Eighteen
by Van Donovan
Originally written 5 June 1999.
It was raining again.
The sound of the water pelting against the sidewalk and streets created a lulling sound, quite the contrast to the plinking of droplets on the café's large canvas umbrella. Overhead, the sky was an iron gray, and the rain fell in heavy sheets, letting up only occasionally, just long enough to taunt the people of Satan City into thinking the torrent might finally stop. Even though it was early afternoon, the dark clouds made it feel like it was evening.
Juuhachi-Gou sat beneath the umbrella, her head bowed, hand about a steaming mug of coffee. She listened to the rain hitting the umbrella and closed her eyes with the pain of memory. Despite the cold, she was dressed in a simple blue suit and silken white blouse. Her hair was longer again, tucked behind her ears.
The rain took her back. It had been years ago, maybe even decades now, and on a day as dreary as this. She chose not to remember the years, only the days. She remembered the day her husband died vividly.
She could see everything so clearly in her mind's eye. She could remember every single detail, as easily as living it over again; each sound, each texture, even the moisture content in the air. She found herself always slipping back into the past when she was alone. She had nothing in the present now . . . so she lived her life in the memories of the past.
The carpet reeked in the church, and Juuhachi-Gou couldn't stand it anymore. She was sitting in the first pew, head bowed, her face terribly sad, even for her. She wore black and a small hat with a veil that covered part of her face. She'd been with Kuririn when he'd passed on, and she'd taken every step of measurement to insure that he'd be cared for properly afterwards. He'd lived a very long time for a human. Longer than most everyone expected.
A hundred and six years.
It'd been no where as long as she'd needed.
Marron, an old woman now herself, stood beside his casket, looking one last time at her father's serene face. At Marron's side stood a slight dark haired man and a smaller blonde haired woman. Those were Marron's children. Juuhachi-Gou remembered their names like she remembered old nursery rhymes. The two full-grown children took one final look at their grandfather, and then walked on. Marron wiped her eyes, and turned back, caching Juuhachi-Gou's eye.
Taking an unneeded deep breath, Juuhachi-Gou rose and went to her daughter. They hugged briefly and then pulled apart as the men came down the aisle to console the family, and close the coffin lid.
Though Kuririn hadn't followed the faith in some time, there was a monk. He looked at all four and then turned to Marron. "Mrs. Kuririn," he said, "we're going to begin the transportation of the body to the plot. Are you and your family finished viewing?"
"Yes, we are," Juuhachi-Gou answered.
With unconcealed bafflement, the monk looked from her to Marron.
Marron nodded. "We've finished here, thank you . . ."
Recovering, the monk nodded again and turned to walk towards the coffin, glancing back at Juuhachi-Gou with slight discomfort.
She knew what he was thinking now and icily returned his gaze with youthful, pained eyes.
He stiffened and turned to attend to the coffin.
Next they'd attended the reception, and she felt further scorn from the strangers assembled as she made her final speech to her dearly departed husband. She heard them whispering as they cleaned up afterward, assuming her for a younger woman who married for money.
The family disbanded without fanfare after the reception. Marron stayed only a short while, the cold rain painfully aching her joints. The adult children returned to their homes, and Juuhachi-Gou didn't hear from them for many years.
Though she had tried to involve herself in their lives, none of her grandchildren had ever really understood or accepted her before.
The years after Kuririn's death blurred into cloud of loneliness, lit only by occasional visits with Marron, where they spoke of great-grandchildren and friends, of weddings and of deaths. They were grand-children she never met, and husbands and brides she never knew.
Juuhachi-Gou opened her eyes at a change in sound and realized the rain had let up slightly. The water still trickled down the umbrella in rivulets, and the sky was as overcast as before, but the torrential rain had lifted for a while, and with it, the thunderous noise. A cold breeze she didn't feel tousled her hair and she brought the coffee to her lips, eyes unfocusing as she stared at the table edge.
She blinked once, remembering the speech she read at the funeral no one had come to. She remembered the horrid nights she'd spent alone in the Kame House after, empty besides herself.
It had been a pitiful existence. Years later she still leading that pitiful existence, but she couldn't seem to break free. She mourned her husband's death all she wanted, but no amount of grief could bring him back. And yet she couldn't seem to move on.
She looked at her left hand, where she still wore the small diamond ring he'd give her all those years ago.
It seemed like eternity; it'd been almost a century.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the wind blew again, and she watched a few drops fall from the umbrella spike.
She sat, alone, outside of a coffee shop, watching the world around her age and grow with the rain. She swirled the coffee with a gentle swirl of her wrist, and took another sip.
She set the mug down again, and closed her eyes, remembering the last time she'd seen Marron. It couldn't have been that long ago . . . no more than fifteen, perhaps twenty years. Time peeled away slowly, but when she looked back years had passed without her realizing.
It had been raining like this when Kuririn died, but despite so often losing track of the years, she knew today was the day her daughter died that decade or two ago.
She bowed her head in silent remembrance.
The phone rang.
The sun had long ago set, and the shrill of the never-used phone startled her. She'd forgotten there even was a phone. It'd been one of the things Marron had insisted be maintained in the Kame House, so she could call at short notice.
Juuhachi-Gou was sitting on the sofa sewing—a past time she'd mindlessly taken up after Kuririn's death.
Confused at first, she had glanced about, then rose and picked the phone, up. "Hello?" she asked.
There was a long paused and then the voice of a man came over the line. "Uh, Aunt Juu-Juuhachi-Gou?"
She stiffened at the words. "Who is this?"
"Hazel. I'm one of your great-grandsons."
Juuhachi-Gou sat back down on a chair, nodding even though he couldn't see. Hazel was not a boy; he sounded like a father himself, if not a grandfather.
"What is it?" she made herself ask, though she already knew. None of her great-grandchildren had ever called before. She doubted they even knew she had a phone. Marron was gone. She just wanted to know how.
"There was a hovercar crash . . . last weekend . . ." he began. "It wasn't her fault."
That was all she'd needed to know.
It turned out Marron had been with her granddaughter when another hovercar spun out of control and hit them. While her granddaughter had died that night in the medical ward, Marron had held on to life until yesterday, when she finally passed on. Word was only now being passed on to her—an afterthought.
She hadn't been able to reply to him and eventually he'd hung up.
She didn't attend the funeral, though perhaps she should have. She just couldn't think all for a long time. She sat outside in Muten Roshi's old chair, watching the sun rise and set.
Before, and especially after Kuririn died, Marron had been her whole world. Marron had come from her, and Marron loved her, and she loved Marron. They'd shared a very close bond. None of Marron's children or grandchildren were close to Juuhachi-Gou. Other than Marron, she'd been alone entirely once Kuririn had passed.
Now Marron was gone, too.
What else could Juuhachi-Gou live for? Was there anything?
She would never age; she would likely never die. Even if the loss of Kuririn didn't still grip her, what good could she do to remarry? She'd only suffer the pain of losing another husband and perhaps more children.
Was it really worth the pain? To be looked down upon as a woman in the body of an eighteen-year-old living with her husband of fifty-years who was now on his death-bed? The ridicule was unbearable even for a Cyborg. No one would understand her. No one who'd live long enough to make a difference anyway.
She came back to her senses to find a misty cloud had settled around the café and it was drizzling again. The dreary gloominess did very little to help her mood. The memories were terrible, too. It'd been years, but the way she could recall events were as if they'd just happened.
She spent days trying not to think for that very reason.
Her hands tightened around the now-cold coffee mug, her shoulders slumping. If you looked just right, years still showed on her, even though she wore the body of an eighteen-year-old. She'd been through a lot. She'd lost her husband, her daughter, even one of her grandchildren—and those were just the ones they'd told her about.
She'd lost everything she'd built in her life. She had no family now, and nowhere to go. Her home was barren and vacant, not welcoming.
Her hands tightened even more on the coffee mug, shaking a bit. Her hair hung in her face, covering eyes that weren't wet, but were revealed considerable sadness. Her hair was slightly damp now from the mist in the air. Her shoulders shook a bit as she remembered everything she'd fought for, won and now lost.
She wanted to move on, keep going and living, but for what? Accomplish something in life which she'd lose again all too soon? What was it worth? Just thinking about the grief it'd cause was almost overwhelming. "I can't do it anymore. I can't go on alone . . ."
A hand fell upon her slumped shoulder, and she stiffened and froze.
"You've never been alone," the voice said, quietly, very gently. "I've always been here for you. I never left you."
She swallowed tightly, reaching up to grip the hand, the voice so sweet and familiar it ached her to her core.
"I'll never leave you," he whispered, placing his other hand over her hand, "but you've forgotten me."
"No," she whispered. "No, I never forgot you . . ." She stood and spun around to face him. Seeing him after all these years was like being doused with cold water. "Oh, Juunana-Gou!" She fell into his arms, holdind him tightly. "You're still here . . ." she whispered.
He held her, petting her hair, his cheek against the top of her head. "I never left you. I've always been here for you." He held her tighter.
Juuhachi-Gou's mind spun. He'd been alone so long himself. He'd never had a spouse or child like she had. Juunana-Gou had been waiting for her, wanting to rekindle the closeness they'd once shared before, but afraid she'd reject him—for her husband, for her children, her grandchildren.
For humans.
Now, he was all she had. He was a constant in her life. He would never leave her, and now she knew.
Even if they were to be eighteen until the end of time, they would always been eighteen together.