But language aside, direct emotional entry was difficult. Mrs. Nishimura had a particularly traditional sensibility, with an oblique quality Sarah recognized from historical films. She had to remind herself that her mother, who had married a foreigner, was the unusual one. Mrs. Rexford had little patience for old-school Japanese opacity. “I have a cosmopolitan soul,” she used to say, only half joking.

“Auntie,” Sarah said, “I’m really looking forward to attending your concert.”

Mrs. Nishimura glanced up from the stove and laughed, waving her free hand before her face in a no-no motion as if the very idea of her performing in a concert was absurd.

“I feel bad that I never even knew about your choir.”

“You mustn’t feel bad,” her aunt said mildly.

After some more small talk, Sarah went off to undress behind the cotton curtain. It seemed odd that the informal dining room should adjoin the bathing room, but this was common in traditional Japanese homes where private baths had to be added on. It made more sense, she thought, than the Western custom of placing the bath in the same room as the toilet.

Fully naked, she slid open the glass door and entered the steaming bathing area. The tub was deeper than it was wide, with a lid to keep in the steam. Directly above the bath, mounted on the tiled wall, was a digital water temperature monitor (she was amused by this modern gadget, which was out of place with the rest of the house). At the other end of the room was a waist-high shower nozzle. Retrieving a low plastic stool from a stacked pile, Sarah drew it up before the nozzle, sat down, and soaped herself. As she shampooed her hair, she could hear faint clattering sounds in the kitchen, the energetic chatter of a commercial on the radio. Then the commercial ended and music came on. She recognized Pavarotti’s soulful tenor launching into his classic rendition of “Ave Maria.”

“Ave Maria”! There was a family story…

“She learned this new song in middle school,” Mrs. Asaki had once told the children. “And every day, when she went upstairs to hang up the towels and handkerchiefs, I’d hear…” The children waited eagerly as she placed her teacup deliberately onto the saucer with an elderly hand that, even back then, trembled. “Ave Maria!” She said it ominously: Ah-beh-mah-lih-ah! “All those strange foreign words-” Mrs. Asaki threw back her head and trilled an affected operatic tune. “Aaah…lalalaah…So loud! All over the neighborhood! I finally had to make her stop. Maa, what the neighbors must have thought!”

Sarah and her cousins had sprawled on the tatami floor, shrieking with laughter at Granny’s operatic performance. It was a bizarre anecdote. Neighbors here did not shout out to each other, or argue in public, or burst into song on balconies. Such activities were more in line with florid, excitable countries like Italy.

“Mommy did that, really?” Momoko gasped, and the image of gentle Mrs. Nishimura singing at the top of her voice made the girls burst anew into giggles. “She must have been really happy, to sing like that!” little Yashiko said.

Sarah turned off the shower and sat still, listening. This time, as an adult, she understood what she was hearing: a prayer, a pouring forth of something intense and mournful.

Now Pavarotti’s voice swelled in volume, reawakening her childhood remorse for her aunt. A random remark flashed through her mind: her mother (or grandmother) saying, “Let’s not mention this to Ma-chan. It’s just easier.” She was ashamed-partly on behalf of her mother and grandmother, but also for the eager way she had complied, proud of her place in their golden, laughter-filled circle.

Her remorse wasn’t just for her aunt. It was also for herself, for the change that had started when she hid the cream puffs behind her back. From that day on, she had followed the trajectory of that choice. Not that she regretted it. She had grabbed at life, as was her right; she had grabbed at a place in the sun. But she had always felt a vague regret for that side of herself she had left behind, that side akin to her aunt. Her memory of the winter day, when she and her aunt had held hands against the world, glowed with an innocent purity that seemed lost to her forever.

But with her mother gone, maybe things could be made right.

That day, for the first time, Sarah let go of a penance she had carried so long she had almost forgotten its weight. With a feeling of relief that was almost luxury, she felt herself relax into second place.

The radio was playing “Tea for Two” when Sarah emerged from behind the curtain. The informal eating area was fragrant with soy sauce and ginger, and a small plate of seasonal chestnut dumplings was waiting for her on the low table. In the kitchen, her aunt hummed along to the lively cha cha chas.

Taking off her apron, Mrs. Nishimura sat down at the low table to keep Sarah company as she ate the dumplings.

“Are these the tickets?” Sarah picked up the flowered envelope placed neatly beside her plate.

“Soh,” said Mrs. Nishimura.

Sarah peeked inside. The tickets, glossy and professional-looking, showed an unexpectedly high admission price. The title was printed in raised Chinese characters: “Songs That Got Us Through: A Wartime Retrospective.”

Mrs. Nishimura was eying Sarah’s untouched cup of tea. “Oh-do you not drink Japanese tea?” she asked.

“Of course I do!” Sarah felt a twinge of her old insecurity. “Auntie, don’t you remember?” She took a sip of the tea and, after a suitably appreciative silence, asked, “Are you a soprano?”

“No-I sing with a low voice,” her aunt replied. Mrs. Kobayashi would have given Sarah credit for an easy word like alto, considering it was a Western term to start with.

The large house was silent. The rice cooker bubbled in the kitchen.

“But your mother,” continued Mrs. Nishimura, “she used to sing with a high voice. A beautiful high voice. I can still remember her singing ‘Days of Yore’ at our middle school graduation.”

“Really? Tell me…” Now they were on secure ground. Sarah relaxed and listened with quiet pride. Even in death, her mother could fill up a conversational vacuum.

At one point she looked up and saw pity in the older woman’s eyes. It resonated sharply, even unpleasantly, for this was how she had always regarded her aunt. Now she realized, with dawning embarrassment, that her aunt was dwelling on her mother’s singing for no other reason but kindness.

“Auntie?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re here for Grandma.” Sarah plunged awkwardly into the heart of the matter. “When she talks about you, her face lights up. She’s so happy. I’m glad, and I know Mama would be glad too.” Truthfully, she wasn’t completely glad. Not yet. It struck her that siblings everywhere must face such ambivalence, and she was thankful she had been spared this as a child.

“No one will ever be like your mother,” said Mrs. Nishimura. “But I’ll do my best to take care of your grandma while you’re away.” She refilled their teacups with a no-nonsense briskness that reminded Sarah, once again, of her own mother.

Later, sated with tea and dumplings, Sarah got up to leave. She had probably held up her aunt’s dinner preparations. Gathering up her bath bag, she maneuvered carefully around the low table so as not to poke a hole in the shoji panels behind her.

Her aunt walked her out.

“You must really love singing,” Sarah said as she followed her aunt down the hallway, past one fusuma panel after another.

“Aaa, I know,” said Mrs. Nishimura sorrowfully, as if admitting to a bad habit.

Sarah had a deep sense of futility. We’re family, she wanted to say. Don’t use such good manners.

They came out to the front gate. Darkness had fallen, though it was still early. The drizzle had stopped, and the air was sharp with the smell of wet pine. It was indeed warm for November; the typhoon in Hokkaido had altered the air pressure.