I drift from one to the other—first Callie in her small apartment in Kansai, then Tark at the apartment in Tokyo. Their surroundings could not be more different, for Callie lives simply, surrounded by her fellow students’ conversation and tatami mats. Tark is more accustomed to luxury, and the rooms he shares with his father are filled with art and opulence.
Some days I watch Callie. I follow her as she attends lectures, plays, tours. I look on as she browses through heavy books, riffles through old pieces of parchment, watches television. Sometimes she knows I am there and lifts her head to stare fearfully at where I stand until I move to leave. There is a wariness to Callie still, a distrust she struggles to hide. I do not blame her.
But much of me remains with Tarquin. The malignance that often surrounds him has retreated, as if my presence alone deters it. I give the creature few chances to resurface. I follow him as he wanders the busy streets, leafing through magazines in quiet cafés, peering into store windows. Like Callie, he is quick to notice my presence, but his reaction is one of welcome. Before long, he makes his overtures to me, bold where Callie is cautious.
“You know what this is, Okiku?” he says, gesturing for me to stand by his side and ignoring the puzzled gazes of passersby. “It’s called an arcade game. For a few yen you get to kill imaginary aliens or space monsters for fun. Except this is Japan, so in this game, you play an angry father instead, and you get bonus points for how many things in the room you can destroy by flipping a table up. Child protective services in the States are gonna love this game.”
“Do you ever get hungry, Kiku?” he might say on another occasion. “I mean, I could buy you a milkshake, too. People leave food in shrines here for all kinds of ghosts, so I’m assuming ghosts actually do get to eat… Does ghost food even exist?”
I do not often understand what he means, but it never seems to matter.
We visit clothing stores, restaurants, parks. He takes me to Tokyo Tower (“The best view in Japan to see modern capitalism hard at work!”), to Hachiko’s statue (“Don’t tell anyone, but the movie made me cry.”), to Harajuku Station (“I know a lot of people here set world fashion trends and all, but that guy looks like he’s wearing every piece of clothing his mother owns.”).
He tells me to sit by a bench overlooking a small park full of colorful flowers. I am, I feel, understandably reluctant to do so, but he persists. “It won’t take very long. I work fast.” He sits across from me, takes out his pen and paper, and begins to sketch.
A short time later, he shows me the finished portrait. It is that of a lovely woman gazing wistfully off to one side, admiring the roses in bloom.
I cannot do it justice.
“For a ghost,” Tarquin says, teasingly, “you sure do have a ridiculously low opinion of yourself.”
I find these short, spontaneous trips with Tarquin
pleasant.
Tarquin and Callie talk frequently in what Tarquin calls email exchanges—odd, invisible letters that reach out and bridge the miles that keep them apart. Often, I look over their shoulder as they write, wondering. I had few family members during my lifetime, and delving into Callie and Tarquin’s words and thoughts this way, their obvious concern for the other, makes me yearn for something that is no longer my privilege to feel. I do not know why.
Heya, Callie, Tarquin writes,
Japan is officially the most dysfunctional place I have ever set foot in, and I have been inside a mental hospital. Did you know they’ve actually got a vending machine here that sells used girls’ underwear? The Japanese government declared them illegal or something, but I guess that’s never stopped a bunch of entrepreneurs from leaving them around. Dad says he’s seen others that sell umbrellas, eggs, and for some strange reason, batteries. I’m hoping there’s a machine here where you can buy your very own giant robot.
So I almost tried this underwear machine out—just to, you know, see if the thing actually works—but my acute sense of shame finally won out. There are so many other fun ways to dishonor the family name that buying girls’ underwear shouldn’t be one of them.
Just the other day, I found a salon that specializes in giving girls crooked teeth. And this is considered adorable if, uh, Japanese girls who look like a vampire needing braces are supposed to turn men on. Also, there’s a holistic care spa specializing in dogs. I think in my next life I’d like to come back as some rich Japanese lady’s labradoodle and enjoy all these spoils. Kinda ironic that most hot spring resorts allow for dogs, but not for people with tattoos. So I guess in this current Japanese social hierarchy we’ve got Japanese > pets > me.
(Not that I mind too much. I’m not so sure I like the idea of bathing in public, anyway. I know people say communal bathing is a test of how comfortable you are with your manhood and all that other crap, but manhoods should be heard and not seen, thank you very much.)
That didn’t sound right. I might have mixed my metaphors up, but I’m sure you know what I mean.
You told me to send you an email as soon as we’ve settled in Tokyo, and right now we’re doing most of our settling in a swanky apartment high-rise at Shibuya that looks like it’s been designed by an architect who’d had one too many shots of bourbon.
Tark pauses to glare at the walls of his room, which are covered in seven expensive paintings, each with its own alarming splashes of color.
There’s lots of bulging concave art and intricate metalwork that contribute absolutely nothing to functionality except to sit there and look intricate, and there’s a table here that can defy the laws of physics to also become a makeshift lounge chair and bookcase. I’m still expecting some metallic female voice to come popping out of the woodwork to welcome me into the future. Also, everything’s too polished. I can see my reflection on the toilet bowl lid. (Said toilet bowl also has a bidet. And a seat warmer for the tush. These people think of everything.)
I was expecting to grab some tatami mats, roll out the futons, and pretend it’s possible to camp out in Tokyo. As it is, I’m afraid to touch anything because everything looks expensive and breakable, though admittedly this is just the way Dad likes it. The only greenery I’ve seen so far in this glass dome of technological awesome is a potted plant in one corner, and I’m pretty sure that’s about as artificial as everything else in here.
Nobody we’ve talked to speaks much English, so it looks like I’m going to have to learn a new language soon. Dad says there are more than three thousand letters in the Japanese alphabet, which could pose a problem. There are only twenty-six letters in the English alphabet, and I get into enough trouble with them as it is.
I haven’t seen her since arriving here, which is always good. But I’ve been seeing a lot of Okiku…
At this point, Tarquin lifts his head and smiles at me. “Having fun so far?” he asks lightly. I shoot him a puzzled look, but he only laughs and turns back to his laptop.
…and as strange as this might sound, she’s usually the highlight of my days. Do you think that’s a bad sign?
We have this one creepy little kid for a neighbor who looked like he could be the poster boy for every scary movie involving dead children, ever. He went up to me once and asked why “shitai-chan” was following me around. I asked Dad later what “shitai” meant, and he said it meant “dead body.”
Like I said, creepy little kid. His parents probably had a blast with that one.
I guess that means something’s still following me around. I’d have more peace of mind if I knew what it is.
You in Japan already?
• • •
Educational tours and school visits make up the better part of Callie’s days, and she only finds time to respond when everyone is sleeping at the apartment she shares. Your emails always amuse me, she says first, smiling as she rereads his letter.
I’ve been in Japan for three whole days! Except we’re in an area called Kansai, which is a part of Japan that’s south of Tokyo, and I don’t think it’s as busy or as populated as I would imagine Tokyo to be. There aren’t as many shopping malls and restaurants (so no vending machines with used underwear or doggie spas, thankfully), but there are a lot of other things I bet you won’t get to see in Shibuya.
I saw a geisha the other day, maybe only a couple of years older than I am. She had on the most gorgeous kimono I’ve ever seen, all butterflies and paper lantern lights, and her face was made up in white powder and rouge. She said she just got back from entertaining a client who’s an executive at one of the biggest companies here in Japan. Mostly just playing shamisen, which my friend says is a Japanese instrument that’s like a guitar, and she and a group of other geisha sang and danced for a bit. Though I imagine their singing and dancing would be much different from what you and I are used to.
I’m helping a friend here named Allison to put together a thesis paper for when she returns to Canada. She’ll be majoring in Japanese studies this fall, and her paper’s called “The Development of Traditional Performance Arts in Response to Japanese Modernization” with a specialization in bunraku theater. Bunraku, I have since discovered, means “Japanese puppet shows.” We’ve been traveling to a lot of places, including a small island off Honshu, where we watched a few people put on some very elaborate bunraku performances. Some of the puppets cost as much as $2,000! Their clothes probably cost more than all of mine put together.
As for the boy you mentioned, he reminds me one of this one girl I taught back in Perry Hills Elementary. Her name is Sandra. She’s probably not as creepy as your neighbor—she’s actually quite adorable when she wants to be—but sometimes she worries me.
Just the other day, we went to Himeji Castle. We visited a place called Okiku’s Well, which they say a ghost haunts every night when the castle closes to visitors. I’m not quite sure how Okiku was able to leave Japan or wind up in Applegate, but I just had the oddest experience involving her at the well.
It is because spirits do not often choose to linger in their places of death.
Callie starts visibly when she hears, then sees me, nearly upsetting a cup of tea by her elbow. I realize my mistake and, not wishing to cause her more worry, drift past her sleeping companions and fade from view. When she is assured that I will not return, she resumes her typing, though her hands still shake.
I’ll tell you more once I get to visit you and Uncle Doug. In the meantime, let’s not talk about odd kids and ghosts! How have you been feeling? The program won’t end for another couple of weeks, but I’ve already made arrangements with the Japanese representative to travel to Tokyo instead of leaving with the rest of the students. I’ll see you guys then!
• • •
The days pass slowly, and a profound change comes over Tarquin. He begins to lose weight. Dark circles form under the hollows of his eyes, and he becomes more exhausted, taking to sleeping more frequently. There is very little that I can do.
Sorry for not replying sooner. I’m feeling tired lately, and I’ve been sleeping a lot. I haven’t been doing much while Dad’s at work, just walking around all day and taking in whatever sights I can find. I’ve been to the Shibuya shopping district, which has an insane number of people at any given time of day, even at night. It reminds me a bit of an organized stampede, like a sea of people rising up to do battle at Prada armed with nothing but shopping bags and a credit card, or something.
I think that’s what’s been getting me tired. Dad’s worried. I can tell because he just canceled two meetings he had to attend so we could go to three doctors who ran a lot of tests but couldn’t find anything wrong with me, anyway. They think it’s a form of culture shock, trying to get used to being in Japan. I mean, I’m pretty shocked no one seems to know what ketchup is every time I set foot in a McDonald’s, because that must be the only reason they don’t serve it, but I don’t think that’s necessarily the deal breaker here.
I even had sushi for the first time today. It tastes a little funny, but it’s not too bad. Finding any reason to eat food raw and skip cooking altogether sounds good in my book.
So in summary—no one really knows what’s wrong with me, if you exclude the fact that I can see dead people.
Nice to know a little more about Okiku. If I was a ghost I’d be bored haunting the same spot for hundreds of years. I’d try getting into Disneyland since I could get on all those rides for free. Or Las Vegas. Would an underage ghost still be allowed inside a casino, hypothetically?
One other thing. This morning there was a small earthquake around Shibuya—nothing worrying, just strong enough to be noticed. And apparently the seismologists they spoke to for the evening news are puzzled. Japan has an earthquake warning system to let them know about these things in advance, but this earthquake never even triggered it. Only people within a three-mile radius of the apartment actually felt the shocks, which doesn’t seem to be normal earthquake behavior. I’m hoping I have nothing to do with this, but it doesn’t seem likely.
Neighbor kid was just at the door. He wanted to know why we wouldn’t let the woman into the apartment. I asked him what woman this was, but he just shrugged and wandered away.
What is the deal with all these weird, creepy ghost-seeing kids? Exempting yours truly, of course.
Gonna head off to sleep.
• • •
He downplays his condition, his humor masking his own worry, and Callie thinks little of it at first. Been eating lots of ramen since getting here, she writes instead.
It’s easy to make, and that’s good. I don’t think we’ve had much time to cook lately. There are a lot of small affordable ramen shops near the apartment we’re staying in, and we’ve been making use of them a lot. There’s one shop in particular called the Oishiya that serves almost the most perfect-tasting ramen I have ever had. Allison says that Oishiya literally means “delicious store,” and I can see why.
Are you getting enough to eat, and are you taking some vitamins? (I know I sound old. Shut up.) I don’t know much about Tokyo, but the air in the countryside is supposed to be good for your health. You should ask Uncle Doug to bring you around places that won’t have as many cars or people, like somewhere outside of the city without all the congestion. From your descriptions of the people in Shibuya, I don’t think large crowds make for the best medicine.
As for Okiku, don’t worry too much about her. I’m sure she’s been around long enough to know what she’s doing, even if we don’t.
And yeah—that is one disturbing child.
• • •
Tarquin’s condition worsens as Callie’s Kansai tours draw to a close. His father brings him to prestigious clinics, to medical experts. Tarquin is soon spending the night in hospitals, but little about his peculiar malady is known, and his health declines for no discernible reason that anyone can see. Even Tarquin can no longer pretend to himself that all is well.
I officially admit it: something is wrong with me. I keep falling asleep all the time, and I constantly have this feeling like I might not wake up again when I do. No more wandering around Shibuya for me, at least until I get better.
Had the weirdest dream last night. I saw some guy all dressed up like a samurai, throwing Okiku down a well. In my dream, Okiku wasn’t the frighteningly dead specter in white we both know and love. She had on that kimono you described for me, the one with the paper lanterns, except it had glowing fireflies on it instead of butterflies. She looked really torn up. Bruises and cuts and worse, and I knew the guy did all those things before he pushed her inside. I remember being so mad at what he’d done to her, like I wanted to tear the guy to pieces with my bare hands, but I couldn’t move or speak. And when the jerk looked my way, he suddenly transformed into the masked woman in black which, as you can imagine, freaked the absolute shit out of me. Thankfully, I woke up before I could wet the bed.
And you know something else that’s odd? I slept twelve hours today, have been up for only about five minutes—and I’m already sleepy. Been hibernating close to fifteen hours a day now, and while I enjoy being unconscious as much as the next lazy bum, I gotta admit that this isn’t natural. Got another doctor’s appointment tomorrow for that. Woo-hoo.
Dad says next week should be okay to visit, if you can get away by then.
P.S. Managed a decent conversation with the apartment guard earlier today. I think something might have been lost in the translation, because he’s claiming there’s no little boy living in the apartment next door. There WAS some kid matching the description I gave who died several years ago, though.
PLEASE, for the love of molasses, get here soon.
• • •
A day before the rest of Callie’s companions leave Japan to return to their respective countries, Tarquin’s father sends her a letter.
Callie—Tarquin has told me about your plans to visit us in Tokyo, and I apologize for the delay in emailing you. Tark’s been feeling a little under the weather all week—he’s thinner and paler, and I’m worried that the strain of the past few months has finally caught up to him. I’ve taken him to several doctors, and they’re currently running some tests.
I had initially planned to make the trip to Yagen Valley earlier this month, but Tark’s illness kept forcing me to postpone. If the tests on Tark come back negative, we’ll be heading to Yagen Valley with Yoko’s ashes. I think the fresh air might do him a bit of good. We all could use a little rest.
As your exchange program will be ending tomorrow, will you be available to fly out by then? Tark and I can meet you at either the airport or the train station, whichever form of travel you prefer. I have booked two rooms for the three of us at a nearby hotel. (I insist on paying for any expenses for Yagen Valley as well. It’s the least I can do, given everything that has happened. I feel that at this point you’ll be much better for Tark’s health than the doctors or I ever could be.)
Let me know when would be the most convenient time for you. All our love.
• • •
Callie’s reply is both swift and brief.
Thank you for being so generous! Yes, I’ll be available by next week. I’ll be arriving at 4:30 p.m. tomorrow at Narita International Airport. Lots of love to you both.