Eight
It’s raining, and the dreary weather is unlikely to inspire any summer homework procrastinators to change their ways, no matter how soon school will be starting again.
At least, that’s my first impression as I wake up on the eleventh morning of her absence. I suppose I wouldn’t really know—I’m the type who always finishes his summer homework straight away, and I’ve never been one to practice that last-minute scramble.
I go downstairs to wash my face. My father, about to leave for work, joins me at the sink and inspects his appearance in the mirror. We exchange a quick good morning, and he slaps me on the back. I don’t know what the gesture is meant to communicate, and trying to figure out seems like more of a hassle than it’s worth.
I greet my mother in the kitchen and sit at the dining table, where my usual breakfast is already waiting. I touch my hands together in a perfunctory prayer and eat my miso soup. My mom’s soup is always tasty, no matter what else is happening in the world.
I continue eating my breakfast, and my mom comes over to the table with her fragrant cup of coffee in hand. I glance at her. She’s looking at me.
She says, “You’re going out today, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. In the afternoon.”
“Take this.”
She casually hands me a white envelope. I take it and look inside. A single 10,000-yen note is inside. I look at my mother in surprise.
“Is this…?”
“Go and say your goodbyes, dear.”
She returns her attention to the television, laughing at some TV personality’s dumb joke. I finish my breakfast in silence and take the white envelope back to my room. My mom doesn’t say anything else.
I pass the rest of the morning in my room before changing into my school uniform to go out. I’ve heard it’s better if you go in school dress rather than street clothes. I guess the uniform helps the family know you’re not just some stranger.
I return to the downstairs washroom to straighten out my bedhead. My mom has already left for work.
Back in my room, I put everything I need in my school bag: the white envelope, my cell phone, The Little Prince. I don’t yet have the money to pay back what I borrowed from her—that will have to wait.
I step outside where the heavy rain is bouncing off the pavement, and in no time, several droplets perch on my pant legs. I go on foot, because I can’t ride my bicycle and hold an umbrella at the same time.
Few people are out on the street at noon on a stormy weekday. I walk to the school in silence.
Near the school, I stop in a neighborhood convenience store to buy an envelope appropriate for a funeral offering. The store has a small table where customers can sit and eat, and I use it to transfer the money from the plain white envelope my mother gave me.
A short walk from the school, I enter a residential area, where I’m struck by a fairly tasteless thought.
Oh, she got killed somewhere around here.
I’m alone on the street. Maybe that’s how it was that day, too, when she was stabbed. Not by somebody she’d angered, not by somebody seeking to spare her from her illness, but by somebody whose face or name she didn’t know.
Oddly, I don’t feel any sense of guilt over what happened. If I was to look for reasons to blame myself, I could find them—if I hadn’t made plans with her that day, she wouldn’t have died, for example—but I understand that won’t change anything.
Maybe you think that sort of logical thinking makes me heartless, or unfeeling. Who, me?
I’m sad.
I’m hurt, but the pain won’t break me. Of course losing her makes me sad, but there are people out there whose grief eclipses mine, like her family, whom I’m on my way to visit; her best friend; maybe even the class representative. When I think of them, I can’t help but shut out some of my own sadness.
Besides, falling to pieces won’t bring her back. The only reasonable action is to keep myself together.
I continue walking through the rain, and I pass the place where I got punched.
As I approach her house, I’m not particularly nervous. My only worry, and it’s a minor one, is what I’ll do if no one is home.
Standing before her front door for the second time in my life, I push the button on the intercom without hesitation. Before long, a response comes; someone’s home. Good.
“Who is it?” says a woman’s muffled voice.
I give her my family name and say I’m Sakura-san’s classmate. The woman says, “Oh,” and there’s a pause. Then, “Just a moment,” and the intercom clicks off.
I wait in the rain until the door opens, revealing a slender woman. She must be the girl’s mother. Aside from the tiredness in her face, she looks like her daughter. I greet her, and with a stilted expression, she invites me inside. I fold up my umbrella and follow her in.
She shuts the front door, and I offer a proper bow.
“I’m sorry to come unannounced,” I say. “I wasn’t able to attend the wake or the funeral, but I was hoping I could at least offer some incense.”
She seems to accept what I say, even if it’s not entirely true. Her expression stiffens again, but she says, “It’s fine. You’re not interrupting anything—no one else is home right now. I’m sure Sakura will be happy to see you.”
I think, She’d have to be here to be happy, but I would never say it.
I remove my shoes and step in from the entryway. Her house feels bigger and colder than when I came here before, but maybe that’s just my imagination.
Her mother leads me into the living room; I didn’t come into this room last time.
She says, “You probably want to pay your respects to her first.”
I nod, and she guides me to a tatami-mat room next to the living room. When I see the memorial arrangement, I feel unsteady, inside and out, but I manage to keep walking, albeit with shaky, unnatural footsteps. I approach a wooden bookshelf on which various items have been placed.
Her mother kneels, retrieves a match from a bottom shelf, and lights a candle.
“Sakura,” she says softly to a picture of the girl on the center shelf. “A friend has come to see you.”