The Girl from the Well by Rin Chupeco Read Free Book Online Page B

twenty-one.
    â€œWe’ll be visiting more often,” the man promises. “And Tarquin is here,” he adds, though he now says this slowly and deliberately, watching her face anxiously for any signs of distress. The boy standing behind the screen waits, his back rigid. From his position, all he can see of his mother is her shadow, stooping behind the screen.
    â€œTarquin’s here?” the woman says, this time with more animation. “Where is he?”
    â€œHey, Mom,” the boy says. His voice is low, trembling with pent-up emotion. Gone is his usual derision, all traces of sarcasm lacking from his tone. For now, Tarquin Halloway is a fifteen-year-old boy who, for all he has endured, still misses his mother. For all his hurt, there is much forgiveness in him.
    â€œTarquin? Where are you?” The woman twists her head and moves as if to stand.
    â€œHe’s here, Yoko,” the man says, “but the doctors say you can’t see him today.” Forty-one dolls, forty-two dolls, forty-three.
    â€œDid I hurt him?” Terror rings in her voice. “Did I hurt him again? I am so sorry, Tarquin, I am so sorry!”
    Overwhelmed, she starts to sob. The man wraps his arms around her. The boy can only watch their shadows, helpless.
    â€œIt was the only way,” the broken woman whispers. “I didn’t know what else I could do. I didn’t have much choice. But I couldn’t let her out. Don’t you see? I couldn’t let her out!”
    The White Shirt steps forward, alarmed, but the woman quickly rights herself, shaking off her ramblings. The sudden queerness in the air that had settled around her like dense fog is gone. She sits up straighter in her chair, now prim and delicate, though her hands twist and clench without her knowledge at invisible paper she is slowly tearing to shreds. Sixty dolls, sixty-one dolls, sixty-two.
    â€œIt was very nice of you to visit, Doug,” she says calmly with no trace of her previous hysteria. “It’s been so long since I last stepped out of these walls that I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to be outside.”
    â€œYes,” the man says, at a loss at how to respond.
    â€œI’d like to go back to Japan again,” the woman says, and her voice sounds like it is coming from somewhere else, far away. “It’s been so many years since I’ve been back in Tokyo. I miss hanami in the springtime. Do you remember, Doug? All those times we would camp out underneath the trees and watch the cherry blossoms bloom ’til nightfall. How long has it been?”
    â€œIt’s been seventeen years since we graduated from the University of Tokyo, Yoko.” The man’s voice is choked.
    â€œHas it been that long since our Todai days? How odd. I still remember them as clearly as if they were only a week ago. I remember the hanami well.” She laughs. “We had to look at six different shops just to find a yukata in your size.”
    â€œYou always insisted on doing things the traditional way,” the man said, smiling at their memories. Eight-five dolls, eighty-six dolls, eighty-seven.
    â€œFor hanami , it is only proper to dress in the right manner.” She squeezes his hand. “The old ways of watching are always the best. Cherry blossoms die as quickly as they bloom, so one must always come with the proper clothes and the proper attitude to admire their beauty before they pass away so quickly. The great writer Motojirou-san said it best: ‘Sakura no ki no shita ni wa shitai ga umatte iru .’”
    Dead bodies lie under the cherry tree.
    The woman whips her head to stare at me, as if I had spoken the words out loud. Her face turns white, her eyes staring.
    â€œWho’s there?” she whispers, growing more agitated by the second. The man reaches out to take her hand again, but she shakes him free.
    â€œWho’s there?” She jumps out of her chair and