Mr. Murikami

He sits at the same table every time he comes into the Golden Oyster. His white hair looks dull under the fluorescent lights. He orders the same meal and stays for only one hour, never any time more or less. He’s respectful and quiet as he eats his lobster bisque with two pieces of bread. He blows on his spoon to cool down the soup then takes a slow slurp. He breaks a piece of bread to dunk into his soup. He drinks only water but I remember once he ordered a whisky, neat.

He dresses nicely– a suit with a clean white dress shirt and what seems like a different tie every time he comes in. He always matches his socks and his pocket square to his tie. After he finishes his meal, he pulls out a little black book and starts to write. It’s a pocket sized black notebook with a lavender string. I always wondered what he wrote. Sometimes I would go to his table to refill his water glass but he would always hide his notebook. I would get suspicious but I didn’t think it was anything to worry about.

He comes to the restaurant every Saturday night at 6pm. I always wondered why he came here. The Golden Oyster isn’t the best restaurant to get quality seafood anymore. It’s been in this little town for as long as I remember. I see the dusty photos of the restaurant and the happy patrons through the years on the walls. It’s been open since 1955 and used to be the hot spot of the time but now it’s a hole in the wall that is often overlooked.

I started working here three years ago, before I was pregnant with my daughter. She’s almost two years old and comes here from time to time after the babysitter drops her off and my shift is over. All the employees have seen her grow. They’re my work family and to be honest my only family. I never really had a place to call home but this seems close enough. At first, this job was just a job but now it is so much more.

As I walk to the front of the restaurant, I notice the man still drawing in his little black book. I can see the babysitter’s lights as she pulls into the parking lot. My daughter is probably sleeping in the back seat and will hopefully be asleep for the rest of the night. I say goodbye to the other waitress working, pick up the boxed leftovers for the babysitter and walk towards the car.

It’s hard being a single mother. My only focus is to make our life better and once I do I know I won’t be working at the Golden Oyster anymore. I’ll have roots for us to grow into. I see my daughter soundly sleeping as I get in the car. Her face is my reminder to work harder. I place the boxes of leftovers in the back seat beside my daughter and get in the passenger seat. Mrs. Hem asks how work was. I tell her about my day as I usually do as we drive home. It’s a quiet drive back; never saying more than four or five remarks between the two of us. As we pull up to her house, I thank her for the drive and for taking care of my daughter. I carefully grab my daughter, trying not to wake her up from the back seat.

I live in Mrs. Hem’s basement. She has four kids of her own and is a wonderful help when I need her. She’s a stay at home mother and her husband is a plumber, from what I can remember.

The basement apartment is perfect for us right now. It’s a quaint one-bedroom apartment with just enough space. I put my baby in her bed and head over to the kitchen. I make myself a tuna sandwich before watching something on TV. The TV was passed down from Mrs. Hem. Come to think of it, all the furniture was passed down. I remember when I found this place in the newspaper. I immediately called Mr. Hem from work and asked if the apartment was still available. I spoke with him for a few minutes about my situation and he offered a price reduction. I was shocked at his kindness. I’m incredibly thankful for the Hem family.

I finish eating my sandwich and head to bed. I don’t set the alarm this time, as Sundays are my only day off.

When Saturday morning rolls around, I look through the window and I can see the leaves blowing past the lawn. I should wear a scarf today. I see my daughter still sleeping and I quietly go to the kitchen to make some breakfast - eggs and toast with coffee. I don’t have to go into work until 3pm so I have some time to clean the apartment. As I finish my last sip of coffee, my daughter starts to cry. I run into the room and pick her up in my arms. I soothe her down. I prepare some breakfast for her, too. She loves eating soft boiled eggs. I also feed her some apple sauce.

Once she’s done eating I bathe her and set her down in her playpen. I clean the apartment and then it’s time for me to get ready and leave for work. Sometimes, I let my daughter pick out her own outfit for the day. She loves to be in charge and I love seeing her personality show as the years go by.

I grab my backpack and my daughter’s baby bag and head out the door. I ring Mrs. Hem’s doorbell. She grabs my daughter and asks me if I’m off at the same time as usual. I answer yes and wave goodbye as I head for the bus stop.

Work drags on as usual. It’s almost time for the old man to come in. I prepare his table with his water glass, a napkin and some cutlery. When he enters the restaurant I say hello and guide him to his table. He asks for his usual order and I let the kitchen staff know. As I wait for his order to be prepared, I clean the other table. The other waitress guides another group of guests to their table. I bring the old man his meal and go to the back. This is probably the most people we will have today and it will slow down as the night goes on. I see the old man writing in his book and I pour water into the jug and remember I need to call Mrs. Hem to see how my daughter is doing. I walk over to the old man’s table, pour more water into his empty glass. I grab his empty plate and he continues to write in his little black book.

After the dishes are put into the dishwasher, I call Mrs. Hem. She tells me everything is fine and I go back to work. After I check up on the two other tables, I head back to the front to answer the phone. It’s the other waitress’ husband asking if she’ll be home on time. I call her over and hand the phone to her. I check up on the tables and go to the back to see what’s left over from dinner.

It’s almost time for me to go home, and I see the old man leaving as well. I go to clear his dishes and clean the table. As I walk over, I see the little black book he always writes in. I grab it and run for the door. I look around but there’s no one around.

I don’t understand. He was right here. I go back inside and put the book in my bag. He’ll be back next Saturday. I can return it then. As Mrs. Hem’s headlights fill the restaurant, I grab my bag and her leftovers and run out the door.

The next morning, I still can’t believe he left his little black book at the restaurant. I’ve always seen him with it. He’s very protective of it. I don’t understand. I pack it in my bag. I haven’t opened it even though I’m very curious. His journal remains private. I say goodbye to my daughter and Mrs. Hem and head for the bus stop. There’s a detour on this route. The usual course is blocked due to some construction delay. As I put my headphones in and look out the window, we pass a beautiful tree. It’s big. I’ve never seen such a big tree. This neighbourhood is my favourite. All the homes are large and I imagine the families that could be enjoying a family meal at the kitchen table or the children playing in their backyards, running through the sprinklers on a hot sunny day. I would love to raise my daughter in a neighbourhood like this.

As I get off the bus, I notice I’m a few minutes late. I run inside the restaurant and start my shift. It’s almost 6pm and I go to the to grab the notebook and wait for the old man to come in.

It’s now five minutes past six. He’s still not here. Where is he? He is never late. Ten minutes now pass. I’m getting worried. Has he decided he doesn’t want to eat here anymore? He must know his book is missing. The pages look like they’ve been written in. I put the book bag back in my bag and continue with my shift.

Once I’m home, I put my daughter to bed and decide to open the journal to help me find more about this old man. I know I shouldn’t but I feel like it’s my obligation to return it. It is filled with drawings. Drawings of birds, the restaurant, a beautiful woman. She’s young and glowing. He’s probably an artist. There’s a photograph in there, too. Two young boys and the same beautiful woman. Behind the photograph there is a date - April 1966. I think one of the boys is the old man and maybe the woman is his mother.

I keep looking through it. There are a few journal entries in there too, and I skim through them. He has a daughter of his own and a grandchild. He loves his family. It’s very heartwarming to read all the kind words he has about his family. I flip through some more.

There’s me! It’s a drawing of me at the restaurant. When did he draw me? I keep looking. There’s that tree that I saw on the bus detour. It looks like he drew the tree through a window. It’s a series of the tree through the different seasons. I know what I’m going to do tomorrow.

Usually on Sundays I spend my time with my daughter and prepare for the week ahead; clean the apartment and do some grocery shopping. I ask Mrs. Hem if she can babysit my daughter for a couple of hours while I go and find the owner of the black notebook. I get on the bus and head towards the tree.

I get off the bus and try to pinpoint the house the drawing could be from. I head for the big brown stone house. It has a red door. I ring the doorbell and step back. What do I say? What if he’s not here? Should I leave the notebook in the mailbox? Maybe no one’s home. As I turn back, the door opens.

“Sorry. Come on in.”

She’s beautiful. She reminds me of the drawing of the woman in the notebook. She has a somber face. Her eyes seem puffy as if she has been crying all night. I think she’s the old man’s daughter.

“I- I just came to return- ”

“The service will begin in a few minutes. Please take a seat in there. She pointed to the room off the entryway.”

Service? What service?

I turn the corner and there’s a huge picture of the old man. He’s dead? He’s dead. I sit at the closest chair on my right. I don’t understand. I just saw him last week. I look around and see this beautiful home filled with people. There must be around 20 people in this room alone.

The woman comes back from the other room and says a few words about him. He was an artist. His mother, brother and he travelled from Japan when he was very young. Tears are streaming down her cheeks as she talks about him. Once she is finished, another young man helps her to her seat. I think it’s her husband. He says a few words. As he speaks, I want to leave but for some reason I can’t move. I’m frozen in my seat and can’t feel my legs anymore. I try to get up but gravity pushes me down. I’m crying.

A couple more people say their goodbyes. An uncomfortable wave of silence fills the room. I think I should leave. As the daughter and son-in-law leave the room, I quickly get up to leave after them. She turns arounds.

“Are you staying for some food? There will be more than enough.”

“I think I should be going.”

As I head for the door, I remember I haven't returned the book yet. I turn around.

“I have something for you.”

I open my bag and take out the little black notebook. I can tell she’s going to cry again.

“He left it the last time he was at the restaurant. At the Golden Oyster. I work there.”

“You’re her!”

“Who? Me? “

Does she think I stole the notebook? I tell her I’m just returning it, and that I’m a waitress at the restaurant.

“I know. Come with me.”

I know? How does she know who I am? She leads me upstairs into a bedroom. It’s the old man’s bedroom. I can see the big tree perfectly through his window. The wind is blowing through the branches.

“Please sit.”

I sit at his desk. There’s so many pieces of scrap paper with drawings. It’s a mess. When he would come into the restaurant, he was dressed very formally. I can’t really picture him being messy. I smile a little as I look down at the pictures.

“My dad, Lee. Lee Murikami spoke about you a lot. All the time when he would come back from the Golden Oyster. He really liked you.”

“We barely spoke though. He would come in Saturday evenings, eat, draw in that notebook and then leave. “

“He’s a man of few words but he really fell in love with your story.”

“My story?”

“You’re a single mother. He was raised by a single mother, too. He really respects you and admires you for all your work.”

I’m crying again. Now she’s crying too. I had no idea he noticed me, let alone my daughter. He saw her grow up and saw me struggle to raise her. While I was watching him, he was watching me too.

“He left you something.”

I’m not sure what to expect. She leaves the room, and returns after a brief moment.

“He wants you to have this.”

It’s cheque. A big cheque. I’ve never seen so many zeros before. Is this a mistake? I just stare at the cheque. I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

“I - I don’t know what to say.”

She smiles.

“It’s for you and your daughter. I’m going to head back down now. There are some guests that need my attention. Promise me you’ll eat before you leave.”

“I promise.”

After I eat, I say goodbye to Mr. Murikami’s daughter and head for the door. She waves goodbye and I wave back. I walk to the bus stop but I keep walking. I’m still in shock.

The cold wind hits my face and pulls me into reality. I need to go home. I need to see my daughter. I find the next bus stop and get on the bus to go home. I make it home. I knock on the door and Mrs. Hem is there to greet me inside. My daughter spots me and a large smile grows on her face. She runs towards me.

There’s my baby girl.