I held Tamami’s hands and noticed that there wasn’t a single rice packet among all the pill bottles. As her mind failed her, did Baba simply forget? Wasn’t her daily ritual a part of her spirituality, or had she merely been holding the broken parts of herself together—all the painful moments we never talked about, like how she lost my mother’s sister in childbirth. “Everything I need is here,” she would say. My mother believed this, too, but Baba had also fallen asleep each night staring at London Bridge, surrounded by decades-old articles about restaurants in Paris that probably didn’t exist anymore and safaris in Kenya, even if many of the animals were long since extinct. I stroked Chibi on Tamami’s lap and debated whether to tell her everything.
“What are you going to do now that you’re back?” Tamami asked.
“I mean, I’m not really back,” I said. I reached into my purse and pulled out the ultrasound photo—a heartbeat growing stronger inside of me.
My sister absorbed the photo and pulled me in for a hug.
“Rina, that’s wonderful,” she said. But I could tell from the tears, the somewhat stiff expression on her face that the news meant more. The grain of rice I took when I left had given me the strength to leave and become. This child gave me a reason.
“Don’t tell them,” I said. “I need to find my own way.”
She hugged me again.
“I guess I get to be an aunt,” she said.
After Tamami left, I lay in bed, slipped on the old holo-visor, and suddenly found myself there beside Baba. Her labored breathing punctuated the sound of Mrs. Kishimoto’s koto and the rhythmic clapping of friends and family who filled the room. A minister in black robes pushed grains of rice between Baba’s cracked lips, helped prop her up to drink a glass of water. I remained next to her long after everyone else left for lunch in the yard. I heard my name, people saying I should be there. I remained until the recording reached its end and looped it back, populating the bedroom with everyone once again. If the purpose of this virtuo-chip was to fill me with guilt, then my mother had succeeded beautifully.
Later that day, after I unpacked, my mother called us all outside for some predinner neighborhood exercise. Our family plus a few of the grave friends congregated in our front yard and began the loop from cemetery skyscraper 18 back to the house, a two-kilometer path with stops for refreshments. The group paraded along the sidewalk following a strict hierarchy determined by age, the eldest members leading the way, swinging their arms with power walking enthusiasm. Shopkeepers and police officers waved to us as if we were celebrities.
“All the grandpas and grandmas in our neighborhood think people like us because we’re doing something special. But most of our friends and their parents just think we’re weird,” one of the Fujita sisters said, noticing my slack-jawed confusion.
“Cult,” the other sister added.
“But we’re far from the only people doing the group urn,” I pointed out.
“We’re the only ones who like to rub it in everyone’s faces,” one of the sisters explained. She stuck a finger in her mouth like she was going to vomit. “We’re broke or we’d run away like you did.”
A few members ahead, I could see my mother chatting with Mr. Takata about plans for Baba’s service. “They don’t make women like that anymore. She knew just about everyone in our ward,” my mother said. “She’s really the one who made our group work. She held us together.”
“I’d be home alone right now if it weren’t for her,” Mr. Takata said. “I’d die alone.”
“We want to die alone,” the Fujita sisters said in unison.
It was no surprise that Uncle Takata joined us for dinner. Tamami noted that he came over at least two or three times a week, always bringing a couple of bottles of wine to make up for the trouble. As expected, the real adults conversed loudly while they drank. I tried to keep a low profile, stuffing my mouth with spaghetti to avoid talking.
“Windy city,” Mr. Takata said, waiting for me to swallow. He smiled after everything he said, a habit he’d developed from a managerial style he liked to call “Happy News”—basically, if you smile while giving someone an unfortunate task, as he’d once explained to my father, they’re more willing to accept it. “Shi-ka-go. Sear Tower,” he continued. “You see it?”
“Of course. Can’t miss it,” I said. “Tall buildings are tall buildings, though, right?”