Becoming a Swiftie in My Fifties: Suzanne Kamata

Read First Chapter: Cinnamon Beach

Olivia

Olivia had cruised along I-26 from the capital to the coast of South Carolina more times than she could count, but this time was different. Back in the day, she had ridden shotgun in a girlfriend’s convertible, with a passel of other co-eds in the back, on their way to spring break and beer and boys at the beach. Or, another time, it had been in her yellow VW Beetle, on the way to see the do-gooder surfer guy she thought she couldn’t live without, the one who spent the summer at Myrtle Beach and took her to that place where they tossed their clam shells onto a sawdust-covered floor. Then there was that excursion to Hilton Head Island with Masahiro, before they got married, the one where he freaked out when he saw an alligator sunbathing on the golf course green.

Later, she’d driven to Charleston for an academic conference where she’d presented her paper on Aiken-born writer Gamel Woolsey. And then there had been that trip to promote her own short story collection – her first ever book tour! When their kids were small, they’d met up at the Isle of Palms with her brother Ted and his wife Parisa and their daughter and two sets of grandparents — the good old days. Olivia felt an arrow pierce her heart. This time, it was just Olivia and her two teenagers in a rental car. A minivan. She wasn’t used to driving such a big car. In Japan, she drove what they called a toaster-shaped Kei car, which was small enough to navigate the narrow roads in their neighborhood. 

“Why don’t you drive faster?” Yuto asked from the back seat. He’d been more or less silent for the first hour of the trip, busy filming roadside novelties with his smartphone, which he’d later post on Instagram or Snapchat or TikTok or whatever – she couldn’t keep up.

“Why?” Oliva asked, irritated. She looked into her rearview mirror, and saw his head, topped by a baseball cap, hovering over his phone. He’d bought a SIM card before leaving Tokushima. For all she knew, he was chatting with his friends back home.“Because everybody’s passing you,” he said.

As if to prove his point, a massive semi whooshed past them, followed by three more cars, all made in Japan. She glanced at the speedometer and confirmed that she was, indeed, driving the speed limit.

Olivia had read somewhere that early in the pandemic, the highways were so tantalizingly devoid of traffic that many drivers could not resist pressing down on the gas pedal. The highway patrol had raked in the bucks from the speeding tickets they’d issued, back when just about every other business was gasping for breath. But Olivia was used to driving slowly. Also, to be honest, she wasn’t in a hurry to get where they were going. To be completely honest, she was struggling with the desire to turn the car around and go back to Columbia.

She looked in the rearview mirror again to check on Sophie. As expected, she was engrossed in her manga, oblivious to the scraps of blown-out tires and English-language billboards on the side of the road urging her to repent. Her hearing aids were in her lap.

“Anyone need to stop?” she asked. “Looks like there’s a service station up ahead.”

She thought she heard a murmur of agreement, and she wanted to use the restroom anyway, and take a moment before hurtling on into this dreaded not-a-vacation, so she eased onto the next exit ramp.

Once the car was parked, she leaned over the back seat and tapped Sophie’s knee. She signed “bathroom?” – one hand making a “W. C’ like an OK sign with an open O. Olivia was sure that it was an obscene gesture in some European country – Italy, maybe – just as the Japanese sign for “older brother” meant “fuck you” in America.

Sophie nodded and pushed the thick manga off of her lap. They went in together, Olivia waiting outside the bathroom while her daughter went in first. When she came out, Olivia handed her a couple of crumpled dollar bills. “Buy a snack or a drink,” she signed.

Inside the bathroom, she stood in front of the mirror, far enough back to take in at least half of herself. Her shalwar kameez with the Parisa! label stitched in back was not as wrinkled as she’d expected. This one, in a Palmetto print with a nod to the South Carolina state tree, had a touch of polyester. She was wearing it as kind of conciliatory gesture toward her sister-in-law, the eponymous Parisa!

A few years back, Parisa had come up with the idea of marketing the traditional tunic and pants combo of Southeast Asian women to ladies who lunch in the South. Instead of stitching them up into the usual jewel-toned silks and cottons of her parents’ India, she chose Liberty of London florals, playful prints, and alternative materials, such as paper. The “pajama pant suits” had taken off locally, and then nationally, after a few significant influencers had posted photos of themselves dressed in Parisa! on their social media. The outfits were classic, flattering to just about every body type, and they were super comfortable. Now, Parisa’s fan base included female politicians, writers, and talk show hosts. Parisa! had become a household name.

Olivia smoothed down the front of her tunic with the palms of her hands, then swiped at the smudges of mascara under her eyes with a pinky. There was a dent between her eyebrows. If only she had been injected with Botox! If only she were ten years younger! She sighed, turned away from the mirror, finished her business and went back to the car.

Yuto and Sophie were already in the back seat, buckled up and ready to go. Sophie had popped open a can of Diet Coke.

“What’d you get?” Olivia asked.

Yuto held up a bag of fried pork rinds. “Want some?”

“Uh, no thanks.” Sure, Olivia had lived in the South, but she’d never become quite that Southern.