“TELL Takumi I’ll help in any way I can,” Takanori said in parting before leaving me at my doorstep. By all accounts, the return of Towada’s father did not herald a touching reunion. And frankly, if I’d been in Towada’s position, I didn’t think I would have often sought out my father either.
Still, Ayako claimed they simply didn’t “see eye to eye.” Not that I didn’t trust Takanori, but if Ayako, the person closest to Towada, could describe the relationship as such, then perhaps there was a slim chance of reconciliation.
Fumbling with my keys, I glimpsed the keychain Towada had given me. He wasn’t very talkative and was sometimes painfully blunt, yet he was undeniably kind and strong. So I would hold onto hope.
“Haruka? What are you doing?”
“Ah! Jeez, Mom!” I’d been so preoccupied that I hadn’t noticed her open the door.
“I heard you outside, but you were taking so long with the door, so…”
“I was just kind of out of it.”
“Uh-oh, you’re not coming down with something, are you? Show me your forehead.”
“No, I’m fine, I’m fine! I ran into Takanori while I was over there. He told me he’d reserve us a spot in his Valentine’s Day workshop.”
“Really? That’s nice of him.”
“Apparently he’s bringing a chocolatier friend to help teach.”
Mom’s eyes widened. Yep, I’d been just as bemused. He’d withheld any further details, wanting to surprise us, but there was no doubt that the class promised to be amazing; I already couldn’t wait.
“That’ll be something to look forward to,” Mom said.
“Since I went to the Christmas one, do you want to go this time, Mom?”
She hummed thoughtfully. “I would, but I think your father would be happier with something you made, so you go. Anyway, we really should get inside now.”
Entering the living room, I switched on the TV for the weather but was met instead with breaking news. A senseless attack near a rural train station, the anchor intoned. I watched in stunned silence, struggling to wrap my head around the fact that such a tragedy had been taking place while I was out.
As a picture of the victims, a woman and young child at a local shopping district, flashed onscreen, I felt my mother shift uncomfortably behind me. “How awful. Let’s watch something else.” Her tone was calm as she snatched the remote from my hand—yet her fingers were ice cold.
Every time similar stories aired, Mom either shut off the TV or navigated to a different channel. I’d assumed the nature of the news disturbed her, but as I’d recently realized, that wasn’t the whole story.
Taking a deep breath, I said, “Mom, you really don’t have to keep worrying about me.”
“Haruka?” Her voice seemed to waver.
“What happened to me wasn’t your fault.” I gingerly pointed a finger to the faint scar on my forehead, and the remote slipped from Mom’s hand and clattered to the floor. The news channel she’d failed to change was showing interviews with concerned residents.
“I just can’t believe it.”
“It was so sudden.”
“I heard screaming.”
Their shocked reactions played on the screen. Picking up the remote and switching it off, I asked softly, “Was it like that for me?”
“Haruka, you…remember?”
“I do. Not all of it, though.”
Since Christmas Eve, since that conversation with Towada, my memories had returned little by little, starting with the image of the hospital courtyard.
“I was so young at the time, so there isn’t really much for me to ‘remember.’ Now it just feels more like a normal ‘I forgot’ rather than ‘I had amnesia,’ you know?”
“Even what happened that day?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I recalled fragments: making a large mountain of sand with my friends; a shadow looming over me, blocking out the sun. I’d turned, thinking it was my mother, to find an unfamiliar man instead. His figure was backlit, so I couldn’t make out his face. All I could see was his dark suit, his arm raised high in the air, and the thick branch overhead. Fear had paralyzed me. I shrank into myself, closed my eyes, and when next I woke, I was in an unfamiliar bed, Mom crying uncontrollably beside me. My head was pounding underneath gauze padding, one of my eyes covered. I remembered wondering why my father was there; it was still light out, so he should’ve been at work.
“I remember feeling scared, the bandages around my head, the hospital courtyard, and not much else.”
“Is… Is that so?”
“Grandma told me too. Sorry, Mom.”
During that year-end walk with Grandma and Momo, we’d talked about many things—the incident, my memory, and my mother. As I regained my recollection, I began to notice subtle changes in Mom’s demeanor that I’d overlooked all that time. Sometimes her expression abruptly darkened only to revert to normal as though nothing had happened. That she harbored guilt for what had occurred to me became increasingly clear.
Had I remembered everything from the start, perhaps we could’ve processed the incident together, laughed it off, and said, “Well, that was a nightmare,” and that would’ve been the end of it. But because I hadn’t, that healing conversation never transpired, and Mom continued to bear the weight all alone. My regret over her years of pain, perhaps, was what compelled me to reveal to her the return of my memories.
“I thought you seemed a little bit different since Grandma’s…” Mom mumbled.
“Yeah,” I said with a half smile.
✦ ✦ ✦
“You remember, but what about men?”
Grandma had told me that I’d harshly rejected anything that reminded me of the incident. My father in particular had struggled with the way I’d reacted to him. I don’t remember any of that, but sorry, Dad.
“I think that’s okay now,” I said. “I’m fine with Dad, my teachers, Takanori, so probably? Oh, but black suits are still a no. So maybe no funerals or formal functions for me for a while?”
At my joke, Mom finally managed to smile.
Who could have known that the boy I’d met in that hospital courtyard, then again in that fairy-tale house, would one day help me laugh about something so traumatic?