Free I Hear Them Cry by Shiho Kishimoto Page A

to our marriage, Shigeki had told me of his youthful indiscretions. He and Sophie had their son, but then she died from alcohol and drug abuse. Raiki was being brought up by Shigeki’s mother. He’d also told me how he hoped to one day take him in and bring him up himself. I had completely understood and consented.
    Since we were newlyweds, Kanako had insisted that there was no need for us to rush into getting custody of Raiki, advising us to wait until he finished kindergarten. While I had no way of knowing the trials and tribulations Sophie must have gone through, I was confident I could get along well with Raiki.
    With his large dark eyes, Raiki threw a glance at Kanako to see if she had any objections to him accepting a cookie. He seemed rather shy for a boy.
    “How about saying thank you?” Ms. Sato suggested.
    He did just that before timidly reaching out for the treat. Clearly, Kanako and Ms. Sato had disciplined him well, but the sight was still pathetic. It was like watching a dog react to the commands “stay” and “go.”
    “Let’s get you changed,” Ms. Sato said before leading Raiki away. She seemed to have grown uncomfortable, sensing a heaviness in the air.
    “Steady now,” Kanako muttered, speaking to no one in particular. “Remain as though nothing has happened.”
    Was she in denial about her husband’s disappearance? As for me, it was absolutely impossible to accept that Shigeki was having an affair. How could I act as though nothing was happening?

GRANDMOTHER: ONE
    I visited my parents’ house not too long after parting with Kanako. My father was a scholar who taught college science and spent most of his time cooped up in his research lab, leaving family matters entirely to my mother. My brother and I were in awe of him even though he never spared time to play with us, even when he was home. He preferred being cloistered in his study, working away at his desk.
    There was one exception to this, however. Every evening on his day off, my father would dawdle out of his study and call out, “Come on, let’s go!” My brother and I would stop whatever it was we were in the middle of—be it an argument, a scuffle, or a snack—and jump into our shoes. It was our night out at the
pachinko
parlor!
    My father would hand over ten balls to my brother. I was very young, so I sat on my father’s lap and we would lose ourselves in the world of pachinko. As we basked in the cacophony of the marching-band music that filled the rackety arcade, we devoted our hearts and souls to the game. I never got tired. I loved watching all those pachinko balls going round and round in circles. Sometimes I’d even insert a ball or two into the machine’s shooting slot and the machine would eject moreballs from its spout at the bottom, and I would get all excited as they jingled and jangled their way into the receiving tray. When my father’s tray filled up, I would look up to him, brimming with deep respect and admiration for his prowess as a player. He would even give us a tiny share of his bounty whenever his winnings grew. The more we won, the more the game absorbed us. We forgot about time. All I felt was the warm and fuzzy happiness of sitting there on my father’s lap.
    When I was ten years old, though, I began to have a slightly different view of him. I began to believe he had a reason other than work for shutting himself inside his study.
    One day, I was on my way to my brother’s room to get some help on my arithmetic homework. He was in junior high at the time. I saw him enter my father’s study. How should I say this? I smelled secrecy in his abrupt movements? So I shut my door, deciding right there and then that I would feign ignorance.
    A few days later, when no one was home, I went into my father’s study because I was dying to find out what my brother had been up to in there. Books filled the room to the ceiling and there were documents and manuscripts scattered all over the desktop. Father