18
Dearest Ojiisan and Bah-Ba,
I am well, and hope that you are too. Mama tells me you have mice joining you at the supper table. She’d have me believe that you are overrun, and the mice have sneers upon their faces and katana tucked into their belts. “Food, or death?” they’d say, and then they’d laugh while they ate all the best cuts.
I think she’s probably exaggerating, but I’m rather jealous that they get Bah-Ba’s cooking while I do not.
I looked up ways to deter mice today. Have you tried peppermint oil? Also, did you know that in many countries people eat mice? And in some, baby mouse wine is supposed to cure you of, well, anything. But if you’re going to try the last two, let’s keep it between us.
Your mouseless grandson, Abe Sora
19
I tried to ask Mama again, over dinner, but she slurped loudly on her noodles and refused to answer. Alone in my room, I turned to the Internet.
282,000,000 results flash up on my screen.
Two hundred and eighty-two million.
I scan down the list, from What happens when you die: Uncovered, to Repent Before Your Time Is Up! and, CancerCare: the final stages. Page after page of theories, rants, and questions. Halfway down there is an advertisement, shouting, Meet the People Who Show Us the Way. Warrior Funerals, for all your post life needs. Now offering tours (by appointment only).
I imagine walking through the dimly lit back rooms where the bodies go, led by a man with a too-wide smile who says, “And here we have the ovens, a thousand degrees at full blast.”
Weird.
I scroll back up to the top of the page and read the first link. “Along with the meaning of life, ‘What’s next?’ is one of those seemingly unanswerable questions.” Seemingly. Does that mean they have an answer?
I click on it.
For centuries, people have tried to determine what happens after this life. The Egyptians built vast tombs to house everything their kings could want in future lives. The Mayans lived well so they could get to Tamoanchan. Religious folks will tell you that their god is the only path to heaven or a better self, and everybody else will go to hells unknown, stuck in cycles of pain and suffering. But what’s the truth? Who’s right? Join the debate below!
No, they do not have the answers.
I try the next link, “We ask, what happens when you die?”
So, your heart and brain have stopped. You’re dead. What’s next?
Many people hold strong beliefs about what happens after death, but no one really knows. Because the only way to know is to actually die. And the dead ain’t talking.
Backspace.
Nothing in this millions-strong list looks promising. I don’t understand; someone must know something, right?
The old man who lives next door to my grandparents has told me countless times about the ghosts who live up in his attic, but I always thought him mad. He has no proof, except that he hears noises sometimes and will swear that he left out the pepper pot, only to find it neatly placed inside a cupboard.
My grandmother, too, keeps a lantern burning to protect the house from wayward yūrei. If they’re right, if there are spirits, that means there must be something to move on to. But what?
As I close the browser down, I think, for half a second, of going to KyoToTeenz and chatting with MonkEC, but I remember yesterday, and my stomach roils. I pick up Samurai Death Poems instead, heave myself onto the bed and lean back against the pillows, and then let my fingers trail across the paper and feel the words before I read them.
Many of the poets talk of death, the act, as a thing that sets them free. They say:
The sword.
And like a bird, I fly.
and:
The final thing,
a gate,
closed on the way out.
and:
Death is death . . .
I like that. The samurai thought deep and wide, and accepted their fate, embraced it. I think, when I have to go, I’d like to go like that.
20
I sleep with the poetry beneath my pillow in the hope that maybe it will filter through my dreams, allow me to wake up a better person, but the first thought when I awaken is not, honor, valor, focus or what can I make of today? It is, IneedtopeeIneedtopeeIneedtopee! I lie here for five seconds, pondering my next move, but it’s clear I’m going to have to get up. Fast.
I push up and back with my hands so that I’m almost sitting up, and swing my legs out of the duvet. Except, my arms cannot support my weight and I fall awkwardly back on the bed. I try again, half-crossing my legs as I push, willing myself to make it.
And I’m up. But the intense movement squeezed at my insides and my bladder burns. I concentrate on holding it; imagine the urine flowing back the other way, away from the danger zone. It’s better if I do not breathe, hold everything tight and do not move an inch. But the bathroom is across the hall.
I shift my weight, tentatively, and I can feel the liquid rushing downward. I freeze, breathe in, and out again, wait for the urgency to pass, and try again, this time pushing myself up off the bed and swinging around in one swift movement, so that when I fall back I will land in my chair.
Oh.
As I stand, I feel the rush, hot and urgent, and I cannot stop it. Warm wetness streams down the inside of my pajama pants and, as I land, pools in the seat of my wheelchair.
Damn it.
DAMN IT.
It takes an age to transfer back to the bed, strip off and wipe my chair dry, and hot shame courses through me the whole way through the process.
Why didn’t I move faster? Wake earlier? Hold it in?
I bet the legendary samurai never pissed themselves.
Stupid!
Finally, I bundle my clothes into the laundry, trying not to think of what my mother will say, and head for the shower.
• • • •
“You were up early this morning.”
“Mmm.” I try not to look conspicuous as I munch on a slice of thick white toast and berry jam.
“Sleep okay?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Okay.”
Mama shoves a pile of papers into her work satchel, and glances at the clock, then me. She thinks I do not notice, but she does this every morning, wrestling with that awful question: Should she stay at home with her dying son, or go to work and earn a wage to put food on the table?
But this morning, she pauses.
She pours herself a coffee and hugs it to her chest. “Sora, I think we need to talk about the park.”
“No, it’s okay, Mama. Anyway, you will be late.” Yesterday, I was desperate to talk, but now, suddenly, I do not want to. Not yet.
She glances at the clock again, and sighs. “You’re right, I really have to go. But it’s not okay; we’ll talk tonight?”
“Okay.” I swallow another bite of toast to hide my grimace.
“You’ll be okay today, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, good!” She smiles, swallows her coffee in three gulps, and picks up her house keys. “Listen, I’ve had an idea. I’ll tell you everything tonight.”
I don’t like the sound of this idea. More hospitals, perhaps? Tests? Aerated therapy dreamed up by monks who live in the sea?
But you do not argue with my mother. And besides, she’s in a hurry. “Have a good day!”
“We’ll talk when I get back!” she calls out from the hallway, and she’s gone.
Once, Mama and I would have left the house together, walking the first two blocks before we parted ways. And we would talk, run through study topics, or argue gently about what we’d have for tea.
I miss that, and I almost pick up the phone to ask her whether she could get some prawns on her way home. Maybe something sweet for dessert. But she has enough to worry about without me adding extra errands, so I do not. Instead, I pull the soaked pajamas from my laundry basket and take them to the sink. At least I can spare her from this shame.
As the water runs, splashes against the porcelain, I remember:
Life, runs like water
down the hillside.
Laughing.
Fast. Takes no prisoners.
I plunge the clothes into the water, watch them billow and then sink.
If a warrior had disgraced himself this way, I bet he would not stay on this earth for long.
And I don’t want to either. Not like this. I want . . .
I don’t know. The half thought shudders right along my spine, and I taste bitterness against my tongue.
I force myself to swallow. Breathe. Look at myself in the mirror and draw that thought out into something logical and safe.
I do not want to die. No.
But I don’t want to end in a puddle of my own waste, gasping for breath like a foul stinking fish.
• • • •
Back at the computer, with poetry and conflict still ringing in my ears, I seek concrete answers. What can I do? How can I ensure that this is not my ending?
I type “disgraced samurai” into the search bar, expecting to see accounts of ritual seppuku, of shame turned into honor, but instead, there’s this:
Although the notion of dying by the sword is strong, and accurate, it was not the only path. Wounded samurai who could no longer fight might find work around the village or in fields. Many became useful and valued members of society once more.
Useful and valued members of society.
I do not feel useful and valued. But why? If it was good enough for the warriors of old, why do people look at me the way they do? As though I am a burden, or an animal.
Have the rules changed? Am I suddenly less of a person than I might have been in the old days? Of less use in these lesser times of need?
I type “long-term sickness Japan” into the search bar. I know what I have is not long-term, but . . . it is not the forty-eight hour flu. It counts.
There are pages filled with figures about health insurance; I skip over those. I see how Mama tightens her purse every month. I do not need the numbers.
There are statistics comparing Japan with other countries. I don’t want to read those, either. What I want is to know why people don’t see me for who I am; whether anybody could.
I scroll past this: BetterEndings.com, and as I keep scrolling it takes half a second for my thoughts to shift from these people acknowledge that the situation’s awful, to, better than what? and then I scroll back up, curious, and start to read.
Here at the Better Villa, we aim to make your stay as comfortable as possible, with medical and assistive care to suit your needs.
In Japan some 80% of terminal patients die in hospitals; Better Endings provides a halfway point, allowing the comforts and freedoms of your own home, while providing the best possible care.
Consider us as an alternative today!
I suppose it makes sense. As endings go, this place does not look so bad. But there are still guardrails on the beds, and staff in crisp white uniforms, and no matter what the gardens look like or food tastes like, people still go there to die. There’s still rasping breaths and body fluids and, I bet, the taste of good-byes in the air.
What does a Better Ending look like?
When the time comes, Better Endings’ staff will do everything in their power to make you and your loved ones comfortable. We have a meditation room and temple, and can provide family lodgings in addition to your own. Further, all visitors have access to our extensive, beautiful grounds and are encouraged to wander the gardens.
You will have the time and space to say good-bye.
And in your final time, our trained medical staff will ensure you have a comfortable and easy passing, without pain or prolonged suffering.
I wonder how they know?
At what point in the rasping, gasping final moments of a person half-delirious with discomfort or unconscious from medications, do they know that this is it?
Is there a code I have not earned yet? A secret signal?
And do they ever get it wrong?
Does it matter? No matter what you do or where you are, is it ever comfortable or dignified?
I don’t know. I wonder what other people think, and I’m halfway through typing the KyoToTeenz address to ask, when . . . Oh. I haven’t been back since . . . Will they even talk to me, after I screamed at everyone?
I almost turn away, but it does not seem right, somehow. I can’t give up that easily. I inhale slowly, let my fingers steady on the keyboard, and, compiling a list of excuses for my behavior, I log in.
BRrRrRrRrRrRr
BRrRrRrRrRrRr
BRrRrRrRrRrRr
Before the screen has even loaded, my speakers explode with notification alarms, and then a box announces:
YOU HAVE SEVEN MESSAGES
Great. I imagine seven versions of “What’s wrong with you, moron?” or “What kind of samurai loses his cool like that?”
And everyone laughing cruelly at the boy who screamed and ran.
And the moderators asking me, “Please leave. We’re blocking your account.”
But I’m here now, and the noise won’t stop until I click.
The first message is from a name I do not know, but I do not open it because below is a whole wall of messages from MonkEC. She’s tried to talk to me six times in two days.
I hope nobody’s told her what I did.
Nervously, I click on the first one.
Hiii! I hope your day was good to you. I had the most BORING lessons, but it’s okay because I followed it with art class after school and I spent an HOUR talking to the instructor about animation.
She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know!
Hi,
Are you there? You’re usually around by now . . .
Hellooooooo?
I picture her sitting at her desk in a quiet, empty house, with only the Internet for company. And I wasn’t there. My fear morphs neatly into guilt, and I wish I did not have to read on.
I open the next one with my eyes half-closed, but that does not stop me from seeing the words.
Ok, so I just looked through the chat logs, because . . . well, I wondered whether you might be ignoring me . . . and I saw what happened. Are you okay, Samurai? It feels so weird to call you that, like I don’t know you at all. But I think I do. Are you okay? And what should I call you (you can make something up if you don’t want to tell me)?
She . . . she knows? And she’s still talking to me?
I stare at her message, a mess of guilt and joy and worry all at once.
Finally, settling on mild relief, I click on the last message.
Where are you? I don’t know whether I can help you but I need a friend and I wish you were here. Maybe if we talk we can help each other?
Please?
p.s. I’m not a stalker, honest!
Pps don’t worry about the other day. Sometimes I feel like screaming at everyone too. (:
REPLY
Hi MonkEC. I’m sorry, I wasn’t ignoring you at all. I’ve just been really busy.
No. That’s ridiculous.
Hi MonkEC, I’m sorry if I scared you, I just kind of freaked. I’m okay though. How are you?
Just kind of freaked? You’re an idiot, Sora. And that’s not a proper answer.
Hi,
I don’t think you’re a stalker at all, and I’m sorry that I haven’t been around over the last few days. I have been really busy, and it all got a bit much. Sorry if I had you worried.
Sora (that’s my real name by the way, not something I made up).
P.S. You can talk to me. I’d like that.
I click “send” before I have a chance to change my mind, and then my eyes are drawn to the last unopened message.
From: NoFaceBoy
I click.
Hey Man,
I don’t think we’ve spoken before. Probably not, since I’m usually pretty quiet, but I had to ask—are you okay? That was a pretty loud yell back there.
&n
bsp; Anyway, I know what it’s like to get lost in the sad, so if you need something, please let me know.
REPLY
I’m okay, but thank you for asking.
They don’t hate me.
They don’t hate me.
Perhaps I’m not so worthless after all?
Maybe I can really be myself here. All of myself, faulty bits included.
I click on “start new thread” and type: “Friend or Freak: Do you know anyone who is disabled? Seen anyone in the street? How do you think of them? (Help?! I am volunteering at a special school, and am trying to research this for class credit).”
And then I log off, because I don’t want to watch the answers pouring in.
21
I check the thread after a few hours, when everyone gets home from classes, with my eyes half-closed in case I don’t like what I see.
My grandmother uses a cane, but that’s just because she is old.
I haven’t seen anyone with what you’d call a disability. Sorry.
Yeah, I mean, I’m sure they’re lovely, but we don’t go to the same schools. How would we know?
I wish that I could show them all, scream, “Yes you do; you do know someone, right here, talking to you now.”
But these aren’t real answers to my questions. And it could be social suicide. So instead, I sit here worrying, staring at the same three answers, searching for some deeper meaning.
When I find none, my mind wanders back through everything I’ve read today, and as the sun slides across the sky, I have an idea. Perhaps the wounded warriors weren’t allowed to become valued members of society, but simply did whatever they could.
My mother will be home soon, that tired look stretched across her face, hiding deeper worries. And today I’m going to surprise her, show her that I’m not completely useless, and she does not always have to worry or unearth new ideas to fix me. I am going to prepare dinner.
But what? Mama always does the cooking—although I learned a little in home economics—and when she won’t be home for lunch she leaves me something wrapped up in the fridge. Which means I am out of practice.
The Last Leaves Falling Page 6