I looked at Cabbage.
While I’d been thinking, he’d curled up and gone to sleep on the bench. With his four white feet tucked in and folded under his black and grey fur, he looked like a perfectly round throw-pillow. I stroked him and felt his little heart beating away. It was almost unbelievable that such a life force flowed through this small creature, as he lay there so still, sleeping peacefully.
I’ve heard it said a mammal’s heart beats around two billion times during its lifetime. The life expectancy of, for example, an elephant, is about fifty years. For horses it’s twenty years, and cats ten years, while a mouse will last only for about two years.
But whatever the average lifespan, all of their hearts beat around two billion times. The average life expectancy of a human being is seventy years. I wondered if my heart had beaten two billion times.
My whole life up to this point, I’d faced what I thought was an infinite tomorrow. But once I discovered that my life would indeed end, it felt more like the future was coming to meet me. Now I found myself heading toward a future that was set in stone. At least, that’s how I felt.
How ironic. For the first time in my life I was taking a long hard look at my future, but only after being told that I didn’t have long to live.
The right side of my head began to hurt and I was finding it difficult to breathe.
I didn’t want to die yet. I wanted to go on living.
So tomorrow I’d once again make something disappear from the world.
Which is to say, something would have to disappear from my future, so that I might live longer.
Cabbage slept on.
The park had emptied of children and the sun had moved further and further toward the west. Cabbage finally woke up. He stretched as far as he could without falling off the bench and let out a great yawn, which he seemed to take his time recovering from. Cabbage stared at me lazily.
“I say, shall we go now?”
Cabbage, still groggy from just having woken up, spoke in a pretty condescending tone, addressing no one in particular. He jumped down from the bench and sauntered off with his usual jaunty stride.
Cabbage headed toward the street that led to the station, through the shopping district. He stopped in front of a soba shop and gave a loud meow. The shop owner emerged with a handful of bonito flakes left over from the day’s batch of soup stock, which they served with the noodles. Once he’d polished off his winnings, Cabbage licked his chops and walked off, muttering “excellent” under his breath as he went. With this kind of behavior it was difficult to tell who was the master and who was the pet.
It seemed Cabbage had become quite the local celebrity in the shopping district. Wherever he went, people who knew him shouted hello. It looked like I’d become the retainer of the lofty-speaking cat. Though on the other hand, Cabbage’s popularity meant that I was able to buy vegetables and fish and everything else on sale. Who would have thought that there was such a thing as a cat discount!
“From now on I’m always going shopping with you!” I told Cabbage, carrying as many shopping bags as I could in each hand.
“Yes, that’s all very well. Now you can make me a meal I actually like.”
“That’s what I always do. How about that cat food, Neko-Manma, that I always feed you?”
Cabbage skipped a little ahead of me then suddenly stopped in his tracks.
“What’s wrong?”
He looked pretty angry.
“Regarding this so-called Neko-Manma . . . there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you for some time now.”
“What? OK, go ahead. Say it.”
“Just what is this stuff you call Neko-Manma anyway?”
“Huh?”
“It’s just a hodgepodge of table scraps and other questionable material you humans have thrown together and given a pretty name to.”
He seemed to be about to burst with frustration and let out a gruff yowl. He went over to a nearby telephone pole and began sharpening his claws by digging them into the wood.
I hadn’t realized how much he hated what I’d been feeding him. Again I thought about all the customs we humans have just made up. Just then the little apartment we lived in together appeared in the distance, down the hill from where we were.
After we got home we ate grilled fish together (the real thing), and continued our quiet and relaxing day.
“So, Cabbage . . .”
“What is it?”
“You’ve really forgotten all about Mom?”
“I don’t remember a thing.”
“That’s so sad.”
“How so?”
I didn’t know how to explain to Cabbage why it was sad. And I couldn’t blame Cabbage for forgetting either. But at the same time, I wanted to tell him something about the time he spent with Mom . . . I mean, that was real. There was no denying it happened.
I stood up, went over to the closet, and pulled out an old cardboard box. Inside the dust-covered box there was a dark-red photo album. I wanted to show the album to Cabbage.
I turned the pages and explained to Cabbage what was in each photo.
I showed him a photo of the old rocking chair where Mom used to sit with him, rocking back and forth with him on her lap. This is you, Cabbage. This is where you always sat. And this is the ball of yarn you liked so much. You’d play here for hours on end. And here’s the worn-out old tin bucket where you used to curl up and go to sleep. I remember you peering out at Mom. And there’s that old green towel you liked. It was Mom’s favorite, but you adopted it. Then there’s the little toy piano that Mom bought you for Christmas. What a picture. Here you are playing on the toy piano. You were a bit rough with it, but what a performance. And then this one, the Christmas tree. I remember when Mom decorated the tree each year you’d get too excited. You’d tear everything down as soon as Mom got it up, so she always had a really hard time. Oh, and this one. This is you jumping out at the Christmas tree. What a mess. You were really something, Cabbage. But Mom looks happy in all these photos.
We finished one album then started on another. I kept talking to Cabbage. I told him about Lettuce and that rainy day he came to live with us. How when Lettuce died Mom just sort of shut down. She wouldn’t move or go out. Then I told Cabbage about the day she found him, and all the happy days that came after that. And I told him about how Mom got sick. Cabbage sat quietly and listened closely to every word.
Every once in a while I’d ask Cabbage if he remembered any of these things, but he seemed to have forgotten everything. Then suddenly, looking at one photo, his eyes lit up.
It was early in the morning at a beautiful spot on the coast. In the picture I’m wearing a yukata, an informal summer kimono. And Mom and Dad are in the photo too. We’re pushing Mom in a wheelchair, and on her lap sits Cabbage with a grumpy look on his face. Dad and I are laughing, though looking a bit embarrassed. The laughing faces were unusual and caught my eye.
“Who is this?” Cabbage asked with interest. It was the first time Dad had appeared in any of the pictures.
“That’s my father,” I answered him curtly. I didn’t want to talk about my father.
“Where was this picture taken?”
“I think this was taken at the hot springs we visited together.”
There was a date printed on the photo. It was only a week before Mom died.
“Mom was hospitalized and couldn’t move around on her own anymore. Then suddenly she said she wanted to go to a hot spring.”
“Why was that?”
“I think she probably wanted to leave us with a nice memory. She rarely took trips anywhere.”
Cabbage stared intently at the photo.
“Did you remember something?”
“I . . . I think so. I think I’m starting to feel something.”
It looked like Cabbage might have recovered a fragment of his memory. I wanted to see if I could get him to retrieve a little more so I carried on showing him photos and talking him th
rough them.
The one from four years ago . . .
Mother’s condition had become hopeless. She was throwing up and in pain every day. She couldn’t sleep. But then one morning she woke up and suddenly called me into her room. She said she wanted to go to a hot spring, somewhere where she could see the ocean.
I was bewildered by this sudden request, and asked her again and again if she was sure she wanted to take the trip. I couldn’t tell whether she really meant it or not. But Mom really wanted to go. She hadn’t made any special requests up to that point, so I was surprised.
I managed to convince the doctor to let her out for just a day or two, but then she revealed her plan.
“I want the whole family to come. You and your father and Cabbage.”
That’s what mattered to her. To have the whole family together.
Despite my mother’s condition, I hadn’t exchanged one word with my father during the whole time she’d been ill. I don’t think I’d even made eye contact with him. Our relationship, or lack thereof, had hardened over the years. Once we’d established that we never spoke, then that was just the way it was, it had gone on so long. So you can imagine I balked at the idea of going on a trip to a hot spring with him, or even talking to him about it. But I knew that this would be my mother’s last trip, so I took a deep breath and decided to see if I could convince my father to come.
“What a stupid idea,” my father replied—which was his response to just about everything. But despite my feelings of disgust and the mental exhaustion that came from trying to communicate with him in any way, I persisted and managed to convince him.
It was the last trip my mother ever took. And also the first time I’d ever traveled any significant distance with her, so I went out of my way to put together an especially nice itinerary. It was a three-hour trip by train to a hot spring on the coast. The beach stretched as far as the eye could see, bathed in soft sunlight. It was an elegant inn with a beautiful view of the coastline. My mother had seen the place in a photo in a magazine—it was somewhere she’d always wanted to go.
The inn was perfect—a traditional old farmhouse built over a hundred years ago, remodeled for use as a hotel. There were only two rooms, and a dazzling view of the ocean from the second floor. There was a pretty rustic outside bathing area and beyond that, the coast spread out into the distance. You could sit and watch the sunset. I was sure Mom would be happy with the choice so I put everything I had into getting a reservation there.
So on the appointed day the whole family set out on our trip, with the doctors and nurses waving us off in front of the hospital. It was the first time in a long while that the whole family, all three of us plus the cat, had gone away together.
In the train we sat facing each other in crowded seats, with my father and me barely speaking. Mom was opposite us, just smiling and watching. We survived the three hours spent together in the same communal space, and then just when we were approaching our limit, the train arrived, the conductor loudly announcing the stop for the hot spring.
I pushed my mother in her wheelchair and, feeling hopeful, we headed for the inn.
But when we got there, disaster struck: my reservation hadn’t gone through, and someone else had taken the room.
I couldn’t believe it. I told them again and again that I had made a booking over the phone. I told them how much this meant to my mother—how it would be her last trip. But they refused to listen to my pleas. The owner expressed her apologies very politely, but wouldn’t budge. I was at a loss, and felt devastated that I hadn’t been able to do something to make my mother happy.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, smiling. But I couldn’t forgive myself. I was so frustrated and disappointed I thought I might cry. Not knowing what to do, I just stood there in stunned silence.
Then my father patted me on the shoulder with one of those large, firm hands of his.
“Well, we can’t have your mother camping out in her condition. I’ll go find something.”
Then Dad ran out the door of the inn. I had never seen him move so fast my whole life. So I ran after him.
Dad raced between the nearby inns, checking whether they had any rooms available. Growing up, I only ever saw my father in his shop, sitting silently and still, repairing clocks. I couldn’t believe he could move at such speed. Even when he came to watch me play sports at school he would always sit absolutely still, like a rock. This was the first time in my life I’d ever seen him run, for any reason.
“Your father was actually pretty fast on his feet back in the old days.”
I remembered what my mother had said as I dashed around, trying to keep up with my father, who despite his compact, muscular frame, ran around the hot-spring resort with surprising grace.
It was high season and all of the inns were full. We ran around trying everywhere, but were turned away time and time again. Some places only one of us would try, others we went to together, pleading with the inn-keepers. We just couldn’t leave Mom without a decent place to stay. We wanted to make this trip special for her. That was the first time—maybe the only time—since becoming an adult that my father’s feelings and my own were in sync.
After scouring the inns lining the beach, running backwards and forwards, we finally found a vacancy. It was dark, and the outside looked a bit shabby. It looked a bit older than the other inns and was a bit rundown. Our first impressions were confirmed when we went inside and the floorboards creaked as we walked up to the front desk.
“It’s a pretty good inn,” Mother said, beaming, as we brought her in. But I felt awful having her stay in a place like this. But as Dad said, it couldn’t be helped—Mom couldn’t exactly camp out in her condition. So lacking any alternative, that’s where we stayed.
The state of the place may not have been great, but the innkeeper was warm and friendly. The meal wasn’t exactly extravagant, but the cook had obviously put his heart into it, and it was delicious. Mom exclaimed over and over again how good it was there, and how good the food was. Seeing her smiling made me feel a bit better.
That night we all slept in one big tatami room, our futons lined up all in a row. It was the first time in ten years that we’d been together like that.
Staring up at the old wooden ceiling, I was reminded of the house we lived in when I was in elementary school. It didn’t have many rooms, and the entire family slept together upstairs in the only bedroom, futons next to one another.
Now, twenty years later, we found ourselves doing the same thing. It was a strange feeling. And it would be the last time we would ever be together like this. With all these thoughts running through my head, I couldn’t sleep. I wonder if Mom and Dad felt the same way. It was quiet, and the only sound I could hear in the small dark room was Cabbage’s breathing, blending in with, but just detectable above, the rhythmic sound of the ocean’s waves.
Finally it began to get lighter outside. It was maybe four or five in the morning. I got up off my futon, and sat in the window seat. I opened the curtain and looked outside. To my surprise, the old inn sat so close to the beach that the sea occupied most of the view that I saw before me. It had already been dark by the time we found the inn, so I hadn’t noticed how close we were.
For a while I sat there and gazed at the ocean, which—wrapped in pale morning light—looked like something from a dream. Then I noticed that my parents were both awake. They both had circles under their eyes. I guess they hadn’t been able to sleep either.
Mother, still wearing her bedtime yukata, looked out the window at the panoramic view of the sea and suggested that we all go for a walk on the beach.
“Let’s take some pictures. I love walking on the beach in the morning.”
Cabbage was still sleeping, so Mom grabbed him and put him on her lap. She adjusted her yukata and was ready to go. Once she was ready in her wheelchair, off we went to the beach. The early morning light was still dim and it was a bit chilly. Mom wanted to go closer to the water, but it
was difficult pushing the wheelchair in the wet sand. After a while I couldn’t get it to move at all. Then the sun began to rise, its rays falling on the surface of the ocean creating a sparkling effect. All three of us stopped, captivated by how beautiful the scene was.
“Hurry up! Take a picture!”
Mom’s yells brought me back to myself and I took out the camera and got it ready. Dad and I took turns taking pictures. Meanwhile the innkeeper came out and offered to take a picture of all of us. With the ocean behind her, Mom sat in her wheelchair with the two of us on either side of her. Dad and I crouched so that our heads would be on the same level, and Cabbage, who had finally woken up, made a face, then let out a big yawn from Mom’s lap.
“OK, cheese!”
The owner of the inn snapped the shutter.
“Thank you!” we shouted in unison.
Then the innkeeper said, “One more!” and we lined up again, this time standing.
“OK, smile . . . Cheesecake!”
The innkeeper’s earnest efforts to get us to smile, and his friendliness—which was just short of overbearing—made us all laugh, and just at that moment, the shutter snapped.
“Did you remember anything?”
I prodded Cabbage again after I finished my story.
“Apologies, old boy. I tried, but I just don’t remember.”
“That’s too bad, Cabbage.”
“I’m really sorry. I just can’t help it. No matter how hard I try I can’t remember anything. Except perhaps one thing . . .”
“One thing?”
“I was happy. That’s all I remember.”
“You were happy?”
“Yes. That’s what I remember when I look at these photos. Simply that I was happy.”
It seemed odd to me that Cabbage couldn’t remember any of the details of the trip, not the inn, not even Mom herself, but that he could remember he’d been happy. But something in what Cabbage had said made me think, and then finally I realized . . . Mom didn’t want that trip just for herself. She wanted me and Dad to make up.
If Cats Disappeared From the World Page 9