August 12 (Sunday)
Morning at home: As usual. Did drawing assignments, etc.
Afternoon: Met Izumi at three for tea at a café.
Evening at home: As usual. Continued with my drawing assignments.
With Izumi: met at the café by the station at three for tea (see “Restaurants” section for details on the place and what we had).
Izumi, a freshman in university now, is on summer vacation. She said her break is fairly long, and she thinks she’ll have time on her hands. Apparently, university students have their own worries. I joked that every day was summer vacation for me. She laughed and said, “You’re living the elementary schoolkid’s dream.”
We talked about my current situation. How my amnesia was not likely to go away anytime soon. But drawing is fun, and when I showed her the pictures I drew in my class, she complimented them.
She asked me what I wanted to do. After thinking about it, we decided to go to karaoke together tomorrow. But if I don’t feel like it, she said it’s okay if I cancel last minute. She’s always so kind.
I joked that I’d like to have a summer fling. She pretended she was a handsome guy and asked if I’d be her lover.
As usual, it was fun talking to her. We talked about boys. When I asked if a lot of guys at university were pursuing her, she said no way. She’s probably lying.
My past selves were wondering about it, so I asked what type of guy she’s into. She said, “I don’t mind telling you, but don’t write it in your journal.” She thought for a minute, then said, “Someone who’s bad at housework.”
When I asked why, she said, “Because I think I’m too sloppy to get along with someone who isn’t,” and laughed.
I wrote it down in the “Izumi” section even though she said not to. I’ll write it here, too, to be safe.
Izumi’s type: guys who are bad at housework.
I stopped reading over my year-old journal entries and looked up. Thunderheads were building outside my window, and painfully bright sunlight was shining in.
This spring, I recovered from amnesia. This is my first summer since recovering. I ate ice cream last night before going to bed. Really delicious strawberry ice cream. I’m able to remember what happened yesterday like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Now I can build up my very own life, Maori Hino’s life. That wasn’t true before this spring.
I recorded what happened between May of my second year of high school and graduation, plus the year or so after, on my computer. There are two main characters in my journals. Me and my best friend, Izumi. No new characters appear, but on the other hand, none disappear. I typed an entry every day. The one I was just reading was part of the section from after graduation. I was taking it easy, attending drawing class as a hobby.
There was a reason I wasn’t going to a test prep school or university. I was in my second year of high school when I got into an accident during Golden Week, and for about three years after that, I had amnesia. It was a particular type called anterograde amnesia. Simply put, I lost the ability to store new memories after my accident. But thankfully, Izumi stayed by my side through everything. With her help, and support from the high school administration, I managed to stay in school and graduate. Now that I’ve recovered from my amnesia, I’m attending test prep school. I’m hoping to start university two years later than my old high school classmates.
As I reread my journal, my phone buzzed. It was Izumi.
“Hey, Maori! How’s it going?” she asked.
I love Izumi. Hearing her voice is enough to make me grin. But I took a deep breath and forced my voice to sound solemn. I was lacking something important. Something essential. Why? Why was that?
“…Izumi, I have to tell you something. I just can’t figure it out, and it’s really bothering me.”
“Maori?”
“It’s summer vacation…and I don’t have a boyfriend!” I joked. I’d worked hard on that joke, which combined my lifelong lack of a boyfriend with the fact that it was summer.
There was a silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds, and then Izumi burst out laughing.
“You caught me off guard with that one.”
“I thought you might be getting bored of the one where I say I can’t remember what I had for dinner three days ago. I hope you appreciate the effort I put into this.”
I smiled to relieve the tension I’d intentionally built up.
This was our usual routine, one that could only work with Izumi. She called me in the morning, and I pretended I still had anterograde amnesia. Maybe it was a tiny bit tactless, but it allowed me to turn my past disability into a joke.
Unfortunately, my memories from when I’d had amnesia haven’t returned. Sometimes I feel like I’m on the verge of remembering something, but the memories never rise fully to the surface. However, I didn’t need to be sad about that. Everything important from that period should have been written down in the journal on my computer. Everything should be preserved there as data. More importantly, I have Izumi for a best friend.
“Sorry for being such a weird conversation partner, Izumi.”
“No worries. Part of why I call you is because I want to hear your jokes.”
“They’re jokes, but they’re also cries of sorrow.”
“Hmm. Even though you don’t want to date anyone?”
“Good point. I don’t understand it myself. It’s very strange.”
Izumi and I were meeting that afternoon. Since I was on my brief break from test prep school, we were planning to have lunch and then do a little shopping for clothes and books and stuff to relax.
“By the way, Maori, what’s our look for today?”
“Since you’re wearing a tuxedo, I figured I’d wear my wedding dress.”
“Be careful you don’t step on its train and fall.”
We’ve been like this since high school. Our conversations were basically just banter. After making sure we weren’t wearing the same outfit as each other, we hung up.
I got my things together in time to meet her for lunch, said goodbye to my parents, and left the house. There was an interesting Italian restaurant near my test prep school that I’d been wanting to try, so I made a reservation and we arranged to see each other there. As I was walking toward the train station, I looked up at the sky. Thunderheads floated against an endless expanse of blue, and sunbeams poured down like pure light.
While I was staring up, I heard excited voices ahead of me. I looked toward them. A boy and a girl, highschoolers by the looks of it, were riding on a bike together. As they passed me, I heard them shout giddily, “Go! Go! We got this!”
How strange…
I felt like I’d ridden on a cargo rack like that myself once and said the same things. For just a moment, I felt like I glimpsed the back of a boy wearing a school uniform and pedaling a bike.
I tried to remember who it was, but I came up short. I must have been mixing up my memory of Izumi’s back. There was an entry in my high school journal about riding on a bike with her. On the verge of recalling something, I started walking toward the station again.
I got to the restaurant on time. When I told the waiter my name, he said Izumi was already there. He pointed me toward her, and I walked over.
“Hey, you’re not wearing your wedding dress!” she exclaimed when she saw me. We text each other every day, but we hadn’t met in person for two weeks, partly because I’d been busy with school.
“I’m getting ready for my entrance exams. It would be bad luck if I tripped.”
“Darn. I brought along my tux to change into.”
“Looks like we’ll have to postpone the wedding reception.”
I sat down. The waiter brought me a menu, and I bravely ordered the lunch special. Though I was feeling daring, Izumi seemed nonchalant.
“What, now that you’re a sophomore, Italian food is no big deal?”
“No! The only place I ever go to with university friends is the pub.”
“You don’t go to stylish places?”
“You’re the only one I go on dates with to places like this.”
She winked, and I couldn’t help smiling. As we were chatting away, the appetizers arrived. We had a good time, taking pictures of our food and all that. Eventually, the conversation turned to my studies, the university I wanted to go to, and Izumi’s school.
“You’re still not dating anyone?” I asked. She raised her eyebrows and smiled wryly.