A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki Page A

bruises from her gym class. They were playing too roughly.
Isn’t that right, Naoko?”
    I just nodded and concentrated on washing myself and not throwing up or jumping to my feet and running out of there screaming. Mom went back to her basin and didn’t say another word while
we finished our baths, but then later on, when we were back at the apartment, she made me go into the bedroom and take off all my clothes again. Dad was still at the baths. The sento was the only
outside place he would still go, and he liked to take his time and sometimes enjoy a cold can of beer afterward, so Mom had the whole apartment to herself as she laid into me. She pulled a halogen
desk lamp over to where I was standing, and she examined me all over, and for the millionth time I thought I was going to die. She found all the bruises and the little scars and scabs made from the
scissor points, and she even found the bald patch at the back of my head where the boy who sat at the desk behind me had been pulling out my hairs, one by one. I tried to lie and say it was an
allergy, and then I said it was hair loss from stress, and then I said actually it really was from gym class, and then I suggested it might be hemophilia or leukemia
or Von Willebrand’s disease, but Mom didn’t buy any of it, so eventually I had to come clean and tell her what was really going on. I tried not to make a big deal about it, because I
didn’t want her going to the school and complaining and making a stink.
    “It’s okay, Mom. Really. It’s not personal. You know how kids are. I’m the transfer student. They do the same to everyone.”
    She shook her head. “Maybe you’re not trying hard enough to make new friends,” she suggested.
    “I have lots of friends, Mom, really. It’s fine.”
    She wanted to believe me. I know when we first moved back to Tokyo, she was really worried about me fitting in to a new school, but then she got distracted by the jellyfish, and then by the Chuo
Rapid Express Incident, and for a while it seemed like I was the most well-adjusted person in our family. And then once Mom went mainstream and started working a real job, she didn’t have a
lot of time to worry about my situation at school, never mind supervise my after-school activities. She didn’t want me hanging out with the hostesses at the baths, but she didn’t want
me staying in the house alone with Dad, either, since he was depressed and suicidal. I think she was afraid he might do something crazy like those fathers in America who shoot their children and
wives with hunting rifles while they’re asleep in their bedrooms, then go down to the basement and blow their brains out, except that in Japan because of the strict gun-control laws, they
usually do it with tubes and duct tape and charcoal briquettes in the family car. I know this because I was already getting into the habit of reading articles in the newspaper about suicides and
violent deaths and suffering. I wanted to know as much as possible so I could prepare myself for my dad’s death, but I got kind of addicted to the stories, especially later, when I started
reading them out loud to Jiko so she could do that blessing thing with her juzu beads.
    Anyway, the point is that compared with what my classmates were doing to me, I knew I’d rather take my chances with Dad after school, especially since we didn’t have a family car,
never mind a house with a basement. But Mom wasn’t so sure.
    “What about doing more after-school activities?” she suggested. “It’s a new school year. Aren’t you supposed to join a club? Have you consulted with your homeroom
teacher? Maybe I should have a talk with him . . .”
    You know how it is in cartoons, when a character is surprised and his eyes go zooming out of his sockets like they’re on springs or rubber bands? I swear that’s what happened, and
then my jaw hit the floor like the blade of a tractor shovel. I was standing in the middle of our