I wheel into the kitchen and pull open the cupboards. Immediately the kitchen smells flood into the room, taking me back to childhood when my mother and I would cook together on the weekends; spice and vinegars and soy, dirt-clod potatoes, rice and beans. I reach into the cupboard and pull things out. Dried shrimp, vinegar, eggs. I pile ingredients onto my lap: garlic, rice—no, not rice, egg noodles are easier. From the refrigerator: green beans, ham, ginger.
As I place the food up on the counter, I try to assemble a dish in my head. This’ll work, right?
I decide it will be easier to prepare everything first, then cook. So I slide open a drawer and pull out a knife and cutting board, and I begin. I try using the board up on the counter, but when I press down on the board, it flips right off the edge into my lap and the knife slips from my grasp and clatters to the floor.
Damn it!
Shaking, I check my skin for knife wounds, but it did not catch me. I breathe. And then I reach down to retrieve the knife, but it’s too low and scuds across the floor as my fingers brush against it. I’ll have to leave it there, ask Mama to retrieve it when she’s home.
Maybe this is a bad idea. But my mother does everything and I want to surprise her.
I pull a second knife from the drawer, and this time, I rest the cutting board across the arms of my chair.
Much better!
I hold the knife steady, feel the weight of it beneath my fingers, imagine the damage it could do. And then slowly, carefully, I slice the tops and tails from the beans. I slide them back onto the counter. Next, garlic. I put three fat cloves flat on the board and squash them. It’s easier than the cutting. All I need to do is lean my weight upon the flat edge of the blade.
And last, ginger. I love ginger; pickled, steeped in broth, covered in sugar and dried, I do not care. Mama used to say it was a wonder that I looked like a boy at all, since I was mostly made of ginger with all that I’d been eating. But she was just as fond of it as I, and sometimes we would stop by the park on our way home, sit on a bench beneath the trees, and devour a whole bag of sugared ginger, just the two of us.
I cut off a small piece at the end and lift the root up to my nose, breathing in the sharp warm spice of it so hard that I think I’m going to sneeze.
I slice the root into thin strips, although they’re not as thin as I would like, because I’m too afraid to get my shaking fingers that close to the blade.
Right.
I reach beneath the sink for a large steel pan, dented by a thousand meals, and I place it on the stove. My mother chose this apartment over others for its kitchen, bigger and better equipped than most city rentals. We might have to move, she said, but we do not have to lose our love of food.
But this kitchen wasn’t made for me. Now that the pan is on the stove, I cannot reach into it or see inside. Great.
Taking care that the knife I dropped is nowhere near my feet, I push myself up from the chair. Upright, I lean my waist against the countertop and let it take my weight so that my hands are free. I flick on the ignite switch, listening for the click click click before I turn on the gas. Blue flame licks the edges of the pan. I reach for the ceramic bottles Mama keeps beside the stove—oil, soy, and sesame. I pull them closer, and then pour the oil into the pan.
I wait a moment, then in go the ginger and garlic, sizzling as they hit the pan. The harshness of their smells disappears in seconds, replaced by a roast sweetness.
I’d forgotten how much fun cooking can be.
I glance across at my ingredients, neatly laid out. This is easy. I’d half-expected my legs to give out by now, or my fingers to play dumb, refuse to chop or stir or anything, but this feels good.
Shrimp next, then I will add the soy and sesame and beans. Mama will love thi—
“Sora!”
I’d been so engrossed that I did not hear my mother’s keys, her sock-clad footsteps.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing? Sit down before you hurt yourself!”
“It’s fine, Mama. I’m fine. I’m cooking dinner.”
My mother stares at me, and I stare back. Why isn’t she pleased?
The mixture in the pan crackles, hisses, burns, and suddenly the sweet smell is black-acrid and my mother rushes over.
“What were you thinking, Sora? Of all the stupid, dangerous things!” She lifts the now-smoking pan from the flame and steps toward the sink with it. The chopping knife skids across the floor. “Oh, Sora!”
Suddenly, my thighs are shaking with the weight of standing, and I cannot maintain it. I let myself fall back into my chair and get out of the way.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, and then I flee.
Safely in my room, I grab the pillow from my bed and slam it hard against the mattress, again and again until my arms tire and I cannot swing it anymore.
• • • •
“Sora?”
“Yes?” I try, but I cannot shake the grump out of my voice.
Mama slides open the door and sits down on the bed, beside me.
“I’m not angry. I just . . . what were you doing?”
I look away.
“Sora?”
I was trying to be nice. She was supposed to be amazed!
“Sora, look at me.” She reaches out, places her hand upon my shoulder. “Please don’t do that again. You might fall, or cut yourself. That knife on the floor—you can’t do these things.”
“I was doing fine, Mama.”
“No.” She’s firmer now. “I will not risk it. Not in my house!”
I reach back, push on the rear wheels of my chair so that I roll away from her and spin around.
“Do you understand, Sora?” she presses. And I can feel her watching me, waiting for an answer.
The thing is, if I think about it, she is right. If she hadn’t walked in, anything could have happened.
She’s right, and I hate her for it.
“Sora?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She stands to leave, but pauses at the door. “I don’t mean that you can’t cook at all. Just, not by yourself, okay? Maybe we can cook together?”
“No thanks.”
• • • •
I pick at the chicken noodles on my plate, not hungry.
“You have to eat, Sora.”
I don’t answer her. I can’t. Why can’t she see?
She does not push it further, but the silence between us sits heavy in the room.
“I was thinking last night . . . ,” she tries again. “Maybe you and I need to spend more time together. Go somewhere. Or not; we could spend time in the city, go to the museums.”
But I don’t want the city. I don’t want to be watched all day. I don’t need her hovering.
“It’s okay, I know you have to work.”
“No, but I could . . . I could take some time. The boss knows our situation.”
He does?
I suppose that it makes sense. He’ll need to know when the time comes. But I do not like that she’s talking to strangers about me.
“It’s fine, Mama. You don’t need to.”
And she’s gone, pushed away her chair, filling the teapot with fresh water. And I know I should feel bad that I have set her jaw like that and made her run away, but I don’t. Why should she control everything? It’s me who’s dying. Me.
• • • •
I hope that MonkEC has seen my apology, that she isn’t too upset with me, because all I want to do right now is talk to her.
You there?
I wait a moment. Nothing. But I can see that she’s online, so I try again.
Hi MonkEC?
Nothing. Perhaps she has decided she doesn’t want to be friends?
I wouldn’t blame her, really. I can’t do anything right.
SORA! HIIIII :)
Sorry, I was in the bathroom.
How are you?
Fine, thanks.
Actually, not really.
D-: What’s wrong?
/> I know I shouldn’t speak badly of her, but ARRGH! Sometimes I just wish my mother would trust me a little. :(
Aww. I know how you feel. I mean, my mother is all about homework and grades, all the time. And she’s going on and on and ON about what universities have the best law and engineering programs and I don’t even LIKE that stuff.
I think that’s just what they’re like. Parents.
Your mother doesn’t want you to become an artist?
It doesn’t pay, apparently. I tried to tell her how much Miyazaki’s films gross every year, but she just sighs and says, “That’s one man, dear. One in a million.”
But if it’s what you want to do . . . ?
It IS. But she’s right I guess. I mean, I want to have a roof over my head, as well.
I just wish she’d take me even a little bit seriously. She won’t even look at my drawings.
That’s awful. I would.
Hahahaha
No, I’m serious. Could I see?
I don’t know . . .
Please?
Maybe someday? I just . . . I want my MAMA to take an interest, but everything I’ve scanned is old, and rubbish. I’d be so embarrassed.
I’m sure it’s NOT rubbish.
*Blush* it really is.
Okay, if you’re not comfortable. Just . . . think about it? Please? I’d like to see. I could be your personal admirer . . .
If it helps, I can’t draw at all. Not for all the chocolate in the world.
(-: EVERYONE can draw a little.
Not everyone. Even my stick-men are wonky.
Hahahahaha. Okay, I’ll think about it.
Thanks :)
So, what’s your mother done today?
Oh. I’d forgotten all about our argument. How does MonkEC do that?
Oh, it’s nothing really. The same. Overbearing stuff. I think you must be right—it’s what they do.
Yeah. Oh well. One day, we can do it to our own children. :D
Hah, one day!
22
Days later, there is still not much of a response to my forum thread. Perhaps it is simply too uncomfortable to talk about, even here?
But I can’t just let it go.
Hey!
Hiiiii :)
How are things?
*sigh* my research is not going so well.
Why?
Have you seen it?
Nobody is saying what they really think.
It’s a difficult question. Maybe nobody really knows what to say or how to say it?
But I NEED to know. How do I get answers? Any ideas?
Maybe . . .
Maybe what you need is not words.
Sorry?
What if what you need is . . . not words?
I don’t understand.
Wait here . . .
What is she doing?
How can you ask a question without words?
Finally, she returns, pastes a web address into the conversation.
Post this. With the caption “What’s the first thought in your head?”
It’s a photograph. Of a kid in a wheelchair, with a blanket on his knees.
You’re a genius!
Hahaha. So kind of you to say so!
And so I start another thread, “What do you see?” I paste the photograph into the description box, and write beneath it, “What’s the first thought in your head? Please be absolutely honest. Thank you.”
What do you think?
Perfect. I bet you’ll have a hundred answers before you go to bed!
Thanks
Thirty seconds later, I see that MonkEC has left the first response.
MonkECMonkEDo: I’d like to think I wouldn’t treat them any different, and my first thought would be “that blanket looks cozy.”
Just for a second, I think about turning on my dusty webcam and letting her see.
Look. This is me. But what if she’s lying, or wrong?
So I wait, and I sit here watching a discussion unfold.
LikesEmWithSparkle: That picture makes me sad. Not awful pity sad, just sad that the person has to go through life with difficulty.
WindUpBird: Yeah. It must be TOUGH.
0100110101100101: Honestly? My first thought is: Has that kid ever raced that thing? Because, those WHEELS! :D
Ace101: How much do you think the boy understands? Is he like us, and it’s just a physical thing? Or is his brain affected too?
LikesEmWithSparkle: O_o oh I hope not, wouldn’t that be awful?
NoFaceBoy: Is it poor form to say “lucky”? I bet that kid doesn’t have to study all day, or sit through terrible exams. I bet he gets to sit around all day doing all the things we’re not.
I almost answer that. I want to shake him by the shoulders and tell him that I would give anything to have his place inside a classroom, to know that I could go anywhere I wanted, be anything I wanted. Be something. But I remember that he wrote to me that day, and I cannot shame him. Besides, somebody else has already replied:
LikesEmWithSparkle: I don’t think that’s lucky at all. What does he DO all day if he doesn’t study? And we get an education so we can get jobs. Good jobs. And have a career and a good life and everything. And that poor boy . . . :(
I should feel grateful for this girl, stepping in like that. But I imagine her voice, dripping with compassion, and it grates. What does she know? Why poor boy? He could be a famous author or scientist. A genius. How does she know?
But I wanted to hear this. I still do.
So I swallow my anger and read back over people’s answers, with as much detachment as I can muster.
Until this:
IamSxy: People like that should fucking die. I mean, what’s the point?
What?!
0100110101100101: What?!
LikesEmWithSparkle: Have some heart, you have no idea about him.
IamSxy: No. True, but look, what can he fucking do? He is a vegetable.
0100110101100101: Shut up!
IamSxy: What? Why are you jumping to his defense? YOU don’t know him either.
IamSxy: And SERIOUSLY, he should just end it. He’s taking up our space, breathing our air.
0100110101100101: GO AWAY, PLEASE.
WindUpBird: No!
LikesEmWithSparkle: That’s HORRIBLE!
LikesEmWithSparkle: You can’t SAY that stuff. It’s AWFUL.
NoFaceBoy : Sparkle’s right. You have no idea.
WindUpBird: Yeah. Those things are dangerous. NOBODY should be forced into something like that. Never.
IamSxy: Hah! There’s too many people draining our resources. They should all do us a favor.
I can’t watch anymore. Shaking with shock and hurt and anger, I minimize the window and turn my chair away.
Does he really think that?
How can anybody think like that?
I’m finished. I can’t be part of this.
Except . . . MonkEC. I’d lose our friendship. I can’t do that. I won’t do that, not for him.
I turn back to the screen.
IamSxy has been removed from this conversation.>
0100110101100101: Good riddance!
LikesEmWithSparkle: Yesss! Can we talk about something else, please? Come to General Chat?
I make myself look back over the answers, pick out the good ones and read them twice, commit them to memory. It helps, a little.
And when I get to NoFaceBoy’s comment about school, I feel almost guilty; he doesn’t know, how can he? And I wanted honest answers.
I click on send private message and I write:
Hi NoFaceBoy.
I just wanted to properly thank you for writing to me the other day. I needed that.
How are you? I hope you’re well. You sound a bit fed up.
I’m going to add you as a contact—I hope we can be friends.
SamuraiMan.
P.S. One day we’ll all look back on school as a distant memory.
It is only a minute before I get a mess
age: NoFaceBoy has added you to their friend list.
23
HI SAMURAIMAN
Hi!
IS THIS A GOOD TIME?
Sure.
:) OH GOOD. HOW ARE YOU?
Good, thanks. How are you?
YEAH. OKAY. HOW’S THE SURVEY GOING?
Survey? Oh, yes.
It’s okay. I mean, I see this as a longer project—I want to collect as much data as I can before I start compiling.
WOW, YOU’RE REALLY TAKING THIS PROJECT SERIOUSLY, HUH?
Yes. I think it’s important to understand the way society thinks, and try to work out why. Otherwise how do we develop as a nation or as people?
WOW. THAT’S DEEP!
Yeah, well. I . . . know some kids with problems. And I wish they didn’t have our problems heaped on top.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN?
Oh, I don’t know. I just . . . it’s the little things. The staring. Why should anybody have to deal with that?
YEAH. I SUPPOSE.
I do not want to talk about this anymore. I do not want to justify myself, even in disguise. An awkward silence fills the screen, and I realize I befriended NoFace without ever looking at his profile. I know nothing about him except for two brief encounters.
Desperately searching for something to say, I click.
USERNAME
TAGLINE
AGE GENDER
INTERESTS
Somehow, even though I do not know him, I am not surprised.
Mysterious, aren’t you? ;)
HUH?
You don’t give much away on your profile page.
YEAH, WELL, THOSE QUESTIONS ARE SO ASININE. BESIDES, I AM A CHANGEABLE PERSON. I’D HAVE TO UPDATE ALL THE TIME. I FIGURE PEOPLE CAN JUST TALK TO ME IF THEY WANT TO KNOW.
Hah, fair enough. So . . . what would you put today?
UM . . . NOFACEBOY, LIKES MOVIES AND POPCORN AND SHOOT EM UP GAMES. IS LIABLE TO LAUGH AT EVERYTHING YOU SAY; DOES NOT MEAN THIS UNKINDLY. :D
Hah, brilliant!
OK, I’M TOTALLY STALKING YOU NOW, SINCE YOU’VE SEEN MINE. I’LL BE RIGHT BACK.
The Last Leaves Falling Page 7