I was speechless, having no idea how to reply.
“I see . . . When faced with an inconvenient question, you fall into convenient silence. Very well then, go your merry way. It’s your life. Never mind your mother.”
“It’s . . . it’s not like that.” I barely managed to spit out the words, unnerved at not knowing what Mother would do next.
“Then what is it? Just tell me something.”
“I’ve broken up with Mamiko.”
I’d caught her off-guard. “Oh,” she sighed, looking momentarily dazed.
I felt somewhat relieved. And then my mind began to work. “Actually, the money I borrowed has something to do with that. I made a terrible mess, hurting her and all, and so I wanted to put a little space between us.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sorry, really sorry. Look, what I told you before is true: I was driving my friend’s car with Mamiko and we had an accident. Mamiko was badly hurt.”
“Oh no! How badly hurt?”
“Multiple hip fractures. She’s a lot better now, with no aftereffects. We’d both been drinking, so the insurance barely covered anything. I managed to get some money together, borrowing it from friends. I told Mamiko how sorry I was and tried to take care of her, so that even though there aren’t any bad vibes, it’s somehow not quite right. We feel awkward together, you know, uncomfortable. There’s now a distance between us. We decided not to meet for a while, and then about a month later Mamiko suggested that we call it quits, at least for the time being.”
I was riding high. With my own parents, it occurred to me, I would never have been able to pull this off, but in my role as Daiki I found I had a measure of self-confidence.
“When was that?”
“Nearly six months ago.”
“I see. And all of this has obviously knocked you for a loop.”
“Yes, I’ve had a lot to deal with.”
“But about Mamiko-chan . . . you could have told me. The least I could have done was lend you some money for her hospital treatment. It’s as if we were strangers.”
“No, quite the contrary. I couldn’t speak precisely because I knew you really liked Mamiko and that it would be quite disappointing. I had my hands full just coping with my own state of depression. And Mamiko didn’t want to tell you much about what had happened.”
“Hmmm, so is that what it was?” she said before sighing deeply. “But it’s still too bad.”
“I know, I know. But dwelling on it only makes me feel worse. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Still, time will work things out, won’t it? My feeling is that you just have to wait for the dust to settle, and then everything will be back to normal.”
“That’s all very well, but I can’t work myself into a very hopeful frame of mind.”
“You’re quite the pessimist, aren’t you? You’ve got to try to have a more positive outlook, otherwise you’ll never get back on track. And without Mamiko you may wind up a bachelor for life.”
“That has nothing to do with anything. I’m hurt . . . Is this the kind of talk I get from my mother?”
“Ah, I’m sorry. I take it back. You’re right—it’s a separate matter. But really . . . give her some time and she’ll come to her senses.”
I stood there more than a little amazed. What was there for Mamiko to come to her senses about? Mother didn’t seem to be taking in anything that I was telling her. Perhaps she was no better at understanding Daiki, thus leading him to think that he was better off staying away from her.
But I didn’t care. The important thing was for me to leave her satisfied. So I said to her: “I’ll give it some time and then talk to Mamiko.”
“Yes, please do that,” she said cheerily.
I too was happy with that.
“But now it’s late!” she exclaimed, looking at her watch. I checked the time as well on my cell phone. It was already midnight. “Well now, what’s your new number?”
I had no desire to give it to her and thought about reciting a false one. But then I blurted it out anyway, and she wrote it down in her notebook.
“You’re staying over, aren’t you? It’s too late for you to get back tonight.” I did not want her to stay, but there was no alternative. I knew from her telephone prefix, 048, that it must be a Saitama number, as my family home in Kita-Urawa was in the same area.
“Yes, but where can I sleep?”
“Use my bed. I can get by in the kitchen.”
On the tatami mats lay a futon that I never bothered to fold up and put away. I covered it with fresh sheets and gave her my new bathrobe.
“Good night,” I said as I slid the door shut. Fatigue overwhelmed me; I felt that every bolt and screw holding me together was coming loose.
I pushed the kitchen table into a corner and used my down jacket as a makeshift mat, on top of which I spread a towel and then a wool blanket, a cushion serving as my pillow. Having changed into an old bathrobe, I turned off the lights and lay down. I could hear faint sounds from the other room, and then the light went out. Once more we wished each other a good night. And then there was silence.
I was unable to sleep. Dead tired, I wanted to shut down my mind and doze off. But the oppressive presence across the way made that impossible. It was as though a phantom had been swallowed up in the darkness once the door was shut.
In a low voice I turned in her direction and called out: “Mother?” There was no answer. I tried once more, this time a bit louder: “Mother? Are you asleep?” Again there was no response. I got up quietly and cracked open the door slightly. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could dimly make out the white shape of the bedding, but it appeared flat, as though no human form were underneath. I inched the door open further and stepped inside. The tatami creaked. I stooped down, brought my face close to the futon, and saw that the quilt was moving ever so slightly up and down. Protruding from under the sheets was a clump of tousled hair. A chill swept through me as I returned to the kitchen.
* * *
I awoke at dawn, having dreamed that I’d emerged from a McDonald’s restroom completely naked below the waist while munching on a Big Mac, furtively attempting to cover myself with my free hand. I went to the toilet and then headed back to sleep, waking every half hour until I sensed that Mother was stirring and put away my improvised bedding. It was nine o’clock.
I fried up some eggs, threw a tea bag into a cup of boiling water, got out the blueberry jam, and made some toast. Mother was impressed.
“My, I’ve reached the age at which you take on the job of preparing breakfast!”
I told her that I had an appointment, and at ten thirty the two of us left. When we got to Hiyoshi Station, I said goodbye and pretended to go into the shopping complex. Once I saw her pass through the ticket gate, I put on a wool cap and spectacles that I had brought along and followed her.
Mother got on the train heading toward Meguro and then on to Urawa-Misono. I sat down in the same car, though at the far end. Mother had put on reading glasses and had her nose in a paperback. Exhausted, I kept myself awake by chewing six or seven pieces of mint gum. The train filled up as we moved into the center of Tokyo, and I stood up.
Mother got off at Araijuku, three stops before Urawa-Misono. I trailed her as she walked to a Sawayaka-Japan, a sprawling supermarket nearby, bought some groceries, and then continued on through a rather bleak residential area. I followed her, endeavoring not to forget the way. There were occasional passersby, darkening my mood all the more with their inevitable stares of bewilderment.
We had been walking for just over ten minutes when at last we came to a shabby apartment complex. A series of gray, three-story concrete buildings, blackened and cracked, stood in parallel rows with flower beds set snugly between them, overgrown with pansies, tulips, and rapeseed blossoms. Mother stopped at the edifice near the center before climbing the stairs to the second floor. I followed. On the nameplate beside the
door was written: Hiyama.
My plan had been to verify where she lived and then make myself scarce. Inexplicably, I instead found myself ringing the bell. By the time I thought better of it, it was already too late.
There was no intercom. From the other side of the door came Mother’s delicate voice: “Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s me, Daiki!” I shouted. “I forgot my key.”
Opening the door with the chain still in place, she watched me through the gap, a tense look on her face, and asked in a strained voice: “What are you doing here?”
“Well, my friend called off our meeting, so I thought we could spend a bit more time together, if you don’t mind. Anyway, here I am.”
“I see . . . But don’t startle me like this. I’ve just arrived home myself.”
“I must have been on the train just after you.”
I tried to act as though I was familiar with the apartment. The layout was similar to mine, with the dining area immediately off the entrance. Beyond were two small bedrooms. While not a total mess, there were piles of things scattered all over. There was a shabbiness about the place—the consequence, I could understand, of living alone without entertaining any visitors for a long period of time.
I pulled a chair away from the table, sat down, and glanced around the room. Mother was still eyeing me suspiciously as I remarked, “So, it’s been six months?”
“That’s right. You didn’t even come for New Year’s.”
“Sis doesn’t come around much?”
“She was here just after Shō was born, but then she started complaining that it’s too dusty and that the mold is bad for the baby, and finally she stopped coming altogether.”
I could understand why her daughter would think that, but of course I didn’t say so.
“And Daiki, you haven’t even met your nephew. What a terrible uncle you’ve turned out to be! And he’ll soon be eight months old.”
“Eight months . . .”
“Take a look at the photograph,” she said, nodding toward the next room as she started to boil some water. “It’s by the TV. Kasumi sent it to me about a month ago. But I’d rather spend some time with him in the flesh.”
“Why can’t you just visit?”
“Kensuke-san works from home now, so it seems I’d just get in the way. She told me that since Kensuke-san looks after Shō, I should stay home and take it easy.”
As we talked, I went over to the TV, an oversized relic with a relatively small screen. I opened the hinged glass doors of the stand and found a vintage VCR with a tape wedged inside. On the shelf above it were more tapes lying in a heap. Lined up in front of them were three photographs.
One was of a woman holding a baby, his finger pointing toward the camera—no doubt the photo Mother had just mentioned. Next to it was a picture of a man and a woman seated at Mother’s dining table. The woman was clearly the same Kasumi who in the other shot was holding the baby. The man in this photo, however, was not Daiki. It was me.
And the third photo was a family portrait of four people with Tokyo Disneyland in the background. The kid in the middle, staring into the camera with a finger pushing up his nose to imitate a pig, was an eleven- or twelve-year-old me. Standing next to me and whacking me on the head was Kasumi; behind her was a younger version of Mother. I took the tall man next to her to be Father.
“Around the eyes and nose Shō-chan looks so much like Kasumi, doesn’t he?” Mother’s voice brought me back to myself.
“What happened to the album this photo was in?” I asked, holding up the family portrait.
“That’s your department. Remember, you took all the photos except the ones with your father in them. The only album you left behind is that one.”
“May I look for it?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure where it is,” she said, then walked into the next room.
I opened a small built-in closet. The upper tier was packed with more videos: Lovers in Prague, All In, Stairway to Heaven, The Great Jang-geum, Winter Sonata . . . Korean soap operas on parade. My guess was that she had recorded them at triple speed, with three or four episodes on one tape. From the videos piled up on the TV stand, it seemed she watched them religiously.
With some effort I pulled out a large cardboard box, opened it up, and found bundles of tote bags, plastic bags, wrapping paper, advertising flyers, and empty boxes within empty boxes, like Russian nesting dolls.
The lowest tier of the closet was the same. There were broken dishes, old children’s clothes, outmoded women’s clothing, school bags, a dust-covered sewing machine, a sports bag full of old women’s magazines—Fujin no Tomo, Sōen, Mrs.—and old-fashioned handbags. As I pulled out each item, one by one, layers of dust hit my nose, causing me to have a sneezing fit.
The deeper I dug into the junk, the more I felt swallowed up in the past—a past that wasn’t even mine. No longer able to bear the oppressive weight of all the relics, I put them back, shut the closet door, and in a daze I glanced around the room. Reflected now in my listless eyes were the Buddhist altar and the memorial photograph of the father of the family, the black telephone, the huge CD-less radio-cassette player, the square fluorescent light fixture suspended from the ceiling, and the refrigerator, designed with the freezer as an upper compartment. I wondered how long Mother had been buried alive and alone in this place.
“If you’re not going to use any of this stuff, there’s no sense in keeping it,” I observed, as if to shake off the burden of it all. “You should sort through it and throw things away.”
“Perhaps to you it’s useless clutter, but it means a lot to me,” she admonished, reappearing from the other room. “I found this in the bedroom closet,” she added, thrusting a bulky photo album in my face, along with a postcard regarding a class reunion.
It was an old-fashioned album, with hard backing paper, glue grids, and transparent film to hold the photos in place. I leafed through it. It opened with pictures of a baby, held by Mother and Father. They were young, about my current age. The child must have been Kasumi, and her baby photos continued page after page.
“You would constantly complain that it was unfair, that almost all of the pictures were of her, with very few of you,” she said cheerfully.
“But there are too many of her . . .”
“Parents tend to take a lot of pictures of the firstborn. By the time the next one arrives, they’re over it. Besides, they’ve got their hands full as it is. It’s easier to let things drift.”
I flipped to the last page, finding photos of middle- and high-school graduations. “Quite a jump, I see.”
“I think Kasumi might have arranged this album,” she said.
The previous page contained more photos of the family trip to Disneyland, and the pages before that were all the same, depicting Kasumi as a teenager, sometimes with Mother and Father. There were only two shots of me: in one I was with Kasumi, licking an ice-cream cone and flashing my middle finger; the other was blurred, with me wedged between Mother and Father, appearing cross-eyed, my arms tightly folded.
“You would never allow yourself to be photographed normally,” said Mother, pointing at the frame by the television. “We’d ask a passerby to snap a photo of the four of us, and there you’d be, making faces. We’d get strange looks. I felt so humiliated.”
It seemed that even as a kid Daiki had been a real jerk. I thought about how he’d behaved at McDonald’s, but then remembered that the photo in question was not of Daiki—it was of me.
“I’m not in these shots either,” I remarked.
“That’s because you were the cameraman.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s with you? Remember who wanted to demonstrate what a great photographer he was in Disneyland?”
“Fine, if you say so . . .”
“I do say so. You with your various lenses, dragging that heavy bag everywhere . . . Have you forgotten? Is everything all right?”
“I remember, but my memory has
faded now that I’ve given up on photography.”
“Remember when your sister said it wasn’t fun going out as a family anymore and then got into a huge fight with you? You kicked her, and she threatened to smash your camera. Your father finally slapped both of you.”
“Yeah, it’s all coming back. I lost it when she said she’d wreck the camera,” I said to play along, anxious to avoid causing any further suspicion.
“All you could think about was the camera, the camera.”
“I bought it with the New Year’s money I’d saved up, right?” I asked, trying to lead her on.
“Your father lent it to you, as I recall. I think you bought the one with your own money after you got into high school.”
“Yeah, that’s it. I put together the money with a boost from what I got when I passed the entrance exam.”
“And before that you’d borrow your father’s. You said you’d become a photographer, since we’d taken so few photos when you were small. You spent most of your allowance on getting film developed. Soon you were better at it than your father. I was proud of you. When he went his way, you developed his memorial photo yourself . . . You’d just entered high school,” she added, gazing at that same photo on the altar. “You made up his album quite nicely. And you took a fine photo of him in his casket. He looks just like he’s sleeping. It’s so good I wanted to show it to him. I treasure it.” She sniffled and then went on: “You had such enormous talent. So when you couldn’t land work in the field, I grew worried. May I say something? Let me . . .” She trailed off.
“What?”
As she sat up straight, I grew even more tense.
“When I badgered you about looking for work, the thing I was most afraid of was that you’d become apathetic. I thought that if you took a job, any job, a path back to photography might somehow open up, but that it wouldn’t if you abandoned everything. That’s why I gave you such a hard spanking.”
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