Chapter 4:
Abiding Diverge Alien
THE PERSON WHO RAISED ME had once told me that I had the eyes of someone who’d live a long time. “You just have that sort of air about you,” they said.
The ruin we occupied was devoid of other people. Wherever we went, the wind smelled like dirt.
“You think so?”
“Trust me—I’ve seen enough death to know.”
“Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”
“Good,” they nodded curtly. They were never a very outwardly affectionate person.
According to them, we weren’t related by blood—they’d simply shown up in town one day. I didn’t know whether that was actually true, but since no one else was around, it didn’t really matter one way or the other.
This person had taught me everything I needed to know to survive on my own. They lined up different plants and taught me all the relevant details—which parts were safe to eat, how to cook them, which season they grew in. And since they weren’t in the habit of repeating themselves, I learned to memorize things fast.
For the most part, we never discussed the past, nor why the world had fallen apart. We didn’t have time, and even if we had, they might’ve figured that information would be useless to me. Or maybe they didn’t have the answers; maybe they were just focused on surviving and helping me to do the same. Perhaps that would explain why I never really felt connected to them; we were just two loners who happened to operate alongside each other, perceiving each other only on occasion.
“I suspect there isn’t much time left,” they’d often say. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before they keeled over. It wasn’t clear what caused that—did the gentle breeze carry a hint of poison? Either way, from then on, mine was the only shadow that stretched under the perpetual sunset.
“You gotta make it, because I’d hate to be proven wrong.”
With those final words, they gave me all the encouragement I’d ever need.
✦ ✦ ✦
The crushing weight that plagued my body upon waking would likely persist for the rest of my life. I was keenly aware that I’d lost something I could never regain. It was like an itch I couldn’t find the source of…although it kept me tethered to the spot. Once that weight too was gone, I was sure my final breath would follow.
My eyes, barely open, closed once more.
“Morning, Shimamura.” It was… Yes, it was Adachi, who was already awake. “You’re up early today.”
“That’s hardly new. These days, I can’t sleep as long as I used to.”
“Ah, yeah… Too many midday naps, maybe?”
“No, I think I’m just getting old. Believe it or not, I’ve heard that it takes a lot of energy to sleep.”
“Really?”
“Really really.”
“Well, let’s get up and have breakfast.”
“Okay.”
I opened my eyes. Adachi was gone, replaced by a familiar white ceiling.
Talking to her was easy; at this point, I could simulate it perfectly, thanks to my years of experience. In fact, I was confident that there wasn’t a soul on Earth who could do it better. I could even hear her voice—though it echoed not in my ears, but in my mind, and sounded a little distant. That was the one hurdle I couldn’t seem to overcome with practice.
Now that I was awake, I became increasingly aware of heat clinging to my skin. Beyond the thin curtain, the sun was shining at full force. “I’m melting in here,” I muttered to myself as I rolled over, gazing absently at my outstretched fingers as I reflected on my conversation with Adachi.
Selfishly, I always imagined her the way she’d looked when we were in high school—the youngest I’d ever known her. Was that the version of her I liked most, or was it merely the version that had made the strongest impact? For the sake of my dignity, I hoped it was the latter.
I slowly eased myself into a sitting position, but then my mind stalled, unsure what to do. Like Adachi said, I needed to have breakfast, but the thought of all the cleaning to follow sapped me of motivation. Even when I had literally nothing better to do, I was still a lazy little sloth. I’d gotten older, yes, but perhaps hadn’t really grown up.
I gazed through the open bedroom door down the hall to the entryway. This wasn’t my parents’ house, not our condo, and not the apartment we’d moved into after we retired. After all these years, I’d ultimately ended up in a small studio…and, though its space was limited, there were days when it still felt too roomy for a single occupant.
There I sat and stalled, feeling the early spring sunshine through the curtains. The thought of going back to sleep was tempting.
The river of time had a way of whisking you away into old age in what felt like a blink of an eye, and now I was the only one left floating along. I never imagined I’d actually outlive them all, but alas, I had. My parents were dead, of course, as were my grandparents before them; Hino had died, as well as Nagafuji. Tarumi was gone too, and as for Sancho and DeLos and Panchos… Well, in those cases, I wasn’t actually sure, but the chances weren’t good. Not even Adachi had lasted as long as me—but make no mistake, we were together until the very end. Perhaps it had been a happy ending from her perspective.
“That’s not so bad, then.”
I decided to let that be my conclusion on the matter. Closing my eyes, I tilted my head down for a moment, then raised it once more.
The greatest shock had been learning that I’d survived even my younger sister. How had I managed to live so long when I wasn’t even that good at taking care of myself? Was it all the extra sleep I’d gotten over the years? I stared blankly at the wall for a while longer, mulling it over.
Out there on the other side of the morning sun, the world was still the same as always. Yet of everyone I’d ever known, nearly none remained, for the next generation had now taken their place. All the connections I’d made had come to an end…save for one.
“Hello there!”
Her voice, and the sound of toddling footsteps, came from the direction of the front door, though I hadn’t heard her open it. But the question of how she’d gotten in was inconsequential compared to the other mysteries she contained.
“Come on in.”
The little alien hadn’t changed since the day we met. Now she was all that remained to me. The onesie she wore today was the color of a baby chick, yet the hood bore the comb of a full-grown bird.
“You look well as usual.”
I scoffed. “You think so, do you?” Then I felt her put her stubby little hands on my shoulders and start to climb, like I was her personal jungle gym. “Oh no you don’t, missy. Get off me.”
With a shake, I sent her tumbling onto my bedsheets. She rolled all the way to the wall before coming to a stop. There, her eyelids drooped weakly for a moment before she snapped back to her senses. “Oh no, I nearly fell asleep!”
“Ha! Simple creature.” Pot, meet kettle. “Well, you can sleep if you like. It’s not as though either of us have anything to do today.”
“My schedule is actually rather packed.”
“Whatever you say, dear.”
She rolled her head directly into my lap. It was cool to the touch—cooler than the air in the room—and with her icy-blue hair freed from her hood, I could almost feel a chill coming on. When we first met, Yashiro had been like a little sister; later, a daughter; and now, a granddaughter, a role she’d likely stay in. She was a fixed point from which I had slipped further and further away.
While I thought about that, she swayed restlessly in my lap, her hair spilling motes of light with every motion. “How have you been lately, Shimamura-san?” She normally wasn’t one for small talk, so I could only wonder who she was trying to imitate.
“What do you mean? You come over nearly every day.” Primarily to eat free meals and sometimes even snacks. She almost never spent the night, though. That was a boundary she had drawn for herself, and I wasn’t opposed to it. “Little old ladies like me don’t get up to a whole lot, I’m afraid.”
“They don’t?”
“These days, I’ve truly run out of things to talk about.” I had no life anymore—no future plans.
“In that case, let us simply do nothing.”
“Sounds good.” Her blunt conclusion suited me just fine. I zoned out so much, my brain was in all likelihood the only part of me without a wrinkle to be seen. Then, suddenly, I remembered: “Oh, that’s right. I got a box of treats yesterday.”
“Oh ho!” Her little legs started flailing with excitement.
“They’re in the fridge, so—”
Before I even finished my sentence, she rose to her feet and made a beeline for the small refrigerator, slamming face-first into it. When she spotted the box, she retrieved it gleefully and raced back over to me. It was a gift from another elderly woman in the neighborhood—made by a famous confectioner, apparently. The name was certainly familiar.
“I see your priorities haven’t changed.”
“Ho ho ho!”