The Girl from the Well

I drift from one to the other—first Callie in her small apartment in Kansai, then Tark at the apartment in Tokyo. Their surroundings could not be more different, for Callie lives simply, surrounded by her fellow students’ conversation and tatami mats. Tark is more accustomed to luxury, and the rooms he shares with his father are filled with art and opulence.

Some days I watch Callie. I follow her as she attends lectures, plays, tours. I look on as she browses through heavy books, riffles through old pieces of parchment, watches television. Sometimes she knows I am there and lifts her head to stare fearfully at where I stand until I move to leave. There is a wariness to Callie still, a distrust she struggles to hide. I do not blame her.

But much of me remains with Tarquin. The malignance that often surrounds him has retreated, as if my presence alone deters it. I give the creature few chances to resurface. I follow him as he wanders the busy streets, leafing through magazines in quiet cafés, peering into store windows. Like Callie, he is quick to notice my presence, but his reaction is one of welcome. Before long, he makes his overtures to me, bold where Callie is cautious.

“You know what this is, Okiku?” he says, gesturing for me to stand by his side and ignoring the puzzled gazes of passersby. “It’s called an arcade game. For a few yen you get to kill imaginary aliens or space monsters for fun. Except this is Japan, so in this game, you play an angry father instead, and you get bonus points for how many things in the room you can destroy by flipping a table up. Child protective services in the States are gonna love this game.”

“Do you ever get hungry, Kiku?” he might say on another occasion. “I mean, I could buy you a milkshake, too. People leave food in shrines here for all kinds of ghosts, so I’m assuming ghosts actually do get to eat… Does ghost food even exist?”

I do not often understand what he means, but it never seems to matter.

We visit clothing stores, restaurants, parks. He takes me to Tokyo Tower (“The best view in Japan to see modern capitalism hard at work!”), to Hachiko’s statue (“Don’t tell anyone, but the movie made me cry.”), to Harajuku Station (“I know a lot of people here set world fashion trends and all, but that guy looks like he’s wearing every piece of clothing his mother owns.”).

He tells me to sit by a bench overlooking a small park full of colorful flowers. I am, I feel, understandably reluctant to do so, but he persists. “It won’t take very long. I work fast.” He sits across from me, takes out his pen and paper, and begins to sketch.

A short time later, he shows me the finished portrait. It is that of a lovely woman gazing wistfully off to one side, admiring the roses in bloom.

I cannot do it justice.

“For a ghost,” Tarquin says, teasingly, “you sure do have a ridiculously low opinion of yourself.”

I find these short, spontaneous trips with Tarquin

pleasant.

Tarquin and Callie talk frequently in what Tarquin calls email exchanges—odd, invisible letters that reach out and bridge the miles that keep them apart. Often, I look over their shoulder as they write, wondering. I had few family members during my lifetime, and delving into Callie and Tarquin’s words and thoughts this way, their obvious concern for the other, makes me yearn for something that is no longer my privilege to feel. I do not know why.

Heya, Callie, Tarquin writes,


Japan is officially the most dysfunctional place I have ever set foot in, and I have been inside a mental hospital. Did you know they’ve actually got a vending machine here that sells used girls’ underwear? The Japanese government declared them illegal or something, but I guess that’s never stopped a bunch of entrepreneurs from leaving them around. Dad says he’s seen others that sell umbrellas, eggs, and for some strange reason, batteries. I’m hoping there’s a machine here where you can buy your very own giant robot.