The Empty Glass

It was September 16, 1992, and I was visiting the city of Sapporo on the northern island of Hokkaido, Japan, where my late mother was born and raised. It had been a little more than ten years since her sudden death. I was staying at my Aunt Fumi's house. She was the wife of my mother's younger brother.

Lying on my back on a futon on the tatami floor, I was in the midst of a dream. I felt pressure over my entire body, which made it difficult to breathe. Slowly, the weight shifted from my head to my toes. Although not painful, the pressure was strong. Like a massage performed by an aggressive masseuse. I persisted in this halfway world between sleep and consciousness, with the shifting weight on top of me for what seemed hours.

When I finally awoke, my digital travel alarm clock indicated it was 5:06 a.m. I was relieved to be back in the familiar reality of the waking state. I was exhausted from the handful of times I believed I was awake only to realize I was still sleeping. Wandering. Through a series of deceptive dreams like a mouse in a maze.

Immediately to my left was a home shrine that most Japanese homes had to honor deceased relatives. Similar to a small cabinet, the shrine had doors and a shelf that held photos, candles, incense, and food and drink offerings, such as rice, fruit, and water.

I don’t know what made me open the shutters and look inside the shrine. All I recall is that my need to do so was compelling. Among the items on the shrine shelf was a small shallow goblet used for rice and a drinking glass--the type used for orange juice at breakfast. I noticed that the glass was empty. I could have sworn I had filled it the night before at my aunt’s request. I knew I had filled it. I wasn’t dreaming about that. I had done it. So why was it empty? Water doesn’t evaporate that quickly.

I picked up the glass and looked inside it. To my amazement, it was perfectly dry. I put it back on the shelf and slammed the shrine doors. My imagination was running wild and a chill ran up my back.

Hastily, I picked up my futon, blankets, and pillow and put them away in the closet. I shoved everything in there and slid the door closed. That was my room for my short stay, so I didn’t think it mattered to anyone else if I hadn’t neatly folded the bedding.

I slipped on a gauze kimono robe I had bought at the local market and loved to wear. It was so soft and comforting against my skin in the morning. I rushed downstairs to take a shower. My aunt had left the house earlier to go to the supermarket and I became very aware of being alone in the house.

Attempting to take a shower in the Japanese-style bathing area, I wasn’t altogether pleased with the shower sprout, but I managed. I then felt a cool breeze. That made me shiver so I turned the shower knob toward the red for hotter water. I was still shivering a bit. It was strange because the window was shut and nothing seemed to be emanating from the air vent. As customary in Japan, I cleaned myself outside of the bathtub with the handheld shower sprout and then soaked in the tub. I welcomed the feel of the hot water. It warmed me but I still felt the cool breeze on my face.

After my shower and bath, I went back upstairs to the guest room. I changed into a pair of jeans and a cotton sweater. I picked up my denim jacket, fanny pack, camera, gum and was just about to fly downstairs, when once again I was overcome by the urge to open the shrine doors. The shrine frightened me yet it triggered an intense curiosity within me. I was conflicted. I didn’t want to find something else missing but at the same time hoped to.

My heart raced as I slowly opened the shrine doors. I picked up the glass and looked inside. I was shocked. The glass was still empty, but the bottom of the glass was wet. With my shaking hand, I put the glass back down on the tray in the shrine and slammed the shutter doors shut.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Was this a secret I should keep to myself or something worth sharing? Would people believe me or think of me as deranged? Was I dreaming when I was awake or was I awake when I was dreaming? My mind was a mishmash of divergent thoughts.

That morning, I had to leave early for the bus station as I was scheduled to visit my 88-year-old great aunt, Moto-san, who lived in Nobura, a small seaside village two hours southeast of Sapporo. I hailed a cab and decided I would phone Aunt Fumi once I reached Nobura and arrived at Moto-san’s house. Aunt Fumi was aware of my trip but in Japanese-style overprotectiveness insisted I keep her informed of my whereabouts at all times.

Upon arrival in Nobura, Moto-san greeted me enthusiastically. She verbally showered me with undeserved praise and insisted that I was such a bijin. (In Japanese, that meant beautiful woman.) I laughed it off, smiled, and accepted her hand in mine. Truth be told, I only vaguely remembered her. The last time we had seen each other, I was probably eight or nine years old. She most likely remembered me more than I remembered her. Nevertheless, she was overjoyed. And I was happy to be the source of that joy.

Moto-san lived with her eldest daughter, Tomoko, and Tomoko’s husband, Jiro, a quiet and outwardly gentle man. He was a retired fisherman. They seemed quite content, all three of them, living a simple, modest life in a small fishing village.

They lavished their hospitality on me from the very beginning, despite barely knowing me. I had never even met Tomoko and Jiro. But they had known my mother and fondly recounted stories about their interactions with her. That helped me to understand my mother’s reputation within the family. What she meant to everyone. They loved my dearly departed mother with such intensity and that love naturally and loyally transferred to me. I felt the pressure to live up to that love but at that time in my life, I hadn’t the confidence to be sure I could do it justice.

They served me a lunch of seafood delicacies, which unfortunately my American palate and stomach could not appreciate. For a half-Japanese, I was such a wimp about eating traditional Japanese foods, especially the kind of cuisine one would find by seaside communities. Everything was fish, came from the sea, or was found in a shell. I tried my best to savor the food, fearing that I would offend my relatives, but they were understanding about it. Moto-san was the one who assured me that I shouldn’t force myself to eat the food and that there would be dessert. The smile radiating from her beautifully wrinkled face was forgiving.

After lunch, Tomoko brought out a tray with green tea and Japanese-style desserts. Mochi, rice cakes, and fresh fruit. Moto-san showed me old photographs of my mother and other people. I presumed they were various relatives, friends, and neighbors.

Out-of-the-blue, Moto-san asked me, “Does your mother visit you often?”

For a moment, I wondered if she was suffering from senility, but I decided to take her seriously. I had no idea how to answer her question. All I could say was, “I think of her often and sometimes she comes to me in my dreams.”

“Ha…ha…ha…soooo…soooo desu! (Yes, yes, in Japanese.) ” She said enthusiastically. “My mother--your great grandmother--comes to me too. She walks on my body quite often.”

“What do you mean by walking on your body?” My heart began to race.

“She likes to walk from my toes to my neck and back--up and down.”

“How…how does it…feel?”

“Like someone is walking up and down on my body, that’s how it feels!” Moto-san laughed.

“But wouldn’t that be rather heavy? Wouldn’t you be crushed?” I asked in all seriousness.

“We’re talking about spirits, dear. They’re not as heavy as we who are still mortal.”

“Oh, of course….” How silly of me.

Moto-san was talking about spirits walking up and down human bodies as if she were talking about cooking tempura. She didn’t even flinch. Tomoko and Jiro smiled and nodded in agreement as they sipped green tea and nibbled on mochi.

“What about the water you leave in the shrine?” I continued. “Does your mother ever visit and drink the water?”

All three immediately burst into gut-wrenching laughter. Moto-san was laughing so hard, I feared she might have a stroke.

“Just like your mother!” Moto-san proclaimed. “She always had such a wonderful sense of humor! Does your mother ever visit and drink the water? That’s a good one!”

I gathered the answer to my question was a resounding no.

All in all, my visit to Nobura and seeing my long-lost relatives was uplifting and enlightening. But I'll never understand their reaction to my question about the water. Why was it so normal for a spirit to walk up and down a human body, but the idea of that same spirit drinking water from a glass the most hysterical thing they had ever heard? I didn't want to ask. I feared Moto-san would go into cardiac arrest from another bout of laughing. I brushed off the mysterious laughter and thanked my relatives before catching the last bus back to Sapporo.

It was close to 7:00 PM when the bus reached Sapporo. I found the nearest pay phone at the bus station and called my Polish friend, Ziggy, who was also vacationing in Hokkaido and had rented a car. This was in 1992 and before the era of regular cell phone use. Ziggy was ahead of his time and had one of those large hand-held mobile phones.

I dialed his number and Ziggy answered immediately.

“Czesc.” Ziggy always answered the phone in Polish. Then he would go into Japanese. “Konbanwa.” Then into English. “How was your day?” That was his usual three-tiered international greeting. He was funny that way.

“Wonderful!” I gushed. “It was incredibly educational and…also...do you believe in spirits, Ziggy?”

“Of course, I do. And I believe in the Lochness Monster and in Count Dracula too.”

Ziggy was in a witty mood.

“Uh-huh…so...then, the answer is no? You don’t believe in spirits, Ziggy?”

“Let’s discuss this over a drink and some food, yes? You meet me please at that little place where they have karaoke, okay? I will be there in 30 minutes.”

The little place that Ziggy was referring to was called Mizuya, which meant “the water shop.” It was only five minutes from where I was so I strolled along the streets, taking my time to window shop and people watch. As I was looking into the window of a boutique, I noticed my reflection in the glass. I looked like such a foreigner with my jeans and T-shirt and knapsack hanging on my shoulder. Well, I guess I was a tourist after all. A tourist in my mother's home country and hometown.

When I arrived at Mizuya, Ziggy was already sitting at a small table enjoying his vodka.

“Sara!” He jumped up and hugged me, something that caused us to be the center of attention in that little karaoke café. “Oh, I hear the music coming on.”

The waitress delivered a cordless mic to the table just in time for Ziggy, with his thick Polish accent, to sing “Regrets…I had a few, but then again too few to mention….”

I had to admit he had a rather soothing voice and the others at the bar applauded appreciatively. Since there were only a handful of songs in English, I had no choice but to sing White Christmas despite it being only September. It must’ve been even tougher for Ziggy as the number of songs in Polish equaled zero.

Ziggy loved it. “It makes me cry, see? I love Christmas.” He kissed my hand.

We ordered a variety of appetizers and had no need to order without having to order a full meal. I was nursing my one drink for the evening, a vodka and orange juice, which like Ziggy, I found difficult to find in most Japanese bars. At least in 1992. It was usually beer or whisky and nothing much in-between.

The owner of the establishment—they called him Ken—short for Kenji—was a musician, a percussionist, and would periodically play the bongos. He had long, thick black hair tied back in a ponytail and was quite handsome in a very Japanese way. He was tall and slim. His wife, Mieko, who worked with him at the Mizuya was outgoing, full of energy, and diminutive but with a full figure. Physically, they were opposites, but their personalities complemented each other.

As soon as Ken and Mieko saw us, they came over to chat with us as if we were long-lost friends even though this was only our third visit to their establishment. The couple had lived in the U.S. for a couple of years (illegally, I think) and as a result, their English was excellent, especially Mieko. They loved speaking English. I think that’s why they liked it when Ziggy and I would visit Mizuya.

“Do you believe in spirits, Ken?” Ziggy was indirectly teasing me.

“Yes, yes, yes! Of course.” Ken took a puff of his cigarette. “What is a human being without a soul?”

“I believe in a soul, Ken. What I’m talking about are spirits. You know, ghosts.”

I stayed silent. I was having too much fun listening.

“It’s because we have souls that spirits exist,” Ken said with finality.

“Okay…” Ziggy said, deep in thought. “I am scaring myself because I am becoming a little bit convinced. If I have one more drink, I will become a believer. So, I will not have another drink.”

“You don’t need another drink.” I chuckled. “You might start singing My Way again.”

“What’s wrong with singing My Way?” A frown formed on Ziggy’s face.

“Nothing’s wrong with your My Way. I was just joking.” I smiled and gave his hand a charitable pat, which didn’t go over well.

“I think I have to go now.” Ziggy took out a few bills and dropped them on the table. “This will cover our food and drinks.”

“Ziggy! I was just joking. You don’t have to leave.”

“No, that’s okay. It is time for me to go anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “You have a nice voice. I really mean that.” Again, I found my foot in my mouth.

“No need for you to say that to me.”

Ziggy left with an almost inaudible “goodbye” and I didn’t have the energy to bother with him. I didn’t understand why he was being so sensitive. We always joked back and forth. And, besides, he had been laughing at me about my questions about spirits. Making fun of me, because of it. Temperamental much? I didn’t care at all. In my opinion, it was all much too ridiculous.

Ziggy left and I finished my vodka and orange juice. It was time to get back to Aunt Fumi’s anyway before she reported me missing to the police!

“Thank you, Ken and Mieko. It was wonderful discovering your karaoke bar. It was great fun.”

“I hope you’ll come again on your next visit to Sapporo,” said Ken.

Mieko added, “And when will that be?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t get a chance to get to Japan that often, but perhaps in a couple of years. And I’m so sorry about Ziggy. Maybe he was in a bad mood or just tired.”

“Never criticize a man’s singing,” Ken said to me in a way that was more of an explanation than an admonishment. “It is like criticizing his lovemaking.”

“What!?” I reacted. “That is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“If you think so,” Ken said, serenely. “But it’s clear that man is in love with you, and he wants you to believe in his singing.”

“In love with me? Hah! No, we’re just friends. It was just a joke! We always joke with each other.”

“Of course. He’ll forget all about it by tomorrow. He’s a big boy.” Ken rested his hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want another drink and one more song--for the road?”

I shook my head. “I better get to my aunt’s house. She’s probably worried that something’s happened to me. I’m thirty-four but she thinks I’m twelve because that’s the last time she saw me before this visit.”

“Have a safe trip home,” said Mieko.

Ken nodded with a warm smile. And they both gave me a casual bow.

“Thank you!” I also bowed.

I really wanted to stay another week just to visit Mizuya a few more times. I walked out into the cold air. Even in mid-September, it was fairly chilly at night on the Northern island.

It only took a few minutes to hail a taxi. On the ride back to Aunt Fumi’s, I caught myself about to cry. It hit me unexpectedly. I was sad knowing that I would be leaving Sapporo in the morning.

When I reached Aunt Fumi’s house, I found her downstairs in her easy chair. She was focused on crocheting either a shawl or tablecloth. Periodically, she glanced at the television. She was such an expert at the craft that she probably could’ve done it blindfolded.

"Did you have fun today?" Aunt Fumi asked.

"Yes, I had a wondering visit with Moto-san, Tomoko, and Jiro. I hope I'm not getting back too late. You look sleepy."

"No, no. I was just watching my favorite TV drama and finishing this shawl for my neighbor's mother. And how is your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend. Just a friend. He's okay."

Aunt Fumi gave me a quizzical look and laughed. "Well, I guess that's it. You'll be leaving already tomorrow. So soon. I hope you come back again soon. Before I die, I hope."

I held back tears. I wasn't sure when I would be able to return.

Just then, the telephone rang.

"Moshi-moshi?" Aunt Fumi answered, before quickly motioning with her hand for me to move toward her. "Ah, ah, hai, yes, one moment."

Aunt Fumi handed me the telephone receiver. It was Ziggy. He was apologetic and explained that earlier he was tired and irritated. I apologized as well. I also confessed to being tired and not thinking about what I was saying.

“I will pick you up at around 11 in the morning,” Ziggy told me.

I was hitching a ride with him to Chitose airport, about an hour or so away. Then, it was back to Tokyo before returning home to Chicago. It would be a long ride and we would, no doubt, have some other “tiff” along the way, but our conversations were lively and uninhibited and we each secretly thrived on disagreement.

“That would be great, Ziggy. I’ll be ready in front of the house. See you then!”

Upstairs, that night before I left Sapporo, I sat in front of the shrine and faithfully folded my hands. I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing since I hadn’t been raised to be very religious and certainly had very little training in Buddhism. Nevertheless, I had seen some Japanese at the temples when Ziggy and I visited Nikko, a popular tourist destination with beautiful old temples. There, I had seen people putting their hands together and bowing their heads, eyes closed, praying. I did the same to show respect. I clinked the little bowl with the small stick, the “clinker” I guess you could call it. I’m quite stupid about all that terminology. I had tried to muster up whatever cultural identity I had hoping to feel something of a spiritual nature.

Before turning in, I opened the shrine doors, filled the glass of water close to the rim, and placed it back on the shrine shelf. I was frightened by the thought of it being empty in the morning, but I was so tired I dozed off quickly after I lay down on the futon.

The next morning, before I left, I paid my respects again. Closing my hands, putting my hands together, and “clinking.” I avoided noticing the glass of water, but I could not resist looking.

I felt a thud of disappointment. It was still very full. That made me wonder if I was dreaming the other morning. I liked the idea of my mother visiting me and I was filled with a melancholy to think she hadn’t. Especially since it was my last day in Sapporo. With that, I heard Ziggy outside honking his horn. A bit reminiscent of Harpo Marx’s bugle. I found the sound grating but it made me laugh and reminded me that I was late. I had told Ziggy I’d be waiting outside.

I shared a few parting words with Aunt Fumi and I felt teary-eyed. I resisted crying because I was about to get in a car with Ziggy and then on a plane. I wasn’t about to have blotchy red eyes all through the journey back to Tokyo. I managed to contain myself.

Just before getting on my plane back to Chicago, I phoned Aunt Fumi to say goodbye again, using Ziggy’s mobile phone. She told me to take care of myself. She was crying a bit, I could hear.

To lighten the moment, she scolded me. “I noticed you forgot to fill that water glass for your mother’s shrine again!”

“What? No, that can’t be. I filled it!” I insisted.

“Don’t lie,” she teased. “Oh, well, maybe I’m expecting too much. After all, that’s not something you’re used to or understand.”

“But I did fill the water, I swear!” I said with excitement and happiness. “I’m sure of it!”

“Oh, really?” Aunt Fumi said. “And how do you explain the fact that the glass was completely dry the morning you left. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Actually, Fumi-san, it does make sense. It makes a lot of sense!” I couldn’t stop smiling gleefully. “Everything makes sense now!”

I couldn’t help it. Finally, I broke down.

Tears flowed down my cheeks.

Tears of joy.

**********************

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