After Nobomi moved to Maryland, Annamae wore the message-in-a-bottle necklace every day. After a while she noticed the chain would turn her skin a little bit green when it got wet, so she stopped wearing it in the bath. And her mother wouldn’t let her wear it while sleeping, so each night she took it off and placed it in the little drawer built into the base of the mirror on her dresser. Other than that, it was always around her neck. She often wondered what the message written on the tiny scroll inside the bottle was, but, mindful of Nobomi’s warning, she didn’t try to remove the stopper and take it out.
After Nobomi left, whenever Annamae and Danny needed an after-school companion, they had a rotating series of grad students. There was a Laura, a Bill, a Paz, and a Valeria. All of them were fine, but none of them was Nobomi. Then the semester ended and Laura, Bill, Paz, and Valeria all went off to do other things, and even though their mother’s schedule became more flexible when classes ended, there were still times when she needed a companion for the kids and so—drumroll please—then they had Nana.
Nana would take the train in from across the river and often she’d spend the night, or even two nights in a row. She’d sleep on the foldout couch and take up the top of the toilet tank with her electric toothbrush and what she called her “ditty bag”—a flowered, plastic, zippered pouch full of pills and lotions. She wore cotton gloves to bed and a shower cap in the shower. She did the dishes the second you put them in the sink. She was less of a companion than an intrusion. She definitely asked questions of agenda more than questions of curiosity.
Upon noticing Annamae wearing leg warmers with jeans, she asked, “Aren’t those for dance class?”
“Sometimes, but they can also just be part of your outfit.”
“Isn’t that funny? In my day, we wanted slim-looking ankles.”
Or when both Danny and Annamae wanted to go over and listen to the steel-drum players on the other side of the park: “Can you really hear music? My ears just hear noise.”
Or one day when Annamae was sitting sideways across the armchair, reading a book: “What’s that in your mouth?”
“My necklace.”
“Should you really be sucking on it?”
Annamae let it sort of drip back out. “Why not?”
“You could choke.”
“Nana, how could I choke if I’m wearing it on a chain around my neck?”
“It could come loose. Don’t laugh. I once knew a girl who was sucking the bristle of her hairbrush. One of those big black bristles. It had fallen out, and she just put it in her mouth and was playing with it and then it was gone.”
“She swallowed it?”
“No, she was certain she hadn’t swallowed it.”
“What happened?”
“Well, it was a mystery. Then a week or so later, she developed an itchy sore on the side of her neck. It turned out to be the bristle, working its way out of her body. It had entered one of her salivary glands.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It is.”
“Anyway, I don’t think it’s going to happen with my necklace. This bottle’s bigger than a bristle.”
“But sweetheart.” Nana peered closer. “Aren’t you ruining what’s inside?”
Annamae looked. Nana was right. Her habit of sucking on the message in the bottle had damaged the stopper. The tiny paper scroll had gotten wet.