“I know.” Sarah remembered her grandmother saying to her mother, “I wish I knew if deep down, behind that face, she’s all right. I wonder if deep down, she hates me.”

“Your aunt was such a reserved girl,” Mrs. Kobayashi said now. “There was that coolness about her, not like your mother or your aunt Tama. But now she’s starting to blossom. Little by little, she’s turning into the person she was always meant to be.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, it might be something only a mother notices.”

Just then, someone tapped on the kitchen door.

“Who could that be, so late?” Mrs. Kobayashi murmured.

It was Yashiko on her way home from her college prep session. She couldn’t stay, she told them. She had brought a box of piping-hot octopus balls, a classic cold-weather snack. “Mother said to pick these up for Aunt Mama,” she said, referring to the tradition of offering the deceased’s favorite foods at the family altar. “I have to run-I’m late for dinner!”

This was typical of Mrs. Nishimura’s thoughtfulness. She remembered little things, like how her big sister used to eat these octopus balls standing up like a man, in front of the vendor cart with its red cotton flaps. Even now, on winter nights, that same old-fashioned cart set up shop in the same place: the sidewalk next to the vermilion gateposts of Umeya Shrine. Octopus balls were a nighttime commodity, geared toward college students or salarymen on their way home from work. Since Mrs. Kobayashi never ventured out after sunset and discouraged Sarah from doing so as well, Mrs. Nishimura’s gesture was doubly considerate.

After Yashiko hurried home to her dinner, Mrs. Kobayashi carried the box directly to the altar. She lit the incense, struck the gong, and with a good-humored “Eat up, Yo-chan!” placed the Styrofoam box on the slide-out shelf beneath the altar. Then the two women, having finished their own dinner several hours ago, sat back down at the kotatsu. After a suitable amount of time, Sarah got up and retrieved the box from the altar. The contents were still hot. The balls of dough were generously studded with octopus chunks, green onions, and pickled red ginger; their tops were drizzled with savory sauce and dried bonito flakes and green seaweed powder. Mrs. Kobayashi took one but ate only half. “You have a young person’s digestion, so you might as well eat it all,” she said, pushing the box toward Sarah. “They’ll be no good once they get cold.”

Sarah began working her way through the octopus balls, spearing them one by one with a toothpick. “So why now, do you think?” she asked, returning to their earlier conversation.

“Saa…who knows? Strange things happen to women in middle age. Emotions rise up from quiet places. They realize life is short, and it makes them act differently.”

They were silent.

“Can I tell you something?” Having broached this subject, her grandmother seemed eager to keep on talking. “A few years back-right before your grandpa had his heart attack-we ran into each other at the open-air market. She introduced me to someone she knew. And you know what she said?” Mrs. Kobayashi paused dramatically. “She said, ‘This is my mother.’”

Sarah speared another octopus ball and said nothing.

“She said, ‘This is my mother,’” Mrs. Kobayashi repeated. “As cool as a cucumber, right in public. She said, ‘This is my mother.’”

Sarah looked up and saw her grandmother’s face transformed with happiness and wonderment. Something about that expression reminded her of her own mother, long ago, when they had held hands.

“I never thought I’d live to see it!” Mrs. Kobayashi said. “She was always such a cool little girl, she could never say what she felt…and there she was, saying, ‘This is my mother.’ Right in public.”

Sarah’s vague unease now funneled into a sinking feeling in her stomach. She didn’t fully understand it, but its physical effect was real.

“I’m glad for you both,” she said gently. “It’s very lovely, almost like a romance.”

“I know, don’t you think so? Listen to this. On Mother’s Day I found a little bouquet of hand-picked violets in the milk delivery box. There wasn’t any note. But I knew it was her.”

“Well,” said Sarah, “I guess it’s a good thing Auntie doesn’t hate you after all.” She took a hard pleasure in being so direct. Then she was instantly ashamed of herself.

But her grandmother didn’t seem to notice. “I’m sure her feelings are complicated. But it’s the start of something, don’t you think? It’s more than I ever expected.”

Sarah nodded, pulling her legs out from under the heated quilt. “Let me go snuff out that incense,” she said, “before I forget.”

She walked over to the altar. She stood there for a moment, looking at the aged, indecipherable tablets and at her mother’s tablet, still brand-new. She was reminded of her early childhood when she would stand in this very spot, sulking or feeling sorry for herself after some imagined slight. She remembered how she had consoled herself by peering into this alternate world, inhaling the odor of incense and thinking fiercely that dead people were nicer than the living.

After a while she snuffed out the incense sticks and swung shut the black lacquered panels for the night. For the first time in years, she sensed her mother was gone-truly, finally gone.

Now that Mrs. Kobayashi belonged to the ranks of the elderly, she patronized the bathhouse as soon as it opened: 3:30 P.M. on the dot. The other old women in the neighborhood were just as punctual. If they arrived even an hour or two later-Sarah remembered this from her own childhood-the clientele would be completely different. There would be young housewives. There would be small children with flushed faces, immersed in the scalding water bearable only to a Japanese adult, their treble voices counting to one hundred as fast as they could go.

Within this group of old-timers, Mrs. Rexford’s legacy lived on. Naked, dripping women still sighed by way of a conversation opener, “Such a pity, ne-”

Sarah, seated on a plastic stool, was washing her grandmother’s back. Proper etiquette required a person to be fully scrubbed and rinsed before entering a communal bath.

“Ara, how nice,” said a bent old woman, pattering past on her way to the bathing area.

Sarah and her grandmother, still seated, smiled and returned her half-bow.

She resumed her gentle soaping. At first, she had often pretended it was her mother’s back she was washing. It had eased her ache to give her grandmother the tenderness she had never given her mother. Even now, she couldn’t forgive herself for the way she had acted as a child.

After their summer in Japan, things had improved. It wasn’t noticeable at first, for their closeness fell away in America. But as the months passed, that indefinable chemical change within Sarah asserted itself. She still struggled with her mother for freedoms and privileges, but their arguments weren’t as frequent or as personal. For Sarah had seen her mother at her strongest and most admired, and her mother knew she had.

Their arguments became less about Sarah wanting to fit in with her peers, and more about her wanting to try new experiences-something that her mother could understand. Over time, her outsider anxiety dropped away altogether, giving her much more in common with her mother. This took years, of course, and Mrs. Rexford didn’t live to see the full effect. But before her death there had been the start of a true womanly friendship between them. For the first time, Sarah had looked into the future and seen the full-fledged bond theirs would become.

She knew this now: her relationship with her mother hadn’t been a bad one. But back then, the only yardstick they had was the closeness between her mother and her grandmother. It was a source of regret for Sarah, as she knew it had been for her mother, than they hadn’t been able to replicate it.