How High We Go in the Dark

by Sequoia Nagamatsu

I tried to imagine him at his worst, when his paper-thin skin turned impossible colors, as if every cell in his body had been set aflame. I reminded myself that the virus eating at his brain had wrapped around his synapses, stealing a little part of him with each minute—and then I opened my eyes and saw him more alive than he had ever been.

I push forward, half searching for an orb of my own, weaving through the crowds congregating around tiny planets of memory. Excuse me, excuse me. Have you seen my childhood? Some people are wandering into the lives of others as if connecting the dots toward enlightenment.

“I probably would have been at the movies, too,” I said. “In case you haven’t already figured it out, I’m pretty shit with family.” I wanted to hold her hand. I passed her the blunt instead.

I’m gazing at the photo of Ayano (taken during our honeymoon), listening to her sing. And then a few seconds of static, the male British voice saying good morning, followed by a techno club beat. Hollywood stumbles in circles. A banner ad on the wall tells us to cherish Ayano’s memory by enjoying life via a buffet at the food court in tower 2. “Keep playing,” I tell Aki. I light a stick of incense. I squeeze his shoulders and wipe a tear from his cheek. I pick Hollywood up off the floor and his legs tread the air. Hollywood tells us it’ll be cloudy with a chance of rain. He tells us that plague deaths are at an all-time low. I imagine part of my wife’s spirit floating inside this tiny plastic body, wanting to connect us, waiting patiently for its turn.

He wonders what proportion of happy moments to sad ones is necessary for a person to sincerely want to keep living and hopes he and Yoshiko can get there together.

I wondered what I’d been doing at that exact moment, what pressing matter had kept me from picking up the phone and telling my family: I love you. I’m sorry. This is something I have to do.