How High We Go in the Dark(79)

“All the grandpas and grandmas in our neighborhood think people like us because we’re doing something special. But most of our friends and their parents just think we’re weird,” one of the Fujita sisters said, noticing my slack-jawed confusion.

“Cult,” the other sister added.

“But we’re far from the only people doing the group urn,” I pointed out.

“We’re the only ones who like to rub it in everyone’s faces,” one of the sisters explained. She stuck a finger in her mouth like she was going to vomit. “We’re broke or we’d run away like you did.”

A few members ahead, I could see my mother chatting with Mr. Takata about plans for Baba’s service. “They don’t make women like that anymore. She knew just about everyone in our ward,” my mother said. “She’s really the one who made our group work. She held us together.”

“I’d be home alone right now if it weren’t for her,” Mr. Takata said. “I’d die alone.”

“We want to die alone,” the Fujita sisters said in unison.

It was no surprise that Uncle Takata joined us for dinner. Tamami noted that he came over at least two or three times a week, always bringing a couple of bottles of wine to make up for the trouble. As expected, the real adults conversed loudly while they drank. I tried to keep a low profile, stuffing my mouth with spaghetti to avoid talking.

“Windy city,” Mr. Takata said, waiting for me to swallow. He smiled after everything he said, a habit he’d developed from a managerial style he liked to call “Happy News”—basically, if you smile while giving someone an unfortunate task, as he’d once explained to my father, they’re more willing to accept it. “Shi-ka-go. Sear Tower,” he continued. “You see it?”

“Of course. Can’t miss it,” I said. “Tall buildings are tall buildings, though, right?”

I glanced at Tamami to see if she might do anything to save me from the most boring inquisition in the world, but she’d already volunteered to wash the dishes. She rubbed her stomach in a circular motion and raised her eyebrows at me.

“And what do you do?” Mr. Takata asked.

I hated questions where people pegged your entire identity on a few words. Who was Baba? A country girl, a simple woman, some would say. A decent human being. Of course, her collection of travel brochures hinted at someone who was much more than that. A dreamer. But I knew what Uncle Takata meant, what he wanted to hear.

“I’m studying to be a dental assistant,” I said. There was that smile again, yellowed from smoking a pack a day, signs of severe gingivitis. Definitely not a flosser.

My mother turned on the Nippon-Ham Fighters baseball game and opened another Kirin for Mr. Takata. She clearly didn’t want me to speak or embarrass her.

“She’s having a lot of fun during her stay abroad,” my mother said. “Hollywood, the Mall of America. She doesn’t realize how lucky she is to have this time to play around.”

A few other neighbors dropped by after dinner, and while my parents were busy entertaining, I slipped outside and through the yard gate. When I turned back, I could see my mother through the living room window, shaking her head at me. When I was a teenager, she probably would have dragged me back inside by the ears and showed me my place. Now she seemed unsure of what move to make. I waved and texted: I’ll be back at a reasonable hour.

I walked through the dimly lit streets toward the shopping district, texted my old friend Matsue, who waitressed at the Immigrants Cafe and Bar, a local dive for foreigners. As usual, the bar was packed with a mixture of Americans and Canadians and Australians, maybe a dozen total, surrounded by their Japanese friends, practicing their English. A man with a Russian accent sang Cyndi Lauper on a retro karaoke machine while a few Japanese women danced, waving their arms wildly in the air. I sat at the bar and scanned the room, spotted Matsue walking toward me with a tray.

“Hello, hello, hello. So good to see you!” she yelled over the Russian’s singing. She gave me a kiss on both cheeks, French style, and hopped onto the stool beside me. “You look so American,” she said.

“Is that good?” I asked. I looked down at my jeans and bargain-bin satin blouse, the beat-up Chucks that were about as old as my time in the States. Matsue, on the other hand, wore a cute beret, a dress with a butterfly print, and high heels.

“Yes, it’s good!” She excused herself for a moment and brought a drink to another table before hopping back up beside me. “How long are you here for? Everybody misses you.”

“A little over a week,” I said. Most of the details didn’t really need rehashing, since I knew she followed my holo-journal with her YamatoVision reality wrist projector. She gave me a rundown of old friends between her table service duties—everyone at the same job, Maiko and Junpei getting married soon, most still living at home. Kosuke, the boy with the wolfed-up hair who once thought I was the most beautiful thing in the world, was still breaking hearts in the back of Lawson’s convenience store after his shifts at the post office.

“Nothing really changes,” she said. “Do you miss home?”

I thought about Matsue’s question as she went to serve a group of salarymen trying to outdrink their boss— Kanpai! Kanpai! Kanpai!—and decided to enjoy the moment, to be the person who used to go to the movies with her every week and jog along the river in the evenings. We used to complain to each other about our parents and Niigata, how it was nearly impossible to achieve your dreams in this country. But Matsue looked happy here and maybe I would have been, too.