``How've you been?''

``I'm fine. How are you?''

It was Saturday evening, and I certainly hadn't been expecting his call. Father doesn't have a family anymore because the woman he left my mother for ran away with another man. There are people like that, who have no fear of failure and are constantly starting from scratch. They never appear to be at peace with themselves, but then it's no wonder. People like that may claim what they do is right, but you can tell from their faces that they have many regrets, like they've been banished to some dark alley. That's what my father was like, and his lover too. I have a hard time with such people, and I had difficulty being friendly and smiley-smiley to them, even as an adult.

``I'm feeling good.''

``Yeah? You're not lonely?''

``I'm used to being by myself, and my son is nearby.''

``My stepbrother, huh?'' I said. ``Our family's pretty complicated too.''

``What do you mean `too'?''

``You know what I mean.''

``There are lots of families like this. Everybody has some kind of problem, almost everybody. There are many kinds of people in this world. You realize that, don't you?''

``I guess so.''

He said, ``If you don't like the alternative, then get married and stay that way.''

``I don't feel confident enough even to try.''

I think a lot about invisible wounds, about mental illness that runs in families, about kids whose parents get divorced, all those distortions in life.

You can spend your whole life just trying to get by. I wondered what would ever bring my father satisfaction.

``Have you been drinking a lot? Do you drink every day?''

``Yeah, some sake. But you like to drink too.''

``It's in my genes.''

``Guess so.''

``Dad . . .''

I started to say my parting shot, something that I'd wanted to tell him since I was little---wouldn't he really rather be living a straight settled life than be a drunk?---but I stopped myself.

``How's work?''

``Work is going very well.''

``That's nice.''

I knew that it would be even more of a shock if I asked him if he'd ever wanted to sleep with his daughter, so I didn't.

``Talk to you again soon.''

``Okay. Good night.''

I had been so careful about my every word that I felt exhausted, as if we'd talked on the phone for hours about everything and nothing at great length. I could remember times when he still lived with us and we had ordinary conversations. I remembered them vividly, as if they were real, but I could no longer make them real. My body felt awkward, like when you skate or ski for the first time in a long time. This is what time does. I was still a child inside when I thought of him. I knew, however, if I were to meet him, he would see me as the female adult that I am, a woman who looks like my mother. It would never work.

Sarao Takase had wanted more than anything to die. Listening to the tone of my father's voice then, I understood why. Did he think that having a lover was the most important thing in life? And did he, like my father, dream that such love would last forever?

-- Yoshimoto, N.P.