?
Then he said, "Please, Marisa. You know what? I did not sleep with my wife in Hong Kong. I told her I was not feeling well."
He must have thought I was refusing because I was jealous. "You must be kidding," I replied. But he never lied to me, and he knew I would somehow find out if it was not true. "It's true, really," he said. For what he did not do in Hong Kong, I agreed to meet him.
The Chinese roommate was not there, so I was alone. I left the main door unlocked so he would not attract attention. Because he had helped me move in, he knew the way. We had been seeing each other for almost two years, but I had never been in this position — physically or emotionally. I had always been the one who went to his place, and never with any reservation. Now everything was different.
I heard the door open and turned off the television. He came in slowly, put his hands on my shoulders. I stopped and faced him so we could walk together. I let him enter the room first and closed the door behind me. I invited him to sit, but he did not. We stood, talking. "Why didn't you sleep with your young wife in Hong Kong? You're crazy," I said, pretending to move something on the table. He smiled and reached for my hand. I avoided it. Then he pulled me close, and I put my arms around him, my head on his shoulder.
He kissed me on my forehead, my eyes, my nose, my lips. He was passionate, and I was aware of his every move, thinking this would be our last time together. But there was an invisible barrier holding me away — the thought of his wife, of Mr. Ushio. My conscience. I walked him to the door afterward, and watched him ride his bicycle until he disappeared.
But I wanted to see his wife in person. If Noel had not changed the time and place of his grocery shopping, I knew where to find her. I went to the area one morning. As expected, they were there — walking along the road between the apartment and a nearby supermarket. He was holding her hand tightly, as if worried she would suddenly cross the street. I believed he saw me approaching on my bicycle, and he was smiling, but our eyes did not meet because I was looking at his wife most of the time. She was just like the photos — pretty and young.
It was a relief to see them together. Undoubtedly, they were in each other's good hands.
The next time Mr. Ushio picked me up, he said we were not driving. I was going to teach him at his place. I wished he had told me earlier so I could have brought my books — but I could improvise.
He had told me he lived with his two daughters — both single. The elder was five years younger than me and worked for his company; the younger was a college student, reportedly very smart. He parked by the road in front of a property with big and small trees. A pathway lined with plants and large rocks led up to a house — big, two floors. He opened the door, and I saw beautiful flowers in a vase, their reflection gleaming on the polished wooden floor. He led me to a room that looked more like a library than a living room — shelves overflowing with books, a copy machine, telephones. He made tea and sat on the floor while I sat on the sofa.
I asked for paper and a pen and prepared a lesson on the use of "used to." By the end of it, he could say, "When I was a child, I used to play soccer" — and other sentences about past experiences. We had fun, even if his daughters looked puzzled and worried when he introduced me as his English teacher. They were wondering why he needed a private lesson when he was already learning at Bob's World.
Before we left, he tried to give me money, but I did not take it. We had not discussed a fee, and the amount was far more than I deserved — especially considering I had barely taught him anything. I asked him to keep it and give it to me when I passed the entrance examination. He reluctantly agreed.
Before I got out of his car, he asked which house was mine. I pointed to the old one. Then I thought: he had shown me his place, so I might as well show him mine. I told him men were not allowed but offered to let him in briefly. He agreed. He parked, walked with me to the house, and I unlocked the doors. Without entering, he looked inside the room and was clearly surprised. He would not come in when I invited him. Standing just outside the threshold, I pointed to the small chair near him, but he did not move. I put it closer. "So — this is my place," I said. He asked who I lived with, and I told him about the Chinese roommate. He finally sat, but his legs and feet stayed outside the room, as if making sure he could run if something happened. I asked if I could offer him anything and showed him the small refrigerator — some instant ramen on top, a can of pineapple and some eggs inside. He looked surprised again and laughed in disbelief. Then he stood, ready to leave.
Something changed after he saw my room. At Bob's World that Wednesday, he spoke less and watched more. He did not leave after class and was still talking with the owner when I left the school. I had passed two traffic lights and was near the train station when he stopped his car beside me and said he was taking me home. I got in with a quiet sense of respect. I knew what he was trying to show me.
On another day, I had been teaching at a company in the evening and noticed my period starting. I did not worry because it usually came the next day. But by the time class ended, my pants were already wet and impossible to hide. At the train station, I had no choice but to call Mr. Ushio. He arrived about an hour later, smiling. He handed me a plastic bag containing a pair of jeans, a pair of underwear, and sanitary napkins. I changed in the station restroom and got in his car — thankful and apologetic. He said it was alright. He used to do it for his daughters, too. The pants belonged to his eldest. He had been divorced for more than ten years and raised both girls by himself.This moment — a man who brings napkins without embarrassment — echoes the fatherly care she has sought her whole life. He is three years older than her own father.
On our next lesson day, he took me to his house again. This time, he showed me other parts of the first floor, and I understood why he had not stepped into my room — it was about the size of his bathroom. I noticed his room was the messiest in the house. Instead of teaching, I volunteered to clean it — one way to return the favor. He refused but agreed when I insisted. I took all the books off the shelves. He threw some away, and the rest looked better when returned. I rearranged the furniture. He made food while I cleaned, and afterward, he thought of taking my picture. Although I wondered why, I let him and posed.
I was at his place several more times, and we became more comfortable with each other. Too comfortable — one day, his eldest daughter found us together on his bed. We were not doing anything romantic when she came in, but she looked surprised and asked if we were not hot. He said it was alright and asked her to leave. We laughed about it afterward. But the scene became more intimate from there. What followed were trips to a hotel, then another. Things moved fast. He called his close friends to his house and introduced me to them. He brought me to meet his parents. Everyone seemed to approve — except his daughters.
I was now calling him Mitch, the way his daughters addressed him. He announced his plan: he was going to find me a new place to live.
In just a few days, he showed me an apartment on the first floor of a mansion building near downtown. It was more than good enough — it was wonderful. A kitchen, bathroom, living room, and bedroom. Because it was empty, we had to buy everything from spoons to a bed. We disposed of all the things I had picked up from the street. I brought the bicycle Noel had given me, but since I now had a new one, we returned it. Mitch put it in the trunk of his Nissan Serena and drove it to Noel's apartment. I had told Noel I would return it. He said I did not have to, but I could not throw it away. I left it outside his door, next to his wife's.
In days, the mansion was fully furnished. The small space in front was even planted with flowers. Mitch would sometimes stay the night and leave early for work. He would pick me up after my teaching at the company and at Bob's World. I had quit the YMCA but kept my position at the other English school, which was close enough to reach by bicycle from the new place.
We tried to close our previous relationships. Mitch left one evening to meet his longtime girlfriend at a restaurant nearby. He came back relieved. For my part, I spoke to Noel on the telephone, urging him to forget about me and give his full attention to his wife. I did not tell him about Mitch or my new address.
The examination day came. Mitch took me to the university an hour early. I was wearing a new blouse, skirt, and shoes. Despite my preparation, I was nervous — and I used the extra time to pray. I have always believed it is unfair to ask God to help you after taking an examination. The asking must come before.
The written test came first. Then we were called one by one for the oral portion. Three men sat on the panel: Dr. Kawato, my prospective adviser; Mr. Tosa, Noel's adviser; and another man I did not yet know. After the academic questions, they asked how I had come to know the subject. I said I had been reading books. Then the final question: why had I not gone back to teaching in the Philippines after the Monbusho Scholarship?
I rode my bicycle from the mansion to the university on the day the results would be posted. Mitch had promised to buy a cake if I passed. He was at work but waiting for my call. I already knew the result when I dialed his number, so I tried to sound calm. "You have to buy a cake," I said, "and you'd better choose a nice one." He sounded excited but still could not believe I had made it.A math teacher from a small island in the Philippines just passed the entrance examination for the graduate law program at Tohoku University — one of Japan's most prestigious institutions.
I was not sure whether to call Noel. He could have seen the results before I did, or he might have been on campus watching. He would know even if I said nothing. He had been calling me since our last meeting, asking to see me again, but I always managed to refuse politely.
Mitch came to the mansion with a cake as promised, in a box. He handed it to me together with an envelope. The money inside was not for university fees, he said. It was for passing.
I went to the university to fill out enrollment forms and pay the entrance fee. There was no longer any fear in writing my contact number and my new address. I also brought forms for my professor to sign — an application for a tuition scholarship.
I was not in high spirits that morning. Mitch had scolded me for being too slow getting ready. He had to take me to a photo center for ID pictures and other documents. He reminded me of the way my father used to scold me. Then he drove me to the university and told me to call when I was done. But he came to pick me up smiling. He watched me walk from the law department building toward his car. As soon as I got in, he said we were going shopping — he was going to buy me a computer for my studies. My disappointment flew out the window. At the shop, my options were limited because I wanted one that could be reset to English. I got a laptop — one of the newest in stock. It came with a printer.
During the first week of classes, Noel approached me and asked if we could talk. I was afraid to be seen with him but felt I owed him that much. I agreed to meet him down the hill, under the big trees by the river near the main road. We sat on the ground facing the water so nobody could see our faces. I wanted to end the meeting quickly. He was repeating what he had said on the phone. I told him I could still help with his reports if he wanted, but I could not see him privately anymore. He said he did not want my help with his studies.
The meeting ended without agreement. It was followed by another phone call while I was at work. He said he was outside my old place. I told him I no longer lived there. I pitied him for trying so hard, but I tried to sound as cold and determined as I could. I stayed on the phone longer than usual, making sure he understood that I wanted the best for him with his new life.
She did not plan to fall for Mr. Ushio. She called him for a lesson and ended up being the one who was taught — by a man who brought napkins to a train station without embarrassment, who saw her sleeping cabinet and said nothing, who furnished an empty apartment in days and planted flowers in front of it. Mitch did not rescue her. He watched her prepare for the examination she had no business passing, drove her to the building, and waited for the phone call. The cake and the envelope were extras. What mattered was this: for the first time in her life, someone believed in what she could do — and backed that belief with quiet, everyday action. She had learned more about partnership in the passenger seat of a Nissan Serena than in all her years with Marlon. And under the trees by the river, she said the hardest goodbye of her life — not because she still loved Noel, but because she knew he still loved her.