Epilogue 1.0

Angelica was returning from her afternoon shift at the nursing home when she saw the robot approaching her across the pedestrian overpass, pushing a wheelchair. An involuntary smile crossed her face. But this had happened before—at least a half-dozen times in the last year, since she’d given birth to Amaya.

Yuki and Junichi had let Angelica choose the baby’s name: “Night Rain.” And though Datu had not lived long enough to see a picture, he’d at least received news of the pregnancy, to which he had responded in a short series of audio messages with a surprising degree of warmth and familial pride. Angelica had asked Datu about the woman in the room, his lover. Cornered, he had answered with the truth: he had known her a full year. She was a great consolation. They had even bought plots together, in a BZ cemetery.

Datu had asked, just two days before his death: would Angelica be introduced to Amaya, when the girl was older? None of them had decided. Adoption, especially adoption of non-Japanese babies, was still not common in Japan. In the absence of tradition, everyone was lost—and many were free. They were not bound by unbreakable conventions. They could attempt to construct a more flexible arrangement.

Angelica had heard the English phrase “giving up” a child. She never felt she had given up anything, any more than she and so many Pinoys like her had given up their homeland. She had only made the choice that she believed would give her daughter the best possible future. In her happiest leisure moments, she pictured her daughter as a young woman: healthy, educated, unburdened by debt or guilt, spared from dangerous or immoral jobs. Most of all, simply safe. Angelica would think of Amaya once each night, before sleep, and hold that word—safe—in her mind, in her held breath, feeling it circulate through her body until she exhaled. It all sounded so reasonable: so perfectly, inhumanly reasonable.

She realized she was holding her breath, now, but for a different reason, as she walked down the Tokyo street, squinting and hoping—as she never thought she would hope, back when Hiro had been her adversary. Could it be him? Pathetic that even now, working in a group home, she missed the friendship of a machine and had not made many new friends to take its place.

As the robot came closer Angelica spotted the scarf around its neck. But robots with scarves were common. It probably wasn’t him, just as it hadn’t been him before. Still, each time, Angelica hoped anew. Why hadn’t she contacted him, or Itou, since being released from her sixty-day postpartum detention? She could’ve at least informed them she was well, that the government had agreed not to deport her, that they had issued a new work visa. But they had done so much for her already, from a distance, Itou in particular. He had refused to share news of her whereabouts with the authorities for as long as he could. He had written a letter on her behalf once she was in custody. He had provided a hefty termination bonus which, in addition to Junichi and Yuki’s contribution, completely paid off her debt and Datu’s debt that Uncle Bagasao had added to her own.

She appreciated the generosity, but she knew she had to create some distance now or risk becoming a permanent charity case. She had not even resented the federal detention period, once they’d made it clear it was a mild punishment—a warning to others—and not a step preceding deportation. The immigration authorities had sheltered her, fed her and provided medical care. In fact, she felt healthier than before. She hoped Itou felt the same about his own unplanned life change: that the crisis, and his resignation, had yielded a chance to forge his own way forward and perhaps to enjoy this later season of life.

Angelica squinted now toward the gray-haired figure in the wheelchair: too plump, and the steel-grey hair was short and curly. Absolutely not Sayoko-san. Just before their paths crossed, the robot stopped suddenly in his tracks.

“Anji-sensei?”

Angelica stopped. “Hiro? I didn’t believe it was you.”

The Japanese woman looked up at Angelica, confused.

Hiro bowed. Angelica started to bow back, then reached forward. Hiro dropped the wheelchair handles and clasped Angelica’s hands.

“Excuse me?” the old woman said, irritated. “Hello?”

Hiro belatedly introduced them. “We’ve just returned from admiring the cherry blossoms,” he explained, hesitating.

Angelica could fill in what they both knew, what they both would not say out loud: Sayoko had disliked the cherry blossom viewing. This woman was not Sayoko. Which could only mean.

“You weren’t fired?” Angelica asked.

Hiro’s response was almost too soft to hear. “No.”

Hiro’s new client twisted in her seat, drawing a shawl around her neck, fighting impatience and the cold.

Angelica asked, “Are you well, Hiro?”

“Very well. Itou-san offered to keep me on, as a personal assistant. And when he opened his club, he let me bartend. But it did not satisfy me. I was made for this. I am very pleased that Emi-san has allowed me to enter her life.”

Angelica paused, absorbing the unspoken news. Scattered wisps moved across the blue sky.

“Anji-san, we did send you a letter.”

“I didn’t receive it.”

“The end was sudden and unexpected,” he said. “But we have no reason to believe she experienced any pain.”

“Oh,” Angelica said, at a loss for words.

She was tempted to ask Hiro more questions. Was he really adapting as well as he appeared to be? Did he think about Sayoko often? Was there more they could have done? But something told her not to think too deeply about Sayoko’s passing and not to press for any kind of emotional reaction. At a moment like this, she had been counseled, one had to picture clouds moving across the sky. An upward gaze was allowable, but you were advised not to stare too long or slow the moment in any way. To dwell was counterproductive. To feel deeply was to interfere with healing.

After a moment, Angelica said, “I’d better get to work.” She nodded at Emi-san. “Very nice meeting you. Forgive the interruption.”

“Wait,” Hiro said. He reached into a pouch slung on the back of the wheelchair. “From Itou-san. In case I ever ran into you. A card to his club.”

She took the card in her hands: few words, only an address, and the abstract brushstroke image of a cat.

“Yes,” Hiro said, with the subtlest bending of knees, a repressed bounce. “He opened a jazz club.”

“Itou-san? Really? That’s wonderful. So, things have worked out for everyone. I’m so glad.”

Something seemed wrong: the tenor of the conversation, the lack of any sound but their two voices, the absence of shadows, the too-even color of the sky. There were no cars on the streets.

Upon first seeing Hiro, she had felt excitement and surprise, but now she felt only—wrong. Like she was at the moment in a dream where you realize it’s a dream, and begin watching more than participating, at a distance from the action. If she felt anything at all, it was only a touch of mild shame. She was failing at her assigned task.

Angelica did not know how to end things, and Hiro wasn’t helping. “I’m so glad, but I’m also late,” she said again. “Keep in touch. I must be going.”