Haruka watches her grandmother scoop the ripe plums from the water and remove the stem ends with a toothpick. Together, they heap rock sugar over the layers of plums in the glass jar, and pour shochu until the fruit is bobbing in the clear liquid. Haruka lifts the lid of the under-floor storage box. The other, older bottles of umeshu, the ones her mother made, tinkling as Baba drops it in.
Mei had wanted to be left alone. She had gone upstairs to the bedroom, clutching a few of the abortive custody letters she had found in the box. Haruka had wanted to follow Mei, to comfort her, but she knew where her sister was, she knew that place well, and she knew there was nothing that was going to pull her out of its depths but time. Time and stillness.
Haruka scratches at the mosquito bite on her thigh. The top opens up, oozing pus.
Yamenasai , Baba says, cleaning the tabletop, avoiding her granddaughter’s questions.
Haruka watches the wet on the table pull towards itself, then disappear.
Baba.
What?
The papers. What did they say?
Baba unhooks her apron, floral and tired, and ties it around her waist.
You know. They were your mother’s.
Yes, but what are they?
Papers. Documents . . . Your mother trying to get Mei back.
Her studies.
Yes. Her studies.
Baba starts chopping up an onion. Her hands fast and certain.
What are you doing?
Making dinner.
Now?
Someone’s got to do it.
Baba. Please. I’ll help you afterwards.
Baba’s shoulders rise. She breathes out. Places the knife on the chopping board.
Then she walks over, and sits down on the edge of the seat. The scent of onion following her. She doesn’t remove her apron.
What happened?
You know.
I know some of it.
You know enough.
No. I don’t.
Baba sighs again. Looks down at her hands.
If I tell you what happened with your sister, I have to tell you difficult things . . .
Like what?
There are things that I don’t want to talk about. They’re not nice.
That’s okay . . . I don’t mind.
Some things are better left in the past.
Please. She was my mother too. Haruka’s voice spills with pain, surprising them both.
Baba looks up. She had known her granddaughter’s feelings intimately, but it was rare that Haruka would share anything other than her anger with her. The last time she had seen Haruka cry was after the fight with Jiji. Since then, there had only been a contained rage, one that was difficult to see past, to the softness beneath.
Baba closes her eyes.
Please , Haruka says again.
As she waits for her grandmother, she feels the hard perimeters of herself breaking. Hairline cracks through fine china, fracturing down her sides.
You won’t like what you hear.
I know. I know I won’t. That’s okay.
Baba looks at her granddaughter, long and hard, chest rising. She stands and walks back to the under-floor storage box. She pulls out an old bottle of umeshu and walks back with two glasses. She pours the wine. She drinks.
Fine, she says.