So I ache.
Voice
It was really a lot easier to talk tough than it was to come up with a plan. Sei knew that from experience (the only way one really came to understand anything) but Yoshino was still learning, which was perhaps why she became so utterly disheartened about halfway through their drive back to Tokyo, when the realization fell over the car that nobody had even the foggiest as to what they could do to help Sachiko, because none of them could really quantify what helping her would entail.
In the end, all they accomplished was putting Yoshino in a state near to tears. She seemed to have taken Sachiko’s case to heart, and as much as Rei tried to reassure her that they’d come up with something, the fact was that she didn’t believe it herself. The prospect of busting into Sachiko’s place and telling her to grow a pair was nice, but it inherently had several major flaws, not the least of which being the fact that busting into Sachiko’s place was breaking and entering, and they couldn’t tell her to grow a pair in jail. Yoshino, attempting to invoke Occam’s razor, at one point suggested that they simply ask to be let in, but it was quickly pointed out that Suguru would almost certainly not allow it, and it seemed to Sei like he more or less ran the house at this point. Sachiko’s parents seemed to be generically away, and as annoying as it was, none of them had the slightest idea where they were. Not that the parents would be much help in any event—they were the ones who had set up the marriage in the first place.
Shimako suggested trying to call Sachiko on the phone, a suggestion which had facilitated what was probably the most logical, constructive discussion, until Yumi pointed out that the household had somebody who answered the phone—almost certainly to screen their calls—and you couldn’t really say difficult things on the phone anyway. In all honesty, Yumi wasn’t sure if she could even say them in person. That was why they were difficult.
All they could really come up with was that Sachiko would need to take some sort of initiative, and that lead them into the same corner they were so utterly used to.
And so, Yoshino could not help but become disheartened and frustrated, along with the rest of them, to varying degrees.
All, that is, but Yumi.
Rei thought it curious—but perhaps a bit promising—that of all of them, Yumi was the only one who did not have a small drag in their step as they were let off at their individual houses.
After all, in the end, for all their scheming, this would probably be something to be resolved between Yumi and Sachiko themselves. It was hard to admit, even to herself; certainly she’d never be able to convince Yoshino of it. But that was how it was. Getting involved in somebody else’s life, somebody else’s business, only went so far; she’d done her fair share of it on the Rose Council, who had essentially been the school’s chartered meddlers, but she felt that that experience had given her a perspective on the prospect of meddling: That it was more for the benefit of the meddler than anyone else.
But then, how do you justify Sachiko’s case to yourself? She wondered as she hugged Yoshino goodbye, saw her in the door of her house, and then headed for her own home—she had moved out not long ago, into a dormitory on the Tokyo University campus. Here is a girl who really needs somebody to interfere in her life, who has a hard time taking control by herself. How can you say that by stepping in and involving yourself in her business, you’re not doing her a favor? Certainly if you keep doing that she’ll never learn to walk on her own two feet, it’s true, but is this really the time to be teaching her to walk? This is marriage we’re talking about here. It’s not her first bike ride.
At the same time, are we really accomplishing anything? Marriage isn’t the end of the world for her; God knows Suguru isn’t going to be putting any pressures on her, so to speak. At the very least, he isn’t going to stop her. I don’t know everything that’s going on in their lives, but if Suguru is allowed to take lovers, Sachiko can’t be expected to simply wait in their house for him to come along and grace her with his attentions. Especially if his attentions don’t even swing in the general direction of Sachiko.
Maybe you’re too rational for that, though. Certainly it’s the case that most everybody that you know wouldn’t object to at least some semblance of fairness in their relationship, but look at Sachiko’s mother. Unless I’m very blind, she hasn’t taken a lover in years, if ever; she still thinks the world of Sachiko’s father. Does that mean she’s not allowed to take one? Or just that she hasn’t chosen to?
Rei stopped at a stoplight, rolled her window down, and stuck her arm out, grabbing onto the roof of the car. Not the most ladylike move on the planet, but who was going to know? Everybody had to relax sometimes, and she enjoyed the feeling of the wind on her arm, even in the summer heat.
The light turned a few moments later, and she accelerated gently towards the speed limit, enjoying the feeling of the wind at her arm.
Now, if Yoshino had been in the car, yes, I might be able to do something like this, and maybe Sei as well, but nobody else. There’s nothing logically wrong with sticking one’s arm out the window; it’s simply not what’s expected of me. Or rather, I’m expected not to do it. Because it’s polite, right? And somebody like Sachiko might be surprised to see me like this. Just sticking my arm out the window, like a nineteen-year-old boy with his first car. It’s not especially rude, and if she thought about it, she would have to understand that I’m not always polite and ladylike when nobody else is around. It’s not a definition of a person, after all. It’s an act around other people.
To what end?
If I knew that, I’d be able to fake it. It’s exhausting being a lady. I don’t even like skirts.
She stopped at another light. They were not on her side today. A band was playing on the street corner, just three boys on instruments and a girl with a lovely demure voice singing a demure song about a lover whom she didn’t understand.
She tapped her hand on the hood of her car in time with the drums. It was a very good song, and as the light changed again, something occurred to her.
…What if she wouldn’t understand it?
What if she’s like that all the time? Even at home?
That’s absurd.
Maybe she doesn’t even understand that she has options. Maybe even if somebody tells her that, she doesn’t take it in. Maybe actions don’t speak any more loudly than words for her. Certainly she’s grown as a person—she even went so far as to allow herself to ogle Yumi when she thought nobody was looking—but maybe that’s something that she can’t quite get. Maybe she thinks it’s something she sees on TV, but only really exists in the collective imagination, like True Love Which Conquers Even Death or a pill that can make a man larger.
After all, if she grew up with none, how could she learn them? You don’t learn options. They’re given to you and you learn how to choose between them, but if they’re never given to you, how can you familiarize yourself with such a concept without help? Or even with help?
So then…what? What does that do for you? Do you just step in and make her decision for her? That’s not right. Even if I could do it, I wouldn’t.
Maybe …
Maybe she needs somebody to present her with a decision like that. To sit her down and tell her, okay, this is your choice now. Make it, with a completely neutral stance. Not acting as anybody’s agent but their own.
Kind of like asking somebody out.
You’re not doing it for anybody but you. You’ve made your choice, and so it’s up to whoever you’re asking out to make theirs, and that’s that. In the end, they have to make a selfish choice, and that’s how you know they’re being honest.
The Tokyo University campus was crowded, but mystically, it was never hard for Rei to get through in a car. The students obeyed traffic laws, which Rei thought was absolutely absurd, but nonetheless thanked God for; if they simply meandered about the streets as they pleased she’d never get anywhere. She pulled into a parking spot near her dormitory (which was co-ed; something it had taken her a hell of a long time to get used to) and after a moment, rolled the window up and got out of the car. Her arm felt a bit funky from hanging it out of the window for so long, and it was certainly warmer than the rest of her body from being in the sun. She rubbed it a bit, then locked her car, and began walking towards her room.
She was halfway there when she simply stopped.
And that is why Yumi is not nervous. Or at least, not nervous about the same thing that we are. She understood that already. She understands what it takes to force a selfish decision.
And we can do precisely nothing.
For now, anyway.
For now.
Rei needed a nap, badly.
Sachiko had no trouble readjusting to having a role—none which could be perceived without paying attention, anyway. Nearly as soon as she exited the car and crossed the twenty feet towards the large double-doors of her house, her morose exterior seemed to melt off like so much sweat, dripping down her neck, down her side, snaking down her thighs, and finally being left on the ground behind her. She walked slowly and purposefully up the stairs, occasionally adjusting the crease of her jeans in place of a skirt that she did not wear. She bowed and thanked politely the man who opened the door for her, removed her shoes at the entryway, and murmured I’m home to a house which was not empty but may as well have been.
It echoes.
It fucking echoes.
A house should not echo.
Many people would give their firstborn child and every one after it to be able to afford a house that could echo. It was a line read off a script at this point. Don’t question your wealth, you’re lucky to have it. That’s what makes a person lucky is money; never mind the ability to have a normal life or marry anybody they please or hell even just ogle anybody they please, or rather anybody who pleases them, it’s MONEY that makes a person lucky, MONEY and nothing else. Just money, if you have that it’s all you need then you can have all the male suitors you want so long as you pick one who won’t love you. No, you’re lucky to have that. Because there’s money mixed in with it.
They can have it. They can goddamn have it. I don’t goddamn want it. Who the hell even asked me? Let’s just open up the damn doors and let every bum who wants a piece take a room. Let’s wait on them. I’ll find another place to live. I’ll take one of their names. One of them can be Sachiko Ogasawara, and I’ll be –
Stop it.
Sachiko found that her hands were clenched together powerfully, her nails digging painfully into her palms. Her mouth was twitching slightly. She felt something burning in her chest, and wondered for a moment if she would have a heart attack, but the feeling passed as she steadied herself.
Suguru followed her up the stairs and passed her without a word. None of the doormen moved to help her or even asked her if anything was wrong. No blood, no report, that was how it was in this house, just like the damn Self Defense Forces.
It had never bothered her before. She had never really thought of one of the doormen lending a steadying hand, much less Suguru.
And then she thought of Yumi.
And of Sei.
And of goddamn all of them. All of them who had guided her, who had given her a steadying hand or a steadying hug or a steadying talk or a steadying glass of beer or a steadying kiss. People who had lifted the weight of being Sachiko off of Sachiko’s shoulders, who had all carried it with her.
That sounds pathetic.
Isn’t that what everybody needs, though? Doesn’t Rei help Yoshino with that every damn day? Haven’t I helped Yumi with being Yumi in the past? Why is it so wrong, wanting somebody to help you be you without collapsing? Parents help you be you. Friends help you to be you. Apparently doormen, even ones whom you’ve known for years don’t, and apparently fiancés don’t. Apparently people who talk to you at parties and try to put their hands up your skirt don’t.
Fuck all of you.
Fuck every last one of you. You may all burn in hell.
She was clenching her hand again.
This time there was blood, and a stinging pain. Her fingernails were not entirely clean, and she did not know why, but she knew she would have to have somebody disinfect them.
There was blood, but still no report. The doormen closed the door and left with a respectful bow.
I’ll do it myself.
She started walking into the house, and made it about twenty yards before she realized she had no idea where her family kept disinfectant.
It took her twenty minutes to calm herself down to the point where she thought she’d be able to ask for help in a tone of voice which was not an angry snarl. It took her ten more to get her voice soft enough to address somebody else.
(Calm down, Sachiko.)
(There is no reason to be angry. Even if there is, there is no utility to it. You’ll get places with your wealth and your face and your gentle persona, not your anger, remember that. Nobody wants to hear what you think of the Fukuda’s economic gaffes; they want to hear what you think of the drapes. Just think of the drapes and the rugs and the night’s dinner.)
(God sometimes I just want to put my fist through a)
(Calm. Down.)
It took her less than a minute to convince the man she’d asked for help to let her disinfect her own wounds. She said she’d gotten them falling in Kyoto, and stuck to her story, even though it was completely absurd—if nothing else, the small cuts in her palm looked like nail marks, and her fingernails had blood under them. It was a testament to how little anybody in this house gave a good goddamn that the man, who had worked for the Ogasawaras for five years, gave in so quickly and left Sachiko to her own devices.
Sachiko dumped hydrogen peroxide over her hand over the sink, and it hurt. A lot. She was not used to physical pain, and tears welled up in her eyes as she bit her lip. Small white fuzz bubbled up on the four identical cuts on her palm, and she rinsed it off and did it again. It hurt a bit less this time. She repeated the process about four times, and by the last she was used to the pain. She put the brown, unassuming bottle of peroxide away and bandaged her hand with bandages the man had given her, and then stood, clearing her mind. This had been an unpleasant experience and she did not want to repeat it. She would keep her hands very flat against her side whenever she could.
And even so, anger burned inside of her.
Her mother called her later that day and chastised her for “running off with her friends so irresponsibly when she has a life to consider.” Sachiko sat quietly and nodded at all the right times, apologizing at all the right times, even bowing at the wall once. It was another thing she’d been drilled in, in case anybody was watching—though her friends often did it inadvertently as well, it would not do for somebody watching to think she was abnormal.
God, I’ve got all those in cases down.
Afterward, her mother conveniently forgave her and told her she’d be around in an hour to try on dresses with her.
It was strange, Sachiko thought as she hung up the phone and set herself gently down on her bed. Her mother surely cared about her; she had been very supportive and understanding when her grandmother had died. She had even let Yumi see her in her grief, and comfort her. She had not asked once for Sachiko to please get up, clean up, and come support the family.
In truth, she knew she was cared about by her mother, but she could not help resenting it.
(You are resenting everything that you are handed, you undeserving bitch.)
Then take it away. Take it.
Why, though? Why resent it?
Because nobody asked you.
Nobody ever god damn asks you.
Who would?
Who would? Nobody really owned their own life, after all, so who would?
Then who does own my life? And then, what do I own?
You own power and wealth.
But what use is it without my life? And who made that trade?
Sachiko decided to stop thinking about it and sleep.
It didn’t go very well. She could not fall asleep, and she very nearly put four more neat cuts into her other palm.
A small muscle in her jaw began twitching and did not stop.
Sachiko’s mother arrived an hour later, on the dot, flanked by four men carrying bundles of white, flowing dresses. Sachiko had roused herself and was downstairs, trying to keep her bandaged hand behind her back as best she could. She had also put on a skirt, reasoning that even if she was wearing jeans she wouldn’t be allowed to keep that hand in her pocket. She would have to keep them at her sides, or behind her back.
“I’ve picked out quite a few for you to try on,” her mother said, brushing past her, her pace very nearly fast, “so we’ll need to begin right away. I want to have one chosen before your father gets home so you can show him.”
She had picked out.
Sachiko had not even gotten to look.
Of course not.
Sachiko had always looked forward to picking out her wedding dress. She had thought it would be wonderfully romantic, exciting, to go out with all of her friends and spend the day choosing one. To not only try them on herself, but to gently prompt Sei or perhaps Yumi to try one on, to laugh at how embarrassed it made both of them, and finally to watch them give. She wondered if she’d have been able to get Youko into one, or maybe Rei. Yoshino would certainly enjoy seeing that.
(I could have seen Yumi in a wedding dress.)
(You bitch. You fucking bitch.)
Her nails dug into her bandaged palm again, extremely painfully.
She very nearly enjoyed it. It was the only thing that kept her jaw from twitching.
She tried on almost fifteen dresses over the course of the next four hours, each one done up in its entirety by a team of several women, all with blank faces. Sachiko’s mother gave her opinion on each one, and, for politeness’ sake, listened to Sachiko’s opinion and ignored it.
Sachiko felt that none of them were quite right. To her it sounded silly—after all, a dress was a dress, wasn’t it? And many of them—including the one that her mother summarily chose after the last one was loosened and dropped to the floor, leaving Sachiko standing in her underwear for the first time in a very long time—looked very flattering on her. She would look beautiful in them.
But that wasn’t what she wanted.
It was silly; that was what she would be told, anyway, but it wasn’t her wedding dress. And if it wasn’t hers, what was the damn point? Wasn’t she the one getting married?
To a man who doesn’t love you.
To a man who can’t love you.
Be reasonable, Sachiko, which part of this is your wedding? You didn’t want this. You didn’t choose any of this. What’s the point in complaining about your dress, of all things?
It took her not long at all to recognize the voice of her mother, speaking to her once again inside of her head.
And yet, she could not simply accept that.
Not like before.
Not really.
But what could she do? She may have forgotten it for a brief, happy period, but her life was not her own. It belonged to the Ogasawara Group. The Ogasawara Group employed a great many people, made her family wealthy and powerful, and provided a great many necessary services to a great many people who needed them. And for some reason, all of it seemed right now to hinge on her marrying Suguru so that their entire system would continue. Their bizarre, unreasonable system of lineage-based leadership. Her father ran the Ogasawara Group now, as his father and grandfather before him had.
Shouldn’t a company be run on the basis of ability, not of lineage?
Doesn’t that make sense?
Maybe she thought so, but obviously the leadership of the Ogasawara Group disagreed. And why wouldn’t they? Admitting what she admitted would mean that they might lose their hold on the company. Let the board and the stockholders elect the next president. Then it would be the Ogasawara Group only in name, and, horror of all horrors, some later generation of Ogasawaras might actually have to find legitimate jobs. An Ogasawara woman might actually hold a job. An Ogasawara man might turn out not to be the president of a company, but a writer or a teacher. Their vaunted wealth and power would fade, probably not in the lifetimes of the men and women who feared it, but in their children’s lifetimes.
And that would be horrible, wouldn’t it?
Aren’t I their child?
I don’t think it’s horrible.
I could give this house and this wealth up in an instant.
You have many cousins who would not mind taking it up in your stead. Isn’t Suguru one of them? Isn’t this only to secure his place among all of the other male cousins who might want to control the company? Isn’t this just preventing a power struggle, then?
But if Suguru was really cut out to lead the company…and he was, there was no question of that in her mind—whatever else he was, he was smart and he was shrewd, and he was kind enough that he would not run it cruelly—shouldn’t emerge in the top of a power struggle anyway?
But it would be destructive.
And mother would never allow it.
What could she do?
She could cut me off. She could kick me out. She could disown me. She might. If she didn’t, father would. I would be thrown into the world with nothing at all, and then within years I would become one of those people who would trade their firstborn for what I used to have. That, too is an awful fate.
Then, what?
She didn’t know.
She just didn’t know.
She felt tired all at once. She very nearly collapsed, but managed to sit on the floor instead. Her mother looked up immediately and snapped, “Sachiko! What are you doing? Are you an animal?”
“I’m tired, mother,” she murmured. “I didn’t feel that I could stand any longer.”
“Then be tired on a chair,” her mother said. Her mother’s voice masked irritation, but Sachiko heard an undertone of concern that made her feel a bit better. One of the women who had helped Sachiko try on dresses brought a chair over and tried to help Sachiko into it. Sachiko was expected to take her help, but did not, standing of her own power instead, and verily flopping into the chair, still dressed in only her underwear. It was the very picture of laziness, and she was surprised her mother allowed it.
Her mother went back to what she had been doing, helping one of the women hang the dress up properly, cover it in plastic, and store it. The other women gathered up the “rejected” (not that Sachiko had rejected them) dresses and put them in boxes. Sachiko doubted her mother was going to attempt to return them. What was the point?
After they had finished, the women left the room with the boxes and Sachiko’s mother was alone with her, still fiddling with the dress, her face all at once a bit wistful. It took Sachiko only a few moments to realize why her mother had made the selection she did, and she felt a tug at her heart.
Mother has not had it any easier than I have, has she?
There was silence between them for a moment, and then her mother said, “Sachiko, put some clothes on. You look ridiculous,” very quietly.
That is no reason for her to push it on me, damn it.
“Mother,” Sachiko murmured, her voice very tired.
“Yes?”
“I…”
What are you doing?
I want to say it.
You can’t say it, you stupid girl. You can not say it.
I have to say it.
You can’t. Shut the hell up, right now. Put some clothes on.
I’m going to say it.
You are being ridiculous.
Then I’ll be ridiculous. I need to say it. I can’t not even have my voice heard.
Why the hell not? That’s what your life is.
I can’t do it. I just … can’t.
Like hell you can’t. Shut up.
“You what?” Sachiko’s mother turned to face her.
DO NOT
“I don’t want to go through with this.”
Sachiko’s throat felt so tight that she wondered how she was able to breathe.
YOU FUCKING IDIOT TAKE THAT BACK RIGHT NOW.
Her mother sighed. “It’s a big step.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“Watch your tone,” her mother snapped automatically.
“Mother. Please. You know what I mean.”
Her mother looked around a bit, and then walked over to Sachiko and put a hand on her bare shoulder. The touch felt good—Sachiko had forgotten that her mother could be a very gentle woman. After a moment, she put a hand on Sachiko’s other shoulder, and squeezed a bit.
Was that a hug?
She much preferred Yumi’s.
“I know,” her mother whispered. “But this is the burden that you, as a woman, must bear.”
It was Sei’s voice that rang in her head this time: That’s a crock of shit, and you know it.
“To marry a man who doesn’t love me?”
“Suguru loves you.”
“Not as I need him to.”
“He will come to. He is a man, after all, and has his needs.”
So then, does father love his mistresses as well?
She held that biting comment back.
“This isn’t right, mother. You know it.”
“Watch your tone,” the older woman snapped again. “You don’t know what I know. Not by quite a bit.”
I wish you’d tell me.
I wish somebody would GOD DAMN tell me what it is that I don’t know that justifies this. That justifies taking my mother fucking LIFE away from me.
Sachiko nearly cried out in pain as her cut palm reopened under the pressure of her nails.
“There are just things we have to do, is that correct?”
“Yes, something like that,” her mother said vaguely.
Sachiko thought that to be a crock of shit. Certainly everybody had things they had to do.
This was not one of them, though.
She didn’t give a flying fuck about company leadership. She just didn’t. The Ogasawaras were richer than God. If they sold their massive house and lived like every other person in Tokyo, their family would not have to even work for something like twenty generations before the money began to run a bit low, barring some massive-scaled economic collapse. By playing in the stock market, or in the world market, they could double that number. Money on the scale that they had money on practically increased itself. Sachiko could, on the spot, think of ten ways to grow their money each year by a sum large enough to support an upper-middle class family living in Tokyo. Several, even.
And then a thought that never occurred to Sachiko before occurred to her:
She was smart.
This…very nearly floored her.
I’m…smart.
Certainly she had never thought she was stupid; she had always made excellent grades in school. But this?
Hell, I could make it on my own. Couldn’t I?
Could I?
“I think we’re done, mother,” she said quietly. “It’s clear to me that I have no say in this matter, nor have I ever.”
It came out harshly. Angrily. Her hand let up a bit on her palm.
“Sachiko, watch your—”
“Tone, I know. I’m watching my tone, and my face, and every other piece of me, as always. As you taught me. I’m just pointing out that I have no say in whom I will marry, so I should probably not have a say in anything relating to it.”
“You are being childish. When you say it like that, it sounds awful.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
Sachiko stood, pulling loose of her mother.
She felt something swelling inside her that she had never felt before.
Resolve.
She pulled pants on quickly, savoring the feeling of the denim gliding over her skin. It felt different than it had before. It felt good.
She pulled a shirt on.
She walked out.
Her mother said not a word of protest. Perhaps she believed Sachiko defeated, or herself defeated instead.
Sachiko went to the bathroom and once again cleaned her cuts. The pain was less intense this time. Maybe because her mind was preoccupied. She felt focused. She saw ideas form in front of her eyes, and then vanish. She had never felt like this before; school had been mostly rote memorization, and so it had been easy to simply cram ideas into her head and spit them back out on tests.
Have you ever really been challenged before?
She liked it.
God help her, she liked it.
Her cell phone rang twenty minutes later. It was Yumi. Apparently, Yumi had something she needed to talk to her about.
Sachiko smiled and asked her to come over. When Yumi protested, Sachiko said, “This is my house, Yumi. Nobody is going to stop you.”
That is not entirely true.
It’s close, though.
Mostly she just needed it resolved quickly. Before she lost this resolve that even filled up the hole of nerves in her stomach when Yumi’s tight, low voice told her that she had to talk about something.
Resolve was like a muscle, and part of her knew it. This was an unexercised muscle in her body, and she would need to finish before it gave out. Because it would give out.
It was just a matter of when, and if she could finish first or not.
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