Waiting for Sunday

chapter 21 - the looking glass

Nao is balanced precariously on the ladder leaned against the upper cabinets in the kitchen when he hears the echoey chime of the doorbell. He clears his throat, forcing as much volume into his voice as he can: "It's open."

A moment later, the skitter of Hoshi's feet against the tiles, followed by the low, calm schwiff of sock feet, announces Mira's arrival.

Nao turns over his shoulder to look at her, arm still stretched towards the row of mason jars above his head. "Howdy, sweetheart."

Mira leans against the archway in dark slacks and a blouse with an impractical and yet flattering amount of frills at the shoulders. A scrunchie at the base of her neck holds her cornrows in a neat bun. "Don't say that," she mutters, bending to stroke a hand across Hoshi's back. The dog shuts his eyes with glee.

"Say what?" Nao asks. He grabs the jar he was looking for—the b at the front of bergamot means it's near the top shelf—and eases down the ladder, careful not to step on the pooling ankles of his overalls. "Howdy, or sweetheart?"

"Howdy," Mira answers after a moment. Her eyes aren't exactly on his face, but a bit lower, and it takes Nao a moment to remember he was too lazy to put on a shirt that morning. "No one actually says that. You don't even say that."

"I have dinner with you once and you decide you know everything about me?" The jar clinks as Nao sets it down. "You city folk do everything too fast."

"It wasn't dinner," Mira says, joining him at the kitchen island.

"It wasn't?"

"You ate a bunch of hash browns and all I had was coffee. In what universe is that dinner?"

"A snack, then," Nao amends, and shrugs. "We can redo it if you want a proper meal, though. Whenever you like."

For a few beats of silence Nao watches Mira struggle to keep her eyes on his eyes and not on the bare arc of his shoulders. He wonders if he should say something, but soon after decides he's enjoying it too much—the battle, yes, but likewise the spoils this particular one might reap.

Mira turns her gaze away and Nao must accept that today, the battle has not gone the way he was hoping. "What are you up to, Nao?" Mira asks, her voice a flat blade. "And why do I have to be involved with it?"

"It's nothing, really," Nao says, leaning over the counter, elbows kissing the granite. "I'm gonna try to look into the spirit plane, and I need you here to make sure I don't die."

Shiori didn't run her household on the basis of a lot of rules. The boundaries she did set were far less concrete, rather just things she advised Nao not to do, because, in her words, they will probably result in your harm, and my sadness. This list consisted broadly of minor offenses like devouring an entire jar of sour gummy worms or climbing the gnarled tree behind the ranch. There were a rare few, though, that ascended this vague status and became defined things he was prohibited to do, no matter the circumstances. Nao has not forgotten that peering into the spirit plane fell into this section; he's just choosing to ignore it.

Nao only saw his mother do it once, and he wasn't supposed to see it at all. The night before he turned twelve, he woke to a deep, constant hum, almost insectile, but not quite. Nao remembers wiping sweaty hair from his forehead—it was the middle of May, but summer arrived early and stayed long here—and tiptoeing into the hallway, tracking the sliver of gold light that beamed at him from Shiori's open bedroom door.

He hung on the door frame and peered inside, hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of his breathing. Not that it mattered much anyway. He knew immediately that Shiori was in a place he couldn't reach her. His mother had leaned a large antique mirror against the wall, an arc of candles on the floor between it and herself. Nao studied his mother's reflection, bath robe pooling around her legs, hands rested palms-down atop her knees. Her short hair was wild and sticking up in multiple places, and she looked as one normally does at close to two in the morning except for the fact her eyes were open and black and unblinking.