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There was never enough space for Tōichi. Being the eleventh child, everything was always a competition: for their mother’s attention, for the best bits of meals, for time in the washroom. He wasn’t the baby of the family either, as that would give him some special treatment. Instead, he was a quiet child among many loud ones, in a too-small house, never too outstanding, becoming one with the décor, with a single mother working too hard to care for them all.
The only time he truly felt seen was after he fixed up their father’s old fishing boat when he was ten. It had been in a state of disrepair, not being touched since their father’s untimely death. There were fishing rods and line strewn about in various spots in the house, which took some digging to find. He taught himself the ropes, quite literally, and soon began bringing fish home for meals.
His father’s boat was his sanctuary. When the house got too loud from conversation, or arguing, or singing, or music-playing, he’d slip outdoors and un-moor the boat. On the water, he was just catching fish. He wasn’t trying to reel in the most and compete with the other fishermen who would eventually try to sell their haul. He was simply sitting on a boat, in the middle of a body of water, casting a line.
Since Tōichi had repaired the boat, everyone acted as though he owned it. Occasionally, his siblings grew curious as to what he was doing during most of his free time and asked to accompany him or just wanted a ride. He acquiesced, but they often grew bored eventually. They would tell him they didn’t know why he was always out on the boat. They didn’t see how bringing his fish home was the only time their mother acknowledged him. They didn’t see how peaceful it was. They didn’t see how, on windless days, the water acted like a mirror; how, during the night, he could look through windows and see that it wasn’t only his house that was chaotic; how, after so much time on the water and watching, he knew people’s daily schedules.
He saw Marnie for the first time that way. He hadn’t meant to—he just enjoyed spending time on the marsh, slowly watching the tide go in and out and the way the grass fluttered in the wind.
Marnie’s house had been a mystery to him. He only knew of it because of the large parties her parents hosted when they were in town. His siblings, along with a lot of the other children in the village, would spy from afar whenever one happened. They were hard not to miss, with the bright lights, loud music, and fancily dressed people all heading in the same direction. He’d just assumed, if they did have a child, they took them when they left. But that turned out to not be the case.
Early one morning during the heat of the summer, he decided to take the boat out on the marsh. It was only just getting light, and the village was still groggy. Not even Ms. Aoki, usually on her balcony nursing a cup of tea before the sun was up, was out.
He heard the sobs coming from an open window, easily heard in the quiet morning. A girl sat at the vanity, an older woman brushing out her long, blonde, hair.
“When do you think they’ll be back?” the girl asked through sniffles.
The older woman took a moment to respond, but eventually said, “Your parents are very busy people, Marnie. Child-rearing is time-consuming. You should be grateful that the two maids and I are so much help.”
Marnie voiced a murmured “thank you,” and that was the end of the conversation.
It left a lot for Tōichi to chew on. That huge house, with only four people living inside for most of the time. Three people whose job it was to give Marnie attention and the care she needed. He pictured himself in Marnie’s shoes, based on the little snippet of dialogue, having nearly the entire house to himself. He would never have to wait for a sibling to be done in the bathroom, would never go to sleep hungry because his siblings took everything good during supper, would always find a quiet corner where he could hear himself think.
It sounded like a dream.