“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Your mother will be my wife today,” Wyatt replies.

We rehearse the confrontation to ensure it’s correct, then we’re ready. I recline on the tatami mattress and assume the appearance of absolute repose. “Action!” I hear the patter of Setsuko’s slippered feet on the bamboo floor. Her delicate fingers circle around my neck. When she cries in Japanese that she wants me to die, I feign terror and watch her attempt at pantomime strangulation. “Hayaku Shinde!”

“Cut,” Wyatt yells. “Not bad, but I’m not quite buying it. Setsuko, I’d like more energy from you. Picture how your character must feel being trapped in the past. She wants to take revenge on any living thing that gets to experience a future she will never have.”

We repeat the struggle for hours, but Wyatt isn’t satisfied. There’s a fatigue in Setsuko’s performance that only increases with every take. She is no longer invested in her role.

“Maybe we should call it a day,” Wyatt says. “Setsuko, I’m beginning to think it’s a good thing your mother decided that you’re not to pursue acting, since you can’t seem to understand the simplest note.”

The familiar pinched expression flashes over her pallid features but is immediately repressed. My little ghost is upset. Setsuko walks to her first blocking point. “No,” she insists. “I can do it.”

“Quiet on set.” The assistant director looks tentatively at Wyatt, who is breathing through his hands. “Roll camera.”

I listen for Coco’s light footsteps, but she is silent. After an indeterminate interval, I sense a hovering warmth. I know she is staring down at my reposed face, waiting to make her move. I wonder if something has gone amiss, since nothing happens. It’s then I feel her hands upon me.

“Hayaku Shinde!” she screams at a shattering volume. She brings the full weight of her body to bear upon my windpipe. I pop my eyes open and do not recognize my own daughter. She truly seems the malignant spirit of a wounded, forgotten child. I attempt to pry her grip off my throat, but she is steadfast. She’s stronger than she looks.

“Cut!” Wyatt yells louder. “Cut! Setsuko, stop!”

Several pairs of arms reach in and pull my daughter from me. She lashes out at the PAs until Wyatt relieves them of their burden. Setsuko wails into his collarbone. “Hush, angel,” he murmurs. “It’s over.” He carries her backstage. After I’m done with my coughing fit, I find them in a dressing room. Wyatt is saying pacifying things in Japanese.

“Why don’t you change?” he suggests. “Take Coco and go home.”

“We should talk about how we’re going to punish her.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” he replies.

Then he adds, “In my opinion, she’s had enough punishment.”

I wait for a word of sympathy from Wyatt, some indication I’m not on my own and he still considers us a team. He only passes our daughter from his arms to mine, then quickly makes his exit.