her hands around her cup of tea. Soothed by its curved shape and warmth, she tried to push her negative response to Hiroshi’s mention of the art dealer father out of her mind. “I really don’t know anything at all about your personal history.”
“My father’s family owned a framing business.” Satsuki sighed before continuing, seeming to find the information tedious. “My father came from a generation of craftsmen known for their meticulous work, but he proved himself to be a maverick. He used acid-free and organic papers made from recycled materials long before ecological concerns made it trendy to do so. His given name was Ichiro, but his parents called him Ichiban, meaning ‘Number One.’ He was their only son.”
Hearing about Satsuki’s father, Daidai thought of Hiroshi, how he’d been the center of his mother’s life; her death had come as a terrible blow. A year later his father had died, shortly before he’d met Daidai, the complete loss of family cementing Daidai’s place in his life.
“My grandparents were of a traditional mind-set when it came to boys. In Japan, during my father’s time and even now, a son occupies a position of great importance. My mother was not the wife my grandparents would have chosen.”
“I don’t understand,” Daidai interrupted. “Why would your mother not be accepted?”
Satsuki’s smile barely concealed her shock. “It isn’t that difficult to understand. My mother grew up on her own from a very young age, without parents or financial resources. My parents’ courtship began because she was a gifted painter, and my father recognized what her talent might mean for him. He allowed her to use his framing shop as a studio, where he set up a corner as a makeshift gallery for her to show and sell her work. In return for her use of the space, he bought the pieces he liked at a discount. When this worked out well, he began making similar arrangements with other artists, which was how he rose to prominence in the art world.”
Daidai was losing patience. It was not hard to see the power benefactors held in the art world, but what did this have to do with Satsuki’s statement that she would never have children?
“The painters whose work he promoted, these were all women,” Satsuki continued, seeming to recognize Daidai’s impatience, yet lingering on her words. “This got people talking. My father made a name for himself among buyers as a patron with exquisite taste and a fine eye for promise. It was only natural that the relationship between my parents would develop. He was a good businessman in need of an artist, and she was tired of the hardships created by anonymity and poverty. In practical terms, the need of each for what the other had to offer made them perfectly suited for marriage.”
“So what about your upbringing made you decide not to have children?” Daidai asked, seeing that her question might go unanswered. “I assume it’s that you don’t want to have children, not that you can’t.”
Satsuki turned her gaze out the high window. “Children deserve more sweetness than most adults are capable of giving them,” she said, indicating with crossed arms an unwillingness to be pressed further.
Unable to imagine her life without the certainty of her mother’s affection, Daidai reached a hand across the table and brushed Satsuki’s forearm. “I don’t think everyone should have children, but I think you’re very sweet,” she said, thinking not of Satsuki but of her own mother and the week that had gone by since she’d seen her.
“Thank you for saying that.” Satsuki opened her arms to clasp Daidai’s fingertips and beamed a toothy smile across the table.
Daidai nodded. “I didn’t start to think about wanting a family until recently.” Though her comment had been innocuous, a strange thing happened then. Satsuki’s facial muscles began to twitch and her smile quivered until it looked broken. “What’s wrong?” Daidai asked, worried about a possible problem with the woman’s health.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Satsuki quickly composed herself. “Do you really find me sweet?”
“I do,” Daidai said, having stopped listening.
“I’m glad,” Satsuki said, “because I enjoy your company.” And from that afternoon on her frequent visits to the apartment made this clear.
Students tend to flee campus after their last final, but Satsuki planned to stay in Southern California rather than return to Mito for the winter break. It had been her idea to cook a traditional Japanese meal, a celebration planned a month out for Friday of the week before Christmas.
Although winter had officially arrived, the temperature on the appointed day was downright balmy, perfect for leaving the sliding door and windows open. On weekends a fan had been put in place to blot out loud music and ruckus from the frat houses down the block, but absent the rowdy boys the neighborhood had fallen unusually quiet. Even with the vent open to circulate the air, the apartment was laden with the rich aroma of the soup stock that had been simmering all afternoon. Hiroshi was working on the garnishes, Daidai setting the table, and Satsuki making a last-minute adjustment to the soup-base seasoning when her cell phone came to life with a tune. After glancing down at the number, she paused before answering the call. Usually there was a “Moshi moshi,” followed by “Hai!” But Satsuki instead moved silently onto the balcony, shutting the door behind her for privacy, though she’d never required any before.
Perturbed that Satsuki would take a phone call just as dinner was being served, Daidai carried on, making no mention of the interruption to Hiroshi as she tossed the salad and he sampled the soup stock. Worried about the noodles, which, had begun to adhere, she rinsed them—twice.
Satsuki was still talking when the balcony door slid open. “Ready for dinner?” she asked, slipping her cell phone into the front pocket of her jeans. Hiroshi was in the kitchen and Daidai in the dining room, pulling a chair out from the table. The couple turned from what they were doing just in time to see the color drain out of Satsuki’s face as she crumpled to the ground. Daidai recalled a hibiscus flower she’d once seen wilt through the use of time-lapse photography. She stood dumbstruck as Hiroshi rushed to his student’s rescue. Kneeling over her prone body, he turned a quizzical eye to his wife.
“What just happened?”
Satsuki opened her eyes, roused perhaps by the sound of Hiroshi’s voice. She seemed confused, as if next she might yawn and stretch and attempt to restart the day. But instead her shoulders folded forward. With hair covering half her face she made an announcement: “My mother has been found dead.”
Daidai glanced at her husband before her eyes settled again on Satsuki. She and Hiroshi had not spoken at all in the time Satsuki had spent on the terrace, figuring the best way to overlook Satsuki’s absence in the kitchen was to ignore it. Now, when she needed to know what he was thinking in order to understand what she should think, she saw only abashed disbelief. A door to the past had opened, leaving them both to peer into a void.
“This is terrible.” Daidai cleared her throat, struggling with the news. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yes,” Hiroshi chimed in. “Can we do anything to help?”
“She was living right here in Los Angeles,” Satsuki said.
She was? This information did not jibe with what Daidai could recollect from their previous conversations. Scouring her memory, she recalled nothing about the mother leaving Japan. But Daidai’s shock passed unnoticed. For several seconds the room went quiet, with the air vibrating the
