The moon has moved. Anju sips her tea, calm again. I am between sleeping and waking. I am doing my best to remember our mother’s face. I think I remember a perfume she wore, but I can’t be sure. I feel Anju settle inside my sleeping curl. She is still thinking. ‘The last time we saw her was at Uncle Money’s in Kagoshima. The last time we left Yakushima.’
‘The secret beach birthday. Two years ago?’
‘Three. Two years ago was the rubber dinghy birthday.’
‘She left suddenly. She was staying all week, then she just wasn’t there.’
‘Want to know a secret?’
I am awake again. ‘A real one?’
‘I’m not a little kid any more. ‘Course it’s a real one.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Wheatie told me never to tell anyone, not even you.’
‘What about?’
‘When she left that day. Mum, I mean.’
‘You kept a secret for three years? I thought she left because she was ill.’
Anju yawns, indifferent to what I think or thought.
‘Tell me.’
‘I was sick that day. You were at soccer practice. I was doing homework on the downstairs table. Mum started making tem-pura.’ Anju’s voice has gone sort of limp. I prefer it when she blubs. ‘She dipped weird stuff into the batter.’
‘What weird stuff?’
‘Stuff you can’t eat. Her watch, a candle, a teabag, a light bulb. The light bulb popped when she put it in the oil and she laughed funny. Her ring. Then she arranged everything on a dish with miso leaves and put it in front of me.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said she was playing. I said, “You’ve been drinking.” She said, “It’s all Yakushima’s fault.” I asked her why she couldn’t play without drinking. She asked me why I didn’t like her cooking. She said to eat my dinner up like a good girl. I said, “I can’t eat those things.” So she got angry. You remember how scary she got on her visits sometimes? I can’t remember what she looks like but I remember that.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Auntie Money came and led her to the bedroom. I heard her.’ Anju swallowed. ‘She was crying.’
‘Mum was crying?’
‘Auntie Money came back and told me that if I told anyone what had happened, even you, a bad doctor might take Mum away.’ Anju frowns. ‘So I kind of made myself forget it. But not really.’
An owl hoots.
I must go to sleep.
Anju rocks herself, slowly, slowly.
A dog in the distance barks at something, real or remembered.
‘Don’t go to Kagoshima tomorrow, Eiji.’
‘I have to go. I’m in defence.’
‘Don’t go.’
I don’t understand. ‘Why not?’
‘Go, then. I don’t care.’
‘It’s only two days.’
Anju snaps at me. ‘You’re not the only one who can do grown-up things!’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Me to know and you to guess!’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘You’ll find out when you get back from your soccer game!’
‘Tell me!’
‘I can’t hear you! You’re in Kagoshima!’
‘Tell me!’ I’m worried.
Her voice turns spiteful. ‘You’ll see. You’ll see.’
‘Who cares what you do anyway?’
‘I saw the pearly snake this morning!’
Now I know my sister is lying. The pearly snake is a stupid tale our grandmother tells to scare us. She says it has lived out in the Miyake storehouse since before she was born, and that it only ever appears to warn of a coming death. Anju and I stopped believing her ages ago, only our grandmother never noticed. I am offended that Anju thinks she can awe me into submission with the pearly snake. I listen to the March midnight bird trying to remember the words to its song. It is always losing track and starting again. Every year I re-remember this bird, but by the rainy season I forget it again. Much later, I try to make friends with my sister, but she is asleep, or pretending to be.
Fujifilm smuggled three o’clock over the border without me noticing. Two more hours to dawn. This sticky web of a night is three-quarters spun. I am going to be exhausted all day at work. Mrs Sasaki warned me Saturday is busier, not quieter, than weekdays, because commuters are more careful with their baggage than weekend shoppers and Friday-nighters, and because a lot of people wait until Saturday before coming in to claim lost items. I guess the media people will be snooping around for follow-up stories about Mr Aoyama. Poor guy. Sudden and rude as a bullet through a drumskin, the telephone riiiiiiiiings. That noise drills me with guilt and dread. The telephone riiiiiiiiings. Weird. I only got my