bedroom in my little white cotton underpants and sleeveless undershirt, under the beam of her
halogen lamp, and there was this weight in my stomach like a big cold fish was dying just below my heart. I just stared at her, thinking, OMG she’s going to get me killed. She had just
examined me all over and seen what my classmates were doing to me, and now she was suggesting that I spend even more time with them after school?
I already thought my father was insane, because this was at a time when I still believed that only insane people try to kill themselves, but at the back of my mind, I guess I was hoping that my
mom was normal and okay again, now that she had stopped watching jellyfish and had found a job. But at that moment I knew she was as crazy and unreliable as my father, and her question only proved
it, which meant there was nobody left in my life I could count on to keep me safe. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as naked or alone. My knees went all soft as I sank, crouching there,
cradling my fish. It thrashed one last time, rising up almost into my throat, and then it flopped back down and just lay there, gasping for air. I held it. It was dying in my arms. I gathered up my
clothes from the tatami and put them on, turning away from my mom so I wouldn’t have to watch her face as she stared at my body.
“I’ll be okay, Mom. I’m not really so interested in after-school activities.”
But she wasn’t hearing me. “No,” she said. “You know, I think I will have a talk with your homeroom teacher . . .”
The fish shuddered in the curve of my rib cage. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mom.”
“But Nao-chan, this has got to stop.”
“It will stop. Really, Mom. Just leave it alone.”
But Mom shook her head. “No,” she said. “I can’t stand by and let this happen to my daughter.” There was something new in her voice, an edge of resolve that sounded
very American. It went with her new Hillary Clinton can-do attitude and haircut, and it really scared me.
“Mom, please . . .”
“Shimpai shinakute ii no yo,”she said, giving my shoulders a little hug.
Don’t worry? How stupid is that!
3.
Nothing happened at first, and for a couple of days I thought maybe she’d forgotten or changed her mind. Ever since becoming a hikikomori, Dad had stopped walking me to
school, so I went alone, and I’d gotten in the habit of arriving at the very last minute, right as the final bell was ringing. I’d also gotten into the habit of killing time at the
little temple on the way, smelling the incense and listening to the birds and insects. I didn’t pray to Lord Buddha because back then I used to think he was like God, and I don’t
believe in God, which isn’t surprising given the patheticness of the male authority figures in my life. But old Shaka-sama’s not like that. He never pretended to be anything more than a
wise teacher, and I don’t mind praying to him anymore, because it’s just like praying to old Jiko.
In the garden behind the temple, there’s a small hump of green moss with a stunted maple tree growing on top and a stone bench nearby, and I used to sit there and watch the pale green
maple buds uncurl into leafy fingers. In the autumn, when the same leaves turned bronze and fell, a monk used to sweep them from the green carpet of moss with a little bamboo broom, and in the
spring, he sometimes came out to pick a few weeds. That small green hump was like his own tiny island that he took care of, and more than anything I wished I could shrink myself until I was small
enough to live there under the maple tree. It was so peaceful. I used to sit on the bench fantasizing like this until the very last moment when I had to leave the temple’s high walls, where I
was safe, and run to school, where I wasn’t, slipping through the gates just as the sound of the last bell faded.
This was my habit, but a week after Mom found my scars and bruises, I went to the garden and
halogen lamp, and there was this weight in my stomach like a big cold fish was dying just below my heart. I just stared at her, thinking, OMG she’s going to get me killed. She had just
examined me all over and seen what my classmates were doing to me, and now she was suggesting that I spend even more time with them after school?
I already thought my father was insane, because this was at a time when I still believed that only insane people try to kill themselves, but at the back of my mind, I guess I was hoping that my
mom was normal and okay again, now that she had stopped watching jellyfish and had found a job. But at that moment I knew she was as crazy and unreliable as my father, and her question only proved
it, which meant there was nobody left in my life I could count on to keep me safe. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as naked or alone. My knees went all soft as I sank, crouching there,
cradling my fish. It thrashed one last time, rising up almost into my throat, and then it flopped back down and just lay there, gasping for air. I held it. It was dying in my arms. I gathered up my
clothes from the tatami and put them on, turning away from my mom so I wouldn’t have to watch her face as she stared at my body.
“I’ll be okay, Mom. I’m not really so interested in after-school activities.”
But she wasn’t hearing me. “No,” she said. “You know, I think I will have a talk with your homeroom teacher . . .”
The fish shuddered in the curve of my rib cage. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mom.”
“But Nao-chan, this has got to stop.”
“It will stop. Really, Mom. Just leave it alone.”
But Mom shook her head. “No,” she said. “I can’t stand by and let this happen to my daughter.” There was something new in her voice, an edge of resolve that sounded
very American. It went with her new Hillary Clinton can-do attitude and haircut, and it really scared me.
“Mom, please . . .”
“Shimpai shinakute ii no yo,”she said, giving my shoulders a little hug.
Don’t worry? How stupid is that!
3.
Nothing happened at first, and for a couple of days I thought maybe she’d forgotten or changed her mind. Ever since becoming a hikikomori, Dad had stopped walking me to
school, so I went alone, and I’d gotten in the habit of arriving at the very last minute, right as the final bell was ringing. I’d also gotten into the habit of killing time at the
little temple on the way, smelling the incense and listening to the birds and insects. I didn’t pray to Lord Buddha because back then I used to think he was like God, and I don’t
believe in God, which isn’t surprising given the patheticness of the male authority figures in my life. But old Shaka-sama’s not like that. He never pretended to be anything more than a
wise teacher, and I don’t mind praying to him anymore, because it’s just like praying to old Jiko.
In the garden behind the temple, there’s a small hump of green moss with a stunted maple tree growing on top and a stone bench nearby, and I used to sit there and watch the pale green
maple buds uncurl into leafy fingers. In the autumn, when the same leaves turned bronze and fell, a monk used to sweep them from the green carpet of moss with a little bamboo broom, and in the
spring, he sometimes came out to pick a few weeds. That small green hump was like his own tiny island that he took care of, and more than anything I wished I could shrink myself until I was small
enough to live there under the maple tree. It was so peaceful. I used to sit on the bench fantasizing like this until the very last moment when I had to leave the temple’s high walls, where I
was safe, and run to school, where I wasn’t, slipping through the gates just as the sound of the last bell faded.
This was my habit, but a week after Mom found my scars and bruises, I went to the garden and
Similar Books
