Hikikomori and the Rental Sister: A Novel Read Online Free

it worst of all. Fear. Shame. Hopelessness. And something else, too: exhaustion. No matter when, no matter where, that person alone in his room never left their minds. In a way, he wasn’t missing at all, he wasn’t withdrawn. He was stuck in their brains, pounding their skulls with his fist. Every dream fell into a nightmare.
    “Your English is very good. How long have you been here?”
    “I thank my father for my English. He spoke English at his job, and he thought foreign language was so important. Every day when he came home from work—even if it was late—he made me tell him about my day, using English only. Fifteen minutes, every day. I hated it at first, but now . . .”
    “All I have is a couple years of high school French.”
    “Je m’appelle Megumi,” she says with an exaggerated accent, arching her eyebrow, trying to coax a smile.
    “You speak French, too?” There is no smile.
    “A little. And Korean. But I’ve never been to France, so I’m not a good speaker.”
    Silke doesn’t savor her tea. She sips like she’s smoking a cigarette at an interrogation, and she can’t sit quite still, little shifts back and forth, side to side, like she’s in the midst of swirling winds.
    Her father’s expression seemed normal outside, but at home, as he chewed his rice, as he thumbed through the newspaper, his eyes would not focus. And if a stray sound leaked from her brother’s room, they’d all turn their heads and freeze, like a family of deer in the meadow, alert for what comes next. But nothing came next. Only silence. They went back to their newspaper or television or homework.
    What does Silke do when she hears a stray sound from her husband’s room? Does she tilt her head, perk up her ears, cry? And when no more sound slips out, what activity does she return to, what fills her empty hours?
    “Premature?” Silke asks.
    The day is too cold, the air too bitter and merciless to send this woman outside with no hope, with only fear and exhaustion. “I just meant that I’m afraid I can’t help you unless I know a little more about you and your husband.” Just a few questions, Megumi thinks, a few questions before she decides.
    Silke looks around the room. She squeezes her own shoulder. The air is perfectly still. The tea no longer steams.
    “How long has he been withdrawn?”
    Now Silke’s body goes quiet. She sits still and takes a slow sip of tea. “It’s been three years.”
    “And does he ever come out to see you?”
    “Never.”
    “And do you ever go into his room?”
    “I’m afraid.”
    “Why are you afraid?”
    “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
    When they were growing up, she and her brother slept together on the floor, on the same futon, next to their parents on their big futon. Their apartment had only one room. Sometimes, in the dark, when they thought she and her brother were asleep, her mom and dad’s futon would rustle. They were all so close then. When years later their apartment had six rooms, though, she became afraid to enter or even look into her brother’s room. Afraid of what she might find. Afraid to upset the balance.
    “Do you have an idea about why he’s in his room?”
    “It’s because—”
    “No no no, not the actual reason, just if you think you know what the reason is.”
    “I am his wife.”
    “Of course you are.”
    “But why don’t you want to know?”
    “Sometimes the reasons aren’t what we think they are. So I’ll make like he’s a friend I’m getting to know. A blank slate. Better chance of getting him out.”
    “A friend . . . not . . . a brother?”
    Megumi understands Silke’s meaning. “Yes,” she says, “brother. Brother and friend.”
    “Maybe this is a bad idea.” Silke’s eyes dart toward the door.
    “But don’t you want him out?” Her tide is turning. These green eyes are pulling her out to sea.
    Silke sets down her cup and kneads her hands together as though numb. “It’s been so long. . . . I don’t