The Changing Room [h.s]

Chapter 9

June 13, 2025

'Is it history, or home,

that hurts us more?'

- Robin Ekiss, The Bones of August

Dr. Clark House is an incredible looking sake bar, and all the guests here for its opening seem to share that sentiment, walking through the doors immediately in awe of the interior design.

Emily's husband, Aaron, and his business partner Benjamin designed the space and hand made each piece of furniture in here, while Emily, the Bode team and I designed and handmade the sheepskin hat and brown work coat uniform, each adorned with a sheep appliqué.

The restaurant is dark and intimate, yet welcoming and folk like. It's just calming to be in, and made almost all in wood. Luan wood wainscoting, pegboard walls and African mahogany bar stools, alongside hydrangeas hanging from the roof, aluminium barbeque tables, origami-like wall sconces, a clay sculpture and Japanese characters carved into the floor. On the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, there's even a kotatsu dining area with side by side private booths.

The guests continue to walk through the doors; a small, select group of photographers and press, but mainly family and friends. Yudai Kanayama, the owner, Mumetake Ogata, the chef, Aaron and Benjamin, and then Emily and I, stand in a line to greet them all.

I have no option tonight but to stand beside Emily and pretend like the two owners of Bode are perfect, united together in creating these uniforms and celebrating the opening of New York's only restaurant to exclusively serve the food of Japan's Hokkaido region.

But behind that facade, I hate this. I would rather crawl out of my skin here, beside her. Emily is no longer my best friend. I don't know who she is anymore; just another burnt bridge.

I don't know what my mom manipulated her to believe and what she believes herself. I don't know whether she hates me too, if she just wanted to punish me, or if she truly believes I'm not okay. I don't know if she just wanted to gaslight me. I don't know what she thinks and why she does. I can't think about it.

'Thank you, that means a lot.' I shake hands with one of the guests who compliments the uniforms as he walks in, smiling politely at him while desperate to move away.

I see and feel nothing when I look at Emily now, but betrayal.

Betrayal at believing my mom, at siding with her, at sending me to therapy, at treating me like someone who needed to be helped.

I don't know what I expected to come out of that therapy visit. Even going was counterintuitive. I wanted the therapist to agree with me that I didn't need help, yet I was paying her for therapy. Of course she would think I needed help if I had sought out a therapist.

A 15 minute conversation holds no weight. She doesn't know anything about me or what led me there, and to think her opinion meant anything was ridiculous.

I know who I am better than she does. Better than anyone does.

'I'm Hannah Goldfield from The New Yorker. You have a fantastic atmosphere here.' One of the journalists says as she walks in. In taking on the role of organising the opening, I've spoken to all of the press guests tonight, and now they're here in person.

'Hannah. Lovely to meet you in person.' I greet her, gesturing to Aaron and Benjamin beside me. 'We have these two to thank for that.'

In keeping my mind focused on what's happening tonight, I can avoid everything else. I just have to be Sophie Lawson from Bode. I'm in control here.