“Unlike you, I’m not that cute. I don’t have any experience.”
“That again? I don’t have any experience, either. I’ve never dated anyone.”
“…You always turn guys down when they ask you out.”
“So do you! Remember our first year of high school when that guy in second year asked you out?”
“I do remember that! Ah, the good old days.”
“They’re still recent to me! My memory is crystal clear.”
Izumi always puts herself down by calling herself cold, or by saying that other people can’t tell what she’s thinking. But I know she’s the most warm-hearted person in the world. And the proof is that she tried to make every day of my life fun when I had amnesia. She helped me do the things I wanted to do and have a good time. My past selves were saved by that. I’m grateful to her from the bottom of my heart. But she seems uninterested in romance and never dates anyone. I’m sure guys at her university ask her out, but she never talks about it or anything else related to herself.
“So what’s your type?” I couldn’t help but inquire out of curiosity.
“I knew you were going to ask me that.”
“I’ve only asked you about three times in my life!”
“…I guess that’s true.”
Actually, I was lying. I’d asked her three times since my amnesia went away this spring, but I know I asked her before that. I wrote about it in my journal after we graduated from high school. She apparently told me not to write her answers down, but my past selves seemed very interested and recorded it anyway.
• Hates nice people.
• Doesn’t get along with people who are good at housework.
• No to anyone good at cooking.
• Doesn’t like considerate people.
• Incompatible with people who value their family.
• Looking for someone who’s not serious.
If I sum up the notes in my journal, that’s her type. Maybe I lack imagination, but I feel like the only kind of person who would meet those criteria is a real loser. That, or a workaholic who ignores his family and friends.
But when I asked her that same question today, she gave me a different answer.
“I’d prefer someone who’s not younger than me.”
That was a surprise since she’d never mentioned age before.
“But…why?”
“Why? I don’t know. Image, I guess.”
“Image?”
“Yeah. Younger guys seem kind of…servile. And naive and honest. I don’t think we’ll be compatible. I mean, someone like that shouldn’t be wasted on me…”
“Did something happen at university?”
“Nothing at all. How could it?”
She tried to brush it over with a smile, but I knew her too well for that. My guess was something did happen with a guy younger than her at school. Still, if she didn’t want to bring it up, she must not want to talk about it.
“Anyway, what about you? Anyone at the test prep school?”
“Me? Zilch. As far as they know, I failed my university entrance exams twice already. I’m a little older than everyone, too.”
“That’s great coming from someone who just got asked out a few weeks ago.”
We finished our lunch along those lines. Afterward, we went shopping in the neighborhood. Izumi has a tomboyish style, while I tend to like more feminine stuff. At the clothing stores, we chose outfits for each other to try on and took pictures to entertain ourselves. I bought a pair of pants that Izumi said looked good on me. We checked out some accessory shops, too. Time goes by so quickly when we’re together. Before taking a tea break, we stopped at a bookstore. I wanted to look at some reference books, and Izumi said there was something she wanted to buy.
“Wow, they’re still on display. She’s so popular,” Izumi remarked, looking at the stack of novels by Keiko Nishikawa, an author she likes. “The movie adaptation of this has gotten good reviews, and it’s still playing. I bet they’ll be selling these all summer.”
She smiled, then glanced at one of the books. There was a photograph of the author on display. Maybe because she was so pretty, I felt strangely fascinated by her.
“What’s wrong, Maori?” Izumi asked.
“Hmm? Oh, I doubt I have…but have I ever met this woman?”
“…I think you might have.”
“No way.”
“In a magazine or on TV.”
She grinned, and I realized I’d fallen for one of her jokes. We both went to purchase our books, then headed for a café nearby. Drinks in hand, we chatted happily. I’d bought a reference book and Izumi had bought a few novels.
Suddenly, I remembered something.
“Izumi, didn’t you say you were writing a novel? How’s it going?”
She looked a bit surprised.
“You remembered that?”
“I remember things now. You told me after my amnesia went away.”
“I know, but I’m still surprised you did.”
She’d told me about it during Golden Week. She was hanging out at my house, and when I showed her one of the pictures I’d drawn for fun, she surprised me by saying, “I wanted to find some kind of creative hobby like you…so recently, I’ve started writing a novel.”
In junior high, I was in the Art Club, and I used to draw every day. But in high school, I was too busy to join one, and I stopped drawing. However, I picked it up again because of my amnesia. I’d assumed that anterograde amnesia would prevent me from developing anything over time, but in fact, I was able to. It has to do with something called procedural memory, which is the name for things you remember with your body. It’s the reason that even people who lose their memories are able to ride a bicycle.
According to my diary, I was overjoyed to have found out about procedural memory. I was deeply grateful to Izumi for discovering it, and I drew every day. My skills improved, which was immensely gratifying. Though I’ve recovered from my memory loss, I still draw sometimes just for fun. As a result, I keep accumulating sketchbooks. It was one of those sketchbooks that Izumi was looking at when she told me she was writing a novel.
“That’s perfect, since you’re so erudite,” I told her.
“That’s not true,” she said modestly. “Keiko Nishikawa is a judge in a new contest that a magazine is sponsoring. They put out a call for photographs and paintings, too.”
That was the only time she’d talked about her novel. I wanted to ask her more about it, but maybe because she felt self-conscious, she changed the subject. Still, it remained in my mind. In the most natural way possible, I asked her what her novel was about.
“It’s nothing important,” she said. “I’d hardly even call it a novel yet. It’s just a way of collecting my thoughts and ideas.”
“So…does that mean you’re the main character?”
“No… The main character is a disgustingly kind person.”
I asked if it was a man or a woman, and she said it was a man. If the main character was female, she thought it would end up being too realistic or annoying. I got the sense she didn’t want to talk much more about it. But I was so curious that I decided to ask one last question.
“What happens to him at the end?”
She looked at me silently. When she answered, I glimpsed a quiet sadness rooted deep in her eyes.
“He dies suddenly.”
Izumi and I have known each other since high school. That might not be very long in the grand scheme of things. And maybe it’s presumptuous to call her my dearest friend. But I believe we’ll be friends for life. There’s no one else I get along with so well, have so much fun with, and respect and count on.
However, I realized then that in the three-year gap when I’d lost my memory, a part of her that I didn’t know emerged. Sometimes she looks sad. I don’t know if it has to do with her family or with school or with something else. Or I could be imagining it.
“Anyway, Maori, let’s eat our cake. I got hungry walking around,” she said, cheerfully interrupting my thoughts. I managed to smile back and nodded.
“Izumi?” I asked.
“What is it, Maori?”
“We’ll always be best friends, won’t we?”
“Of course! What made you ask that?”
“I was just wondering…if you might give your dear friend a bite of your cake.”
“So that’s your ulterior motive? Fine, but only if I can have a bite of yours.”
We enjoyed the rest of our time at the café and left around evening. When I got home, I noticed I had a message from her. I couldn’t help but grin when I read it. She thanked me for hanging out and sent a picture of us together at the café. We were both smiling happily.