Memory Lane

Part 10: White Flower

Airi reminds me of you. When she smiles, I see a ghost of you like the way I see the afterimage of the sun after staring at the sky for too long.

To anyone with blurry vision, you might look like sisters side by side, sharing fair hair and light eyes. But for the rest of us who weren't suffering from visual impairment, you look quite distinct from one another.

It goes beyond Airi being ethnically Japanese and you coming from generations of Irish Catholics. While you were optimistic and bright, Airi is sullen and unsmiling, giving her a standoffish vibe that makes me hesitate to speak to her. She prefers to keep to herself, spending hours in her dark room while you spend as much time outside of your house as possible.

Then again, Airi has albinism so she can't do the same things you do, at least not without suffering consequences. Mr. Watanabe told us over dinner during our first night at the mansion about her sensitive skin and weak eyes. If she stays in the sun for too long, it will hurt her. No wonder why she practically lives like a vampire. Anyone in her position would find the circumstances depressing.

But at the wedding today, she can't stop smiling. I sit next to her during the evening ceremony, wearing a muted lapis dress that shimmers in the low lighting. She's nearly as dazzling as the sparkling sky blue she wears and despite the darkness of night, I think of the sun.

She's a year younger than us, older than I expected. Her aloof and girlish mannerisms convinced me that she was thirteen instead of sixteen. Between that, her frilly dresses, and her army of stuffed animals, I would have never assumed that she was close to my age.

"Your mom is really pretty," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. She twirls a white flower in her hands idly.

"She's your mom too," I whisper back. Or at least she would be after the evening was over.

"I can't believe it." Her voice is full of awe. "You're so lucky that you've had a princess for your mother your whole life."

I remember the weeks I spent eating instant ramen out of styrofoam cups because that same mother couldn't be bothered to leave her bed to go to work. Would Airi still admire her if she knew about these things?

"Your dad made my mom a princess," I say instead, choosing my words carefully.

"I don't know what it's like to have a mom. It's only been me and my dad here. I know the woman who gave birth to me through pictures. But if I had to imagine a mother for myself, she would look very much like yours."

I look away, suddenly finding it hard to look at her face. If only she had known my dad and the way he took care of us. My mother, for all her beauty, pales in comparison.

But who was I to think that? I never deserved my father's love, not after what I did to him.

"I'm sorry that you didn't get to know her," I tell Airi, recalling the painting I saw in the foyer the day I arrived.

It was a couple's portrait, with her mother and father standing side by side and staring solemnly back at the viewer. The setup reminded me intensely of American Gothic if the couple were Japanese, albino, and dressed much nicer. Her mother had a piercing stare. If I looked for too long, I would feel she was gazing directly into my soul.

I didn't realize that Mr. Watanabe had the same genetic condition until I saw the painting. His lack of melanin manifested in subtle vitiligo that he easily hid with small cosmetic changes. A few swipes of concealer and some black hair dye turned him into an ordinary Japanese man. But in the painting, all of those superficial changes were absent.

Airi shrugs. "Everyone tells me that, but what if she was alive and I didn't like her?"

This time I didn't break eye contact with my stepsister.