Homecoming
				by Scott Schimmel

	I awakened.

	This is the first thing I remember:  The feeling of struggling
upward out of the grey morass of the shadows of my dreams.  The dreams
themselves, I do not remember clearly; that, I suspect, is a kindness.
What transitory and obscure fragments I do remember are... not dark,
nor frightening, but nevertheless horrible.  Their chaotic images
throb within my mind in the same way that a broken bone, poorly set,
continues to pain one occasionally, since it never heals properly.

	Once on my feet, I looked about me in growing puzzlement, and
not a little apprehension.  The place I was in, I did not recognize at
all.  I stood in the corner of that tiny, stark room.  Opposite me was
a single bed, where someone lay sleeping beneath the covers; to my
right, a door, which was the only way to enter or leave the room.
There was very little else.  I felt disoriented, weak, but that was
not a product of the atmosphere.

	I was at a loss to explain my situation.  The room was
completely unfamiliar; had I, then, been carried here in my sleep?
Where was I, and why?  Curiously enough, I felt no panic at these
thoughts.

	I was wondering whether I should awaken the sleeper in the
bed, but before I came to a decision, the door opened.  My husband
entered the room, accompanied by another man, who I did not recognize.
Smiling, I turned to greet my beloved.

	He ignored me.

	I was about to say something, to ask what could so distract
and trouble him -- he had never treated me in this way before.  Then
the other man, the one I did not know, gently lifted part of the
sheet from the bed.

	I gasped and took a step back as my hand flew involuntarily to
my mouth.  The person on the bed was a woman -- a woman who looked
exactly like me.

	I didn't want to think about what that might mean.  Instead, I
merely looked to my husband, hoping he would explain.  He closed his
eyes and nodded, and the other man laid the sheet back over the woman.

	"Kyoko," he murmured.  It was all he seemed able to say.  His
head hung, eyes screwed tightly closed; his hands clenched into fists.
"Kyoko..."

	The other man stood with the mild embarrassment of those who
know that they are intruding in what should be a private moment, yet
he did not turn away or leave.  It was his job, and he had done the
same many times, offering the words that he already knew would ring
hollow.  "It would have been very quick.  She didn't suffer."

	He nodded, barely hearing.  "I... I'd like to be alone with
her... if that's all right."

	The older man nodded, understanding, and departed, leaving me
alone with my husband in the room.  By this time, the suspicions that
filled my thoughts should have been impossible to ignore, yet I
shrugged them aside.

	"What is it?  What's happening?" I asked.  Again he ignored
me, standing at the side of the bed.  Slowly, he pulled back the
sheet and gently brushed a few loose strands of hair away from her
serene face.  Having done that, he stood staring down at her,
uncomprehending.

	Then, to my surprise, he bent down and kissed her lightly on
the lips.  He fell to his knees beside the bed, grasping the woman's
hand and holding it tightly between his own.  A single tear trickled
down his cheek; then a sob wracked his body, and his earlier restraint
disappeared as he cried for the first time in years.

	I tried to go to him, to comfort him, but when my hand touched
his arm, I felt only a strange tingling sensation... and then he
seemed to slide out from under me, although neither of us moved.  I
tried again, brushing the back of his neck.  His hair fell briefly to
the side, but soon repositioned itself to where it had been.  He
briefly looked up, but didn't otherwise acknowledge my touch, any more
than he had my presence.

	"Kyoko," he wept, lowering his head once again.  "Why?"

	I stepped back.  A part of me marvelled that I wasn't in
shock, but I was too busy to dwell on that.  The phantom images I had
glimpsed in my dream rushed into my mind, and the ground seemed to
spin beneath my feet.  Concentrating, I tried to banish the nightmare
visions, to clear my mind...

	"YUSAKU!" I shouted, as loudly as I could.  Focusing on him, I
was able to force the images out of my mind, but he made no response.
I stood absolutely still for a moment, then said, in a small voice,
"I'm dead, aren't I?"

	He didn't answer.

		*	*	*	*	*

	We rode home in the taxi in silence.  It was ironic, in a way;
I was living out one of my cherished childhood daydreams, that of
becoming invisible.  It wasn't as enjoyable as I'd thought it would
be.

	I looked at Yusaku, beside me.  His face was blank, his
emotions again controlled -- it surprised me, sometimes, how someone
as fragile as he could be so strong.  But his eyes were flat and cold.

	"Promise," I'd said, "Even if it's just one second... that
you'll live longer than me."  He'd kept that promise, but those eyes
made me realize what it had cost him.

	I tried to get emotional about it all, but it seemed that that
part of me had died with my body.  I felt a vague regret, a slightly
sharper concern for Yusaku, and mild irritation that I did not feel
more... but that was all.  The ghosts of real emotions for the ghost
of a real person.

	Even that was ephemeral.  Walking alongside Yusaku down the
hospital's corridors, I had discovered that, if I moved any
appreciable distance away from him, my world would quickly become even
more tenuous.  At no more than a few steps, my emotions were overcome
by that tranquil neutrality; a little further, and I was struck with a
sudden disorientation.  I hadn't dared go any further than that.

	I felt much better when we arrived -- calm and at home.
Which, of course, I was.  I learned that I could wander the grounds of
the building at will, without the usual disorientation I felt upon
separation from Yusaku.  It was small consolation, but it meant that I
wouldn't need to constantly shadow him.  It pained me to feel thankful
for that, but I couldn't bear to watch him grieve, powerless to do
anything to offer him comfort.

		*	*	*	*	*

	I hadn't gone to the funeral; it had seemed too ghoulish.
Many of the others had come to visit, to pay their respects, and that
was difficult enough.  Coach Mitaka and his wife, Asuna.  The
Ichinose family.  Sakamoto, uncharacteristically quiet.  Ikuko-chan,
now a college student.  My parents and his, along with his
grandmother, still as vigorous as ever.  An unusually restrained
Yotsuya-san, who for the first time showed real consideration for
Yusaku.  Akemi, who'd had a soft spot for him after all, and the
Master.  Even Kozue-san, in the absence of her husband; I think that
that was the hardest for him.  Almost all of those who had been a part
of our lives so long ago...

	I knew that the memories caused him pain, but he refused to
forget.  He'd left all my things just as they'd been when I'd last
used them, disturbing nothing.  And slowly, he went on with his life,
or at least, lacking his old enthusiasm, went through the motions.

	I'd worried at first that he wouldn't want to go on without
me, that he would follow me into death as he'd followed me around half
of Japan years ago, when I'd thought I had lost him forever.  Indeed,
it seemed that he would, and I was at a loss how to prevent it.
Finally, one morning, I returned from the kitchen, where I had been
trying unsuccessfully to do something to prepare his breakfast.  I
found him kneeling on the floor, comforting our daughter, who was
crying in his arms.

	Watching him so intimately, unobserved, reminded me why I had
fallen in love with this man.  He was kind, thoughtful, gentle; and, I
knew, he would go on living, for Haruka.  And perhaps, in time, for
himself.  I hoped he would; I didn't want to see him repeat the
mistakes I'd made.

	I watched; it was all I could do, now.  He continued to hold
Haruka until she fell asleep in his arms, just as she had when she was
a baby.  He gently laid her on the futon, then buried his face in his
hands and wept.

	I stood and left him to cry in privacy.  It felt wrong to
watch such moments.

		*	*	*	*	*

	It had been three months since my death, I think, though the
days and nights blurred together, making me uncertain.  Yusaku had
finally stopped crying himself to sleep every night.  I had lain with
him most nights, although I had no need to sleep -- in fact, I could
not, any more than I could touch him.  These things were for the
living.  It was probably a mercy, considering those first dark dreams
from which I had awakened into my new existence.

		*	*	*	*	*

	It had been a year since my death.  I knew this only because
of the date printed on the morning newspaper; time held little meaning
for me, now.  My days, when Yusaku was at work and Haruka at school,
were all spent the same way:  I wandered the building and its grounds,
and I remembered happier times.  In doing so, I always felt at peace;
boredom was never an issue.  Perhaps I lost that along with my other
emotions, when I died.

	Yusaku had his rituals, too.  Every morning, before he left
for work, he stood for a moment before a picture of me.  He kissed his
finger, pressed it to my photographic lips, and murmured, just as he
had when I was alive, "Itte kimasu."  In return, I would reply, just
as I had when I was alive, and blow him a kiss.  He couldn't normally
know, of course, but I liked to do it.  It made me feel a little less
distant from him.

	I say "normally" because I had discovered another little
anomaly.  I had been standing near Yusaku while he shaved.  In the
mirror, I saw his eyes grow wide.  He'd abruptly turned, looking
directly at me, a mix of shock and desperate longing plain on his
face.  He'd stood still for a moment before his expression had changed
to one of bewilderment, and he'd shaken his head and slowly turned
back to the mirror.

	Why he had caught a glimpse of my reflection -- if that was in
fact what had happened -- I didn't know.  But it seemed plain that he
had, particularly after the same thing happened several more times.
After that, I decided to avoid mirrors while he was there.  It seemed
unnecessarily cruel to continue to haunt him that way.

	It was only a little bit of extra effort; I'd already begun to
avoid mirrors, even when he wasn't there.  My skin had taken on the
pallor of death, my eyes had faded to an indeterminate grey-brown
shade, and my hair was a dull matte black.  My reflection was one more
reminder of my state, a reminder I didn't particularly want.

		*	*	*	*	*

	It had been over two years since my death when the morning
ritual changed.  Yusaku gazed at my photograph for much longer than
usual -- several minutes, I thought, though it might have been hours
or seconds.  He picked it up and continued to stare.  For a moment, I
thought he might cry, and I wondered why.

	But he only brushed an imaginary speck of dust from my frozen,
smiling face.  "I'll always love you," he whispered.  "You know that,
don't you?"

	"Yes," I answered, though I knew he wouldn't hear.  I stood
behind him and rested my hand on his shoulder for as long as I could
before, without moving, we seemed to slide apart.  I wondered about
the change in routine.

	He carefully set the picture back down, as if he feared it
might break, and left for work.  That day, as I wandered the halls of
our home, I thought about the present rather than about the past.  I
found no answers.

		*	*	*	*	*

	It was only a few days later that the answers were provided.
Yusaku had returned from work and begun to cook dinner -- something
he'd become noticably better at in recent years, even if he was no
gourmet chef.  Still, that evening's effort was elaborate for him.
When he laid out two places on the table, even though Haruka was
staying with a friend for the night, I realized why:  We were going to
have company.

	She arrived not too long after that -- a rather short young
woman, looking professional in her blouse and skirt, with her short
haircut and glasses.  Yusaku smiled as he invited her in, and I felt a
pang of jealousy, but it quickly passed, to be replaced by curiosity.
This woman was familiar, somehow.  I must have met her during one of
my few excursions with Yusaku outsied of our home, but I couldn't
place her.

	The young woman thanked him and stepped into the room, where
the table was laid out.  "Is there anything I can help with?" she
asked nervously.

	He laughed.  It was something he'd begun to do more often,
recently, and my heart was glad to hear him.  "That's all right,
everything's almost ready."  He paused, and shook his head.  He
continued to smile, but his voice was subdued as he remarked, "It's
still hard to believe...  You became a teacher."

	She glanced aside and answered, "It was because of you.  I
couldn't forget, and it eventually inspired me.  I thought maybe, if I
could see..."  She trailed off and shrugged helplessly, not meeting
his eyes.

	He nodded solemnly, and I could see in his eyes that he'd
understood what she had tried to say.  He made no response, but turned
and entered the kitchen.  Soon, he returned with the plates of food
he'd prepared, and began to serve.

	She hadn't moved until he'd returned, and neither of them
spoke.  Each felt too awkward to pursue that conversation.  As she
ate, she glanced around the room, and her eyes fell on the photograph.
My photograph, which stood on the table beside the phone, near the
door, always smiling.

	"Is that... kanrinin-san?" she asked finally.

	His lips trembled slightly while he nodded, and I thought he
might break down in tears.  He didn't; he actually managed to smile,
although it was a sickly, painful thing.

	She saw it too, and I saw the sorrow in her eyes.  She stood
and moved around the table to his side.  "I'm sorry," she murmured.
"I'm so sorry, I never realized..."

	"It's... it's all right.  It's not your fault," he managed.
His smile grew just a little more genuine.

	She seemed to take comfort from that, but she continued
nevertheless.  "I never realized how much you loved her."  She looked
into his eyes.  "It must have been... very hard," she finished
reluctantly, as if realizing how little that said.

	He nodded, turning away as he did.  "Two and a half
years... it hasn't been easy."  I watched his hands clench into fists
on the table, and he turned back to face her.  "I'll never forget
her."  He stated it, not with the melodrama it would once have
carried, but simply, as a fact.

	"You don't have to," she said.  "I know I can't replace her.
I wouldn't want to, not any more.  Now that I know..."

	"Yagami," he breathed.  She smiled, leaned against him, and
kissed him on the cheek.  His arms went around her, and hers around
him, and they held each other.

	For the first time since my death, I felt a pure, undiluted
emotion.  I was so filled with happiness for Yusaku that I wanted to
cry and laugh at the same time.

	I think I did.

		*	*	*	*	*

	I awakened.

	I had never been able to fall asleep since my death, but I
thought I must have, since I awakened.  It was very like the first
time, but for the fact that, mercifully, there were no dreams; none
that I can remember, at least.  Instead of the horror of my previous
awakening, I felt only peace.

	My surroundings certainly inspired that serenity.  I lay on
the shore of a lake; its surface was calm, as smooth and as reflective
as a mirror despite the warm, gentle breeze that was blowing from the
west.  There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and as I dipped my hand into
the cool water, disturbing that perfect surface, the sunlight glinted,
creating a constantly shifting mosaic of blue and gold.  I played my
hand through the lattice of reflected light, marvelling at its
fractured, chaotic beauty.

	I stayed there for a time, enjoying the sensation of the water
against my hand and the play of reflected light across my body and
clothes.  Then, prompted by an unknown part of myself, I stood and
started to walk along the grassy bank.

	Soon I came upon a man who sat gazing out upon the water.  At
his feet, sharing his patient meditation, a large white dog lay.  I
recognized in both the familiar, awkward strength -- and the
gentleness.

	"Soichiro-san!" I cried.  The dog barked eagerly; the man
turned away from the lake and looked up.

	"Hello, Kyoko," he said, smiling gently at me.

		*	*	*	*	*

	"This is the last thing I remember," I say, smiling at my
little joke.  I am sitting beside him now, watching how his mouth
moves to shape the words he speaks; searching his eyes and finding
there the same knowledge I had always seen in them.  And the same
love.

	"So young Godai has managed to overcome even a grief that
profound," he muses.  "That's what kept you there, you know.  His
grief, and yours."

	I am struck again by the similarities between the two men I
love; the understanding that lies at the core of each.  "I'm happy for
him," I say, wiping away a single joyful tear.  "That he didn't take
as long as I did, that he can go on.  So much time lost..."

	He nods, understanding, as I knew he would.  "And he will be
happy, and your daughter?"

	I pause to consider that, and give the only answer I can.  "I
think they will be."  I feel a pang of sorrow, regret for all the
things in Haruka's life that I will never see, that I can never be a
part of.  But, like Yusaku, she will go on.  Her father will teach her
well.

	Soichiro nods, then stands and offers his hand to help me to
my feet.  "Let's go home, Kyoko," he suggests.

	I smile, nod, and take his hand.  I do not let go.

	Together, hand in hand, we set out for home.



Scott Schimmel                http://www.seas.upenn.edu/~schimmel/
Ex ignorantia ad sapientium;  "You really aren't normal, are you?"
ex luce ad tenebras.              -- Miki Koishikawa