The Last Leaves Falling

by Sarah Benwell

“I . . . I’m not actually talking about me. It’s a friend.”

  “Oh?” I do not think she believes me.

  “It’s Mai . . .”

  “Oh, Sora, don’t you think that you have troubles enough, without taking on somebody else’s?” She puffs out her chest and reaches for the last of the buttons on my shirt, moving behind me to shrug the cloth from my shoulders. “Lift.” I lift first my right arm, then my left as she peels the sleeves away. It is an effort.

  “Please, Mama.”

  She sighs. “What is it?”

  “If I wanted to do something, a big, life something—true love, ambitions, career choice—would you try to stop me?”

  She considers, and I do not think she’s going to answer me, but then: “I’d want the best for you, Sora. Every mother does. And if your choices are not good ones, it is my job to see that you are steered right.”

  But how can she know what’s right? How can anybody know?

  I scowl, and my mother’s face softens. “But if there was a chance, no, I would not stop you. Ready?”

  I nod, and my mother stands before me, using her shoulders to take the weight of my chest and lift me from the chair. And as I plop, deadweight, onto the mattress, she whispers, “I would give you the moon, you know.”

  53

  After my mother said good night and switched off my light, I heard her sinking to the floor outside my room, holding her breath so I would not hear her tears. But I heard the absence of them. I almost cried out, just so she’d come in, but I could not.

  She would not want me to know.

  But it got me thinking about Mister Yamada, lying in his bed, in that room, trying to sleep in a place where death and despair hang in every breath of air. Alone.

  It isn’t right.

  I lay there all night, and by the time the sun rose, I’d made up my mind.

  I can’t fix everything, but he does not have to be alone.

  The wheels of my chair hum against the hospital floor as we approach Doctor Kobayashi’s office.

  There it is. The ward.

  “Stop.”

  “What is it?” My mother halts, panic in her voice.

  “I need to go in there.”

  “Where?”

  “There. That room. Please.”

  My mother, confused, does not question me, and as she presses the intercom buzzer, her words echo in my ears. I would give you the moon. My throat is sharp and tight, my face hot.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice speaks through the box.

  “Please, my son . . . he needs to . . .” She looks at me.

  “I need to see the patient in bed one. Yamada-san.”

  “He needs to see a Mister Yamada. I believe he’s in this ward.”

  The connection is cut, and we’re left with silence.

  My mother buzzes again, but nobody answers. My heart sinks.

  “Sorry, Sora. Perhaps we can try again after your appointment.”

  “Thanks.”

  She kicks off the first of my brakes before the ward door clicks open and a nurse’s face pops out.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello.” I bow.

  “You’re here for Yamada Eiji-san?” She looks worried.

  “Yes.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry. Are you family?”

  “No. I am a friend.”

  “I . . . I am afraid you are too late. Mister Yamada passed away this morning.”

  No.

  No. He can’t have.

  He can’t have died alone.

  I can feel the heat rising behind my eyes. But what right do I have to cry? I did not even know him.

  I swallow hard before I try my voice. I am surprised to find it works. “Was he at peace?”

  She looks at my chair, and then at my mother, before she answers steadily. “It was . . . a complex illness.”

  My mother’s hand finds my shoulder and squeezes until it hurts.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m sorry. I can only discuss this with family.”

  “Please. I need to know. Please.”

  “I wasn’t on shift, but his breathing had been getting worse. I’m sorry, I really cannot tell you any more.”

  “Thank you,” my mother says, and starts us down the hall before I can protest.

  While we’re waiting for Doctor Kobayashi, my mother asks, “Did you know him?”

  I think about last night, and wonder whether Yamada Eiji could feel me thinking of him. Whether he knew that someone cared.

  I hope so.

  “Not really. I met him once.”

  She nods, as though that makes it a little better. But it doesn’t.

  54

  I don’t know what I’m looking for, except for answers, but I shut myself up in my room as soon as we get home, and reach out to the Internet.

  He should not have died that way.

  He shouldn’t.

  It’s not right and I want answers.

  The Japan Society for Dying with Dignity campaigns for the rights of every person to chose to die with dignity and without the aid of futile life-sustaining treatment.

  There are difficult cases, they say. Why prolong life beyond its natural course? But they’re careful, focusing on passive death: adequate meds and the turning off of life support.

  Bioethics SWAT teams will be made available to families facing these difficult decisions.

  But Yamada-san’s family was absent.

  He had no one. And it isn’t fair.

  • • • •

  When Mai appears online, I’m so glad to see her that I send her a message almost before she’s properly logged in.

  Hi

  Hi :)

  All right?

  Not really

  I hear the clink of a new message, but I cannot see the words. Tears fall down my face, wet the neck of my T-shirt, sticky and shameful.

  I know Mai’s asking what is wrong, but I don’t know what to say.

  That a man I did not know just died?

  It’s stupid. And I can’t explain.

  And it wouldn’t matter even if I could, because he’s dead. Words won’t change a thing.

  Clink.

  Clink.

  CLINK.

  Is it possible for those sound effects to become insistent? Louder?

  I squeeze my eyes shut to force away the tears.

  What’s wrong?

  Sora?

  All right, that’s it . . .

  My cell phone rings loudly, startling me.

  It’s Mai.

  “Hello?” My voice shakes.

  “Sora! What is it?”

  “I . . .”

  She waits for me to answer, her breathing heavy with anticipation, and I imagine I can hear her heart beating through the phone.

  “What on earth is wrong, Sora? Talk to me!”

  “I . . . I don’t want to die alone!” The last word comes out as a wail.

  “What?” She’s shocked, and I’m instantly sorry, but I cannot stop.

  “I don’t want to die alone, and I don’t want to die like that.”

  “Like what? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. I just . . . I’m scared, Mai.”

  “You are not going to die alone, Sora. I’m not going anywhere, and neither’s Kaito, or your mother.”

  “But I’m still going to die, aren’t I? You can’t stop it. And it’s horrible. It’s so ugly and raw and I don’t want it.”

  “I know, Sora. I know.”

  We sit, saying nothing, and as I cry an ocean’s worth of silent tears, I think she’s crying with me.

  55

  What are you both doing next Sunday afternoon?

  UM . . . I SHOULD BE STUDYING.

  Can you study later?

  WHAAAT? THE GREAT MAI OF LEGENDARY GRADES WANTS TO ABANDON THE BOOKS?

  Yes. Please. It’s important.

  Sora? Can you make it?

  I’d have to ask Mama if she can take me whe
rever it is, but I think so.

  We’ll pick you up (:

  So, 3, at Sora’s apartment?

  OKAY.

  Okay.

  WHAT’S SO IMPORTANT?

  You’ll see (:

  UM, MAI . . . IS THIS GOING TO BE A BETTER SURPRISE THAN THE LAST TIME.

  I promise.

  OKAY THEN.

  56

  “Abe-san.” My friends bow in unison when my mother opens the door.

  “Do you want to come in, or are you in a hurry?”

  Initially, my mother forbade me from going out without her. “It isn’t safe,” she argued. “What if something happens?”

  But for once, I argued back, and in the end, she used my cell phone to call Mai and ask where we’d be going, and what time we’d return.

  She actually grinned at the answer.

  “We should go.”

  “Then I insist you stay for tea on your return. Sora, you have your wallet? Phone?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Okay then.” She moves out of the doorway and lets Kaito take the helm.

  • • • •

  As soon as our front door is closed, Kaito starts running down the hall toward the elevator.

  “Whoa! What’s the hurry?”

  “No hurry, just excitement,” he says, breathless, as we’re forced to stop and wait for the elevator.

  Mai catches up with us seconds later.

  “Maniacs,” she laughs.

  In the elevator, Kaito flexes his muscles, posing in the mirrored walls like some sort of cartoon strongman.

  “Oh yeah, like you have the physique for that!” Mai scoffs, grinning.

  He reels back in mock offense, but he cannot keep up the expression, and his face breaks into a grin.

  “Nerd.”

  “Thank you.” He bows to her.

  Never has the journey out of the building gone so fast, felt so light, and suddenly we’re wheeling out into the autumn sunshine.

  “So where are we going?” I ask.

  Mai skips excitedly and claps her hands together like a little girl on too much sugar. “I’m taking you both out for ice cream.”

  “Ice cream?” I can hear the puzzlement in Kaito’s voice. “What’s so important about ice cream?”

  She pirouettes on the spot and fixes him with an intense stare. “Kaito, Kaito, Kaito. Everything about ice cream is important. It is a healer. A joy bringer. A magical cure-all.”

  “You sound like a crazy old woman,” he laughs. “Three sips of this lizard oil at sundown and your health shall be restored.”

  “Haha, it’s exactly like that. I dare you to be sad after ice cream.”

  “Point taken. Although . . . I’m not sad in the first place.”

  Mai’s eyes flick to me and I shake my head, the tiniest of movements. But she sees.

  I do not want to have to explain it all again.

  “Well, then it’s a preventative measure. I like my friends happy.”

  It really is warm out here, and the sweet, sunned air bounces off the pavement.

  “I think it’s a brilliant idea, Mai. And perfect weather for it too.”

  “Yes!”

  “So where are we going? Anywhere particular?”

  “Nope. I thought we’d just walk along and pick the first place that sells ice cream we like.”

  “Okay then.” Kaito marches forward, a spring in his step that I can feel in the way he pushes my chair.

  Mai prances around us, almost dancing, and I watch the way her plaited hair bounces off her shoulders, the way her polka-dot skirt flares with every turn. The way her eyes crinkle at the edges when she smiles.

  • • • •

  “There!” Mai points across the street to a small, brightly lit parlor called The Happy Cone, with a cat painted on the sign. In the window is a poster that reads EVERY FLAVOR YOU IMAGINE.

  The vendor is an old man, who nods kindly as we enter.

  “What can I get you, young things?”

  Kaito pushes me up to the counter so I can see what’s on offer. There are at least fifty flavors, and as many choices again in topping form. There’s coconut, vanilla, and peach-raspberry, and at the far end sweet potato, wasabi-chocolate, tea, and squid ink.

  “Chocolate chocolate-chip for me, please,” Kaito says. “With . . . cherry sauce.”

  The old man nods and heaps three generous scoops into a bowl.

  “What would you like, Sora?” Mai asks.

  “Can I mix flavors?”

  The man nods.

  I scan the rows again, imagining each flavor in turn as I try to decide. “Then . . . a coffee cream, a blackberry, aaaand . . .” Finally my eyes settle on the brightest green tub. “Lime. Thank you.”

  “And I’ll have strawberry please. With lemon sprinkles.”

  We settle at the table by the window, and for a moment we’re each lost in sensory pleasure of sweet-tart mouthfuls, cold on the tongue, melting as we swallow.

  Mai’s right. Nobody can be sad over a bowl of ice cream.

  “So,” she says, looking up from her dish, “if you were an ice cream flavor, what would you be?”

  Kaito leans back in his chair, rests his arms behind his head, and drawls, “Well, since I’ll be roughly eighty percent chocolate by the time I finish this bowl, I think that’s my answer. It’s probably your basic village-boy answer, but it’s true. I like chocolate.”

  “Okay. Sora?”

  “Errr, squid ink. I’m an acquired taste.”

  “Hah. I dare you to try it!”

  “Umm . . . maybe later. Go on, your turn.”

  Mai glances at the counter with its rainbow of flavors. “I don’t even knooooow.”

  “Come on, you can’t ask us and not have an answer yourself!”

  “But there’s so many! And I don’t know who I am, at all.”

  “I do.” Kaito’s voice is soft. “You’d be something sweet, but fresh. Peach. With warm buttered-toast croutons on top.”

  Her cheeks flare, and she bites her bottom lip, embarrassed.

  But he’s right. That is exactly what she’d be.

  “Okay, next question. If you could do anything before you die”—they look at me nervously, but I continue—“what would it be?”

  “Does it have to be realistic?”

  “No. Anything.”

  They think for a while, and I scoop up another mouthful of ice cream—a little of each, all on the spoon together. I swirl the flavors around my tongue, until, separate at first, they all melt into one another and become something new.

  Mai pulls a pen from somewhere and starts doodling on a napkin as she thinks. I try not to look, but her swift, confident strokes are arresting and I cannot help it.

  On the back wall, behind the old man, there is a painted mural of a smiling cat and his canary friends all dining on a giant bowl of multicolored, cherry-topped ice cream. But in Mai’s version, they are standing not around dessert, but around a gravestone.

  She sees me looking and shelters the paper behind her arm, but she does not stop. After a while, she speaks. “I’d travel around the world drawing everything I see, and then I’d turn my experiences into an animated film: Little Monkey Sees the World.”

  “I’d go to see that.”

  “Me too.”

  She smiles shyly. “Kai?”

  “I’d join the circus. Be an acrobat, flying through the air, all muscles and dexterity and grace.” He stops, registering the disbelief on Mai’s face. “Hey! What? He said it didn’t have to be real, and an acrobat is everything I’m not. Besides, it looks like fun.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mai bows her head, but I think I see her trying not to laugh. “Sora?”

  I have a hundred thousand wishes, but they’re too heavy for a day like this. I will not let them ruin it.

  “This.” I shrug. “Sitting in the sun over ice cream with my friends.”

  “You wouldn’t . . . oh, I don’t know, travel back in time to meet
the samurai? Or go to Paris? Or—”

  “No.”

  “All right, mister,” Mai comes to my rescue. “Let’s make this day even better. Squid-ink ice cream. Do you dare?”

  “What universe do you live in where squid ink makes things better?”

  “Hahaha. All right. More interesting then. Memories, Sora, it’s all about forming the memories.”

  “Okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. I will if you will.”

  Her nose wrinkles all the way up, but she nods, gathers our empty bowls, and heads over to the counter.

  “Three bowls of squid-ink ice cream please.”

  “Three?” Kaito protests. “I don’t remember agreeing to that!”

  “Oh come on. We’re making memories, Kai. You can’t miss out on this.”

  “I could.”

  “No! You’ll regret it, when we’re back at home.”

  He sighs, but when she brings over three bowls, he takes his without further complaint.

  The ice cream is a silky gray, and sits in the bowl like smooth pebbles.

  “Here we go,” I say.

  The others dig their spoons into the dessert too.

  I lift mine to my nose and sniff. It smells like cinder toffee and the sea. At the same time. My mouth waters.

  “Are we sure about this?” Kaito asks, eyeing the lump on his spoon.

  “Yes,” says Mai. “One, two, three.”

  Spoons raise, mouths open. In.

  I watch the others’ faces try to work around uncertainty, revulsion, shock, then pleasure. Like children with sweet lemons.

  It is exactly how I imagined, and yet not at all. The saltiness of it fizzes on my tongue, and then there is the weight of sugar. Caramel.

  “Hey! This is good.”

  Mai giggles. And Kaito joins in. And behind the counter the old man smiles.

  Yes. This is what I’d do with my last days.

  57

  Almost before the door is closed, Doctor Kobayashi says, “I heard about Yamada Eiji’s passing. I’m sorry.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t know him.”

  “No.” She pauses, offers me a sympathetic smile. “But in a way, you did.”

  “I just . . .”

  “Yes?”

  How do I explain it?

  This room, with its neatly ordered files and tiny tree, is too small for my fears. Too safe to set them free.