“You don’t seem like yourself lately,” Seiji says.
Akira shrugs and sips his tea. He considers sharing that he’s lost someone but knows more questions would inevitably come and that might force him to tell Seiji about his daughter.
“You know, for a long time I spent my days filling journals trying to capture everything my life used to be—all the memories of my family before they faded from my mind,” Seiji says. “I wrote apology notes to my dead wife, to my daughter, variations of the same letter over years, blaming myself. I wasn’t in a good place. But if I called this life quits . . .”
“I’m not. You don’t have to worry about that,” Akira interrupts.
“If I ended it, I would have become the man my daughter hated. I would have proven her right,” Seiji finishes.
“I’m sure she loved you,” Akira says, finally deciding that to say anything else would be too cruel. “I might need a couple of days. I’m not sure if I’ll be back. There’s a funeral for an old friend in Fukuoka.”
“I’m sorry. Whoever it is. Your job will be waiting for a time. I barely pay you enough to keep you anyway,” Seiji says.
Akira packs his bags at the virtual cafe, leaves a thank-you note for Ms. Takahashi, and makes his way to the train station. On his way, he takes a detour to Yoshiko’s apartment building and leaves a bouquet of flowers outside. He sees another homeless man sitting on the sidewalk nearby and leaves his bags beside the man, removing only his jacket, the gifts he bought for Yoshiko and her daughter, and whatever he can fit in a tote bag.
“Help yourself,” he says. The man seems confused, and then begins rummaging through his new belongings. He pulls out a pair of socks and puts them on his bare feet.
The one-way train ticket and a few nights in a hotel eat up half the money Akira has saved. He finds his seat and rests his head against the window, waving away the girl selling snacks and drinks. He could eat one of the mochi chocolates he bought for Yoshiko, but he does not. Instead, he will sit beside Yoshiko and her daughter in a rural cemetery and eat the snacks as slowly as possible. After saying goodbye and telling them all about the day he imagined that they never got to spend together, he’ll leave the toy robo-dog next to the headstone, along with some wildflowers he’ll pick by the roadside.
“I’m going to call my mother now,” Akira will say. “Things will be better.” And in his imagination, Yoshiko’s spirit flies above as he walks down the road, the shadow of a horse with wings guiding his way, until he finds a way to call home.
Before You Melt Into the Sea
Here is the chamber where I’ll place your body. You’ll float in a solution of water and potassium hydroxide at a temperature of 350 degrees. Your skin will flake like ash and the tendons inside your hands with which you messaged me over the years will unravel to the width of spider silk until everything is completely gone. You first came to Eden Ice before you were truly sick, before the cancer the plague left in your brain forced the doctors to put you to sleep. My company provides artistic alternatives to burial and cremation, one of the many “new death” companies that became popular after the plague, as people died from the chronic illnesses that remained in their bodies.
In our introductory video chat, you asked me to walk you through the process, told me you discovered us through a WeFuture ad and were impressed by the testimonials.
“We’re very proud of our customer service,” I said. “We have an A-plus from the Better Business Bureau and received a gold coffin award for Most Promising Funerary Start-Up of 2040 from FEEL: Funerary Enterprises, Entrepreneurs, and Lobbyists.”
“That’s very impressive,” you said. You were wearing a tank top, and I studied the murals on your arms as I described our state-of-the-art resomation chamber, which you called a human Crockpot. I gave you a video tour of the facility via my phone, all the ways I tried to carve a moment of beauty out of tragedy—a group of Disney princesses for two little girls; a pair of swans for an elderly couple found in their assisted living facility, holding each other.
“I just want to make sure that the ink is saved before you liquefy me,” you said. “Did you get my memo?”
“I did,” I said. “Immortal Ink LLC will preserve and frame your tattoos prior to you being shipped to me. We’ll make sure all of your requests are honored.”
“These tats are my stories. This is my life,” you said.
We exchanged blueprints and photos of schooners for your ice sculpture. You wanted the kind of old-timey masted ship you once spent a night on during a field trip and dreamed of traveling on around the world. One month you wanted me to dye the sails red, another month blue. At first, it was mostly business. I noticed the jazz playing in the background of your room, the map of Japan over your childhood bed when you stayed at your parents’ house. You said you never really gave a shit about your heritage until you found out in high school that most major Japanese cities could be partially underwater by the end of the century.