The Last Leaves Falling

by Sarah Benwell

  Doctor Kobayashi shifts in her chair, half-watching me, waiting.

  I take a breath, and break the silence. “I’ve been thinking.”

  She stops her idle half-stare to really look at me.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s about the wishes.”

  “Yes?” Her eyes brighten, and I’m almost sorry for what I’m going to ask.

  “There’s something I want to do, but it’s . . . not your normal wish.”

  “What is it? The foundation is very good. I’m sure that we could make a plan.”

  “I . . . actually, I don’t think Wish4Life will help me. I was hoping you might.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mister Yamada-san . . .” Something careful and guarded flickers across her face, and I know I have to watch my words, choose carefully. “He was all alone,” I say, thinking, and hurt and scared and it was far too late. “I don’t want that.”

  “Okay?”

  “But I can’t let it destroy my friends. I need to prepare them.”

  “Prepare them?”

  “For seeing me like that. I need them to know what it will be like. What I’ll be like.”

  She sighs, picks up a pen I hadn’t noticed from the table, and twirls it in her fingers. I do not think I’ve ever seen her this unsettled. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  “I want to show them.”

  “You want,” she speaks slowly, emphasizing every word as though it’s foreign on her tongue, “to bring your friends here? To the ICU?”

  “Yes.”

  The pen stills. She is a sika deer, caught in the hunter’s lamplight. “I’m sorry. I don’t think it is possible.”

  “You did it for me.”

  “That was different. You’re a patient. I’m looking after your well-being.”

  I know I should be quiet. Bow my head, accept her answer. But I do not have the time for such politeness anymore. “And I’m still your patient. I need this. Please.”

  She frowns. Was that hesitation in her eyes, or shock that I would speak against her? It is gone before I can decide, so I push further. “Please. Help me? It is my dying wish.”

  She does not answer right away, and I know I’ve got her.

  I see the decision settle just behind her eyes, and then she gives me a thin smile full of duty, not of joy. “I will see what I can do.”

  90

  Somehow, Doctor Kobayashi got permission from the patients and their families, and so the next weekend, instead of sitting in my room, we board a train to the hospital. My friends are nervous. Mai is chewing on a strand of hair, swinging her legs beneath her chair, and Kaito has not said a word since we left the house. I stare out of the window, try to ignore the sharp-toothed nerves battling in my stomach as the city rattles past.

  We brought flowers, which sit heavy and fragrant on my lap; a huge bunch of oranges and reds that look a little like the autumn trees. I remember that room, and if we can do a little bit to brighten it, maybe I will not feel so bad for this.

  Kai draws the air in through his teeth, looks at me with this sad anger, and pushes it back out again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, quietly so nobody else in the carriage can hear. “I’m sorry I had to ask, and that you’re here, but I need you to know why.”

  Mai tries to smile. “I need to, too.”

  “What if we say no?”

  The nerves bite harder. I don’t know what to say. What if?

  “What if we see everything and we say no?” he asks again.

  “I don’t know.”

  • • • •

  The doors slide open and Kaito wheels me into the familiar rancid air of hospital corridors.

  Beside me, Mai’s nose wrinkles, and if I weren’t so nervous, I would laugh.

  “Which way?”

  “Right.”

  We walk past the reception desk, follow the brightly colored arrows to the elevator, and along the corridor again.

  “All these people,” Mai whispers, “are they all sick?”

  “Some,” I say as we pass a gray-haired woman slowly staggering along with a walker and an IV stand. “Some are probably just visiting.”

  We round the final corner. Up ahead is the ICU. The door is firmly shut, but I imagine I can hear the sucking of fake lungs, beeping monitors, and groans, which only serve to make the overlaying silence louder. And suddenly I’m not so sure.

  “We don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes we do.” Kaito’s voice surprises me. “I do. I need to know how you could even think—”

  Mai reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Me too.”

  We pass the door, and glide on toward Doctor Kobayashi’s room, where she greets us with a wide smile, too big for her face.

  “Good morning. You must be Sora’s friends.”

  “Good morning, Kobayashi-san.” They bow.

  “Come in.” She opens her door wider, gestures to two cushioned chairs that she has placed beside the coffee table.

  Once we are settled, Doctor Kobayashi perches opposite. “Okay. So, I assume you both know why you are here?”

  “They do,” I answer hurriedly, before my friends say something that will give my plan away.

  Doctor Kobayashi ignores me and continues. “You’re going to meet some people who are . . . well, they’re very sick.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re okay with this? It might be shocking.”

  She explains that we’ll be going into the ICU, where the patients are sick enough to need special care; that there will be tubes and monitors and one of the three men in the room can’t speak at all. That even though they’re all much older and don’t have exactly the same thing as me, there is one patient who has something similar, neurodegeneration of some kind. And she tells them that some of the treatments will be much the same as I might be given in the future. “We’ll come back here when we’re done, and I’ll try to answer any questions that you have. Okay?”

  “Do they mind us visiting?”

  “No.”

  I wonder how many favors she pulled in, how many people did mind, until she explained, begged, promised future aid.

  Mai nods, apparently reassured. “And they’re expecting us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s do this,” she says. “We brought flowers.”

  “They’re lovely. We’ll get one of the nurses to put them in water. All right. If you’re sure?” Doctor Kobayashi stands, moves to push my chair toward the door. When Kaito hesitates, Mai reaches for his hand, clasps it in hers, and pulls him to his feet.

  I slip him a sly smile, watch his ears pink even now, here, and I am glad.

  • • • •

  The door swings open and we’re met by a young male nurse who smiles warmly.

  “You must be the visitors!” He practically bounces as he speaks.

  “Yes they are,” says Doctor Kobayashi, her words reflecting his.

  “Great!”

  I wonder whether the three men lying in their beds expected this. Do they like this man? Or do they lie there thinking, What is there to be so pleased about?

  “Oh, flowers! Beautiful!” He reaches down and takes the bouquet from my lap, preening the petals. “Come on in. We’re just about to have some tea.”

  Tea? This doesn’t sound like the ICU that I remember.

  It doesn’t look quite like it either. In the center of the room, in front of the beds, is a large round table with a thermal tea jug and a stack of paper cups. A plate of sweet rice mochi. And beyond, the curtains are pulled back to reveal plumped-up pillows, and one man even has a knitted blanket spread across his knees.

  But then I really look, beyond these homely touches, and I see the gray-white walls, the wires and tubes and stiff-starched sheets. The bedpans, and the sad, gray sky peering through the too-high, too-small windows.

  The nurse is pouring drinks. One, two, three, four, five, he keeps going, six, seven, eight.

  I gla
nce across at the beds. Three too-skinny men lie asleep, or something like it, and I wonder whether anyone has actually asked them if they want a drink, or if they’re on a schedule. 11 a.m.: increase fluid intake.

  Ugh.

  “Here you go!” The nurse passes a paper cup to each of my friends.

  “Aren’t we going to wake them up?”

  “Heyyy, a little excitement on a Sunday afternoon never hurt a soul, right?”

  Mai grins at him, taken in by his loud jolly voice, but my eyes slide across to the beds, the gaping mouths and twisted limbs. Would I want strangers barging in on me?

  What have I done?

  I want to run, but my friends are here, and someone has gone to the trouble of arranging this. I can’t.

  “Are those drinks for them?” I say.

  “Yes.” And he walks across to place a cup beside each bed, but he makes no attempt to wake the men. Instead he comes back, asking, “Do you need a hand with yours?” He picks up another cup, hovers a few inches from my face, too close, waiting for my answer. And I do, but I do not want it.

  “No thanks.”

  His face falls, just a little, as he slides it back onto the table.

  “Mochi?” He holds out the plate, and Kaito and Mai each take one.

  “Mmmm, sweet bean,” mutters Mai.

  Kaito turns his over in his hands, staring at the foot of the nearest bed, and I wonder whether he is trying to build courage to look farther, past the old man’s knees, his chest, his face.

  I wish I could sidle up to him and ask if he’s okay. Tell a joke to distract him. Lead him out of here. But I need him to confront it. I need him to know.

  It will be worse if it is me there, in that bed. Right? I’m doing him a kindness.

  Doctor Kobayashi sees him, though, and she does go to him.

  “It’s all right. He won’t bite you.”

  “Couldn’t even if he wanted, by the looks of things,” he mutters.

  “Do you want to say hi?”

  Kaito doesn’t answer, still staring at the old man’s feet.

  I turn to Mai, who’s polishing off her third bean-cake, as the nurse puts down the plate and says to her, “Shall you and I go over there and talk to Mister Gee?”

  She nods and walks boldly over to the third bed. The nurse follows.

  “Goood morning, Mister Gee. I brought you a visitor!”

  Mister Gee gasps loudly, opens one eye, and says something that sounds like “Unnnnnggsitor?”

  “Yes. Mister Gee, meet Mai! She brought you flowers, which I’m going to put in water and set right here so you can see them.”

  “Nnnkyou.”

  “You’re welcome.” Mai bows politely, and the old man’s mouth widens into what I think is supposed to be a smile.

  Beside me, Kaito still stares.

  “Do you want to ask him anything?” the nurse asks, beaming.

  “Umm . . .”

  “That’s okay. How about you tell him a bit about yourself? You’d like that, eh, Mister Gee?”

  He nods. It looks like an effort.

  “Um, okay. I’m Mai. I’m seventeen . . . I go to school on the other side of the city, and . . . I like to draw.”

  “You draw?” asks the nurse.

  “A little.”

  “Lovely! Maybe you could run an art class sometime? We’re always looking for volunteers to do things in the dayroom.”

  “Maybe.” Mai shrugs.

  “So what else?”

  “Huh?”

  “What else do you do? What do you like? How did you three become friends?”

  “Um . . . we met online.”

  “And then you met in real life. That’s brave.”

  She laughs. “Not really. It was all Sora’s mother’s idea, actually.”

  The nurse raises an eyebrow.

  “And now you meet up regularly?”

  “Yes.” She thinks for a moment, scuffing one toe of her shoes against the floor, just softly enough that it doesn’t squeak. “Actually, I do have a question. Does he . . . Mister Gee, do you have a family? Visitors?”

  The nurse sighs, shakes his head. “He’s stuck with me for company, I’m afraid. Mister Tee over there has family, a big-shot lawyer son and a daughter who’s a teacher, but they’re both so busy. I’ve met them, once, but city life does not really leave time for social calls.”

  Kaito looks up decisively, sidesteps toward me, and places a protective hand on the armrest of my chair. “It’s not going to be like that for us.”

  I look up at him, trying to work out from his face whether he means that they will come to visit, or . . .

  91

  “Okay,” he says, as we push out into the winter air.

  “Okay?”

  “Yes. Okay. I’ll do it. And it’s not because . . . I’m not saying . . . I just think that maybe it should be your choice. And if you’ve thought about it—”

  “I have. So much.”

  “Well then.”

  Mai hangs back, and for a second I think that I’ve lost her, but then she rushes to catch up and grabs hold of my arm. “It’s not . . . you don’t want us to do anything horrible, do you? Because I’m NOT going all ninja hitwoman on you, and I don’t know where to get a gun.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. Relief and sadness and surprise flood through me, and the only place for it to go is out.

  I picture Mai in a black catsuit, scaling our apartment block with a dart gun held beneath her teeth, and I laugh.

  I imagine Kaito sitting opposite a burly member of the clans, trying to look tough so they’ll let him have a gun, and I laugh.

  I imagine walking out from those hospital doors and never having to go back. And my skin feels ten times lighter, and I laugh.

  92

  “I . . . I couldn’t find a good one of Katsuhiro Maekawa, and I didn’t know who else you liked, so . . .” He unrolls a huge glossy poster and holds it up in front of me.

  It is a floating-world print of a mountain in the setting sun. And it is beautiful.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry. About the other poster.”

  “It’s okay. You were right—baseball isn’t really me, these days.” I shrug, flash him a grin, and suddenly all the nervousness between us dissipates.

  Mai giggles. “Oh, I don’t know, I can see it now, you rolling out onto the pitch wearing To Lucky Tiger’s head.”

  “Not just the head; the whole costume. Sora would make an excellent mascot, don’t you think?”

  I grin and roll my eyes. “No. I don’t think. And this is sounding suspiciously like one of those inspiration fantasies.”

  “Suck it up, dude. You are an inspiration.”

  “Ugh. Mai, get him for me?”

  She steps closer to him, but she shakes her head, still laughing.

  “Sorry, Sora. I can’t do that.”

  “You two!” I avert my eyes, still grinning, but not before I see Kaito’s ears pinking with pride as Mai’s hand rests, just for a second, on his back.

  And then he pulls away. “So. Shall I put this up?”

  “No!” Mai squeals. “Wait. It needs . . .” She pulls the poster from his hands and a thick black pen from the back pocket of her jeans. And in moments, there’s a whole new tableau at the bottom of the mountain.

  A crane, dressed in full samurai armor, kneeling. And beside him, a raccoon dog, a monkey, and a glistening sword.

  93

  We sit in silence as the credits roll.

  The forty-seven Samurai have avenged their master and are slain once more.

  “You’d better not expect us to avenge your death.” Kaito reaches for the last handful of popcorn, the joke in his voice hiding something else.

  I ignore it. I’m not ready for that. “Only if it’s one of ugliness and suffering.”

  “This plan of yours had better work then.”

  “Yes. But if it doesn’t . . .”

  “Full protest seppuku
in the hospital parking lot,” he says, grinning.

  “Good.”

  Mai sighs. “I know why they did it. But . . .”

  And the joke’s over. Suddenly we’re not talking about the film, or samurai of old.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  94

  The next weekend, we go out to the park, the three of us. We’ve been through the plan on our last outing—out of Mama’s earshot—in every tiny detail, but I think we all need reassurance; to know that everything will go to plan. So we walk the paths, talking in hushed voices as we go.

  It’s different, now. The branches have nothing to cling to, and they stand there naked, shivering in the cold winter breeze.

  “All I need you to do is pop the blister packs and help me . . . I can’t lift them. But I’ll do the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  “Yes.” I have thought long and hard about the way to do this. I want it to be easy. No mess. No stress. Done. And I do not want to leave my friends behind in pieces. I need to leave them free of blame and free of guilt.

  “What will happen then?” Mai asks.

  I think it will be quick. Like eating too much food on New Year’s Day and falling asleep beneath a thick, warm blanket. “Then we’ll say good-bye, and you will leave.”

  They protest. I knew they would, but I am firm. It has to be this way. I found a copy of the legal documents from a company that helps people like me; paperwork claiming my condition, and my competency, and I’ve already drafted my own, absolving my friends of responsibility. But I have to be sure. I want them halfway home before it happens.

  95

  The next day, I sit in the kitchen with my mother while she works. I want to soak the sight of her into my heart, and I do not want to be alone.

  “Do you want your headphones?” she asks. “A book? Music?”

  “No.” And it is true. I want to hear her breathing. Hear the scratching of her pen and the tapping of her fingers on the laptop keys. I want to see the way she shifts her weight from left to right, taps her foot impatiently when she answers the boss’s e-mails.

  These things matter now, because suddenly my life is one of lasts. Last week, last days, last hours, and I don’t want to miss any of it.