Satellite Love

by Genki Ferguson

  For a brief moment, I considered stepping over the railing. The call of the void, if you will. Leo wasn’t annoyed with my childish questions, and was instead answering me patiently. Nothing I could do would get him to challenge me. He was gentle, but pathetic, which was unforgivable.

  “Tell me I’m ugly.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me I’m hideous, self-centred, delusional, and insane.”

  At this he finally turned and walked away, refusing to indulge me. He made it to the end of the bridge before looking back self-consciously. I followed him to the other side, having toyed with him enough for one day. Leo had managed a small act of rebellion by rejecting my demands, albeit out of a refusal to be cruel to me. I wasn’t sure whether to consider this a victory.

  No, he was hopeless. Turning back for me proved as much. I wondered if maybe the world was wrong in assuming Narcissus had drowned by accident.

  SOKI

  I’D BEEN LOOKING THROUGH my dad’s study, this old, paper-walled room, tucked into the back of the house. Musty-smelling bamboo mats and all. Whoever lived here last must have been a teacher. There’s some calligraphy on the walls. A few of my mom’s dying flower arrangements too. The whole room felt like it was from Edo Japan or something. It had a Western desk, though. This dark mahogany monster Dad had dragged from city to city. That’s what I’d mostly been combing through.

  I had to be really careful. Usually did this at one or two in the morning. Snuck out into the hall when no one was awake. Opened the sliding doors slowly, otherwise they’d let out this low groan, like they didn’t want to be woken up. My dad didn’t know what I was doing. Thought I just went to bed when he told me to. But really I was going through his papers, learning lots about him, trying to figure out what had made him lose his faith. Hadn’t managed to find out yet. The answers weren’t in any of the old articles he wrote, academic essays written in kanji too complex for me to comprehend.

  That night, I found an article I understood, clipped from some newspaper. Couldn’t tell when he wrote it, the top of the page was trimmed off. The article was about pilgrimages, how they test your arrogance more than your faith. He wrote that the visions people sometimes see on these journeys are a result of “delirium” rather than belief. Wasn’t sure what delirium meant, but I could tell it wasn’t good. That those fading letters held something harsh inside.

  This reminded me of the argument we had after I went to the shrine with Mom. It was about the one hundred times stone, the pillar that some shrines set up just outside their grounds. They say that if you walk between this pillar and the doors of the shrine one hundred times, you can make a prayer come true. Dad said I should try it, to really understand what being devout means. I think now he was joking, but I took it as a challenge. Said that I would go for one thousand laps instead. If that didn’t prove my faith, nothing could.

  Dad just kind of chuckled to himself. Told me to “go for it, kid,” then went back to reading those financial newspapers, which I was sure he didn’t understand. I think he bought them for Mom’s sake more than his own. To show her that he had plans for “upward mobility” or that he was on the “bleeding edge” of something.

  It was like he thought I couldn’t tell when I was being mocked. Or maybe he didn’t even know he was doing it himself. Reading that article felt like I was being made fun of. Like he was telling me I had a “delirium.” Whatever that meant. But ever since we moved to Sakita, I’ve been trying to figure things out on my own. Find reasons for believing that are separate from my dad’s.

  Made up my mind on the spot. I would complete his challenge the next day, would make Sakita the site of my first pilgrimage. Make it my spiritual home. I tucked the article away and crept back to my room.

  I woke up late the next morning and left the house around noon. Didn’t tell my parents. Thought it would make a bigger impression that way.

  Had an onigiri and a canned coffee from the convenience store for lunch. Finished them just outside the shrine grounds, watching the mall’s neon signs fighting to stay alive, salty nori aftertaste on my tongue. The snow was melting on the asphalt, turning into this murky slush. I was wearing running shoes, so my socks were a little wet. The weather is weird here. A massive snowfall one day, a burst of sun the next.

  I made my way to the shrine grove, trying to think of what to pray for. Difficult decision to make. Dad told me that since each journey from the pillar to the doors counts as a separate shrine visit, repeating the same prayer one hundred times gives it that much more strength. People use this to focus on one hope. Any prayer worth one thousand visits would have to be extra special.

  The grounds looked lonely as usual, not another worshipper in sight. I walked along the gravel approach, stopping just in front of the torii gate, lacquered a red so bright it hurt the eyes. Surrounding it were walls of sakaki trees, a barrier from the outside world. The thickest tree had this paper rope wrapped around its trunk. It’s supposed to be an antenna to contact the kami with. There’s kami in the heavens and kami in the earth. I wonder which that antenna calls to?

  At the base of the gate was the one hundred times stone. Here, the pillar sat in the middle of the path, which went under the gate and led up a set of stairs, all the way to the doors of the shrine. The two points I’d have to walk between. The stairs didn’t seem too bad. Around twenty-five, maybe thirty steps in total. If I took them two at a time, there’d be even less. I was trying to stay optimistic, not multiplying them by one thousand laps in my head.

  The shrine at the top was tiny, only one room, with two swinging doors fastened shut. These rooms always hold a sacred object, one that only priests are allowed to see. Sometimes the shrines house swords, jewels, or even sculptures. Back home, our shrine had a mirror hidden inside. It’s because, long ago, when the gods tricked Amaterasu out of her cave, they used a mirror to dazzle her with her own light. They made her think her own reflection was a new sun goddess, and lured her out.

  Thinking about that mirror reminded me of Anna-terasu. I tried repeating her philosophy to my mom at New Year’s, about belief having value on its own, and how it’s better to be wrong than to have never believed at all. Something like that. It didn’t come out right, though, and I kept stumbling over my words. I don’t think my mom understood what I meant. Made me realize I didn’t fully understand, either.

  To prepare for my pilgrimage, I stretched a little and re-tied my shoes. I decided not to go with just one prayer, but to pray for everything I could think of instead. Stretch the limits of my belief. People usually carry one hundred stones with them to keep track of their laps, leaving a pebble at the gate for every length they walk. I couldn’t carry one thousand rocks, though, especially not up the stairs. Decided to drop off silent prayers instead.

  First, I cleansed myself at the purifying station. Poured water over my hands with the ladle, cupped a palmful of water into my mouth. The purifying water tastes the same in every shrine I’ve been to. Lukewarm and tinny, leaving a metallic taste in your mouth.

  I devoted my first prayer to those who have lost their faith.

  I didn’t realize how many one thousand times is. Thought I could finish the walk in a couple of hours. By the time I understood how long my pilgrimage would take, I was too far in to quit. Started running out of prayers. Prayer five was for the poor. Fifty-seven for the unhappy. One hundred and three for the impure. At two hundred I was praying for the ants. Then for missorted recycling. For abandoned homes.

  Walking up the stairs was more difficult than I’d imagined, too. It felt like the number of steps kept increasing. They were crumbling, and coated with a thin layer of moss and snow, making it harder to climb. The humid air felt thick in my lungs. My feet became heavier with every step, but I didn’t mind. Made me feel grounded, like I had a reason for being there. Like the planet finally wanted to keep me in one place.

  Took me until eve
ning to finish half of my prayers. It was getting dark, but I’d do the rest of my walk with a flashlight if I needed to. Prayer five hundred was for the sun. My thighs were stinging. Lactic acid buildup. Lips tasted like sweat. Six hundred and thirty-nine was for my classmates. Realised I had forgotten about them. Six hundred and forty was for the cicadas.

  It was night when I saw the car pull up. My mom’s silver hybrid. My body wanted to quit, but I had to continue. Figured my mom would get mad and end my pilgrimage. I was only twenty-seven lengths away from the end and didn’t want to be forced to stop. There was still so much to pray for, so much to save.

  I started sprinting. Felt like I was forcing my legs to move. Even keeping my head up was too much effort. The only thing I could focus on was the next prayer. I ended up tripping, and biting my tongue as I went down. Got up and kept moving, picking the gravel from my palms as I ran. Wanted to finish the last prayers while I still had time. The reason these shrines are located high up is so they can bring you closer to the heavens. My heart was collapsing. By the time my mom caught up to me I was out of breath, with a head full of stars.

  Adults surprise me sometimes. Thought Mom would be angry, but when I saw her face, I could tell she had been crying. She asked me what I was doing, and made me sit down. Said she was relieved I was all right. That she’d been looking for me for hours, had worried I’d gotten hurt. That I should let her know if I’m ever going to be out this late. Never occurred to me that something bad could happen here.

  Then I explained what I was doing, and she sucked in her cheeks a bit, like she was trying to decide something. Asked if Dad knew about this and I said no. I said I really wanted to complete my walk. That I was so close and didn’t want to give up.

  She stood and tied her hair back. Told me she’d do the last prayers with me. That together we would show Dad how “selfish he’s being, throwing away his faith like that.” It’s strange, though. I started off the thousand prayers wanting to prove my dad wrong, but now I didn’t feel angry at all.

  We started walking up the steps together, my mom one step ahead, full of the energy I had nine hundred prayers ago. I told her I was dedicating each length to something different. She dedicated her first to lost and missing children. Then to the old and the dying. Didn’t tell her those were my fifty-second and eighty-ninth prayers already.

  The worst part was that we never ran out of prayers. One thousand devotions and there were still things I missed. Didn’t even get to airplane pilots, mayflies with single-day lifespans, or bodies that were lost at sea. So much pain in this world. Not even one thousand prayers is enough.

  We never did tell my dad.

  SATELLITE

  IT WAS EARLY MORNING, and I still wasn’t able to sleep. By all rights I should have been exhausted, legs sore from spending the last few days travelling with Anna, exploring Sakita and its surrounding cities by train. She claimed these journeys were important for my education as a human, yet I could sense that she was reluctant to go home, delaying our return by telling me a different anecdote at every corner. This is the shed Mr. Azuchi lost a finger building. Over there is the arcade where the boys in my class meet up after school, and you can hear their laughter until midnight. For the most part, the stories she told me rambled on without purpose, and didn’t require much focus on my part. There was an exception to this, however, the only tale I couldn’t fully understand. The Story of The Foreigner.

  The day before, we had been on our way back to Sakita when Anna suddenly took me by the arm, her cool fingers jolting me out of my train-induced hypnosis.

  “Let’s get off here. I want to show you something.”

  The car came to a reluctant halt, bemoaning the effort it took to stop. Anna got up from her seat, shoving her sneakers back onto her feet, and I followed through the sliding doors. The flickering sign above our heads informed us that we were now entering Fukuro Station.

  “What did you want to show me?” I asked. The area was entirely residential—I couldn’t find anything of note. Anna gave no response.

  The air here was different, less metallic, something I was keenly aware of with my new gift of smell. Every train ride was a fight against sensory overload, to the point where I had trouble discerning which details were important and which were not. I hadn’t developed the ability to parse my knowledge yet, meaning that an oddly shaped stone would hold as much significance to me as one of Anna’s philosophical musings. That day was no exception, and as Anna led me out of the station, I found myself overwhelmed by this new environment, my mind in a haze.

  The houses here were made of a lesser material than in Sakita, and I took this to mean we were in an adjacent town or a farming community. Light snow dusted the tops of sheet aluminum roofs, rust showing along the edges, the roads black with a turbid sleet. An older male and female passed us by, taking turns dragging a bag of crushed cans behind them. I assumed the two of them to be partners as Anna bowed her head in greeting, prompting them to do the same.

  This elderly couple struck me as endearing, if not a little tragic. I had the grim thought that one day Anna would become like them. That her back would eventually curl into itself, that her skin would grow loose with age. At the very least, those two humans had each other to hold on to. But what about Anna? I wondered then if I, too, would ever grow old, or if I could even pass away. Where do imaginary friends go to die?

  We continued to weave through this distant colony, somehow more forgotten than Sakita itself. At first I was struck by the utter silence, the soundless skies almost as deadening as space. But as I listened closely—the long walk affording me plenty of time to do so—I began to pick up more details. A radio, crooning songs about love lost and yesterdays. A young woman, arguing with her mother over a curfew. Anna, breathing heavily as she fought her way uphill.

  We came to a stop in front of a low apartment building, two storeys high. I counted seven windows across, two windows deep, and estimated this structure could house anywhere between 14 and 56 humans, depending on the room sizes.

  “I wanted to show you The Foreigner’s home,” Anna said.

  “The Foreigner?”

  “Upper floor. Second window from the right,” she explained. “He was from America. That’s where he lived when he first moved here.”

  I stood next to her, trying to comprehend what I was there to see. All I understood was the soft pressure of her fingers on my arm.

  “He came all the way over from Oregon, and fell in love with Japan. Couldn’t tell you why. But he ended up staying long after his work contract ended. I think he was an engineer at some failed plant. Copper, I believe.”

  She slowed down when she said Oregon, breaking it into three syllables, taking care not to miss a single letter. A magic spell. The word was heavy on her tongue, as though she had been practicing its enunciation for years, but still couldn’t get it right.

  A cold wind came between us and the apartment, chilling me through my winter clothes. The sun was beginning its descent, appearing much smaller from down here on Earth. A part of me missed being so close to the sky.

  “Did you know him well?” I asked.

  “Not well enough.”

  “Why are you showing me this?”

  I felt her grip tighten.

  “I want to show you how humans work. When you were a satellite, you were precise, right?”

  “Of course!” I replied, a little too proud of the fact.

  She shook her head, freeing some loose snowflakes from her hair. “Humans aren’t like that. Sometimes they break for no reason. Or, at least, a reason no one can understand. The American had a whole life here. He found a woman he loved, got married, even had a kid. He liked convenience-store korokkes, Japanese mythology, and telling jokes that only made sense in English.”

  “Oh?”

  I looked over at Anna, her nose red from the cold. She kept her vision
fixed in front of her, at the apartment that seemed to be deteriorating before our eyes. Or maybe it was collapsing under the weight of all that snow.

  “He was happy. But then he woke up one day and couldn’t speak Japanese. The words wouldn’t form on his tongue. It wasn’t a medical thing—he got tested for a stroke, for Alzheimer’s, for everything in between. It was in his head. I think they used the word psychosomatic.”

  “He lost the ability to speak Japanese overnight?” I asked, incredulous. Even after all my observations from above, I hadn’t realized this was possible.

  “Yup. Could only speak English after that day. Lost the ability to speak to everyone he loved.”

  “So he had to re-learn it, then,” I said.

  “No—he couldn’t. That part of him was wiped clean. He continued living here for a month or so, trying to pick up the language again, but it was impossible. I think maybe he didn’t want to stay anymore, so he was sabotaging himself without realizing it.”

  “Where is he now? What happened to him?”

  Anna let go of my arm, and breathed clouds into her hands to stay warm.

  “Dead, for all I care.”

  * * *

  *    *    *

  That night, for the first time since I’d come down to Earth, Anna invited me to share her futon. I’d been sleeping on the hardwood floor until then—more out of my insistence than her own—and almost hadn’t heard her as I lay down to sleep.

  “Don’t be stubborn,” she said. “You’ll get cold.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, I accepted. I still wasn’t used to my body, let alone being so close to another. Despite, or maybe because of, my love for her, any physical contact felt fundamentally wrong. I pushed myself against the far end of the futon, attempting to avoid any unnecessary contact between Anna’s body and mine.

  The entire night, my satellite’s brain continued to run—counting the water stains on the ceiling, the flecks of dust in the air. And, perhaps most stressful of all, focusing on the tarp-covered mound towering over us from the corner of Anna’s room. It had sprouted suddenly, like a mushroom cap after a rainfall, sometime during the week I’d stopped watching the Earth.