I Want to Eat Your Pancreas

by Yoru Sumino

  Two

  It had started in April, when the late-blooming sakura trees still held their cherry blossoms.

  Medical science continued to make advancements, whether I knew about them or not, and I mostly didn’t. Nor did I care to.

  What I later learned was that modern medicine had advanced far enough to permit at least one girl a normal life, even when a serious illness left her with less than one year to live. So normal was her life that if she chose to keep her disease a secret, no one would suspect a thing. In other words, mankind had gained the power to extend her life as it was before.

  When I thought about it, carrying on as if everything was normal—despite suffering a serious illness—seemed more machinelike than human. But no one in that position had any reason to give a damn about what I thought.

  My classmate certainly didn’t let any such concerns obstruct her from enjoying the benefits of modern medical science.

  She’d been sloppy letting her secret out, and unluckily it was to someone like me—just some guy who happened to be in the same class as her.

  The day I’d learned her secret, I went to the hospital instead of school for my appendectomy—not the surgery itself, but because I needed to get the stitches taken out. The doctor said I had recovered fine, and the stitch removal was over quickly. I would have been able to go back to school, if only just a little late, but the wait had been long, typical of a large hospital, and I was inclined to take the excuse to skip. And so, I lingered in the lobby for a while.

  The events that followed were caused by a mere passing impulse. I noticed a book stranded on a solitary couch in the lobby’s corner, some distance removed from the other seating. I assumed someone must have accidently left the book behind. Curiosity and anticipation filled me, of the kind only a bibliophile knew, and the impulse compelled me into motion.

  I weaved my way through the waiting patients to the couch and sat there. The paperback-sized book was fairly thick; at first glance I judged it to be at least three hundred pages. Its owner had added a protective cover, made of paper, that I recognized from a bookstore near the hospital.

  I removed the outer cover and was a little surprised by what I found. Instead of an actual dust jacket, someone had handwritten on the blank cover with a thick magic marker: Living with Dying. The name didn’t ring any bells, either as the title of a book or a potential publisher.

  Since thinking about it couldn’t make me remember something I didn’t know, I flipped the book open to the first page. The words weren’t printed in a familiar typeface, but rather written neatly in ballpoint pen.

  Someone had written this by hand.

  November 23—

  Starting today, I plan to record my thoughts and activities in this book, which I’m titling “Living with Dying.” I’m not telling anyone outside my immediate family, but in a few years, I’ll be dead. I’m writing this so I can accept it, and so I can keep on living with my sickness. As for what’s wrong with my pancreas, so far, it’s all mostly been over my head. They say the disease was only isolated and identified recently. At the time, everyone who had it died almost right away, but now the doctors can keep most of the symptoms from showing.

  My eyes stopped taking in the words as I tried to process what I’d read. A few words, things I’d never had cause to say aloud before, escaped my lips unbidden.

  “Pancreas… I’ll be dead.”

  It was a diary, chronicling someone’s battle with—or rather, co-existence with—a terminal disease. This wasn’t something I should read.

  I was closing the journal when someone spoke to me.

  “Um…” she said.

  I looked up and saw a girl from my class. I was surprised because I knew who she was, but I didn’t let it show on my face. She may have approached me for some reason unrelated to the book.

  Usually, not much bothers me, but looking back, I think that part of me didn’t want to accept the possibility one of my peers had been doomed to an imminent death.

  I put on the sort of mildly interested expression that you give a classmate who comes over to talk to you and waited for her to say something. She held out her hand, palm up, and made a mockery of my flimsy hopes.

  “That’s mine,” she said. “How come you’re at the hospital, [Unremarkable Classmate]-kun?”

  I’d barely exchanged a few words with her before this moment, and I knew nothing about her except she was cheerful and bubbly, completely unlike me. I was taken aback; someone she barely knew had come into knowledge of her serious illness. How, then, could she wear such a brave smile?

  I decided to pretend I hadn’t read any of it. It would be for the best—both for me and her.

  “I had my appendix removed last week,” I said. “I had to get the stitches taken out.”

  “Oh, I see. They had to run some tests on my pancreas. If the doctors don’t keep an eye on it, I’ll die.”

  What was she doing? I was trying to be considerate, and she was shattering my efforts. I tried, unsuccessfully, to read her expression and figure out her true intentions. Her smile deepened, and she flopped onto the couch next to me.

  “Is that such a surprise?” she asked. Then, as casually as if she were recommending any normal novel, she said, “You started reading it, didn’t you—Living with Dying?”

  I thought, So that’s what this is—just some practical joke. It just happened to be me who took the bait. That we were passing acquaintances was just coincidence.

  “All right, I’ll come clean,” she started saying. This was it. Time to reveal the joke. “You caught me by surprise. When I realized my book was missing, I came here frantically searching for it, and I find you holding it.”

  She was losing me. “What’s this all about?”

  “My book. Living with Dying. You were reading it. I started writing in it, kind of like a journal, after I found out about my pancreas.”

  “This is a joke, right?”

  She let out a roaring laugh, undeterred by the hushed hospital setting. “Just how dark a sense of humor do you think I have? Some twisted prank that would be. No, what I wrote is real. My pancreas doesn’t work, and I’m going to die soon. That’s what it is.”

  I paused for a beat that stretched on to something longer.

  “Oh, okay,” I said.

  “What?” she said, sounding disappointed. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “Well, what’s someone supposed to say when they find out their classmate is going to die soon?”

  She hummed in thought. “I’d probably be too stunned to say anything.”

  “Right. Really, you should be impressed I managed to say anything at all.”

  “Good point,” she said with a giggle. I didn’t see what she found so funny.

  With that, she took back her book and waved goodbye. Before leaving for the examination rooms, she said, “I’m keeping it a secret from everybody, so don’t tell anyone in class, okay?”

  After she left, I mostly felt relief, confident this would be the end of our interaction.

  But then the next morning, she came up to me in the hallway to say hi. And then, worse yet, she volunteered to join the student librarians—rather, student librarian, I should say, as the students in our school were free to decide our own activities, and up until now, I was the only one who’d chosen to work in the library. I didn’t understand what reason she had to join me, but I’d always been the type to just go where the flow took me, and I didn’t put up a fight. Dutifully, I taught the new librarian how to do our work.

  ***

  Arguably, it was that single paperback journal that led me to stand outside the train station at eleven on Sunday morning. You never can know what will act as a trigger.

  I was like a boat made of reeds, flowing with life’s currents, never one to turn against a strong force. So I didn’t reject her invitation—not that she gave me an opening to reject it—and here I was at the meeting place.

  I supposed I could have stood
her up, but if I wronged her, it would have only given her something to hold over me, and who knew what she would demand of me then. Unlike me, she was an icebreaker ship steering whichever way she pleased. To oppose her head-on would be unwise.

  The sculpture in front of the station was a popular meeting place in our town. I arrived there five minutes early; she showed up right on time.

  I hadn’t seen her dressed in anything but the school uniform since our encounter at the hospital. She was wearing a simple outfit of a T-shirt and jeans.

  She walked over with a grin, and I half-raised my arm in greeting.

  “Morning!” she said. “I was just wondering what I’d do if you stood me up.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it,” I admitted.

  “But it looks like it worked out.”

  “I’m not sure that’s quite how I’d phrase it, but sure. So then, what are we doing today?”

  “That’s the spirit. Now you’re gettin’ into it.”

  The sun was bright, and she wore that same grin that seemed to make her true situation a lie. Incidentally, I wasn’t, quote, gettin’ into it.

  She said, “Let’s go to the city and figure it out from there.”

  “I don’t like crowds,” I replied.

  “Do you have enough money for the train? I can give you some if you need.”

  “I’ve got enough.”

  She easily plowed through my meager resistance, and we were soon on our way to the city. As I’d feared, the massive train station, with its variety of shops and restaurants, was packed with enough people to overwhelm anyone who was uncomfortable around strangers.

  Walking beside me, my classmate was in perfectly fine spirits, seemingly unphased by the volume of people around us. I again found myself doubting that she would soon be dead, even though she’d presented me with plenty of official papers that left no room for doubts.

  We exited the turnstiles, and though the crowds grew thicker, she pressed on without hesitation. Then—finally—she told me what we had come for.

  “First up—yakiniku!” she exclaimed.

  “Yakiniku? It’s still morning. I hardly feel like grilling a bunch of meat this early in the day.”

  “Does meat taste any different in the afternoon or at night?”

  “I can’t say I’ve personally noticed a difference, but then again, I don’t eat meat all day.”

  “Then there’s no problem,” she said. “I want to eat yakiniku.”

  “I had breakfast at ten,” I said.

  “It’ll be fine. Everyone likes yakiniku.”

  “Don’t you want to at least discuss it?”

  Apparently, she didn’t.

  All further protests were in vain. The next thing I knew, I was seated across the table from her, with the standard tabletop charcoal grill between us. I had the boat of reeds act down pat. The lighting was low, but we could see each other just fine—even if we didn’t really need to—thanks to the pendant lights above each of the mostly empty tables.

  Before long, a young waiter crouched at the end of our table to take our order. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do, but my classmate easily responded like a math student reciting a well-memorized formula.

  “We’ll take this course,” she said, pointing at the menu. “The most expensive one.”

  “Hold up,” I interjected. “I don’t have that much money on me.”

  “It’s fine. I’m paying.” Then to the waiter, she continued, “The most expensive all-you-can-eat course.” She glanced at me. “Oolong tea should be fine for our drinks, right?”

  Caught up in her momentum, I nodded. The waiter hurriedly repeated the order and ducked back into the kitchen. Maybe he was worried my classmate might change her mind.

  Gleefully, the girl said, “Oh, I’m looking forward to this.”

  “Um,” I said, “I’ll pay you back later.”

  “I said it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat. I have some money saved up from my after-school job that I have to burn through.”

  Before I die, she didn’t say, but I was sure that was what she meant.

  “This is even worse than your decision to join me at the library,” I said. “I’m telling you, you’ve got to spend your time on something more meaningful.”

  “This is meaningful. It would be no fun eating yakiniku all by myself, now would it? I’m spending my money for my enjoyment.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Just as I was mounting my resistance, the waiter reappeared, saying, “Two oolong teas. Sorry for the wait.”

  The girl had on a big grin. She couldn’t have orchestrated a better way to escape an unwelcome topic.

  After the tea came a plate piled high with meat. The various artfully arranged, thinly sliced cuts looked expensive and delicious. Marbled, even. It almost looked good enough to eat raw, though that would have likely drawn some complaints.

  The wire mesh grill seemed to have heated up enough, and the girl excitedly put on her first slice of meat. The pleasant sizzle and aroma socked me straight in the stomach. I was, after all, still a growing boy, and fighting hunger wasn’t a winning battle. I chose a cut of meat and placed it on the grill next to hers. The high-quality beef cooked quickly above the hot coals.

  “Itadakimasu!” she said, offering a quick word of thanks to whoever was listening. She retrieved her meat with her chopsticks and ate it with a “Yum!”

  “Itadakimasu.” I ate mine and remarked, “Okay, it’s pretty good.”

  “What?” she said. “That’s all your reaction is? It’s freaking delicious, right? Or am I just making more out of this because I’m dying soon?”

  No, it really was delicious. I just wasn’t as keyed up about it as she was.

  As we kept eating, she said, “This is so good. This must be how rich people eat all the time.”

  “I don’t think rich people go to all-you-can-eat places.”

  “That’s too bad for them. They could be eating all this tasty meat all they want.”

  “Everything’s all-you-can-eat to a rich person,” I said.

  I hadn’t thought I was especially hungry, but soon our plate for two was empty. She picked up the menu from the edge of the table and looked it over.

  She asked, “Are you all right with whatever?”

  “I’ll leave it to you,” I said.

  I’ll leave it to you. That phrase suited me well.

  Without a word, she raised her hand, and the waiter appeared fast enough to make me suspect he’d been watching us. I shrank back a little, feeling put off by his excessive devotion to his job. My classmate glanced at me over the menu as she rattled off her order.

  “Reed tripe, baby bag, rifle, bee’s nest, raincoat, heart, necktie, heart stem, airbags, book tripe, and sweetbread.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said. “What on earth are you ordering?”

  I felt awkward getting in the way of our waiter’s job, but I couldn’t help cutting in when my classmate was saying all these unfamiliar things.

  “Necktie?” I asked. “Like the kind you wear?”

  “What are you talking about?” she said to me. Then to the waiter, she added, “Don’t mind him. Just bring out one order of each cut.”

  The waiter nodded, then left to put in the order with a pleasant smile.

  I was still trying to catch up. “You said something about bees. Do they serve bugs here?”

  “Don’t you know?” she said. “Necktie and bee’s nest are words for certain parts of a cow. I like eating offal.”

  “You mean like cow organs? I didn’t know cow parts had such unusual names.”

  “Not just cows—we do too, you know. Like the funny bone.”

  “I guess.”

  “And by the way, sweetbread is the pancreas,” she said.

  I asked, “You’re not eating cow organs to try to heal yourself, are you?”

  “I just think they taste good. If someone asked me my fav
orite thing, I’d answer offal. I love it!”

  “I’m not sure what to say to that.”

  “I forgot to order rice. Do you need any?”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  After a little while, the server returned with a large platter almost overflowing with beef organs. The picture was even more grotesque than I’d imagined, and I immediately lost my appetite.

  My classmate ordered some steamed rice and began happily placing pieces of meat onto the grill. I helped her out of obligation.

  She looked at me, noticing I wasn’t helping myself to the oddly shaped cuts. “Here, this one’s done,” she said, placing a whitish mass with a honeycomb-like pattern onto my plate. Since I didn’t believe in letting food go to waste, I pushed through my trepidation and put it into my mouth.

  “Tastes good, right?” she said.

  Truth be told, it was much better than I expected. The meat was savory and had a pleasant texture. But I was beginning to feel vaguely annoyed, like she was having fun at my expense, and I decided to answer with a vague shrug. She grinned at me, though I didn’t understand why; I rarely did.

  I noticed she was out of tea, so I called over the waiter and ordered her a refill along with some normal meat.

  I mostly ate the regular meat, and she mostly munched on the offal. Sometimes I would eat a piece of the organs, and she’d give me that irritating grin. But then I stole another piece from her just as she’d finished carefully cooking it, and her yelp of protest made me feel a little better.

  We were having a good time, when suddenly she said, “I don’t want to be cremated.”

  It was so out of place, all I could respond with was, “Huh?”

  I thought I might have heard her wrong, but her expression turned serious. She repeated, “I don’t want to be cremated. After I die.”

  “We’re grilling meat, and that’s seriously what you want to talk about?”

  She went on. “It’s like permanently removing someone from the world. I wonder if I could just have everyone eat me instead.”

  “Let’s not talk about your dead body while I’m trying to have some meat, okay?”

  “You can eat my pancreas,” she said.