she steps aside, and it is Miss Min who takes over the ringing.
There is a line halfway down the hill, and she goes to the end of it and stands. Miss Min joins her in line and they wait, listening to the bell and to one of the patients reading aloud from
Snow Country.
And for the
next three days, the line never shrinks, only lengthens, and the bell rings. Rings while they sleep and stand in line waiting for their injections and eat and while the high school students mend and roll the bandages and gauze.
ARTIFACT Number 0596
A bar of soap
If, at low tide, she stands up to her knees in the water, she can get within fifty yards of the boy and girl. She comes here to forget about the aches within her aches, forget about all the massages she has given, all the patients she has helped over to the toilets, held there, cleaned up after. She comes here sometimes to remember that she, too, is a patient, not that she ever feels like one.
The medicine that she takes reminds her of this, but little else.
Like most days, her arms feel like they did after a day of diving, only this tiredness has come from someone else’s doing, not from her choosing. Two very different kinds of tired. So when she has some time, here in early summer, she goes to the western shore of Nagashima, the closest point to the main island and the town of Mushiage. The shore, which is covered with large rocks, pieces of wood from the docks that were shattered by a typhoon years back. She has even skipped lunch so as to make time to come here.
Again, today, as she has for the past month, she sees the children playing among the stones, searching for crabs or water bugs or shells. Laughing. From what she can tell, they must be no more than five or six, certainly not any older, for they would be in school otherwise, still a month before summer holiday.
The little boy pulls down his shorts and pees in the water, his sister or friend never distracted from what she is doing. The beauty of it, she thinks, the innocence of peeing without shame. She remembers how for so long when she began diving, she hated, dreaded the time when they all showered after the dives. But in time, she got over it, for the most part.
The boy pulls up his shorts, and before rejoining the girl, he looks across the water at her.
Without thinking, she waves. She is stunned, excited by this. He waves back, then returns to his digging. She keeps her eyes on him, hoping that he will again look her way. And in a short time he does, and both he and the girl join in waving. Back and forth, taking turns, as if it is a game, neither of them wanting to let the other be the last to wave. Wave wave. She feels good, giddy almost, and although she knows that as the adult she should let the children win this game, she can’t. Can’t let that happen.
Almost like those late-night swims and when she sees the wild-haired man on his fishing boat. Fear at first, but then each time she sees him, she will stand and look his way a little longer before running off—if for only a second longer. Someday, she believes, she will speak to him, knowing the enormous risk involved, but also the possibility of the enormous payback of human interaction, whether it be only a couple of words, a smile, a wave. Wave. And she is still waving even after the children have turned their backs to her, still waving as she herself turns her back to the shore of Honshu, waving as she pulls herself out of the knee-deep water.
No matter how sleepy she is each night, she works on the bars of soap. If the moon is up, like tonight, she has a little light. Other times, she does it by feel. Maybe only for five minutes, but a little every day. Waiting until the other six patients in the room are off to sleep. She has smuggled the soap out of the storage room, keeps it inside the cover sheet of her futon. She saves the shaved flakes, molds them into a ball of soap so it can be used later.
One night, not long before she is finished with the
There is a line halfway down the hill, and she goes to the end of it and stands. Miss Min joins her in line and they wait, listening to the bell and to one of the patients reading aloud from
Snow Country.
And for the
next three days, the line never shrinks, only lengthens, and the bell rings. Rings while they sleep and stand in line waiting for their injections and eat and while the high school students mend and roll the bandages and gauze.
ARTIFACT Number 0596
A bar of soap
If, at low tide, she stands up to her knees in the water, she can get within fifty yards of the boy and girl. She comes here to forget about the aches within her aches, forget about all the massages she has given, all the patients she has helped over to the toilets, held there, cleaned up after. She comes here sometimes to remember that she, too, is a patient, not that she ever feels like one.
The medicine that she takes reminds her of this, but little else.
Like most days, her arms feel like they did after a day of diving, only this tiredness has come from someone else’s doing, not from her choosing. Two very different kinds of tired. So when she has some time, here in early summer, she goes to the western shore of Nagashima, the closest point to the main island and the town of Mushiage. The shore, which is covered with large rocks, pieces of wood from the docks that were shattered by a typhoon years back. She has even skipped lunch so as to make time to come here.
Again, today, as she has for the past month, she sees the children playing among the stones, searching for crabs or water bugs or shells. Laughing. From what she can tell, they must be no more than five or six, certainly not any older, for they would be in school otherwise, still a month before summer holiday.
The little boy pulls down his shorts and pees in the water, his sister or friend never distracted from what she is doing. The beauty of it, she thinks, the innocence of peeing without shame. She remembers how for so long when she began diving, she hated, dreaded the time when they all showered after the dives. But in time, she got over it, for the most part.
The boy pulls up his shorts, and before rejoining the girl, he looks across the water at her.
Without thinking, she waves. She is stunned, excited by this. He waves back, then returns to his digging. She keeps her eyes on him, hoping that he will again look her way. And in a short time he does, and both he and the girl join in waving. Back and forth, taking turns, as if it is a game, neither of them wanting to let the other be the last to wave. Wave wave. She feels good, giddy almost, and although she knows that as the adult she should let the children win this game, she can’t. Can’t let that happen.
Almost like those late-night swims and when she sees the wild-haired man on his fishing boat. Fear at first, but then each time she sees him, she will stand and look his way a little longer before running off—if for only a second longer. Someday, she believes, she will speak to him, knowing the enormous risk involved, but also the possibility of the enormous payback of human interaction, whether it be only a couple of words, a smile, a wave. Wave. And she is still waving even after the children have turned their backs to her, still waving as she herself turns her back to the shore of Honshu, waving as she pulls herself out of the knee-deep water.
No matter how sleepy she is each night, she works on the bars of soap. If the moon is up, like tonight, she has a little light. Other times, she does it by feel. Maybe only for five minutes, but a little every day. Waiting until the other six patients in the room are off to sleep. She has smuggled the soap out of the storage room, keeps it inside the cover sheet of her futon. She saves the shaved flakes, molds them into a ball of soap so it can be used later.
One night, not long before she is finished with the
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