I wait, and as I wait, I realize I am holding my breath.
Will he see through what I wrote? Will he like me? Would he like the real me?
SOOOO, YOU REALLY DO LIKE ALL THAT SERIOUS STUFF, HUH?
Kind of. I like books, and I like to learn, at least.
NERD :)
Thanks 8-)
YOU’RE WELCOME.
24
The next few days are good. During the day, I read. I have found a stack of articles on ailing samurai who made something out of their lives, and I plan to read them all. I want to know everything about the blind masseurs and circus freaks. I want, I think, to compare then with now, and see what’s changed; why is it that we’re so keen to throw life away?
So in the day, I read, and in the evenings, MonkEC and NoFace come online, and then we laugh.
In one box, I see:
I’ve just spent three hours with my mother poring over photos in American prospectuses. Every page, she said, “Look, Mai. Those labs, that library. Look how happy and hardworking all the students are.”
I imagine MonkEC sitting at a table, trying to disguise her boredom, shielding a scrap of paper as she surreptitiously attempts to doodle. I imagine her mother, eyes lit with excitement, jabbing at photos with an enthusiastic finger. And I cannot help but chuckle.
And at the same time, in the box beside it, NoFace regales me with tales of late-night battles.
SO I WAS NEARLY THERE, THE MAP SHOWED THE HQ LIKE, TWO BLOCKS AWAY. IT WAS RISKY, BUT OKAY. I FELT GOOOOOD.
And?
AND THEN I POKED MY HEAD AROUND THE CORNER TO SEE WHETHER THE PATH WAS CLEAR AND BOOM. DEAD. HEAD BLOWN CLEAN OFF.
I’m not sure what to say to that, if I am honest. Do I sympathize? Congratulate him? Laugh?
Nooooooo!
HAHA, I KNOW, THAT IS ALMOST EXACTLY WHAT I SAID! EXCEPT I THINK MY EXACT WORDS MIGHT HAVE BEEN “YOU STUPID, UGLY, FISH-LOVING SON OF A . . .”
Hah!
I switch back to MonkEC.
Hey, I just realized . . .
What?
You just told me your real name :)
I’m waiting for her to respond, when Mama knocks at the bedroom door.
“Sora, can I come in?”
“Yes.”
I switch off the monitor as my mother sidles in.
“Here.” She hands me a tray of pills, blue and white and berry-red. I expect her to ruffle my hair or squeeze my shoulder and then leave, but she does not. Her hand hovers unsure in the midspace between us. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.”
“You’re not . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t like you being on that thing all day.”
“The Internet?” She is such a hypocrite. My mother lives on her computer, phone, tablet.
“Yes. You shouldn’t be hiding away in here. It isn’t right. You should be out making the most of . . .”—she catches my eye, and falters—“the good weather. It will be cold soon.”
I take a deep breath. “Mama, I’m fine.”
My mother’s knuckles clench, going white beneath her own grip.
“Honestly.”
She sniffs. “You’re not. This whole thing is anything but fine.”
For a moment she stands there, blanched fingers and pursed lips, a statue, and I know she’s trying not to cry. But before I can reach out, pull her hands into mine, she’s back, all business face, a wry smile at her lips. “Right. We’re going away.”
“Sorry?”
“You and me. Away. Away from . . .”—she waves a hand, gesturing at the computer but maybe meaning something else—“this. Let’s go visit Ojiisan and Bah-Ba.”
• • • •
We make dinner together. At least, I sit at the table while my mother cooks, and every now and then she will hold out a spoon and demand, “Taste!” with half a smile. And by the time our food is on the table, everything is almost normal once again.
We talk about Ojiisan and Bah-Ba’s place, how happy they will be to see us, how Mama wants to help my grandmother insulate the attic.
“It’s cold up there in winter, and they’re not so young these days,” she says, as though it is a perfect explanation.
I must admit, I’m shocked at her decision. My mother left the countryside as soon as she could; fled to the city with my father and never looked back. But I’m glad. I love it there.
And when that topic’s dried up, and Mama’s promised to make arrangements as soon as she can, we sit in comfortable silence and eat.
“What do you do online all day?”
“Read journals. Talk to my friends. It’s okay, Mama, I promise.”
“You know,” my mother says after a moment, blowing gently on a chunk of hot steaming potato, “you could invite them around for dinner.”
I frown. “Who?”
“Your friends.”
“Is this some kind of Internet safety thing, Mama? I promise the forum is safe.”
The tips of her chopsticks dip, hang frozen just above the plate. She sighs. “No . . . it’s . . . you spend so much of your time with them. And if there are people in my boy’s life, I should like to know them.”
I want to protest. To tell her that it’s the Internet, it’s separate from real life, and that I hardly know anyone yet. But she’s wearing that tired face, and she’s right; if I’m going to spend my last days or weeks or months sitting on the Internet, I owe her that at least.
25
Hi!
Hi! How are you?
Fine thanks.
I have something to ask you, though.
I cannot believe I’m doing this.
Okay . . .
Would you like to come to dinner?
Dinner?
DINNER?
Yes.
Neither of them answers me.
It’s weird. I’ve scared them off. They’ll never talk to me again.
Yes. I know it’s weird, but my mother wants to meet my friends.
Your mother?
>.< yes.
WHY?
I . . . Promise you won’t laugh?
OF COURSE.
My mother wants to meet you.
HUH?
I cannot tell him that my mother is watching me count down the days, that she wants to be a part of everything. I can’t tell him that maybe having him and Mai around for dinner will make losing me easier, somehow.
That is not the way to attract friends.
She wants to meet my friends. Apparently I spend too much time in my room, online, and she doesn’t believe you exist. Or she thinks you aren’t who you say you are, or something. Like one of us is just making you up.
HAHA, WELL, IN THAT CASE. I, INVISIBLOR THE FACELESS AND IMAGINARY, WOULD BE DELIGHTED TO ATTEND.
Are you mocking me?
A LITTLE. BUT MY PARENTS THINK THE SAME THING SOMETIMES, AND I’D LOVE TO COME.
Yes!
Oh. Oh my! He said yes.
What will I hide behind now?
WHO ELSE IS COMING? OR IS IT JUST ME? IS THIS A SECRET WAY TO WOO ME?
Dork :p
*BOWS*
I don’t know who else, yet. You’re officially my first guest.
:D
I turn my attention back to Mai, still silent.
I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me. I’ll tell her you can’t make it.
We can still be friends, right?
Sorry but I really have to go.
Talk tomorrow?
Great. I’ve blown it. Lost her. She thinks I am a crazy stalker-murderer.
26
The answer’s yes!
Sorry I rushed off yesterday. I really did have to leave.
Also, I was a little worried. You hear stories about people on the Internet.
But I do want to come. I’d love to meet you. So my answer’s yesyesyes (-:
Xx
P.S. you better not be some fat creepy dude. I’m giving my friend your address before
I come.
I stare at the screen. My fingertips feel funny. Extra shaky, somehow.
They both said yes.
I know that I should tell them about me, warn them, but . . . Thank you for accepting. Now, that I have got you trapped, there’s something you should know.
Dear friends, I am not quite who you thought.
No. I’m not a creepy stalker, I am worse.
In the end, I do not tell them anything more than the date and time, and our address. I cannot disappoint my mother. And besides, perhaps they’ll understand.
I will have to wait and see.
27
I spend the next four days trying not to worry, to push the dinner from my mind, but I cannot.
My mother walks around with lighter footsteps, and twice she’s asked me if I think her choice of menu—a spicy mapo tofu and a sticky cheesecake—will suffice. I smile and try to reassure her, but she is like a child waiting for New Year. It is almost enough to excite me, as well, but every time I feel bubbles of happiness rising in my chest, I remember it could all go wrong.
The night before their visit, I shrug off MonkEC and NoFace’s declarations of excitement, and retreat to bed. My limbs are heavier than usual, and my head hurts with all the possibilities.
What if they take one look at me and they don’t know what to say? No. It’s fine. I will remind them of our conversations, and the talk will flow. It will be fine.
But what if I spill every mouthful down my front, or knock the tea into their laps? What if—
I slide a hand beneath my pillow and pull out the book of poems, flip through the pages until I find what I am looking for.
Stillness of the night
Heightened by fireflies
I close my eyes and imagine walking in the park, dark, cool air surrounding me, the stars so deep and far away that I can barely see them, but I know that they are there. The wind rustles in the trees, then drops to nothing as I lean against a cherry trunk, and all I can hear is the buzzing of wings as glowbugs flit through blossoms.
28
“Where are they?”
“Hush”—Mama leans over and kisses my forehead—“there is still time. Perhaps they do not want to inconvenience you with an early arrival.”
I glance at the kitchen clock. She’s right, there are still seven minutes until seven, and it’s only been five minutes since I last looked at the time. How is it crawling at such a snail’s pace?
I look over the kitchen table, count the dishes and placemats and chopsticks. All there. The kitchen smells of spiced warm pork and garlic, silk-fresh tofu and spring onions, which bubble gently on the stove. Everything is ready.
Mama reaches down, fastens the top button of my shirt, and brushes imaginary dirt from my shoulders. “There.” She looks like she is going to cry, but the tightened collar chokes me.
“Mama! They’re my friends, it’s not an interview.”
I wait until she turns to stir the dinner, and reach up to undo the button. My fat, dead fingers do not want to cooperate, and I’m sure she’s going to turn around and see my failure.
Come on, come on! What kind of idiot can’t even—
There. Just as Mama turns back.
She stares at my throat, at my disheveled collar. I shrug apologetically, and she opens her mouth to say something, but we are interrupted by a gentle knocking at the door.
They’re here!
“You go, Mama. I don’t want to keep them waiting.” It takes an age for me to open our front door; my chair gets in the way. But that is not the reason that I want them to see Mama first.
I linger just out of sight as my mother strides happily down the hallway.
The door clicks open.
“Good evening.”
“Abe-san?”
“Yes.”
I imagine MonkEC and NoFace bowing politely to my mother.
“Oh, thank you.” One of them has handed her a gift. “Come in. Sora is just—”
Please don’t run away, please don’t run away. I push my chair out into the hall as my mother steps aside. “Here.”
Standing in the doorway is a tall boy with a strawberry-red fringe swept across his face so that all you can see is his mouth and half an eye, and a girl wearing a lemon raincoat and ribbons in her hair. They look more real than I’d imagined. Bright and solid.
I think I might throw up.
“Hi,” I say, more weakly than I’d like.
My guests are standing there, wide-eyed, probably as nervous as I am about tonight, and I am not being a good host. I swallow hard, ignore the twisting in my gut, and wheel closer.
The boy pulls his gaping mouth into a grin, and I am flooded with relief. “Sora! Way to keep a secret!”
My mother looks at me, confused.
“Mama, this is . . .” Oh. How have I been talking to this boy, invited him into my home, and never asked his name?
“Kaito. Dan Kaito.”
She bows to him again, but slips me a look. I know that she heard “secret.”
Our guests slip off their shoes and slide into the company slippers on display by the door. Leaving their shoes, they step inside, and my mother ushers us all down the hall and into the kitchen. Mai hangs back behind NoFace. She does not even look at me.
“Please, sit.” Mama gestures to the table.
I wait until my friends are seated, before sliding my chair up to the table. Mama places two heaving pots before us: glistening mapo tofu and fluffy white rice. The pepper in the tofu steam makes my eyes and mouth water in equal measure.
“I trust your journeys were pleasant?” I ask, watching Mama move toward the sink. I wish she’d hurry up so we can start.
“Uh-huh.” Kaito nods. “Quiet.”
“And yours?” I ask Mai.
She shrugs, staring intently at the table.
“And everything is well? I mean, with you?”
They both nod. Kaito flicks his fringe out of his eyes and smiles encouragingly at me.
Is there pity there? I cannot tell.
My mother is filling up the water jug, and for a moment the only sound is that of water echoing inside the old ceramic jug, changing in pitch as it fills.
I watch my guests, sitting politely, waiting.
I don’t know what to say. I have forgotten how to do this.
Finally, my mother joins us, pouring water into each of four glasses and then taking her place.
“Please, help yourselves.”
There is a second of hesitation before Kaito nods thanks and reaches for the bowl of rice. He ladles a respectful portion into his own dish, then tops it with the spicy meat. Mai follows suit.
Mama fills her own dish and mine, because I cannot reach across the table. I am glad. I do not have the chance to spill the whole meal onto the floor.
“This smells delicious, Abe-san.”
“Thank you.” My mother blushes. And then she gives the word, “Let’s eat.”
It is delicious. The hot, salted black bean sauce prickles at my tongue, and then it gives way to a softer sweetness, sated by the silken tofu.
I let the first piece of tofu slip down my throat before I break the silence. “Did you know that mapo tofu translates as ‘pockmarked-faced lady’s tofu’ or ‘leper woman’s tofu’?”
Kaito chokes down a mouthful of food, surprised. “No!”
“Yeah. Legend has it that an old widow-leper was forced to live outside of town because of her condition, but she lived along a street that traders had to pass through, and to make ends meet she rented out her rooms to workers. They, in turn, would often bring her meat and tofu and request she cook it up for them.
“Soon, her great cooking was known by traveling businessmen all over, and when they reached the town they’d ask specifically for the pockmarked-faced lady’s tofu.”
“Is that true? Or is it some kind of dreadful moral tale?” asks Kaito.
Mai sneaks a sideward stare at me.
Oh! They think I’ve m
ade it up. A people-with-a-handicap-can-do-just-fine tale. Ugh.
I shrug. “Who knows. The other theory is that the name derives from ‘numb,’ because of all the peppercorns.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Where do you learn this stuff?”
“I don’t know. I read.”
“Well, you must have a whole library in that head. I haven’t even heard of a book on the origins of food names.”
“Neither have I. I probably read it on the Internet somewhere. Or somebody told me. I don’t know.”
“I do.” Mama lays her chopsticks down and smiles. “Your grandfather told you. He used to joke that he married your grandmother for her skills with food. He’d wink, and kiss her on the cheek and say that any woman who could turn out plates like that would find a man, even if they were a leper woman.”
I laugh. If a girl served me food like Bah-Ba’s, I’d marry her too.
The rest of dinner passes with barely a word. I try, once or twice, to start the conversation, but it’s awkward. My friends’ questions hang over the table, waiting to be asked. Mama glares across the table. I’m the host. I should be making my guests comfortable, making more of an effort. But I don’t know what to say. We need to get away from here so that I can explain.
I swallow down my meal as fast as is polite, and wait.
Eventually, Mama says, “Well, now that we’re done, why don’t you show your friends to your room?”
I let Mai and Kaito enter first, and close the door behind us. It smells in here, like plastic medications and stale air. I have not noticed it before.
“Please.” I gesture to the bed, the only place to sit. At least my bed is made today, with fresh, clean sheets straight out of the laundry.
They perch uncertainly, their eyes roving across the room, over the desk and bookshelves, and my old world map and baseball shrine. They are judging me. For everything I am. A stack of books. A yellow Tigers bobble hat hanging from a nail. A wheelchair.
“I’m sorry.”
Kaito draws in his breath. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
The Last Leaves Falling Page 8