bars of soap, one of the patients—Miss Morikawa—is lying there, two futons away, watching her. She isn’t sure how long she has been doing so, isn’t even certain that Miss Morikawa is seeing, with her eyesight so bad, or maybe she is sleeping with her eyes half-open. But she believes that Miss Morikawa is only staring, as she so often does. She turns her back to her and works on the soap a little longer, glancing around, and each time that she does, Miss Morikawa’s eyes remain planted on her.
“Go back to sleep.”
Still nothing, the eyes on her. Maybe Miss Morikawa wants a painkiller, and she is about to go over to the building across the way and get her one, but changes her mind, deciding that if Miss Morikawa wants it, she at least has to ask. She shaves a few more pieces from the soap, but now she has lost all her concentration and knows that her distraction will lead to a mistake. Miss Morikawa has always been a busybody, and she knows that tomorrow the woman will tell somebody about the soap. In love with being at the beginning of a rumor, throwing it out there, letting someone else take and expand on it. Someone stealing soap, a good rumor.
There are other patients like Miss Morikawa, and on bad days, when she is giving them their massage, she wants to rip their skin apart. Miss Morikawa is in that group of patients that is religious, and that is fine, she has always thought, but it is when they push the religion on her that she has trouble with it. It happens nearly every time she gives her a massage.
“You should find Christ, Miss Fuji.”
“Thank you, but I don’t need religion, Miss Morikawa.”
“He will show you the light through all these horrible times.”
“Religion is fine for some people and it helps them, but for me, I don’t need it. Diving is my religion.”
“But you don’t have that here.”
She was tempted to tell Miss Morikawa that she has more than she thinks. Wanted to tell her of the night swims, of the children across the way, of Key of the Hand Island. She didn’t dare.
“Maybe I don’t have diving here, but I have its memories and what it did for me.”
“But how do you deal with all that pain you have caused your family? This place, Miss Fuji, is our penance for all of that we have done wrong to our families.”
“I have done nothing wrong, Miss Morikawa. We have done nothing wrong.
Your massage is over.”
And it is this conversation that the two of them had a few weeks ago that she is thinking of while carving the soap, and when she checks on Miss Morikawa and she is still staring, she tells her, “Go back to sleep!”
This time, she speaks too loudly, awaking another patient.
“Are you okay, Miss Fuji?” the patient asks.
“Yes, I’m fine, just telling Miss Morikawa to go back to sleep.”
She hides the two pieces of soap under the top corner of her futon, tries to go to sleep herself, but it takes awhile before she does, feeling that Miss Morikawa is still watching her, and waiting until she can tell someone of the soap that has been stolen.
The next morning, she is awakened by one of the patients.
“Wake up, Miss Fuji.”
She does, and when she turns over, she sees the other five patients who share the room crowded over Miss Morikawa’s futon; her eyes are still open, staring into space.
The patients all wait on her for what to do next. She, at times like this, feels burdened by the patients’ dependence on her, wants to tell every one of them that she is also a patient. Some of them truly need her, but there are others who use her. She peels the cover of the futon off herself, hating to lose the warmth that she has created in the night, and goes over, bends down, and closes Miss Morikawa’s eyelids as far as they can be closed.
Three nights after the cremation, she finishes the soap figures—a fish and a scallop shell. She wishes that she had something to give them some color, but she knows that this is a useless thought. And now that
“Go back to sleep.”
Still nothing, the eyes on her. Maybe Miss Morikawa wants a painkiller, and she is about to go over to the building across the way and get her one, but changes her mind, deciding that if Miss Morikawa wants it, she at least has to ask. She shaves a few more pieces from the soap, but now she has lost all her concentration and knows that her distraction will lead to a mistake. Miss Morikawa has always been a busybody, and she knows that tomorrow the woman will tell somebody about the soap. In love with being at the beginning of a rumor, throwing it out there, letting someone else take and expand on it. Someone stealing soap, a good rumor.
There are other patients like Miss Morikawa, and on bad days, when she is giving them their massage, she wants to rip their skin apart. Miss Morikawa is in that group of patients that is religious, and that is fine, she has always thought, but it is when they push the religion on her that she has trouble with it. It happens nearly every time she gives her a massage.
“You should find Christ, Miss Fuji.”
“Thank you, but I don’t need religion, Miss Morikawa.”
“He will show you the light through all these horrible times.”
“Religion is fine for some people and it helps them, but for me, I don’t need it. Diving is my religion.”
“But you don’t have that here.”
She was tempted to tell Miss Morikawa that she has more than she thinks. Wanted to tell her of the night swims, of the children across the way, of Key of the Hand Island. She didn’t dare.
“Maybe I don’t have diving here, but I have its memories and what it did for me.”
“But how do you deal with all that pain you have caused your family? This place, Miss Fuji, is our penance for all of that we have done wrong to our families.”
“I have done nothing wrong, Miss Morikawa. We have done nothing wrong.
Your massage is over.”
And it is this conversation that the two of them had a few weeks ago that she is thinking of while carving the soap, and when she checks on Miss Morikawa and she is still staring, she tells her, “Go back to sleep!”
This time, she speaks too loudly, awaking another patient.
“Are you okay, Miss Fuji?” the patient asks.
“Yes, I’m fine, just telling Miss Morikawa to go back to sleep.”
She hides the two pieces of soap under the top corner of her futon, tries to go to sleep herself, but it takes awhile before she does, feeling that Miss Morikawa is still watching her, and waiting until she can tell someone of the soap that has been stolen.
The next morning, she is awakened by one of the patients.
“Wake up, Miss Fuji.”
She does, and when she turns over, she sees the other five patients who share the room crowded over Miss Morikawa’s futon; her eyes are still open, staring into space.
The patients all wait on her for what to do next. She, at times like this, feels burdened by the patients’ dependence on her, wants to tell every one of them that she is also a patient. Some of them truly need her, but there are others who use her. She peels the cover of the futon off herself, hating to lose the warmth that she has created in the night, and goes over, bends down, and closes Miss Morikawa’s eyelids as far as they can be closed.
Three nights after the cremation, she finishes the soap figures—a fish and a scallop shell. She wishes that she had something to give them some color, but she knows that this is a useless thought. And now that
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