Fifty Words for Rain(111)

I put some blush on her cheeks, to try and cover the pallor in her skin.

In her hair, I put a simple diamond clip.

“There,” I say softly. “You look lovely.”

She smiles as if she does not believe me and pats my hand. “Where is Obaasama?”

“She is in bed, little madam. She is very ill indeed. The doctors don’t think she will see the end of the month.”

Nori-sama rises from her chair. “I see. I’ll go and see her, then.”

“She indicated that she would send for you.”

She shrugs. “I will see her now or I will not see her at all.”

“I can escort you . . .”

“That won’t be necessary, Akiko-san.”

And then she goes out, without looking back. I remember the girl who used to cling to my hand and hide her face in my skirt. She had a smile that begged for love.

I think that little girl is gone forever now, ruthlessly dismembered by the people who were supposed to take care of her.

Including me.



* * *





It was not difficult to find the master bedroom.

Nori walked up to the double doors with the figure of a golden dragon etched onto them, located at the very end of the hall.

You have never met a defeat that you did not rise from, she told herself. Do not be afraid of a dying old woman. Now she is weak and you are strong.

She pushed them open and went inside.

The first thing that struck her was the smell. The room smelled sickly sweet, like dried rose petals and peppermint oil. It made her nostrils burn, and beneath the sweetness, she could detect something else: the stench of meat gone off, of something stale. It smelled like rotting flesh.

It smelled like the slow coming of death.

The room was dark; someone had drawn the thick velvet curtains over the windows, and the only light came from a small bedside lamp. Still, even in the darkness, Nori took in the oil paintings on the walls, the vase of chrysanthemums on the mahogany desk strewn with papers, the sewing thrown casually on the afghan at the end of the bed. Two swords in sheaths with dragons painted on them hung crossed on the wall above the bed.

She took a tentative step towards the grand bed, which was draped with heavy white curtains. For one ridiculous moment she thought that this was all a joke, that the bed would be empty and she would go out to find Akiko laughing, with a suitcase full of money, and she could go back to London and her new simple, happy life.

But then she took another step forward and there was a soft rustle, and then Nori saw her: Yuko Kamiza. Her grandmother.

She was half hidden by the shadows, but Nori could tell at once that this was no joke, that she was truly living her last hours. The woman she remembered was uncommonly tall for a woman, with hair so long that it nearly brushed the floor and brilliant gray eyes that missed nothing. This was not that woman. She looked so . . . small.

Yuko had the plush comforter drawn up to her breastbone; Nori could just barely make out the dark green kimono that she was wearing beneath it. She was propped up on a mass of silk pillows, and her once glorious hair was white and brittle as chalk. But it was braided neatly and left to fall forward over her right shoulder.

Nori took another step forward, and Yuko’s eyes snapped open, like a dragon alerted to an intruder in its lair.

Nori ducked her head, and before she could stop herself, she folded into a low bow. By the time she realized what she had done, it was too late. She could feel her face burning.

Slowly, she rose up to meet her grandmother’s pensive gaze.

“Obaasama,” she said quietly.

There. She had spoken. She could no longer pretend that this was all some fever dream, one of the countless she’d had before.

The ghost leaned forward in the bed.

“Noriko-san,” she rasped, in a voice that was unfamiliar.

Nori inclined her head in acknowledgment, but said nothing.

Yuko squinted at her and beckoned her forward with a long finger. “Come here,” she said. “Let me see you.”

She went unwillingly, making sure to keep her shoulders squared. She stopped a little ways away from the bed, and Nori could see her grandmother’s lips curl in a wry smile.

She crooked her finger again. “Closer. I’m an old woman, Granddaughter.”

Nori did not acknowledge the familiarity, but she did inch closer to the bedside, and now she could look fully at her grandmother’s face.

Her skin was like papier-maché pulled over a skull, so thin that every vein was visible. But her eyes were the same and Nori felt a shiver down her spine.

Those gray eyes looked her up and down several times. And then, finally, Yuko spoke.

“You’re a real beauty,” she said at last. “Truly. I always knew you would be.”

Nori was thunderstruck.

Yuko said this without a hint of irony, as if they had seen each other yesterday and parted on the best of terms.

As if she did not bend me over a chair and whap my bare ass with a wooden spoon for some imaginary infraction; as if she did not bleach my skin and belittle my hair; as if she did not make me feel like some terrible ogre unfit to see the light of day. As if she did not sell me as a whore and then try to have me sent away. As if she did not steal my brother’s body before I . . . before I could even . . .

She bit her lip so hard that she could taste blood.