Satellite Love

by Genki Ferguson

  ANNA

  MONDAY MORNING. I COULD already tell it was a bad day to go to school. There was something in the air. A warning perhaps, a sign of things yet to come. The light peeking into my room was duller than usual, no longer the colour of amber. I didn’t have to check my clock to know I’d woken up late, missed the first calls of dawn.

  Lying on my futon, nose cold, I urged myself with little success to get ready for school. When I finally did leave the warmth of my blankets, I dressed slowly, knowing that an extra second on my skirt hook would delay the inevitable just a little longer. The entire time, I imagined the satellite high above me, sending a signal to Anna-terasu down below.

  Grandpa was still sleeping, but that was hardly a surprise. Before grabbing my bag to go, I scribbled out a quick note for him, letting him know there was leftover mackerel and rice in the fridge. I was pleased by the way my messages to Grandpa piled up on the counter. They outnumbered the notes my mother left me by quite a bit.

  Anna, I’ll be out of town for a few nights. Work should settle down soon. Buy yourself the new Captive Hearts manga if you go out! We’ll read it together when I get back, I’m dying to see what happens next.

  Take care,

  Mama

  I walked along my usual path, headed first to the convenience store, then to school, when I noticed something: my eyelids felt slightly heavier, and not just for lack of sleep. I stopped in my tracks, right in the middle of crossing the road, and looked up. Light flecks of white were falling from the sky, just beginning to dust Sakita’s rooftops.

  It was snowing.

  A snowflake landed in the middle of my right eye, a pleasant kind of stinging. The path was becoming gently frosted, and my breath was coming out in clouds of mist.

  It hadn’t snowed in Sakita for as long as I could remember. I had watched snow fall over American and European cities in the movies, taking on a unique meaning every time. In New York, the snow runs grey like sludge, revealing the city’s filth. In Berlin, it falls with a childlike innocence, accompanied by reindeer and peppermints and other holiday symbols we have no use for here.

  But in Sakita, the first snow of my life felt different. It was painful, delicate. Like the finest flakes of glass falling from the sky. I kept walking, feeling my eyes water in spite of myself.

  At the end of the road, the convenience store was glowing with a softer light. A bright jingle announced my entrance, followed by a customary “Irasshaimase!” and I set out to buy my usual bento.

  “Amazing, huh?” I said, watching winter fall beyond the conbini windows. The clerk was counting my money, nearly the last of what my mother had given me for the week.

  “No kidding,” she said. “I didn’t realize it could snow this far south.”

  The clerk bagged my lunch—an onigiri, a potato korokke, and gyoza—and handed it back to me. It was the same lunch I ate every day, a formula I had perfected over the years. Filling enough to get me through to dinner, tasty enough to not depress me, and cheap enough to leave some pocket money from my meal allowance.

  I pushed on the door, feeling a cold wind cut through my uniform.

  “See you!” I said.

  “Come again!” the clerk called out, almost in sync with the store intercom that said the same.

  As usual, no one raised a fuss when I sat down halfway through first period. Math. Part of me almost wished I’d get in trouble for being late. Maybe I should see how far I can push it? I’d forgotten to bring a pencil and asked a classmate to lend me one of hers. She pretended not to hear me, so I asked again, louder this time. It was almost fun. I got in trouble for talking during class, though.

  For Social Studies, Ms. Tanaka gave yet another lecture on the old gods, undeterred by the class’s clear lack of interest. Still, I admired her enthusiasm, and whenever she mentioned Amaterasu I did perk up a little. After that was Physical Education, cancelled due to the snow. I wouldn’t have minded being given an excuse to run and slip and fall through the newly white track field, but instead we were given a lecture on nutrition.

  And then, lunch. I had forgotten my unease of that morning, my excitement about the snow making me lose the gut feeling I had about the day. I even felt comfortable enough to stay in the classroom with everyone else for lunch, rather than sneak away to some distant corner of the school as usual. Then the rest of the class began to take out their lunches, too.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and glanced back at the seat behind me. It was Mina.

  “Anna,” she said, giving me her best innocent-little-me look, “do you want some of my lunch?”

  I saw that she had the exact same food as me: a convenience store rice ball, a potato korokke, and dumplings. It was an incredible coincidence that we had brought the same thing. I was usually the only person eating conbini food for lunch.

  “No, I’m okay,” I mumbled.

  One of Mina’s friends began to giggle.

  “Oh really? I just thought you’d want some variety in your diet.”

  I realized then that all of her friends—about half of the class, really—were staring back at me from where they sat. On each of their desks, where there would normally be a home-cooked bento, there was instead a convenience store rice ball, a potato korokke, and some dumplings.

  “Isn’t it boring eating the same thing every day? You’ll get fat, you know.” Mina puffed out her cheeks.

  Another of Mina’s lackeys took a bite of korokke, then scrunched up her face as though she’d bitten into something rotten. The girl sitting beside her, seeing this reaction, started to snicker.

  “Conbini food always makes me feel sick.”

  And all I could do was imagine how deer-in-the-headlights stupid I must have looked, food half-chewed, rice stuck to the side of my mouth. I could swear I heard Mina’s mother laugh, too.

  And for a moment, I wasn’t even angry. Really, I wasn’t. Just a little bit incredulous, maybe.

  It felt as though I was constantly being tested. That everyone woke up each morning and asked: “How much will Anna put up with today?” And every day I had to come up with an answer for that. Put up with too much and you end up no better than a worm. Put up with too little and you get kicked out of school and sent home.

  The smart thing to do would have been to eat my onigiri in peace, and imagine eviscerating Mina while I lay in bed that night. But the smell of her mother’s cooking kept coming back to me. Normally, Mina would have brought a homemade bento for lunch. Something her mother cooked that morning especially for her.

  And Mina would have thrown that away, just to make her cute little joke.

  I wanted to speak up. I wanted to say: So now I can’t even eat an onigiri in peace? You’re going to take even that away? None of you would last a single day as me.

  But all that came out was a whisper.

  All around me, real or imagined, the laughter was getting louder. But from above, I could feel the pressure of something stronger. The gaze of the LEO. I wanted to call up to him: Do you see this? Do you see what they’re doing to me down here?

  SOKI

  IT WAS MY FIRST week in Sakita, and the gods decided to give me snow. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Felt like the sky was turning to dust. Felt like I was being given a warning.

  “Is it…snowing?” my mom asked, before locking the car doors. Wasn’t sure what she thought she was accomplishing with that.

  I pressed my head against the side window.

  “Guess so.”

  We were on our way to the Shinto shrine, the one up on the hill. We got directions from a neighbour, who said it’s by this half-deserted mall. The shrine’s supposed to be really old, and it was starting to fall apart. Smelled like rot. I wanted to offer a prayer, to ask the gods for help. Wanted proof that kami exist in this city, too. Sakita was so empty it felt like even the spirits had abandoned it
. At least, that’s what my dad said. Figured I could at least ask, could provide an offering.

  We had just moved to Sakita the week before. I was kind of disappointed we’d be celebrating the new millennium here. New Year’s in Kyoto would have been more exciting, but even back home in Hokkaido would have been better. When we first drove in, the roads were empty. I watched traffic lights signal to no one. Felt like a city filled with ghosts. Couldn’t help but wonder if my dad was right about the kami. The other cities we lived in weren’t like this.

  “Should we turn back?” my mom asked. “The roads might be slippery.”

  She was trying to act casual about it, but I could tell she was worried. Kept looking in the rear-view mirror, as if the car was already in reverse. We drove by a boarded-up elementary school, a baseball field overgrown with weeds. Sakita was so depressing.

  “I already promised I’d see the kami,” I said.

  “Promised who?”

  “Myself.”

  She smiled, proud. Kind of like when I used to show her a finger painting as a kid. When I told Mom I wanted to see the shrine, she gave me a five-yen coin to make an offering. Said go-yen coins are supposed to be lucky, because the way you pronounce go-yen sounds a lot like the word go-en, meaning “connection.” Apparently, this helps you form a relationship with the gods. The coin had a hole in the middle too, just like me.

  Dad had laughed and said no god would notice five yen, let alone answer a prayer for it. It’d be better to spend the money on one of the overpriced shrine charms, he said, or some other meaningless trinket. The gods have been asleep for so long, they’ve forgotten how to wake for anyone. He acted like he was joking, but I could tell Mom was hurt. She pretended she didn’t hear him, looking for the keys already in her hand. I thought Dad was wrong, though. Five yen is enough to wake the kami. I didn’t need to talk to them. I just wanted to know that they were still here.

  Dad used to be a Shinto priest. Used to. He wouldn’t tell me why, but four years earlier, he got fed up and left the shrine. Took me by surprise, although I think my mom saw it coming. He must have been thinking about it for a while, but it still felt abrupt to me. His father, his grandfather, and all the ancestors before them—our family had been in charge of the shrine for centuries. I always assumed I would take his post when I got older. That I would become a priest and look after the shrine. But one day, my dad just stopped going. Took off his robes and never put them on again.

  He didn’t explain why he was leaving. Refused to explain, even. Said I was too young to understand when I kept asking for a reason. Felt like I was being gutted. I tried to bargain with him: if he delayed the move a couple of years, I could take over the shrine. Could learn the rituals and become a priest myself. Then him and Mom could move on, and I’d stay behind.

  But he didn’t listen to me.

  We left a few weeks later. Drove down to Aomori, where my aunt lives. Through snowstorms along the shore, over an ocean that felt like the edge of the world. I didn’t say a word to him the entire time.

  Dad had been at the shrine his whole life and didn’t know how to do anything else. He had to become a salaryman at his sister’s company. Calls himself an “urban planner.” I don’t really know what that is. He’s new to the job, though, so he gets pushed around the country a lot, chasing clients. Calls it “relocating.” We travelled around for a while, but nothing was really permanent. Dad says we’re going to stay in Sakita, though. Says this city is a long-term project. I sure hope so. Would like to finish unpacking at least once.

  We pulled into the mall parking lot. Mom hit the brakes a little too hard, sending the car sliding. The shrine charms hanging on the mirror swung back and forth. I reached up and held them in my hands, stopping them from moving.

  She mumbled something about the icy roads and turned off the engine.

  I looked out the window. We were the only car in sight. Our neighbour was right—the shrine really was beside the mall. There was a wall of trees right at the edge of the parking lot, which the shrine was supposed to be hidden behind. A hard border, separating the city from nature. I could barely see the shrine, tucked into the grove, but I caught a glimpse of red through the leaves. The torii gate.

  “Okay, and if the shrine priest is there, what do you say?” Mom cranked the heat up, obviously worried about the snow. As if I didn’t grow up covered in the stuff. I could feel myself sweating under my jacket.

  “I’ll say, ‘Hello. My name’s Soki.’ ”

  She sighed. “No, you say, ‘Pleased to meet you. My name is Soki Tachibana. I am new to this city, and I humbly put myself in your hands.’ ”

  “Okay.”

  Mom took out her shopping list, which had the names of a bunch of traditional medicines written on it. I doubted she’d be able to find that kind of stuff here. She went over it again, worried that she’d forgotten something. She’d said she needed to visit the mall anyway, so she’d drive me down. That was her excuse, at least. I think she was worried I’d get lost on my own. Dad says I have her eyes: really wide, kind of nervous-looking. I wish I got her height, instead. Being short like my dad is the worst.

  She undid her seatbelt, then turned to me. Pulled the zipper on my jacket up a little higher. Pulled my wool hat further down. Holdovers from back home in Sapporo—snow country. She and my dad got into an argument about these every time we moved. Why would we need winter clothes down south? I felt bad for agreeing with him. With every move, we got farther away from the north, and the farther south we went, the more bitter Dad became.

  Mom paused again before she opened the car door. She was lingering.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay at the shrine? All alone? Should I come?”

  I’d be back in less than an hour anyway. Just wanted to visit the shrine on my own. Couldn’t be mad at her for caring, though.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “All right, well, good luck! I’ll be in the mall if anything happens, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She gave me a kiss on the forehead and left.

  I turned the heat down in the car and watched her walk into the mall. She only turned back twice. Part of me didn’t want to leave just yet. Not sure why, but I was almost nervous. Didn’t know what the shrine would be like.

  There are shrines wherever you go in Japan—hundreds of thousands of them across the country. Keeps you grounded. I was interested in how they built them in Sakita. Did they conceal the roof beams, or celebrate them? I wondered how many rooms this shrine would have, whether the path had been swept recently. You can learn a lot about a city’s spirit this way, can find out how much hope its people hold on to by how they treat their gods.

  My favourite part of shrine visits is seeing the A-un statues, one positioned on each side of the entrance. They’re kind of like lions. At least, I think they’re lions. In China, they’re lions, but in Korea, they’re dogs. In Japan, we just call them komainu. Dad says that shows how arbitrary religion is—the fact that everyone disagrees on a detail as simple as this means Shinto is doomed. Mom says it’s the opposite: people finding their own meaning in the same thing only shows how strong faith is. I don’t really care who’s right. Just wish they’d stop arguing.

  One statue always has its mouth open and the other always has its mouth closed. Supposed to represent the beginning and end of everything: the first sound we make is “Ah,” and the last sound we make is “Un.” Don’t know if that’s true. One of the two statues is supposed to be male and one is supposed to be female. Asked my dad once about which one is which. He said it’s easy to remember: the one with a closed mouth is a girl, because women are always the end of everything. Then he laughed and my mom hit him on the shoulder, told him to have more respect for his own religion, and women, too, for that matter. Women are more sensitive to the supernatural, she said. He should appreciate that. This was before Dad stopped
believing. I wonder where he’s hidden his white robes.

  I tried turning on the radio, but it refused to pick up a signal. It started doing that three cities ago. The car was one of the last things from Sapporo that we hadn’t replaced. Driven it the entire length of Japan. My seatbelt was fraying from where I’d picked at it. I wondered how the car felt about all the moving. If it was getting exhausted, if it wanted some rest.

  They say that nature has spirits in it. The trees, stars, dirt, they all have kami inside. Made me wonder about technology. Cars are made of metal, and metal is made from earth, right? Most of the city looked inorganic: rust, concrete, rebar. I hoped that those counted as kami, too. Otherwise, the people here would be stranded. Humans without kami, like a body without a soul.

  I asked my dad about this when we first drove into Sakita: Do man-made objects have kami, too? He told me—again—that kami are just an expression. That it’s what early humans used to explain what they didn’t understand.

  “They’d feel earthquakes and typhoons, and didn’t know what was causing them,” he said, glancing at me through the rear-view mirror. “They mistook their fear for piousness, nature for the gods.”

  “But if there were kami,” I asked, “would they live in Sakita?”

  “Do you think the gods would waste their time here?” He gestured out the side window. Abandoned lots and smokestacks. Half-built bridges and crumbling roads. “And the rest of Japan’s becoming the same way. If there ever were kami, they’re all leaving now.”

  But I didn’t believe him. Didn’t believe that he’d lost faith in the gods. Because whenever we moved homes, he’d always take detours and drive us hours out of the way through mountain paths and forests rather than cut through cities. Someone who didn’t believe in kami wouldn’t do that.

  And whenever we reached a new city, the first thing I did was check out the local shrine. I could tell this bothered him. It was like he needed to prove that he didn’t make the wrong call in abandoning Shinto. I think he was surprised by how much leaving our shrine upset me. My mom told me that his problem isn’t with Shinto. It’s that he lost faith in faith itself.