The Last Leaves Falling (9 page)

13

I lie on my bed, flipping through pages of a history book, and pause at a photo of the very first Festival of Ages.

Are the emperors’ spirits
really
still there? More than just a symbol? Do they really get to walk the streets and see what their city has become?

Down the hallway, I hear Mama shuffling toward the phone. Like clockwork, every week.

What would it be like, seeing everything change year after year, for centuries?

I think I would like it, watching history being written.

Except . . . so little still stands from 794, and to watch all that crumble and fade . . .

A world without Ojiisan and Bah-Ba or my mother flashes through my mind, and I have to tune in to her voice just to know she’s there.

“Eeeehh! Otosan! You should put some traps down . . . No, I know they’re not humane, but . . .” Her voice is so indignant. Strong. And I imagine Ojiisan sucking in his breath, bristling at her suggestion.
“Traps? Where is the honor for the little things?”

Because being hunted by a cat is so much better; full of pride and honor and a chance to get away.

When I was young, my grandparents’ cat was as fierce as a pirate, a scarred and grumbling beast who chased anything and anyone except the family who fed him. Then he grew old and round, and slept all day beside the fire.

He died last winter, and since then, the mice have returned.

I know that mice are nothing more than a nuisance; that at the end of the line, Ojiisan will be laughing at my mother’s delicate city manner, but still, for a moment I imagine fat demonic creatures scurrying about inside the walls, waiting to feed on my grandparents at night. I shudder; maybe Mama’s right.

“And you wonder why we don’t . . . No. I don’t mean that. I mean . . .” I’ve heard this conversation before, although Mama thinks she hides it. “What he
needs
is doctors, Otosan. Experts. A regimen of relaxation. Not . . .” She stops. “I’m sorry. Anyway, there’s all those stairs.”

She
is
right about the last part. But I imagine my last days regimented like the old man in the hospital, color-coded, timed down to the final seconds, surrounded by not-quite-fresh bouquets of flowers and cards from our well-meaning neighbors, and I find myself gasping for the country air.

•  •  •  •

BRrRrRrRrRrRrR

What?!

Oh. Chat-room message.

I lay my book down on the duvet, push myself up onto my elbows, and swing my legs off of the bed.

BRrRrRrRrRrRrR

Hup!
And I’m in my chair, spinning around
BRrRrRrRrRrRrR
to face the desk. All right!

The monitor blinks into life, and there it is:

Hi, SamuraiMan! How was your day? I hope I wasn’t untoward yesterday. I didn’t mean to cause offense. I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk to me, or anyone. I didn’t mean to be so rude. Okay—bai!

I read the message again and then I just stare at it. I should reply, but . . .

Um . . . hi.

The cursor blinks after my greeting, and I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

HI!!! ^_^

What next?

Hi :)

I say again, hoping she’ll start the conversation going.

How are you?

I shrug off the nagging ache in my thighs, ignore the shaking of my fingertips against the keys.

I’m fine, thank you.

That’s good.

^_^ so . . . you like literature, huh? Have you been on the lit forums yet?

No, not yet.

Oooh, you should!

So what’s your favorite book?

I . . . um . . .

Go on, you MUST have one. Not the best or the cleverest, just your favorite.

I let the cursor blink for a minute, and then:

I can’t pick. They’re so different!

Ahh, a real bookie, huh? That’s cool. I don’t read much, except manga. Pictures tell the story so much better.

You think? I mean, it’s not like I NEVER read manga, but it just . . . it’s too easy.

Easy? }}:-S What do you mean?

It’s all there for you. I like the way that when it’s just the words, they make you think, don’t share all their secrets at once, you know?

Ha! You sound like a professor already. I don’t want to think when I read, I just want a good story.

Most people do.

You sound disappointed.

No.

Ok, not disappointed, then; like an old man. “In my day, young thing,
words
were enough.”

I am almost offended, but I do not think she means it nastily.

Haha! I’ll just go over here and light my pipe.

:D

Anyway, what’s your favorite manga?

That’s eeeeasy. ONE PIECE. Oh, or Akira. Or FairyTail . . .

See. Not so simple, is it?

Hahahaha, no, all right. I’m sorry.

Ai, it’s like you’re a teacher already, making me think and re-evaluate. You’ll make a
great
professor.

I . . . what do I say to that?
I know?
Except
I won’t?
I . . .

At the other end of the line, MonkEC is sitting there, fingers on her keyboard, waiting for me to respond. . . .

Thanks. I . . . I should go and study.

All right :( Me too, I suppose. What are you working on tonight?

I glance down the spines of the books to my left, but I have no idea what everyone is studying this term.

What do I say?

A little bit of everything, really. You?

Same. But language comprehension is due in tomorrow, so I had better do that first. Catch ya later?

Sure! Good luck.

You too. Byeee! Xx

I log out, and open up Google in its place.

I am going to need something to talk about.

14

“Squeeze my hand.”

I squeeze until it hurts, and every muscle from my shoulder to my fingertips feels tight. I visualize the doctor’s hand going white beneath my grip, but when I look down, I am barely making a fist, and my hand is shaking like a leaf in winter winds.

Ugh!

“Harder.”

I squeeze my eyes shut tight, as though that will make a difference. I can feel my whole arm trembling with effort.

I open one eye, and peek at my fist again.

“Hmm.” The physiotherapist pulls his hand away.

The other hand, my left, is slightly better—which makes no sense because it is my right hand that I use more often—but still, he barely registers my touch.

“It’s okay”—I try to force a laugh—“as long as nobody asks me to open their soda.”

“Hmm,” he says again.

“What’s wrong?”

“Have you noticed a difference in your hand strength since your last appointment?”

“A little. It’s not so bad.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I frown questioningly.

“Sora.” He crouches so that our eyes are level, lays his hand on top of mine. “I think things are progressing faster than we thought or than we’d like.”

I nod.
I know.

“I’m sorry.”

I nod again, and he pulls away. “I’m going to show you some exercises that might help,” he says, his voice suddenly brighter.

I wish I could do that, flick an internal switch and suddenly feel optimistic, but I remember the last time things progressed faster than they all predicted. And I have to ask. “Doctor?”

“Hmm?”

I hesitate, and when I speak my voice squeaks like a child’s. “How long do you think I’ve got?”

He shakes his head. “There’s no way to predict that.”

“I know, but . . . a guess.”

“No. I would only get it wrong. I don’t want you to think—”

“
Please?
I need—I need to know.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” There’s something in that look. Not sorrow, exactly, but . . . detachment. And I think that’s worse.

•  •  •  •

The physiotherapist’s words still echo in my ears as I sit across from Doctor Kobayashi. I wonder whether he’s even
allowed
to tell me. Is it protocol? Don’t put yourself in that position? Don’t risk being the shoulder someone leans on? Being wrong?

I’d tell someone. Even if I had to make an educated guess. But I know what it’s like not knowing.

“So, have you thought more about Wish4Life?”

For a second, I wonder whether I should rethink, whether the physiotherapist’s silence signifies no time at all and this is my very last chance. But surely he’d have said
that
. Right?

I nod. “Thank you, but I don’t think that I want to use it.”

Shock flickers across her face. “At all?”

“At all.”

She pushes the air out through her teeth. “Are you sure? It could be a nice way for your family to spend some time.”

“Thank you, but we’re fine. There’s nothing that I want . . . I’m sorry.”

I don’t think she believes me. “Well, how about we sit on this for a while. Talk to your mother, have a think, and if you change your mind, the wish will be here waiting.”

•  •  •  •

“There’s no way to predict that. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The shock and pity and non-answers of the day rise up at me as I slide my bedroom door closed. I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my hands hard against them until the dark turns red and white. It does not help. Doctor Kobayashi’s confusion plays on a loop.
Why would I not take the wish?
As if it were a personal snub, as if her offer isn’t good enough.

But I don’t want it.

I sit there, in my self-made dark cocoon, wondering how much time I really have to fill.

I feel the weight of my limbs, notice the dull aches and the tremors. Were they this bad a week ago? A month? Six?

It’s like growing, I think; it happens all the time and you don’t even notice, then suddenly you can reach the top shelf, are as tall as your mother or the boy next door, and they’ll let you on the big rides at the fair. Suddenly you find you cannot stand, or hold a cup, or tie your shoes.

Eventually, I let my hands drop and my eyes open, exhausted. I need a break.

As I log in to KyoToTeenz, a message flashes up on my screen.

MonkECMonkEDo has saved you in their contacts.

Do you want to add MonkECMonkEDo to your contacts?

She’s added me?

Really?

I click “yes” and lean back in my chair, surprised that my heart is thudding hard against my chest. And then I click on her profile, and read through her answers to the inane questions, as if a few words can tell us everything we’d want to know.

I google “Masashi Ando art.” I like it. People and yōkai and landscapes side by side, bringing magic to the everyday. I wish that I could step into his worlds and explore further than the pictures will allow, into the cool of the forests or through a maze of high-rise city lights.

They’re beautiful.

BRrRrRrRrRrRrR
I’m pulled back to the real world, and there she is: