For so long these things were all I had, and I treasured them. As I grew older, I visited them in secret, taking care never to let Grandpa see me, for I was convinced that if I did not cry or make a fuss that he would forget they were there and let me keep them.
When Yurie Kagashima first gave me the case file on my mother’s murder, its contents obsessed me. I laid out all the documents across our dining table, filling the space where once my grandfather had eaten breakfast and cut out newspaper clippings for me to read before work. Still, after a time, even as fact upon fact and detail upon detail began to settle in my mind, it was her belongings that drew me. They called to me from her room until I abandoned the case file downstairs and found myself opening the doors to her wardrobe, sinking to my knees on the carpet.
I have always loved my mother’s shoes. That day when I looked at them in their final resting place there was a timeless quality to each pair, as though they would outlast even me. The shoes were lined up on metal racks inside her wardrobe in a parody of how she herself would have arranged them earlier in life. Then, they would have been part of an evolving collection as she moved from school to university to young adult life, changing, shifting along the rows as old pairs were moved to the back and new pairs were placed in front. But as I looked at them then, the collection was static, final. All that remained of her had been left in Meguro, like me.
Even when she was alive, I had marvelled at her shoes. I wondered where she wore them – the black pumps with the bows over the toes in silver and gold; the white trainers with holes in the heel; navy pumps, thick and stocky, like those a legal intern would wear; and my favourites, low heels of dark red, open at the toes, with thin straps that wrapped around her ankles. These were the shoes that I went for as a child, the ones I tried on. I found that if I stuffed tissue into the toes I could slide my feet into the sandals and secure them enough to tie the straps. The imprint of her foot remains, a pinched crease in the leather; this was a pair that was well loved by both of us.
Kneeling before her wardrobe, I reached for the red shoes once more, our favourites, bought one year before she died. She had worn them out to dinner in Shimoda during our last summer together, and again when she had driven away in her car to Atami. And that autumn, when we all returned to Tokyo, she wore them when she took me to visit Grandpa in Meguro. Sitting on the floor, legs crossed like a child, I pressed the shoes to my face and inhaled the dusty scent of camphor, recalling that afternoon.
As soon as we arrived, Mama left the red sandals on the outdoor footwear rack in the hall, and I snatched them up, running upstairs with them to her old bedroom while she and Grandpa made tea downstairs. I sat on the carpet and spread the skirt of my new dress – white with pink peonies in the fabric – out all around me. Then I lay back on the floor, watching as the dust motes floated down from the ceiling. By the front door were the pink ballet shoes my mother had bought me to match my new outfit, but that afternoon I wanted to be my mother; I wanted to be just like her, and I knew that it was my childhood that separated us.
I lifted her red shoes in my hands, tracing the intricate stitching with my fingers, feeling the soft silk of the leather against my skin. Then I stood and slipped my feet into them. My heel only reached halfway up the sole, but if I faced the mirror straight on, the shoes looked like they were mine. I perched first on one foot and then on the other, bending to secure the straps. I liked how I looked in them – I was taller, and my thin legs were elegant, graceful. I could be a lady, I thought, a lady with red shoes and red painted nails.
I heard Grandpa and Mama walk into the hallway. Their conversation had started in whispers but their voices were growing louder. The doorbell rang as I turned from side to side. Grandpa’s voice rose to a shout. I heard my mother move towards the door. She was walking away from him.
‘I won’t have it, Rina,’ I heard him say, ‘not in this house.’
‘Sumi!’ my mother called. ‘Where are you?’
I looked down at the straps around my ankles, at the bows so neat and symmetrical; they were the best bows I had ever tied.
‘Sumi! Take off my shoes and come downstairs. There’s a friend of ours here who wants to say hello to you.’
I wrinkled my nose at myself in the mirror. Sitting on the floor, I undid my handiwork, unravelling the bows. Thinking of my boring ballet shoes waiting for me in the hall, I came out onto the landing. Grandpa was standing by the front door, rigid in his anger. ‘Not in my house,’ he repeated.
‘Then we’ll leave your house, Yoshi,’ my mother said. As I came down the stairs, I passed the red sandals to her and she handed my own shoes to me. Then she opened the front door and went out into the sunlight to meet the friend standing in our garden – he had bought me an ice cream that summer. As I followed her, he turned towards us and smiled. I liked his smile.
Rina and Kaitarō
Dolls
Rina transferred her groceries to one hand and lifted the latch of the gate with the other. Even from the driveway she could hear Sumiko’s shrieks of laughter as she played inside the house with her grandfather. Although it was only autumn, Yoshi was already pestering Rina about Girls’ Day and how they would celebrate in the coming year. He returned again and again to the collection of Hinamatsuri dolls she still kept at his house, asking when she would move them to her and Satō’s apartment in Ebisu. It had started some days before when Rina had allowed Kai to drop by and see them at the Meguro house, and although she’d argued that he was just a friend, Yoshi had not believed her. Since then his disapproval had simmered between them and Rina could only wait for its latest manifestation. Perhaps he had brought the dolls out of storage. It would explain Sumiko’s excitement too.
Fitting her key into the lock, Rina let herself in and set her shopping down by the door. She was just changing her outdoor shoes for house slippers when she suddenly caught sight of herself in the hall mirror. The mirror had hung in her home ever since she could remember, and it had existed before then, in her mother’s house, recording all who entered and left, reflecting the lives of her family. Normally Rina would hang up her coat and walk past without a second glance, but that day there was something she saw that gave her pause: Rina had always been able to recognise herself in the mirror. In every age, every mood, she had been able to see herself clearly, as she really was, but that day as she looked into the glass, her face half in and out of the reflection, she did not resemble herself. For a moment she stood very still, waiting for a glimpse of the person she knew, a woman who was prepared to live with her choices. She shut her eyes and then opened them again, seeking something in the glass, but there was only the vanishing point along the bevelled edge – the point where she and all the women before her disappeared into the half-light of the afternoon shining through the front door.
Rina started as the clock on the wall began to chime, and suddenly Sumiko ran into the hall. ‘Mummy come look, come see!’ she said, taking Rina’s hand. Sliding into her house slippers, Rina followed her child into the living room and saw that it was so; Yoshi had indeed brought out the dolls. He had even hefted the lacquer display of wide black steps up from the basement and set it up in the living room, assembling all the figures along it from the emperor and empress at the top to the ladies, musicians, ministers, and servants at the bottom. Her father was sitting on the floor arranging a fan in the empress’s hand and placing tiny swords on the stands before each samurai warrior, everything just so. He sat back to admire the display, and Rina’s eye was drawn to the finery: the tiny ceremonial rice cakes her mother had once purchased in pale peach, green and white, and the intricate betrothal gifts – for not only did the dolls represent the imperial court, they were also attired for a wedding: the dream and duty of all young girls. Rina turned away and caught sight of an anthology of Bashō on a side table that Yoshi had read to her as a child; doubtless he had been showing the same poems to Sumi. Unbidden, one of them c
ame to her mind:
Behind this door
Now buried in deep grass
A different generation will celebrate
The Festival of Dolls.
‘You shouldn’t spoil her like this,’ Rina protested, glaring at her father. ‘Now she will talk of nothing else and she will not want to put the dolls away.’ Sumiko had settled on the floor next to Yoshi. She ignored the rebuke and was counting all twelve layers of the empress’s tiny kimono, touching the delicate porcelain hands that extended from the pressed silk.
‘You should take them home with you, Rinachan,’ Yoshi said. ‘You cannot continue to celebrate Girls’ Day with that small set of figures you have in Ebisu. They are nothing in comparison to this.’ With a glance he took in the assembled dolls, row upon row, collected over generations to celebrate the Sarashima girls.
Rina bit her lip and nodded, as she did when she did not want to take her father on. ‘There is no space in Ebisu,’ she murmured, but he did not hear. The trouble was that her father was right; this was Sumiko’s heritage. She was always so excited to see the dolls displayed at school and in the houses of her friends. She loved to think of families across the islands setting up displays in their homes, and she treasured the small set that Rina had in Ebisu.
Every year, in the weeks leading up to the third of March, Rina would choose a special day to set the dolls up early. She was very careful to put the whole set away by the end of Girls’ Day itself, because otherwise Sumiko would be late to be a bride, but for a few weeks at least the whole family could enjoy the dolls, and Sumi loved to guess when Rina would put them up. Each morning she would run down the corridor to Rina and Satō’s bedroom. They didn’t receive much warning, only the beat of small feet in the hallway and the rush of air into the room as a small body catapulted itself onto the bed, lifting the blankets between them and snuggling down. ‘Mummy! Daddy! Are they ready? Are the dolls up?’ she would ask, shrieking as Rina tickled her and pretended to wrap her into a sushi roll. Satō would laugh too, reaching out to stroke Sumi’s hair. He had never shared anything like this with his parents. They did not discuss it, but Rina knew, and so the tentative softening that occurred in these moments was all the more precious. She felt it keenly now as she thought of Satō and how their eyes met above their daughter, for it was at times like these when Rina saw most clearly the value of what was between them. Together they looked down at their girl, at her pale skin, the long dark sweep of her eyelashes, the gleam in her eyes, and knew that they would never again create anything so exquisite and pure.
‘Girls’ Day is not until March,’ Rina said. ‘I will pick them up then.’
Yoshi stopped fussing with the dolls and for a moment he looked up and held his daughter’s gaze. ‘You should take them now,’ he said. ‘Ebisu is your home; it is where your husband is. Is that going to change?’
Make-Believe
Rina could feel Kaitarō behind her on the stairs. The building was a walk-up, no porter, no lift. Her skirt brushed against her thighs as she climbed, and she was aware of the click of her heels on the concrete. She had thought about this so often, where he lived, where he spent the time he was not with her. It was becoming increasingly difficult to be together. Since the episode with the dolls, Yoshi’s disapproval had only become more explicit. Now he was refusing to look after Sumiko, so Rina found it nearly impossible to get away. Kaitarō also said they had to be careful in public. He never stood too close, brushed her hand or touched her face. He had not kissed her since Shimoda. Out of desperation she had suggested that they go to a love ho for a couple of hours, but he had not wanted that; he had wanted to bring her here, to his home.
All through the subway ride Rina thought of what would happen when they reached his apartment. She remembered his touch, the feel of their limbs as they’d swum together and kissed in the sea. She recalled everything, but she did not turn to him as she held the handrail on the train. She merely stood still, keeping a careful distance between them, all the way to Asakusa.
Kai reached around her to open the front door and his jacket brushed her sleeve as he let her enter first. She stepped directly into the kitchen. A grey cooker lined one wall with an extraction fan above it. Opposite there was counter space for a kettle and one drawer for pots and pans. The apartment was a long, narrow room, like a corridor, leading to the bedroom. Rina walked past the tiny shower stall, conscious of him behind her, of his eyes upon her as she looked at his home.
The bedroom was more spacious with a double bed, a desk and a window, which thankfully let in some light. Rina turned and smiled at Kaitarō, who had been watching her from the doorway. There were clothes and books scattered across the bed, and his camera was on his desk along with his portfolio. The wardrobe had been left hanging open, and within it she saw a biker jacket. ‘From Hokkaido?’ she asked, and he nodded.
‘Just need another bike,’ he said, but Rina shook her head.
‘You’d take Sumi on it. I cannot allow that,’ she said, and he laughed.
Turning away from him, Rina moved to the window and looked out at the view. She could see a monorail train tilting sharply into a curve, compelling its passengers to look down on the canals, motorways, and junctions of the city below, while on the ground people ran frantically, eyes flicking up to the rails overhead, anxious to catch their trains. For a second Rina shuddered, thinking of the crush of the station, of standing flush to the edge of the platform as the train came in, with hundreds of eyes behind glass doors peering into her life, mere centimetres from her face. She took a deep breath and then Kai was there, one hand warm on her back and the other reaching up to close the curtains and block out the world outside. Gratefully she turned to him, conscious only of his nearness, the calming scent of him, the intimacy of his things all around them, the close quarters of the room, and them, finally alone, together.
‘Would you like a drink?’
Rina shook her head. As always his proximity was making her dizzy. She remembered the last time he’d held her, his hands and mouth on her body, his shirt still infused with the scent of him and stuffed into the bottom of a wooden box in the den in Shimoda. She reached out and touched him, feeling the pulse of his heart in his chest. ‘Rina,’ he murmured, covering her hand with his, ‘stay with me.’ She kept her eyes on his face, and as if he knew what she was thinking he said, ‘We can get a place, somewhere for us and Sumiko.’ Rina placed her finger over his mouth, pressing down on the soft, delicate skin. He slipped his hands around her waist, sure and possessive. She loved the security of this man, his confidence. She looked around at the life he had built, his hard-won independence.
‘You can’t rescue me, Kai,’ she said. ‘I’m not good for you,’ she added, and he laughed. ‘There is so much ahead of you. You should visit Hokkaido and start your photography firm.’
‘Not without you.’
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she continued as he reached up to cup her cheek, the warmth of his palm radiating through her skin. ‘I’m not strong enough, not brave.’ He put his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her close, close enough that she could feel his breath on her face.
His hand increased its pressure, stroking, soothing her. ‘Rina,’ he whispered, ‘you’re wrong.’ Then he kissed her, kissed her deeply and so completely that she felt herself being drawn into him, falling further and further into his arms, a woman playing make-believe.
Karasu
It had been many years since Kaitarō had come to Tokyo, and he had been many people since then: many men to many women. But this time, he wanted to stay. This time, with Rina, he had slipped back into his own skin, and the rightness of it, the ease of being his original self, was a balm to his soul.
Since he’d met her he had been able to think more clearly, as though the energy he had once expended in reading other people and fitting around them had been diverted back into his mind. The natural fluidity of
being able to express true joy when he felt it and sadness and doubt when he did not was so liberating he could almost be free. Even his guilt about leaving Hokkaido had eased and he had begun to think of making amends. Still, at night he lay awake. Since Shimoda, Kaitarō could not sleep. His pager beeped constantly with messages from work that he tried to ignore. Only Rina’s presence could soothe him, and when he was not with her he thought of all the things he had told her – the truth about his home and the lies about his current life – lies that had built up one by one until he could not escape them. At night they encircled him, settling suffocatingly over his mouth.
He could sense her shock at both of them being back in Tokyo. He could feel her withdrawing, her conviction slipping. He needed her to stay with him, to choose him, but he could not ensure that unless he told her the truth about Satō, and then she would learn the truth about him. Night after night, he tried to think of a way out that would leave them with each other, but in the darkness of his room, no solution came. He knew that he could never tell her any of it.
Rubbing his eyes, he rose from his bed. His pager sat at the edge of his desk but he had buried it beneath several sheets of paper, most of them bills and bank statements. There was a summary of his savings. He had enough to last him three months, but no more. The rest of his money had been spent on Rina’s new camera and bribes so that Haru would keep his mouth shut at work. Until recently, Takeda had been quite content, pleased with Kaitarō’s updates over the summer and all he’d achieved. But now, as Takeda continued to wait in vain for the evidence and the promised report, Kai knew his excuses were wearing thin. He was running out of time.
What's Left of Me is Yours Page 13
