Never knew Anna well. Talked to her a few times towards the end of last year. Felt like I understood her, somehow. Or really, that she understood me. She’s the only person our age who took the kami seriously. Who didn’t think it was weird for me to believe. We didn’t speak much, since she barely came to school, but maybe we could have been friends.
They say Anna’s lucky to be alive. That she should have died in the explosion. She survived because she locked herself in a fridge. The impact broke a couple of her bones, blasted the door off. Even still, the flames that came through the opening should have killed her. Whole thing’s a mystery.
Police said it looked like there was somebody else in the fridge, shielding her. There were bruises on her arms shaped like hand prints. The thing is, they didn’t find anyone else there. Some people say it was a ghost, but I don’t think that’s true. Still, I avoid the place where the accident occurred.
Everyone’s acting surprised that Anna did something like that, as though she had been the outgoing star student before. Mina even pretends to be grieving, and gets lots of sympathy from the teachers whenever she says they were childhood friends. Makes me sick. Maybe if Anna had someone to talk to, this wouldn’t have happened.
No one knows what she was trying to achieve, or what that bizarre machine was for. At one point, the police came to school and asked us a bunch of questions. None of us could give any answers. The only person who might know is Leo.
That’s the biggest mystery. Who is Leo? When they found Anna, body smouldering, her brain was already bleeding, but she hadn’t slipped into a full coma yet. She didn’t realize how injured she was, just kept asking where Leo had gone. Kept saying she couldn’t see him anymore. She was also mumbling about Valhalla and outer space, but mostly she was worried about Leo. They launched a manhunt for him, but nothing ever turned up. It was like he disappeared into thin air.
I visit Anna a lot. I’m the only one from our class who does. Used to be every weekend, but now it’s every couple of days, for an hour or so after school. Maybe I feel bad for never really making the effort to get to know her. Nurses always give me pitying looks. Must think I’m Anna’s boyfriend or something.
To be honest, visiting her is the highlight of my day. First I went out of guilt, but now I look forward to seeing her. I’m not sure if me being there will help her recover, but I go all the same. One day, she’ll open her eyes again, and I want to make sure I’m there when she does. It’d be too cruel for her to wake up to an empty room.
The right side of her face was burned pretty severely. The doctors say it won’t heal fully. Looks painful to touch. But even with those scars, she looks at peace. Makes me wonder how she felt when those flames caught up to her. Makes me wonder if she was ever afraid.
Mom once told me that there’s different kinds of fire. There’s unclean fire and purifying fire. Some Shintoists even burn paper dolls of themselves for spiritual cleansing. The paper doll absorbs all of a person’s impurities, and is used as a sacrifice. Hope the fire that burned Anna was purifying. Hope it burned whatever hurt her right into ash.
The nurses say that me staying by Anna’s side will help with her recovery. Don’t know if that’s true. Feels like they’re just trying to comfort me. One even said that when someone’s in a coma, it’s a good thing to speak to them. You never know what they’re able to hear. The problem is, I’m not good at talking. I thought I could just sit there in silence.
So, I asked my dad to teach me a prayer. That way when I visit Anna I can have something to say. He was reluctant at first, and told me I should go to a real priest for answers, but when I told him who it was for, he said he’d consider it. Then the next morning, as I was leaving for school, he handed me something. The words to a prayer. I recognized the rice paper he’d written it on. It was the same paper he hid deep inside his desk.
I was surprised he still remembered those devotions, and in a way I was relieved. Guess those prayers will always be a part of him. They don’t just disappear. Even if you intentionally let them go, they never fully escape. Hard to let go of what you used to believe.
The prayer he taught me is called the daijinju. No one knows the exact meaning and origin of this prayer—not even the priests can accurately translate all the ancient words. But my dad told me that’s not important. The words are just a device. If you recite them with a sincere heart and a pure mind, the prayer has power. It lets you create a connection to the kami. And if you repeat the prayer one million times, it gains extra power.
Now, whenever I visit Anna, I recite those words. I make sure to purify myself first, although usually just with tap water. Then, I sit by the foot of her bed, close my eyes, and recite the daijinju. It’s tough, keeping the words straight, since they barely sound like Japanese. That shouldn’t matter, though. If I say them with pure intentions it works the same, even if I don’t understand them. Sometimes, I swear I can hear a whisper too. Where is it coming from? It’s like a murmur from the heart.
One time, when I was in the middle of praying, Anna’s mom came to visit. I stood up quickly and bowed my head, but she was too distraught to notice me. She was heartbroken, barely able to string together a sentence. Just kept apologizing. I couldn’t help but notice how similar she looked to Anna. Same wide-open eyes, same pursed lips.
Seeing adults cry like that makes me uncomfortable. Being an adult seems tough. Never imagined Anna having parents, honestly. She never talked about them, and seemed so independent, I never gave it a thought. Makes sense, though. Everyone has a family, even one they don’t talk about.
Anna’s grandfather was there too. He seemed confused. Like he didn’t know what was happening. But he had this content look on his face, not upset at all.
“And who might you be?” he asked.
“Soki. I’m one of Anna’s classmates.”
“Oh, is that this girl’s name?” He reached out and put his hand over hers. “How pretty. I have a granddaughter who looks just like her.”
I didn’t say anything. Thought it would be rude to correct him.
“And what were you mumbling, just now?” he asked.
Felt my face go hot. Anna’s mom was still talking to Anna, hoping her apologies would be heard.
“It’s a prayer,” I said. “So that the kami can help her get better. Called the daijinju.”
“How lovely! It’s rare for someone so young to know how to pay respects.”
Even though I wasn’t done reciting the prayer, I thought it’d be best to go. I shouldn’t interrupt her family. The sun was going down, too, and I didn’t want to be late for dinner. But as I moved to leave, Anna’s grandfather addressed me.
“Would you mind teaching it to me?” he asked. “The prayer.”
I stopped, not sure whether to stay. Anna’s mom wasn’t paying attention, so I could have slipped out. But the expression on her grandfather’s face caught me. The same curiosity as Anna.
I sat back down. “It’s a little confusing, but I’ll show you,” I said. “First, you have to close your eyes.”
He closed his eyes.
“Then, you put your hands together. Like this.”
I took his hands and brought them together, in that special way my dad taught me. It’s a secret method, so I wasn’t supposed to be showing it to others. But I figured that, just this once, it would be okay.
“Then, you start by saying a-ji-ma-ri-ka-n. You have to say it slowly. And really low, too. Listen to how I’m saying it: a-ji-ma-ri-ka-n.”
Anna’s grandfather started to repeat the words, although he ended up getting lost halfway, saying ki instead of ri.
“A-ji-ma-ri-ka-n,” I repeated.
“A-ji-ma-ri…” He trailed off.
“—ka-n.”
We went back and forth like this for a while. He had trouble getting the prayer to come out right. I was patient, though. Just sa
t there, re-teaching him the words. There’s an entire other section after that, parts that even I have trouble remembering. Decided not to teach him those yet. Just the first step was enough.
“A-ji-ma-ri-ka-n!” he said, finally getting it right. He smiled. “A-ji-ma-ri-ka-n. What does it mean?”
“Not sure. But, it’s not important.”
He smiled. “How lovely. Thank you.”
I got up to leave again. He was nice, and I wanted to talk to him a bit more, but I felt like I shouldn’t linger. Anna’s mom was done speaking to her, and was just sitting there, weeping. It was time for me to go home.
“Thank you, Soki,” Anna’s grandfather said. I was impressed he got my name right. “I hope we meet again.”
And actually, we did. Doesn’t happen a lot, but whenever Anna’s mom visits, he comes too. The thing is, his memory isn’t very good. So I have to reintroduce myself, and we have the same conversation every time. And I teach him the prayer every time, too.
“A-ji-na-ri-ka-n,” he’ll say.
And I’ll correct him: “A-ji-ma-ri-ka-n.”
“A-ji-ma…”
“…ri-ka-n.”
At first, it was kind of frustrating. Wanted to move on to the rest of the prayer. Thought it would happen eventually, but so far it hasn’t. But then I started to get used to his forgetting. Every time he pronounces the words right, I feel just as proud as the first time. I know it’s useless, since next time he probably won’t remember my name or the prayer, but I don’t mind. Just repeating those words with him is enough. I wonder what Anna would think, seeing me with her grandpa like that.
Anna, a lot has happened on Earth since you went to sleep. The world has only gotten harder to understand. And when you come back, someone will have to help you re-learn it all. I think, maybe, I might be able to do this for you.
I’ll wait forever, if I have to, but come back soon. I have so much I want to ask you. About where you went, about where you’re going. You probably don’t even remember me, but I’ll be here, teaching your grandpa those words, even if he always forgets them.
Every so often, I see movement under your eyelids. Once your mouth even twitched. You looked happy. Anna, wake up soon. I want to ask what you’re dreaming of.
…
IT COMES QUIETLY, SOMETIMES. Like the chirping of a cicada. Like a light layer of snow. Like a signal, still pulsing, so far above:
A-ji-ma-ri…
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THANK YOU, MOM, FOR your constant encouragement and for making sure I never had to run alone. Thank you, Dad, for instilling in me a love for literature, and for the countless late-night drives and chats over coffee. Thank you, Yuki, for being my closest friend.
Many thanks to my extended family in Japan—my cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents scattered throughout Kyushu—as well as to the dozens of Japanese exchange students I’ve taught over the years. The flavours and locales of this story wouldn’t exist without the time I’ve spent with each and every one of you, all of whom have made an impact on the book in your own way.
While the act of writing is—usually—done alone, the process of publishing certainly isn’t. Bringing Satellite Love to print wouldn’t have been possible or even worthwhile without the wonderful and talented community I’m blessed to have around me.
And so, my thanks go out to Ruth Ozeki and Molly Zakoor for their immense wealth of kindness, and for being the first people to champion the manuscript in its earliest stages.
I’m thankful for my agent, Lucy Carson, a patient and powerful ally, whose enduring passion for the written word was truly encouraging throughout the entire process.
Many thanks to my editor, Anita Chong, for her keen editorial insights as well as her humour and compassion, so crucial in bringing the characters of Satellite Love to life. ありがとう!
Thank you to designer Emma Dolan for the stunning cover and illustrations, as well as the elegant design of the text itself.
Thank you also to my copyeditor, Melanie Little, and my proofreader, Rachel Taylor, both of whom made sure no contradiction or unintended quirk went undetected.
And of course, my eternal gratitude to everyone at McClelland & Stewart, a vibrant and vital cornerstone of Canadian fiction, which I feel so privileged to call my publishing home.
Outside of publishing, I’d like to give thanks to Caitlin Jesson and the rest of my family at Book Warehouse on Broadway for providing me a place to work while writing out my earliest drafts. If you, dear reader, are ever kicking around B.C., I strongly recommend you stop by one of their stores! And bonus points if you happen to have bought this book at one of those locations.
My thanks to Kelsea Gorzo, who I’ve known since I was two, for helping me figure out how the coma in the story would occur.
Thanks also to Carlo Ghioni for teaching me the responsibilities that come with telling stories.
And finally, thank you, Dasha. Without you, this story wouldn’t have its soul.
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The “Lost Kitten” lyrics that Anna recalls on this page are the author’s rendition of the traditional folk song.
The sutta that The General quotes on this page is taken from “Ekadhamma Suttas: A Single Thing” (AN 1.21-40), translated from the Pali by Thanissaro Bhikkhu. Access to Insight (BCBS Edition), 30 November 2013, http://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/an/an01/an01.021-040.than.html.
The translations of the Japanese Buddhist proverbs spoken by The General on this page, this page, this page, this page, this page, and this page are from In Ghostly Japan by Lafcadio Hearn.
The poem that Anna quotes on this page is “The Herd Boy’s Star,” from The Tales of Ise, translation by Peter MacMillan (Penguin Classics, 2016).
The ajimarikan chant from the Daijinju prayer recited on this page is from The Essence of Shinto: Japan’s Spiritual Heart by Motohisa Yamakage (Kodansha International, 2012).
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