Graduation 卒業式
Sakiko wakes up expecting the smell of antiseptic as she reflexively reaches for the call button at her bedside. For weeks, even months, Sakiko's mornings have been like this, in the hospital, but not today. She's finally discharged, in her room now, her chair draped with clothes she's considered and discarded. In her hand, a printed programme for the ceremony, on it the words: Sakiko Hoshino.
None of this feels right.
She's defended her thesis over a video call, pale and upright in the hospital bed. The committee was rather kind about it, spoke to her softly, and gave her the green light all the way. Sakiko sees the clothes she wore all the time in APERIS and decides to wear them. Over it, the black and red gown, like all the others. Sakiko looks in the mirror and startles.
She still doesn't know what she feels about this.
Everyone's brought parents, siblings, young cousins—everyone dressed for photographs. Sakiko had a list of names with people she only vaguely remembered, but nobody seemed to reply.
A notification on her phone.
Guy Drivers: “i'm not in toronto anymore. sorry i cant make it. congratulations on graduating! i miss you sakiko.”
She texts back. “Thank you, Fawkes.”
“Sakiko!” She looks up. Miriam's hurrying towards her.
“Oh my God,” Miriam says, appalled. “Oh—I’m so sorry.”
Sakiko blinks. “For what?”
“For—” Miriam gestures helplessly. “Everything. I mean, I just—God. You were missing. In Antarctica. My best PhD student was lost in fucking Antarctica.”
“I’m here now.”
“Yes, well, right.” Miriam hugs her tightly. “It’s so good to see you, Sakiko.”
Some of Sakiko's fellow lab students are here too. They tell her she looks good. Nobody asks what was it like? or are you better now?
It is enough. Or, if it is not enough, it is what there is, and that'll have to do.
The ceremony passes in waves of red and black.
When her name's called, she rises, and walks across the stage. The hall is full of lights and faces—she accepts the handshake, fakes a smile for the photos, and steps back down—then sees a flash of bright blue hair in the crowd. She's staring now, unable to speak. Dr. Emmanuel is here, handing her flowers, congratulating her, draws her into a big embrace. He's crossed half of Europe just to see her here. It saves her a little.
After graduation, the lab throws a party in an all-you-can-eat Korean restaurant. They'd been planning it for days, but the queue takes forever. Ahead of her, Sakiko sees someone in a fur coat with dyed hair, laughing with his head thrown back. By the time she sits down with her friends, she notices a figure at the next table in a toque, holding a lollipop. Near the drinks machine stands a young woman with curled blonde hair. At the far end of the restaurant, another figure in tinted glasses and a trench coat.
It must be stress, but Sakiko can't help but feel someone's kept a promise, of a great party someone once special to her said there'd be.
The lab students propose a toast—to Sakiko, to surviving the PhD, to never doing fieldwork anywhere near Antarctica again. Sakiko lifts hers too, closing her eyes briefly, knowing that by the time she opens them, there will be no one there. Not the blue hair, nor the fur coat, nor the blue toque, nor the curled blonde, nor the tinted glasses.
Thank you, Sakiko thinks.
It really does feel like a big party.
It is so good that everyone is here with me.
Acknowledgements
I am still in Antarctica as I write this.
It's finished.
I would like to thank the birds for guiding me here, leading me close to danger, but also close to contributing to knowledge.
This thesis would not be possible without the guidance of my supervisor, Dr Miriam Dubois. Thank you for your gentle support, even though I have not heard back from you for a while. Thank you, Dr Frances Hopkins, for being my best collaborator. Thank you, Dr Emanuel Aguirre-Vidal, for the guidance and support in Toronto and on the station.
Thank you, Ashley Samore, for protecting me. Thank you, ■■■■■■ ■■■ ■■■■■, for the portrait, and for living in my head like The Starry Night. Thank you, Evelyn Schneider Jackson, whom I never trust that much. It didn't hurt to befriend you just for a bit.
Thank you, Guy Drivers, for all our wasted years in Toronto. Thank you, Liu Lian, for every moment together, for the questions left unanswered, and for the scars you left on my heart.
Finally, I plead with you, my dearest readers, to remember them, so that none of them will be forgotten. These brave souls will be remembered.
Sakiko Hoshino, BSc, June 2011, APERIS
“How come you never found the doughnuts too sweet?” Sakiko takes the last bite of the pastry and closes her laptop.
“Just took another look at my acknowledgements. Your name's there, y'know.”
Chicago O'Hare International Airport.
Evelyn is sitting at the table. Sakiko couldn't tell if she's listening.
“Welp, my flight to Manchester via Dublin is taking off soon, going through security now,” Sakiko grabs her cane and suitcase, “Sometimes I just feel this ineffable pride for not using the accessible gate, although legs still hurt… Wait, what?”
“You want to… Hug me?”
“Yes, we can hug. You should come to Toronto. It's just across the lake. Promise? Take care, Evelyn.”
“So, during my layover in Dublin, I had to decide between stout and Baileys. Got Baileys, was nice, but maybe a bit too nice since I napped on the plane and dreamed of the Arctic Terns.”
“No, I am not overworking. My lectureship won't start until September; I am hopping around places before that.”
Manchester Piccadilly.
“Funny, eh? Studying migratory birds for years and finally got the luxury to fly freely. Right… You want a pic of us together? For Facebook? Yeah! I like how you are still wearing that penguin hairpin; it suits you beautifully.”
“So, I'm boarding this train to Euston, then St Pancras, then Eurostar, yes. Oh, also, I learned that during farewells, people hug.”
“May I hug you? Please keep in touch, Frances, and we should collaborate more.”
They ran out of risotto on the Eurostar, leaving only those barely edible baguettes. Sakiko stops when she holds the baguette with both of her hands. She once planned to hit someone with a baguette back in Toronto.
Guy Drivers, was it?
Travellers in their early 20s were mixing English with Dutch. She knows someone who spoke like that around a year ago. But who?
Sakiko starts rereading her acknowledgements until she lands on…
A blank line.
It could just be an extra line, right?
The train calls at Brussels-Midi.
Slowly, with her cane, she catches her next train to Amsterdam. The views change, but the confusion stays until she arrives at Amsterdam Centraal before she takes a flight to Shanghai.
Sakiko takes a look at the plan she made during her stay in Amsterdam. The Van Gogh museum, of course, where sunflower and the irises paintings are.
But why these two, specifically?
Sakiko doesn't know, but first, she needs to get to the hotel.
“Hello… May I know how to get here… Cross the road? Yes, thanks.”
Sakiko looks up. The woman who just guided her way had short, orange hair with a long braid, a unique hairstyle.
Huh. Where has she seen this before?
The station is bustling with passengers. Soon, the woman who guided her way will be far enough away that shouting at her would be considered impolite.
“…”
Tongue-tied. It almost feels like the emerald necklace is choking her words.
The day is nice.
The sun shines brightly.
Sunflowers would appreciate a day like today.
“请问可以来两个烧卖，两个春卷，再装点热水吗？”
(May I please get two shumais, two spring rolls, and fill this flask with hot water?)
Sakiko is starving when she leaves Shanghai Pudong International Airport.
At 6 am, the breakfast stall in Shanghai is already overcrowded. A part of Sakiko is glad that her Mandarin is still good enough for ordering.
The Thermos flask in her hands looks slightly worn, as if she definitely used it somewhere, perhaps in harsh conditions. She must have lent it to someone and… Maybe had tea with others.
A photographer, an English gentleman… And…
Sakiko almost walks into a Chinese parasol tree, where people are playing Chinese chess in the shade.
A seat is open.
The chessboard reminds Sakiko of a game that never started.
A game that never finished.
“仙人指路，小姑娘懂行啊。”
(The pawn opening, this young lady knows what she's doing.)
The compliment is in Shanghainese, but Sakiko still understood. She grins and adds some ripe pu'er and aged chenpi to the flask, letting it brew.
August in Shanghai is always unbearably hot, and even under the leaves, it only relieves the heat for a bit.
The cicadas' songs rise and fall as the wind breezes through the alleyways.
She looks up as the opponent captures another pawn from her. Clothes of all colours dance in the wind on the laundry racks. Three meters by two meters, made of bamboo sticks.
The name she has in her mind, is this the scene that she used to see?
Liu Lian.
That's the name she had on her acknowledgements. Although no matter how hard she searches, nothing comes up.
Must be a typo.
She lost, but the tea was brewed just right.
The cicadas never seem to stop.
Written by Ruoqi H.