"Astrid on the Move"
A new short story, with a note about its evolution.
A year ago, as I prepared to leave Hawaii, grad school acceptance secured, I wrote a short story, confident in its idea, slightly less so in its execution. After I completed it, I submitted the piece to a handful of literary magazines. Rejection after rejection came in. Okay, I thought, it’s like that.
Determined to improve it — because then I was naive to believe that all good work gets published — I submitted it for feedback during the first semester working toward my MFA. In hindsight, I owe a debt to the poor souls who reviewed the story in its infancy.
After reviewing their dutiful red marks, I revised and submitted it again, and once more (many times more) it was rejected. That was October of last year. Fast forward to today. I opened the file again just a few days after the final publication rejected it, a year after I submitted it for consideration. I shook my head. No wonder no one wanted it. Boy was it bad.
This author note doesn’t end with me telling you that I finally got it published. At least, not published in a traditional outlet. Instead, after spending the morning revising it for the umpteenth time, I’m releasing it here, still confident in its idea, but even more so now in its execution.
It’s titled “Astrid on the Move.” I hope you enjoy.
Adam
The first day she walked into our building’s rooftop gym, the afternoon sun broke through a corner of tinted windows, casting a spotlight over her position on a treadmill. She wore a purple tracksuit with white sneakers, and a brown clip held up her hair, revealing a pair of Chanel earrings dangling from each side of her face. On her left wrist, a simple, gold bracelet. She sparkled in the light.
Our shared complex sat on a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific, a haven for the wealthy and retired. Though she appeared every part wealthy and retired, she moved with a humble grace that the majority here lacked. I was part of a different minority, a group of thirty-somethings who lucked out with a few investment decisions the decade prior and retreated to this enclave of perpetual summer and relaxation. I would be lucky to age even half as gracefully as her.
She familiarized herself with the digital touchscreen, a cluster of a dozen buttons. She reminded me of my own grandmother, the way she carried herself with confidence but hadn’t a clue about modern technology. The woman glanced at me and then at the other man at her side before tapping her own screen at random, prodding the machine like a toddler would a new toy. I could already hear my grandmother scolding me from the grave.
Surprisingly, the woman didn’t panic. Had the roles been reversed, had we been in Japan and I had been prompted to read something in her language, I might have faked an emergency and fled the gym out of sheer embarrassment. But she stayed, which prompted me to wonder about the boundary between assisting and insulting someone so sophisticated with such a simple task.
The man next to her moved at a slow jog, unbothered. The basic start symbol sat in the corner of the screen, but it wasn’t the universal color for go. It left no visual indication for how to begin. Did she know how to read English? I couldn’t tell, but at this point it seemed unlikely. A small sign taped above the machine’s logo read, “Press the blue button to begin.”
I hopped onto the sides of my treadmill, the belt still running, and showed her my hand, something between a friendly wave and an awkward magic trick, in hopes that she’d follow my instruction. I was invading her space, reaching across like I did, but after watching her struggle for so long, my conscience, or maybe my grandmother, started berating me.
“Here,” I said, pressing the blue button and enunciating the word as if she was deaf. I cringed. After another moment, the countdown began: Three. Two. One.
As the belt slowly pulled her backward, her eyes widened and she took a step. But almost as soon as a smile broke across her face, she frowned again. She was finally moving, but it was too slow, I assumed.
“Here,” I said again, quicker this time, and pushed a poorly designed up arrow to increase the speed. When I removed my hand, she took over, punching the button a few more times until she reached a stroll.
Her smile returned, bringing with it a few joyful bows as she walked.
When I showed up at the gym the next day, she was already walking, distracted and watching kids outside the window splash each other in the pool. Hints of rose and hibiscus dangled in the air around her machine. I recognized the fragrance. My own grandmother once wore it. During summers as a kid, I would visit her home on Lake Coeur d’Alene in Idaho. One day, while my two brothers played outside, she showed me her collection of perfumes. Dozens of bottles lined her dresser, a selection of flowery, vibrant scents mixed with a few smaller ones with fiery, cinnamon notes that she liked to wear at night around the house. Her crown jewel, she’d said, was one in the shape of an upside-down martini glass. It held the same grassy and floral aroma I smelled now in the gym.
I hit start, and the woman smiled, pointing to her screen before tapping the tread with her shoe. She’d started the machine herself, I gathered. She walked leisurely, maintaining a grip on both side rails for support. Today, she wore all black, still adorned with the earrings and bracelet.
When I glanced over mid-run, she was approaching an hour, the machine’s limit. Somehow, she still glowed, the sun bouncing off the tiny droplets that dotted her face. She wasn’t sweating so much as glistening.
We continued these daily encounters two or three times a week. I didn’t see her every day I worked out, but somehow we both always showed up on Tuesdays. That day became our reliable day to see one another, building what later molded into, for me, a familial bond. She reminded me of my own grandmother, who died nearly two decades ago.
One Tuesday, several months later, I noticed a bag sitting near her. When she saw me walk in, she raced to hit pause on her machine. Wait, wait, she motioned, stepping off before it even came to a halt. She grabbed the bag, removing a small glass bowl. She outstretched her hands and bowed slightly, offering it to me.
“Thank you,” I said, enunciating the words again like I had the initial time we met. I returned a gracious bow.
“You wel-come,” she managed.
Then, we both laughed. After months of seeing one another, these were our first shared words.
“So-ba,” she added, clarifying the cold dish of noodles in my hands, before taking it back and slipping it into the bag. She zipped the top of the bag and set it down next to my treadmill.
When I opened the bag at dinner that night, I found a note in perfect English, written, I assumed, by someone else.
Warm broth for two minutes and then pour over noodles. There are additional toppings inside the bag. Careful, it will be hot.
Ms. Astrid Yamamoto
Astrid Yamamoto. The name rolled off my tongue. Fitting, I thought. Its beauty lay in its simplicity, its crispness mirroring her perfume choice.
Steam rose from the brown noodles, lifting notes of barley and umami into the air. A tiny bag contained chopped green onions and a helping of spices. I mixed them in, and the flavor opened. Wafts of mushroom and sesame, earthy hints of nuts and ginger. A heavy garlic permeated the air.
I took a sip of the broth and my tongue relaxed. I’d never tasted something so flavorful, so rich. I wrote a note to Ms. Yamamoto, hoping that whoever had written her note would read mine out loud to her.
Ms. Yamamoto, thank you for the wonderful meal. The noodles were absolutely delicious. I will be thinking about them for quite some time. See you back in the gym again soon.
All my best,
Gabriel
It wasn’t long before Ms. Yamamoto began bringing a different dish to the gym with her each Tuesday. Bowls of ramen topped with pork belly and soy. Plates of okonomiyaki filled with cabbage and seasoned corn. Cutlets of fried pork, prepared with a generous helping of garlic. The meals, from the hefty to the micro, were, in a single word, divine. Each bite a miniature taste of Japan, each like a gesture toward showing me another side of herself. Though my grandmother was no stranger to a kitchen, Ms. Yamamoto’s meals explored a culture to which I’d only vaguely been exposed.
After each meal, I wrote to Ms. Yamamoto. At first, the letters were a simple thank you, a show of appreciation for the time, care, and effort she put into each dish. I couldn’t imagine how many hours she spent in the kitchen each week. But then the tone of my letters expanded. I began writing to her as if she were an old friend or a pen pal, attempting to make up for lost time. Do you like unagi? I would ask. Where did you like to travel to in Japan? And then the following week she would hand me a plate of unagi with a note about her trips to the mountains in northern Japan.
One day, while walking home, I picked a purple flower that reminded me of our first encounter. Not only did it match the color she wore that day, but, like her, the flower had an unassuming, gentle quality to it. The next day at the gym, I gave it to her with my letter. Small bliss, she said in her reply the following week. That was the meaning of the flower I had given her, a viola mandshurica, she added, educating me now on both flowers and food. Accompanying her response: a steamed purple sweet potato cupcake, easily my favorite treat she’d made.
In many regards, I found it difficult to separate Ms. Yamamoto from my grandmother, oblivious to the fact that I’d never grieved her early death from breast cancer. Jogging next to Ms. Yamamoto each week often felt distant, and I craved a closeness I once had with my grandmother all those years ago on the lake. You need more than just the gym, my grandmother would’ve said now. Go outside, go taste that salty air. I sat down that night and began a new letter.
Ms. Yamamoto, the shiokara with rice was unlike anything I’ve ever had. You continue to outdo yourself, and I couldn’t be more grateful. I’ve been wondering, in the spirit of trying something new, would you be interested in a walk around the park sometime? The one up the street, next to the beach. We’d go at your pace, of course.
Your friend,
Gabriel
The following Tuesday, I arrived at the gym first, the motion-sensor lights still off. I started my jog and waited, watching as a pair of boys, no older than nine or ten, dipped into the hot tub outside. After a moment, one boy leapt up and plunged into the pool, splashing cold water onto the other boy until he joined. They reminded me of my brothers and how they constantly harassed one another. We’d be in line for groceries, unloading the hot dogs and potato buns and BBQ chips, and one would inevitably start reloading the cart with food that had just been unloaded. I would stand there, watching or picking out candy, and my grandmother would pat my head, thanking me for not acting like such a hooligan. She’d then thump their ears and tell them to behave, or Gabriel will put back the ice cream.
The timer beeped, signaling the end of an hour. Ms. Yamamoto hadn’t shown.
A week passed at the gym without a sign of her. And then another. I started going every day, even switching my start time, attempting to catch her and apologize for my intrusive request. I knew our cultures were different, and I knew not everyone took easily to strangers. But Ms. Yamamoto was no longer a stranger. Collectively, we’d spent dozens of hours together walking side-by-side, exchanging smiles, sharing gifts. I knew at least a small part of her.
“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting the doorman reading a book at his desk. I hesitated and added, “This is an odd request, but do you know the resident by the name of Astrid Yamamoto?”
The doorman looked at me as if, suddenly, I didn’t belong, as if maybe I’d been intruding this whole time, living as someone’s temporary guest rather than a paying tenant. When he didn’t respond, I continued.
“We used to work out…we used to walk in the gym together a few days a week, but I haven’t seen her in a while. Do you know if she still lives here?”
“Are you Gabriel?” he asked, a bit skeptical. When I said yes, he reached into a drawer by his desk and pulled out an envelope, the same kind that Ms. Yamamoto and I had exchanged over the last twelve months. Upstairs, I took a seat on the couch and opened it.
Dear Gabriel,
You have been a wonderful blessing to my mother over the last year. It has been a true joy to watch her find happiness again after the passing of my father last year.
A couple of weeks ago, my mother couldn’t get out of bed. She was too tired. It was a Tuesday, and she said to me, “I need to go upstairs. I must.” Though she ultimately couldn’t muster the energy, she swore that she would make it up to you the following week.
My mother died in her sleep that night. The doctors said that she was healthy and that the months of intense walking helped prolong her life, but it was just her time. I have you to thank for giving me an extra year with her.
She adored your letters and the flower. Often she would ask me to re-read them, looking for hints at what to make you next. She was especially excited for the walk outside, though she never got a chance to tell you.
This last year has been both a blessing and a curse. My parents were close, but when my father died, a piece of my mother died, too. I take great comfort in knowing that she lived a happier life this last year because of you. So, from the bottom of my heart, a sincere thank you.
Take care of yourself Gabriel.
With love,
Reina Yamamoto
Tears fell and softened the paper. I read the letter again, pausing over the part where a doctor had said our time together had extended her life. It brought a smile to my face, and I thought about the closure I never got with my own grandmother, how she was here one day and gone the next, pulled from my life in much the same manner as Ms. Yamamoto.
Only now, with her daughter Reina writing, something softened inside of me, a satisfaction of sorts that, even though I hadn’t been able to say goodbye myself, she had wished me well and had appreciated the little gestures I was never sure were enough.
Several weeks passed. Before my first day back in the gym, I took a walk outside and picked another purple mandshurica. I brought it with me to my run, intending to add it to a pot when I got home. But before that, before I planted it and eventually set it in the sun to sprout a new life, I wanted it there with me, honoring Ms. Yamamoto and all the time we’d shared.
I tapped the blue start button and began. As I picked up my pace, I thought about the first time I met Ms. Yamamoto and her striking familiarity to my grandmother, a presence they both carried that was safe and steady. As I finished, I slowed to a leisurely pace, gripping the handrails like Ms. Yamamoto would for balance. And then, as I looked out over the pool, sunshine broke through the hazy afternoon, illuminating the room in a glow of violet light.