WINDOW
Miu
She knew she should close the window; it wasn’t a story for her ears. But it felt so rare that her daughter spoke tenderly, and—even if it wasn’t for her mother’s benefit—such gentleness was enchanting. Miu was sitting at her easel, the light low, air singing through the window. It was at the time when late night merged into very early morning. She found it hard to sleep when her daughter wandered, and Kyou was given to wandering during her visits. Restless as a captive. But now she had returned home to sit on the veranda. And she had a companion.
“He is coming tomorrow,” said the stranger—a young woman—in a mellow voice. “I don’t know why. He has the key. He wants to deliver it personally. Power play, I suppose.”
“Does it matter?” Kyou’s voice responded. “You’ll get your answers.”
“I want you there.”
“I have no key.”
The woman sighed in response. Miu moved closer to the window to catch a glimpse. They were paired silhouettes, cross legged, facing out to the garden, lazily passing a cigarette to and fro. The other woman had an elegant bearing and a hair that fell in luxurious waves. Then, quite out of the blue, the woman dropped her head so that the shadows merged. Miu’s heart beat with the fear of a trespasser. That was silly; this was her own home.
“He expects me to go back with him.”
“Saa. Poor little rich girl. Slumming it in Daddy’s chopper.”
The girl pulled back and shoved Kyou’s arm in that admonishing way that girls sometimes did. Miu witnessed such exchanges with the couples who visited. It happened when one—usually the man—was being overly jocular while their partner talked about travel-related stresses. Kyou and the girl were wordless a while longer. The sea groaned sorrowfully in the background.
“Kyou, when we go back—”
“It never happened,” Kyou said quickly. But then, with a gentle kind of affection, “You have nothing to explain. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“It did happen. It—it is still happening.”
Then it was Kyou’s turn to sigh, which was punctuated with a dramatic line of cigarette smoke.
“Give me your phone. I’m deleting my number,” Kyou proposed. Like a common scoundrel.
“Stop it. No.” There was a minor scuffle.
“Then you’ll do it?”
“That’s not—can we just…I mean, you’ll still see Natsuko, won’t you?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Don’t do that to her. Not because of me.”
“She’s just a client.”
“You’re cruel.”
“Am I?”
“I just—”
“Antoinette, I’m no one. I don’t exist. There is nothing to gain.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“Kiss me.”
Miu, as quietly as she could, closed her window to anything that might follow.
When the sun rose, Kyou and the girl were nowhere to be seen.
Miu’s daughter was largely absent the day that followed, apparently busying herself with tasks allocated by her aunt. Roof shingles. Lawn mowing. Setting up bunting and furniture for a community meeting. Kyou had drawn the line at playing server to “a bunch of deaf geriatrics.” That evening, Miu watched again from her window as her daughter staggered through the front gate and fell to sit solitarily on the veranda, hugging her knees to her chest. Miu went out with a cup of green tea. On approach, she noticed a suspicious sheen to her daughter’s eyes, which were fixed on the sky. Miu placed a hand on her daughter’s head. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Instead, she closed her eyes and twin tears travelled a silent path down her face.
The next morning, Miu rose early and assembled a bento box of Kyou's favourites. Black sesame chicken, fluffy rice, pickled plum, lightly-steamed greens with a generous squiggle of wasabi mayonnaise. In the corner of a compartment, she tucked intricate egg rolls made with just a little more sugar than there should have been. Just as Kyou liked it. Miu wrapped the box in a furoshiki, knotting and fluffing the bow so that it looked like perfect little rabbit ears. She presented this to Kyou, who was slumped in an armchair drinking canned coffee and playing on her phone. Her bag was already waiting outside.
“Ma,” she said, looking up sheepishly, “you don’t have to wait on me like I’m a guest. You should sleep in before peak season.”
“Tsu.” Miu responded, moving to place her hand on Kyou’s head once again. The gesture reminded her of early years, times when her daughter had leaned into affection with confidence and expectation.
The moment was interrupted by Kiku’s appearance.
“We need to chat, hah?” This was directed at Kyou. “Morning, Miu-chan,” she added in a patronising sing-song. Miu’s sister then looked back at Kyou. “Outside.”
The paper door only partially muffled their “chat.”
“You out of your stupid mind?” Kiku began.
“What now?” Kyou responded tetchily.
“You think this place doesn’t have eyes? That you can just mess around and no one will notice?”
“Wha—at?” Kyou huffed.
“The bloody President’s daughter? Anyone’s daughter is bad enough—you’ll give your mother a heart attack—think about that. But this? What is wrong with you? Are you getting back at me?”
“No! Don’t be stupid.”
“So what? What? Hah? You’re all messed up? You’re a drunk or—”
“I’m not talking about this with you.”
“Good! Good. And not to anyone else, either. Che! I had to tell Mr. Yoshida he needs his prescription checked. Couldn’t have been my niece. Must have been a foreigner. Must have been that President’s slut of a daughter messing around with some—”
“Forget it. I’m going. I’ll be late for the ferry.”
“Good!”
“Good.”
Miu heard the front gate’s squeak and slam. Kyou’s bags were gone from the veranda. Only Kiku remained, muttering and reorganising the shoe shelf. On the arm of the recently-vacated chair was Kyou’s wrapped lunch, rabbit ears listening hopefully for their owner. Miu picked it up and held it to her chest.
Kiku was agitated over her husband and his failing health; her demeanour was predictable. Kyou was distressed over some doomed affair; her response was predictable too. All the same, as the days passed, Miu found herself missing—almost physically—the safe, funny, familiar sound of their chatter. How many more moments would they have together?