Free Girl in a Box by Sujata Massey

call.
    The next call I made was to Michael, at home. “I can’t call for a few more hours. Aoki-san’s at a training conference. Also, it turns out that my Japanese phone won’t even ring here—I can call out on it, and it’ll take voice mail, but I can’t just answer it.”
    â€œCould there be a chance you just have the ringer off?”
    â€œNope. I checked already.”
    â€œDamn it,” Michael said. “So did you leave them the exchange for the landline?”
    â€œOf course not! That would be an overseas call, which not only would confuse them but would simply cost too much for them to call. I think I’ll just keep calling, trying to get lucky.”
    â€œHmm. Do you want to grab a quick nap and have me give you a wake-up call in a few hours?”
    The last thing I wanted Michael to know was that I planned to hang out in the office all night. “No, thank you. My watch has its own alarm. I’ll be fine. Good night, and sorry for the trouble.”
    Â 
    I had learned everything about the Mitsuyama family by midnight. By one o’clock, I could spell the names and match them to the faces of two-thirds of the executive board. But I was tired. I tested the alarm on the inexpensive Timex that I’d recently bought for its stopwatch feature, to help time my cycling and running sprints—and then set it for three forty-five. I wasn’t going to let Aoki-san slip by me this time—even if it meant phoning the personnel office every five minutes. And I’d start early, because I wasn’t sure if the assistant had meant that Aoki-san would come back at six, pick up her coat, and leave—or settle in for a final hour or two of work. Women in Japan didn’t typically work as long as the men did—women’s usual time for leaving was somewhere between six and eight in the evening, whereas men often were in the office until ten, unless they had to go out for a company drinking party.
    I was having a nonalcoholic after-work drinking party of one, and it was no fun at all. I chucked the empty mini-bottle into the trash, then turned on my computer, fiddling around with the sound until I got an alternative rock radio station from Towson, Maryland, that I liked. I double-checked the door and the locks on the office’s few windows, because I still had some residual nervousness about the break-in. Everything was set. Then I settled down on the love seat, arranging my pleated wool skirt like a blanket over my calves. Tracy Chapman’s voice washed over me like a lullaby, and I closed my eyes.
    The buzzing sound in my ear made me jump. I opened my eyes, shut them again, and squinted at my watch. Yes, three forty-five. I was on schedule for my call.
    I drank a glass of water to get rid of the early-morning croak in my voice and dialed. It was five minutes to six. Of course, Aoki-san wasn’t there.
    â€œShe says your cell phone isn’t working,” said the assistant. “She called it again during her lunch break.”
    Damn it, but I was going to lose the job. I knew it. I was not only unreachable but lax in checking my phone messages.
    â€œIs there another number where she can reach you?” the assistant asked.
    â€œNot really, I’m so terribly sorry to cause all this trouble—”
    â€œJust a minute. She’s walked in.”
    Miss Aoki came on the line. “Aoki here. Who is it, please?”
    â€œShimura Rei,” I said, croaking a bit as I gave my name in the proper backward sequence.
    â€œWho is it? I cannot hear you—” Her voice was curt.
    â€œShimura Rei,” I repeated, pitching my voice in the correct, high register that I’d worked on, ceaselessly, with Mrs. Taki. “Excuse me for not returning your earlier calls promptly. The circumstances were difficult.”
    â€œI saw your résumé,” Ms. Aoki said. “The fact is our regular positions are