My grandmother, Setsuko, has lived many lives and made many fresh starts. I’ll start at the beginning. She was born in 1930 in Osaka. Growing up in Japan and as a girl in the Kumami family, Setsuko’s childhood felt like a dark time she’d never escape. Setsuko’s father died of tuberculosis when she was 4 years old, so she grew up with her cold mother, two younger brothers, and older sister Kyoko. While her mother was an anomaly as a successful business owner in a male-dominated culture, she showed no special qualities as a mother. Love was conditional and affection was nonexistent.

At age 9, World War II began. Setsuko’s mother sent her brothers to a safer city while the girls remained in Osaka where the city was on constant alert for bombings. Dead bodies littered the streets, people spent the night in bomb shelters, many of her classmates died or fled the city, and while fleeing a bombing, a piece of shrapnel ripped into her chest and barely missed her heart. At the hospital, doctors pulled the shrapnel out of her chest with no anesthetics. She was quickly dismissed from her bed because they felt her injury was of a lower priority. Setsuko’s childhood in Japan made her feel disposable, worthless, and unloveable.

When she was 20, she met Paul, an American soldier. They dated for a year and eventually moved to the U.S. to get married. Marrying an American and moving to the U.S. led to her family cut off all communication. Setsuko and her husband Paul raised two kids in a modest home in San Diego. She learned English through her own efforts, and her children gave her a newfound purpose. Paul never recovered from his own traumatic past as a neglected foster child. He took his pain out on Setsuko and the kids. When Paul passed away from cancer in his forties, Setsuko had mixed feelings. Life without him felt lonely at first, but she found a job and started a new chapter of self-discovery and independence.

Setsuko’s is now 91 and lives with her little dog Abby in San Diego. Having a dog created a new chapter for Setsuko. New interests and relationships were formed by spending more time at the park.

In the last ten years, Setsuko discovered the satisfying nature of collecting cans and trading them in for cash at the recycling station. My family found it strange at first. Collecting cans is often a task for the homeless or those hard-pressed for money. But we see that this daily task gives her purpose and we have heard many stories about the gestures strangers have made to support her.

My grandma has a network of people in the community who will save their cans for her and drop them off at her house. One group in the network is a men’s baseball team that saves their cans from games to deliver to Setsuko. She picked out a case of beers to give to them as a thank you. Another woman comes to her house to drop off a bag of cans every week. Setsuko is always collecting recipes to make homemade treats as a thank you gift for these generous efforts.

The consistent acts of kindness I see strangers make to offer their time or effort to support my grandma is reassuring. These things aren’t being recorded on the DoDo for likes on Instagram, they are little things invisible to everyone else and just as meaningful. I have many to thank for helping keep my grandma safe and feel cared for, something she never got to feel as a child. I feel thankful knowing there are people in the world who want to help and expect nothing in return.

I remember when I first heard from my parents that they were selling the house. We were moving to a bigger house because my mom was pregnant with my youngest brother Shane. It was in the summer that they told me. My mom came home and sent our nanny Jasmine home. As she finished up dinner my dad came home, and they told all of us they had to tell us something.

We all took it a bit differently. I was a bit of a neat freak, really into reorganizing my room and the kitchen cabinets and such. I thought it would be fun to be in a new place. Plus, we were each getting our own rooms. I was sharing my room with my little sister Nora and was eager for more privacy. She was petrified by the thought of sleeping alone in her own room, and of leaving her neighbor friends.

It wasn’t until a few days later that I learned how far we were moving and that Jasmine wouldn’t be our nanny anymore. I was inconsolable. She’d been watching us since I was 3 years old and it was just me and my older sister Jenny. I didn’t have many friends, and Jasmine was the main person I liked to talk to. I felt like she knew me better than my own parents. My sisters were frequently with their friends over summer break, so Jasmine and I had been building a garden in the backyard.

Our move date was set for two weeks before school started. Jasmine and I made a bucket list of all the things we’d do before I moved. We had about 3 weeks. We went swimming at the lake, ate Oreos at the playground by my house, had a Disney movie marathon, blackberry picking, made stained glass cookies, took my red flyer wagon to the grocery store and filled it up with boxes of donuts that we taste tested at the park. It was three weeks of bliss, but every day she went home I’d go to my room and panic about our diminishing time.

Moving day came and went. I decorated my new room. I started a new garden in the backyard. I would write letters to Jasmine and we kept up with it for a couple months, but they became infrequent and I convinced myself she didn’t want to hear from me anymore. I felt jealous thinking about whatever new family got her next.

Now I’m here, sitting in a house I share with three other girls I go to college with. I still have a box of my letters and photos and other keepsakes from Jasmine under my bed. I think about her often. I felt hurt that she never came to visit our new home, and it still stings to this day. Was it always just about the money? Did I mean anything to her? Did she ever think about me? I have dreams where I see her again on the street and she hugs me and tells me how much she’s missed me. She apologizes for the years of silence and tells me she thinks of me like her sister. She gives me a long monologue about how much she cares about me. Then I wake up and feel a bit empty knowing I’ll never get that.

Clark startled awake to his blaring alarm at 7:30am. He pulled back the covers and noticed that for the first time since the 6th grade, his sheets were wet.

While waiting for his toast in the kitchen, he pondered how many twenty year olds still had wet dreams. He was never very good at remembering his dreams. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what had led to such a sensual explosion.

He swiftly spread jam on the hot toast, threw on his parka, and weathered the walk from his apartment to Baron Hall.

8am Calculus with Mr. Leer was dry and draining as per usual. Clark grabbed a coffee in the library before heading to Animal Behavior in Maylor Hall. He looked forward to this one because he at least had a friend to talk to, Rachel. They shared a few classes this quarter. Clark entered the classroom early and sat in his usual mid-section seat. Rachel walked in a few minutes later. She waved and made her way to the seat next to him. As he took in her smile and met her eyes, Clark saw a few flickers. Him and Rachel in the car together. Rachel dancing in the passengers seat.

“Hey!” Rachel said, sitting next to him.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“I was up until three finishing this research paper and I am so fucking tired.”

The professor, Dr. Wagner, entered and pulled down the projector screen.

“Three? Shit. Want some of my coffee?”

“Sure, thanks. Drip?” Clark handed it to her.

“Yeah, medium roast I think-“

“Good afternoon, let’s go ahead and get started.” Dr. Wagner stared with a furrowed brow at her laptop and back at the projector screen.

Rachel sipped the coffee and turned her attention to Wagner vs. PowerPoint.

Clark watched Rachel discreetly, taking her natural resting face in. His dream last night definitely involved Rachel, and it was definitely exciting. But how was that possible? He’d been solely seeing guys since he fingered Katrina Turk in the 9th grade. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to hit every base with Rachel.

Clark’s internal monologue went into hyper speed. He analyzed every inch of Rachel, his identity shaken to its core. He Googled dream analysis. He took four online quizzes to confirm his sexuality. Three said he was gay. One said he was pansexual. But the majority said gay. So gay, right? He was obsessive. He feared Rachel crawling into his dreams again tonight and confusing his fragile identity further.

He woke the next morning relieved to have no recollection of his dreams and no wet sheets. He used his free morning to utilize a campus resource: his Psych 101 teacher from freshman year, Mr. Thibaut. Clark’s shoe squeaks reverberated in the quiet hallway, until he stopped at Mr. Thibaut’s office door. He softly knocked and entered.

“Hi Professor Thibaut…” Clark started, poking his head in gently.

Mr. Thibaut looked up from his computer and smiled, “Hi! It’s nice to see you again.”

“Hi, thank you. I was wondering…If you have time, can I ask you some questions about the psychology behind dreams?”

Mr. Thibaut nodded and checked his wall clock, “I’m free for a bit. I’m not an expert on dream analysis, but I’ll try my best. How can I help?”

“Okay, how do I explain this. What are possible reasons…or I guess why might someone see someone in an intimate way in a dream? Sorry. This-“

“-Don’t apologize. You had an intimate dream?”

“Yes,” Clark’s gaze followed Mr. Thibaut as he slowly walked toward Clark with a softness in his eyes. Mr. Thibaut nodded with understanding. He raised his hand to Clark’s cheek. Clark closed his eyes and leaned into the gentle caress.

BAH-BAH-BAH-BAH

Clark’s alarm wailed and he flinched awake, his hand was inside his boxers mid-pump. He internally cursed his alarm for waking him prematurely. He relaxed a bit and closed his eyes. He pictured Mr. Thibaut lifting him onto the office desk, dragging his thick thumb down Clark’s lips all the way to his jeans zipper. Clark’s toes curled and he sunk into bed with ecstasy and relief. With Rachel far from his thoughts, Clark focused on falling back asleep to get a few more moments with the professor before heading to class.

I had a dream one night Of a rainstorm And dark slick streets Car lights beaming through fog Silence except rain

My glasses wet Droplets splashing the rims I remove them To dry on my shirt I wipe my eyes

My opaque vision clear The world looks different Unreal almost Standing still, staring Into a static headlight

A bald, sickly figure Walks through the beams Turning its scarved neck Peering through sunken, fogged eyes Noseless, emotionless

A blue monarch butterfly Flutters onto its shriveled hand That grasps a black umbrella Its eyes are still on me As it tears off its wings

Mary Higgins walked up the brick steps to Finn’s house. She raked her fingers against each side of her part and squirted a dallop of rose lotion on her palm. All her feminine accessories rustled about noisily as she walked with confidence: the big shoulder bag, bracelets, and layered necklaces.

Before she even reached the door, Finn, a punchable and generically attractive brunette still wearing his lacrosse uniform, swung it open with a smile.

“Is your mom home?” Mary asked. She wrapped her jangly bracelet wearing arms around his neck.

Finn shook his head and wrapped his hands around her waist as he kissed her neck. He lifted her slightly and her legs quickly wrapped around his waist. This wasn’t her first rodeo. He fumbled upstairs and tried to multitask and feel up her abnormally large 17 year old boobs.

He brought her into his room and threw her on the bed.

“Take those off, I’ll be back in a second,” he said, backing out the door. He returned quickly with a Polaroid camera. He stuck his tongue out and raised his eyebrows, “What do you think?”

“Where do you want me?” Rebecca replied, making her best efforts to sound smooth. Her heart was pounding a bit. Hopefully her at-home practice with mobile phone nudes would be enough.

“Get on all fours on the bed.”

Mary smiled slyly and got into position. She pushed her breasts together and concaved her back to get her ass higher in the air. The Polaroid flashed.

“There’s some lube in my drawer. Put some on your tits.”

She wasn’t used to Finn being so demanding, but she played along. She reached in his drawer and found a clear pump bottle. She started pumping lube onto her skin and rubbing it on her nipples. The camera flashed again.

“You’re making me so hard. Now start touching yourself.”

Mary shifted into a sitting position and propped her knees up like she saw girls in porn do. She started rubbing herself swiftly with her long manicured nails.

“That’s it. Really get into it. Close your eyes. Lick those wet fingers.”

Mary closed her eyes and thrusted into her fingers repeatedly. She could hear the camera going off again and again. She lifted her fingers up to her mouth and rubbed it with her two fingers. Another flash and then a long pause. Startled by the tonal switch, she opened her eyes.

“Oh god, fuck, baby what is that?”

“What?” Mary followed his gaze to her bright red fingers and the deeply stained blankets under her.

“What the fuck! It looks like a fucking crime scene.”

Rebecca stumbled off the bed and picked up her clothes.

“Finn baby-“ Rebecca stepped closer to him to give him a kiss. He pushed her, “Get out! Fuck! You have like fucking blood all over your face.”

“Fuck you! You don’t have to be such an asshole about it and embarrass me.”

“Yeah, whatever just get the fuck out of my house.”

A few hours later, Mary laid under her covers with swollen eyes. She’d been crying since she got home. Her phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then again and again and again. Mary impatiently grabbed her phone. The texts were from her neighbor Mariah, who was a year older. Her texts were a stream of screenshots of a text chain. She scrolled anxiously to the top and read:

“I saw these on jacobs phone. I thought you should know”

Mariah’s brother Jacob was on the lacrosse team with Finn. Rebecca opened the first screenshot. A photo of a Polaroid of Mary staring into the camera, her bright bloody fingers up against her mouth. Finn followed it up with “bloody mary.” There were 17 in the group text. They laughed, called her disgusting, and asked for more.

She couldn’t believe he told her secret. Now she’d have to disappear again. There was no way she would socially recover from this. She didn’t recover from Ithaca Middle School’s rumor of her that she had sex with her 23 year old history teacher, Mr. Lamm, when she was 13. Everyone would chant “Ma-ry di-id Mr. Lamm” like the old nursery rhyme. Now she was Bloody fucking Mary. She began to plan her escape. And her revenge.