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Translators’ note: The Japanese title for this book, Kūshin techō, echoes that of Boshi techō, or the Maternal and Child Health Handbook, a booklet issued by Japan’s Ministry of Health, Labor, and Welfare to all expectant mothers to enable them to chronicle their pregnancy, the health and development of the baby, and the details of their child’s medical visits (vaccinations, dental checkups, etc.) up until age seven. In the novel’s title, kūshin replaces “mother and child” with an “empty core” or, in our translation, a “void.”
“Hey . . . Microwave?” My name’s not Microwave. One of my responsibilities was the coffee. When clients visited, I prepared the coffee and brought it over on a tray. It was instant coffee. Anybody could have done it. I frequently saw people making coffee for themselves. But the task seemed somehow beyond them when we had visitors. They’d just stare dolefully in my direction. If I kept doing my work, I’d hear: “Hey . . . Coffee?” Nope. That’s not my name, either.
“His name’s going to be Sorato. Sorato Shibata. Sorato, with two kanji: the first for ‘sky,’ or ‘air,’ like ‘out of thin air,’ and the second for ‘person.’ ”
How long had it been since I’d walked anywhere, even around my own neighborhood, with other women like this?
The internet’s a great place for finding out about stuff you’re kind of interested in, but it can’t really help with the things you really want to know. It’s even worse for things you don’t know anything about.
I wondered what all those people were doing under this snow. Maybe they were shivering in a cab they’d finally caught, or making or waiting for dinner, or staring out the window, commenting on the snow and sipping hot chocolate. Maybe that’s what making a family is all about: creating an environment in which people make space for one another—maybe without even trying, just naturally, to make sure that nobody’s forgotten.
“Hosono?” Her chest was slowly rising and falling. Over and over. I could hear something like leaking air. Then I caught a glimpse of the tiny face at her chest—cheeks that looked smoother and softer than fresh cream. The baby slept between Hosono’s chest and arms, with a look on her face like she lived in a world free of pain and sadness. “Everything’s great, just as long as I keep holding her like this.”
“Everybody says so. ‘You must be so happy,’ ‘You’re so lucky,’ ‘She has your eyes.’ But she doesn’t! She’s always crying! I can’t even get a good look at her face. Well, when I was with my parents, and my mom was holding her, I kind of thought she looked like me. But since we came home? Nothing but crying. She’s always crying. She sleeps sometimes. Just for short stretches, but she sleeps. And that’s when I need to wash her bottles. They need time to dry. Then I have to do the chores. How does anybody keep this up? Are they superhuman or what? Am I supposed to hang the piles of laundry and do
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But why do I have to deal with these people who try to act like they care about me or my pregnancy while they ask the most inane, prying questions? Why is it up to me to produce answers that please them? And why is the way home so much darker and colder on nights like that? More than that, why is my apartment so dark
