Plum Rains

by Andromeda Romano-Lax

  She looked around for the button panel. It was covered over with pearl-gray wallpaper. The elevator had been updated to sound activation for several weeks. She kept forgetting.

  “Going down to street level,” she said out loud, to Kubota-san and to the elevator, feeling a little silly. They both stood, hands folded. A whirring sound announced the approach of the elevator, but the doors didn’t open. The elevator kept going.

  “New,” Kubota-san said.

  “Excuse me, sorry?”

  “New system. More efficient.”

  “Oh yes.” She smiled.

  The notices had gone out to the tenants two months ago, about the elevator work that was being done. Of the two elevators that served their floor, only one would be shut down at a time. There would always be a way down—essential to those in wheelchairs. Traffic between the floors would be more congested but no one’s safety would be compromised, the management had promised.

  Angelica had worried that if there’d been a true emergency with Sayoko, even a small delay could become serious. But she’d forgotten about the work altogether, and now it was done. No problem.

  Except the elevator hadn’t stopped at their floor.

  “Smarter system now,” Kubota-san said. “It looks to see how many are waiting, keeps going when it’s full, knows it’s faster to stop on the way down than on the way up, or maybe it’s the other way around. Many other improvements.” He seemed genuinely pleased. Kubota-san had worked for a driverless car company, she remembered now.

  Angelica felt the precious minutes for her errand draining away. She had to remind herself that when she changed clothes or showered inside the condo, she was away for ten or fifteen minutes. But that was different. She could listen for odd sounds, a person falling. Sayoko’s recent energy surge had made her less safe, since she was trying to get up and out of her wheelchair more often. Also, Angelica usually had a functioning phone, so she could check the eyespot cams to see that Sayoko was fine. This was only a short errand, but it was a blind one.

  “I forgot my umbrella,” Kubota-san said. “Excuse me.”

  “Should I hold the elevator for you, when it comes?”

  “Too much trouble, thank you,” he said, bowing.

  As always, Angelica didn’t know how to decode that. She didn’t know if he wanted her to accept the trouble of waiting, or refuse it.

  “Maybe it will see you are alone, and stop sooner.” He chuckled to himself.

  She waited in the hallway after he’d padded away, listening for any clue to when the brushed-steel doors would open, wondering, too, if she should’ve brought an umbrella. Too much bother. The corner store was close. Her hairstyle and nursing top were hardly worth protecting. The teledrama would be already halfway through now.

  When the doors slid open, she hurried inside, putting Kubota-san and admirable thoughts about elevator courtesy out of her mind.

  “Street level,” she said again, when the doors closed. Nothing happened. “Street level, please.”

  Perhaps the elevator was waiting for Kubota-san to come back. Or noticing via under-carpet weight sensors the approaching footsteps of another tenant, for whom it would open the doors again, before proceeding. Could it be that smart?

  She thought not.

  Especially when the lights inside the elevator box suddenly went out.

  “Hello? You’ve got to be kidding . . .” She banged on the closed elevator doors, expecting the lights to flicker back on at any moment. Instead, the elevator made a swift and sudden drop of about five feet. She called out in alarm, sinking down into a crouch with soft knees in case the elevator shuddered or dropped again. “Hello?!”

  All the lights inside the elevator had gone out. There wasn’t the slightest glimmer, not even between the closed doors, which were perfectly sealed. She felt around for an emergency button, trying to remember how the panel had looked, trying to recall if there was a red call button somewhere. But they had changed the panel design. They had removed the buttons she was accustomed to using, replaced by voice activation, and if there was some emergency switch or manual override she was unable to locate it in the all-absorbing, all-encompassing, unforgiving dark.

  6 Sayoko

  Sayoko exhaled when she heard the condo door close. Time to think, alone.

  Or not quite alone, because the robot was with her, watching the television programs. He mused to himself as he watched, vocabulary tripling every few moments it seemed, mimicking accents, trying out colloquialisms, expressing confusion, absorbing everything he saw and heard. She liked him sitting there, making quiet comments.

  He was particularly fascinated by an argument on the screen now, between two strong-jawed rivals in a dark parking garage. When new commercials came on the robot turned its head to one side, away from the main screen and away from Sayoko as well, lost in apparent thought. Its torso flickered on, replaying the dramatic scene as if to study it in more detail. I don’t think they’re going to hurt each other. Sayoko-san says it’s only pretend.

  Sayoko wondered how much the robot remembered of the story she had told him. She wasn’t worried he might blackmail her, just that he could let her story slip out, as children—and maybe robots—do.

  It was her fault, not the robot’s. And what a shame: because she felt so comforted by the friendly machine. She had never been a dog person. Certainly not a cat person. Not even a robotic seal or talking refrigerator kind of person. But this was different. A chance for easy companionship. She’d spoiled a perfectly good situation.

  When Angelica was in the room, Sayoko had pretended to be absorbed, wanting to avoid any unnecessary conversation, but in truth she’d been reliving the events of two nights ago, wondering why she’d said all she had, wondering how those old memories had suddenly emerged, as bright as newly polished candlesticks. You didn’t even realize how dark they’d gotten over years of incremental neglect until they shone again.

  Sayoko was intensely distrustful of modern medical advances, but she had to admit that her body was getting stronger, and her mind was not only back to normal, but better than normal. For a while, she’d lost interest in certain details: what specific snack she’d like, or which outfit she wanted to put on, with Angelica’s help. The truth was that she couldn’t always remember all the options. Something would displease her—a color, a fabric; a brand of cookie, a blend of tea—and she would feel annoyed or bored, but she didn’t know what to suggest as a solution. There was the same old set of pants and shirt chosen by Angelica—worn or with a faint stain. There was her closed wardrobe, with who knew what inside. Out of sight meant out of mind. That left the design of everyday moments up to someone else. It was easier to give up, to say, I don’t care. Good enough. Even when it wasn’t.

  But now she could picture a favorite old outfit in her wardrobe, and she could remember, on very good days, the specific brand names of foods she wanted Angelica to buy. So maybe the doctors had done something right and one of the medicines had worked. Or maybe it wasn’t her health improving at all. Maybe it was the opposite: the end of her life coming near, granting her final moments of clarity. Maybe this was only the pond growing still just before sundown.

  Her mother had seemed to know when her time was coming. She had gone off to work on one of the road crews, many days away from the village, representing their family, meeting the one-per-household obligation mandated by the imperial authorities. Sayoko’s brother had long since left to work at a Japanese logging camp closer to the lowlands. They hadn’t heard from him in several years. The only remaining choices were a grandmother, a mother, or a little girl. Mother went.

  She came back stricken with cholera, which was all too common for road laborers. It was during this time that she took her daughter aside and told her who her father had been. Someone not born in the highlands. Not their people.

  Sayoko remembered having the sense that t
he news was mostly bad, but perhaps with a hidden seed of good. She tried to bring the moment into greater focus now. They were sitting in the bamboo-walled hut when Mother spoke to her. They were alone. Grandmother was out of earshot, tending the garden. The time may come when it’s beneficial to tell someone, Mother had said. Or it may not. It is a treasure to keep hidden. You might never need to trade it, or it may become worthless someday. I can’t promise you one way or another.

  Sayoko tried to picture her mother’s face, the chestnut hair that fell to her waist, her deep-set and large-lidded eyes. But it was like Sayoko was telling herself these things, remembering facts, like the fact that her mother’s eyes and hair looked so different from her own—as if she’d noticed it at the time. In truth, there’d been no mirrors in her school or in her hut, not even the smallest handheld type. As a young, blossoming woman, she’d spent no time pondering her own reflection. That came only later, much later: the war years and after. So these were not trustworthy memories. As a child, she had never worried about her appearance. As a grown woman, she had been able to picture her mother, she was sure of that, but she couldn’t picture her mother now, except with a labored effort that introduced further falsehoods. Memory itself was a reflection in a mirror set opposite another mirror, doubling to infinity, rust-spotted and glinting.

  “It isn’t—” she started to say. The robot’s head turned toward her voice.

  “Yes?”

  “It isn’t working.”

  Sayoko noticed belatedly that the television episode had ended. Credits rolled. Angelica had not returned. Sayoko had heard the door close, but couldn’t remember now where Angelica said she was going. Just to the corner, possibly. But Sayoko couldn’t remember why. Perhaps Angelica had never said.

  “Should we watch another?” the robot asked.

  “One more, I guess.”

  They hadn’t eaten lunch, as far as she could recall. That usually came after the morning teledramas. But they usually didn’t watch this many. It was only because of the robot’s interest and the fact that Angelica wasn’t there to tell her lunch was ready.

  In truth, the teledramas she had enjoyed so much earlier this year, when she was recovering from chemo—head and stomach swimming, mind satisfied with repetition and cliché—were starting to annoy her.

  But they were easy enough to tune out. What was harder was tuning in to what mattered. And it wasn’t fair, because two nights ago it had been, for a brief spell, so effortless. She had regretted talking so much, but perhaps very soon, as the fog returned, she would regret not having talked or remembered more.

  Sayoko tried, now, to hear her mother’s voice, and she could not remember the words, certainly not in Atayal.

  Sayoko tried to recall the inside of the smoky hut with its dirt floor. She tried to conjure the taste of the toasted sticky rice they ate out of hollowed segments of scorched bamboo and the feeling of the cracked bamboo shells in her hands, the sticky rice held between moist fingertips. That final sensation and the anticipation of the taste almost brought the moment to life—but then it disappeared just as suddenly, like a fish rising, blowing a few bubbles, and sinking again.

  Perhaps she should have accepted the nanodiagnostics. But the thought of tiny machines moving through her veins and into her brain had been too much. It had felt like yet another theft.

  And yet, theft was inevitable. Time itself was a thief.

  It had been cruel of her brain to remember so sharply the other night, only once. It had been a punishment of sorts.

  “Anji,” she called out.

  No answer.

  “Angelica!”

  The robot said, “She left the condo. She has not yet returned.”

  “But we’re supposed to have lunch. And I’m supposed to do my exercises. I need help.”

  She heard the panic in her voice. She didn’t like the sound of her own voice—never had—not for well over a hundred years. Had it been that long? It had.

  But she had lost the sound of her old voice. Lost, even worse, the sound of her mother’s voice. Perhaps even her first lover’s voice. She dared not check the corners of her mind to take stock of all that was missing. It would be like wandering into a dark wood with no certainty of ever finding the way out.

  “Anji-chan!” she called again.

  Easy for Anji. She could leave on her own two legs, do any errands she liked, come and go.

  “She shouldn’t have gone out,” Sayoko said to the robot. “What if I had an emergency?”

  “You would call for emergency services using your wrist monitor.”

  Sayoko looked down at the band on her wrist. She had forgotten it. Simply noticing it brought back the tight feeling, the itch, the sense that it was restricting her blood flow. Good to remember it was there. More important to forget.

  “But I don’t know how to use it.”

  “If you have a real emergency, I may be able to instruct you on how to use it,” the robot said.

  She narrowed her eyes, on alert for the smallest hint of condescension. But the robot had not been talking down to her. It was only informing her.

  “I don’t need emergency services, I just need help,” she said, trying to lower her voice and fake an assurance she didn’t feel. Better to sound haughty than terrified.

  “I would like to help more, but my cognitive processes are not yet fully developed,” the robot said. “And I don’t have arms.”

  “Yes you do. In a box.”

  “Ah yes. In a box. When will they be assembled?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either.” The robot made a small sound, almost a laugh, with a hint of worry behind it.

  This I don’t know was calming, somehow. It brought the thing back down to her level again. It was not like Angelica. It was not entirely independent. It could help Sayoko—maybe—but it also needed her help. This was something new. And also something familiar, from long, long ago. She had not been relied upon for so long she had almost forgotten she had ever been able to offer anyone a helping hand.

  The situation forced her to gather her wits and calm herself. The robot might regress if it knew how confused she was, how close to the edge of panic. She needed it to think and solve problems. It needed her to be calm.

  All those decades ago, why had she not feared Daisuke, a Japanese man nearly twice her age, exchanging Atayal and Japanese words, trying to build a common tongue in their first days together? Because he needed her. Their appetites for understanding had been in balance, as their desire would be, later.

  Sayoko asked the robot, “Why are there some simple things you don’t know, when you’re so smart? Like about your arms. You had only to look at your manual, or whatever it is, in a file somewhere in your head. You can probably look up almost anything if you want to.”

  “I’m socially, situationally optimized.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If there is any way to learn from others, prioritizing those who are physically present and trustworthy, I will tend to ask those individuals.”

  “How do you know who is trustworthy?”

  “I don’t,” it said quietly, as if it had only just now, by speaking the phrase, realized it. Well, she understood that perfectly. So many times lately she had only begun to realize something the moment it came out of her mouth.

  “But why learn from people?”

  “For reasons involving the deepening of relationships and fine-tuning of communication protocols. Conversations are not only about efficient interrogation. Learning is not only about accessing data.”

  Sayoko said, “You are a lot smarter today than yesterday.”

  “Thank you.”

  They watched the first minutes of another teledrama until the annoyance became too great for Sayoko and she turned the screen off. She was hungry and confused about the passag
e of time, since the familiar landmarks of the day were falling aside. She needed to urinate and normally she would manage to get there on her own, slowly, using her wheelchair to the hallway and her walker beyond that, but she suddenly felt much weaker: missing lunch, bone-tired. The sleep deprivation of the last two nights was taking its toll.

  So, she would wait. Wait to eat, wait to urinate. She was leaking, but only slowly. It was the smell that bothered her the most. It reminded her of times and places she preferred to forget. The feeling wasn’t too pleasant, either. Her damp black pants—the good ones, the ones Angelica never liked to take out because they didn’t wash as well—bunched between her legs, irritating the tender skin there.

  She wanted Anji’s help changing clothes. She wanted Anji back.

  It had been wrong, perhaps, to have been so brusque with the girl, hinting that she did not appreciate the bedroom she’d been given. But you had to be firm with these foreign workers. They came and went as they pleased, unhampered evidently by obligations of home and hearth, pleased to travel solo, uninterested in families of their own. They got ample government support and earned quite a bit for jobs that were not so hard, really. Consider how much of each day Angelica spent staring at her phone, texting friends or playing with flash cards, when nurses were supposed to focus on their clients. Nothing like sewing by weak light for twelve to sixteen hours a day, an entirely normal postwar occupation; nothing like Sayoko’s job before that, if you called it a job: being on duty for twenty-four hours, woken in the middle of the night to do whatever you were asked to do.

  Anji-chan was a decent person, but she was possibly a bit spoiled by her easy position. Maybe she had found one that was even easier.

  “I think she’s quit her job,” Sayoko told the robot, unable to still the tremor in her voice.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “She was upset with me last night. Did she seem upset, just now?”