The Last Leaves Falling
Page 21
“You made both of us dream,” Mai finishes.
The desktop loads, he opens up the browser, and types in something that I cannot see.
And then it loads.
A perfect tree, all twisted bark and tiny golden leaves. And hanging there, swaying to the sound of rustling canopies, are dozens of . . . what? What are they?
“It’s a virtual wishing tree,” says Mai. “You click here . . .” She clicks, and a parchment scroll pops up in the middle of the screen. “And you type your wish. And when you’re done”—she clicks the finished button and the tiny scroll rolls up—“you choose a branch and hang it in the tree.”
“At first we made it just for us. For you. We were going to input all the things we want to do, so that you could see. But then . . . It was Mai’s idea.”
“I just . . . it could help so many people, don’t you think?”
“What?” I look at them, their faces filled with desperate enthusiasm, but I do not understand.
And then he shows me.
HI, EVERYONE,
I MADE A LITTLE THING:
WWW.THEWISHTREE.NET
WE ALL HAVE TROUBLES. ALL OF US. AND WE ALL HAVE WISHES, THINGS WE HOPE TO HAVE OR BE. SOMETIMES, THESE THINGS SEEM FAR TOO HARD AND FAR AWAY, AND THEN THE TROUBLES AND DUTIES START TO RULE OUR LIVES.
TODAY I LEARNED THAT LIFE’S TOO SHORT AND PRECIOUS TO BE WASTED. WISHES ARE IMPORTANT. AND IT IS MY WISH THAT WE SPREAD THIS NEWS.
WISH. DOING IS BORN IN DREAMS.
“We went live last night,” he says excitedly, “and I told the forum and look, there are already people taking part!” He takes hold of the mouse, hovers over a tiny copper wish, and it expands, revealing “PEACE.” He finds another, hovers, and I read See the sun rise from above the world.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Mai did all the art. I just made it work.”
“It’s wonderful. Can we read some more?”
There’s: Please let my mother come back home. I miss her.
And: No More War.
And: I wish to be understood.
New bike. New car. Laptop. Skates. Guitar.
Love.
Good grades.
A cure for cancer.
Visit to the moon.
And I see Mai’s: I wish to be an artist. An animator who makes things that people love, that move them, make them think.
“There’s so many,” he says, clapping with excitement. “People are actually using it!”
“Can I do one?”
“Of course.”
And I get Kaito to type: “I wish that everyone who has a chance would take it. That everyone who has a dream will chase it. For those of us who can’t.”
I watch the words appear, see Mai’s animated leaves rustle in the background, and I think of Mr. Yamada, and hospital corridors, of falling leaves and autumn breezes, and Mai and Kaito and my mother: sad, yes, for a time, but then . . . And I know how to say good-bye; exactly what words I should leave behind. I get him to write those too. By hand. Signed, “Your son, with love.”
• • • •
My mother pokes her head around the door at exactly eight. I knew she would. And even though I warned my friends, and this is built into the plan, even though I know that all she sees is three friends crowded around a screen, my heart drums faster and I feel as though my skin is dancing to its beat.
“Medications, Sora.”
“Mama!” I protest. “Not now.”
“Yes, now. Your friends won’t mind.”
“I . . . I could help him?” Kaito says, just like we’d planned.
“I don’t know.”
“Please, Mama,” I half-whisper. “It’s embarrassing. I don’t want you to fuss all the time.”
She’s hurt. And I want to tell her that I do not mean it, but it’s kind of true, and anyway, I can’t.
“Are you sure you can manage?”
“Yes. I’ve taken these things every day for months. We can do it.”
She sighs. “All right. If you’re sure.” And then she leaves, shuts the door behind her, and I have to stop myself from calling after her.
I shake my head to clear it. Breathe deep. And I’m back.
“Okay,” I say. That one word meaning everything.
Okay, I’m ready.
Okay, I’m done.
Okay, it is time.
Kaito helps me up and into bed, because I cannot bear the thought of being in this chair, and then I tell him that my pills are on the shelf above my head.
“How many?”
I give him a look, and he pours all of them into the cup. A week’s worth.
He picks up the sake, knocks it back, and rests the bottle on the bed beside me.
He climbs up on one side, and Mai gets on the other so that I’m sandwiched between them.
“You’re sure? You’re really, really sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
He half-closes his eyes as he holds the meds cup up toward my lips.
“No,” I say.
He stops. “What?”
“Let me.”
“But you can’t.”
“I know. But I need to do this.” I will not leave him with that guilt. I need to leave him knowing that I told him how many pills. That my fingers were on the cup.
He slides the cup into my fist, wraps his hand around mine, and we lift together. I will my hands to move. To tilt the cup myself. And I know that in reality it’s Kaito’s muscles, not mine, that drop the sugar-coated waterfall onto my tongue, but the intention was there, and I think that counts for something.
I hope Kaito thinks so too, tomorrow.
Our hands drop, and Mai is right there with the bottle, pouring sake after them. I swallow.
And I sigh. Relieved.
“Okay,” I say. “Go.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“We’re not leaving.”
“But—” If my mother walks in, sees us here? And what if I start foaming at the mouth? Convulsing? I don’t really know how this will work, and no one needs to see that.
“No. We’re. Not. Going. Just try to kick us out.” Kai grins. It’s wobbly, but it is a grin.
“You know,” says Mai, wrapping her arm over me, “I feel a whole new chapter coming on. ‘Professor Crane and Friends Cheat Death.’ ”
“Yes!” Kaito’s hand meets hers, and we’re interlocked in a strange three-way embrace. “Can we visit catacombs, play chess with the devil?”
“Sure. And then we’re hiking out across a rainbow to see what is on the other side.”
And here they are. My final moments. They say a warrior must always be mindful of death, but I never imagined that it would find me like this, lying on a bed beside my friends, in a room of love and laughter.
I let my mind wander over everything we’ve done and talked about and dreamed. Let their voices carry me along.
I slip, and their voices warp, like underwater songs, but their touch is strong and keeps me from floating away, and I am grateful.
“I can’t hear the birds,” I say. “The air.” And even though it’s night, and cold, I feel Kaito move away, just for a moment, then he’s back, carried over to me on a strong cool breeze that smells of promises and heirlooms.
My eyes grow heavy, my head heavier. There’s a weight against my chest, and the other Sora, the one who lies beside me and feels all the physical sensations, cannot draw a breath, but I don’t care.
And I fall deeper. Tumbling. But I know that they will catch me. And in the blackness there is only me, and my last, handwritten words.
A poem.
The last leaf falls
But look close and you see
The hidden buds of spring
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
Bah-Ba—Affectionate name for grandmother (obaasan).
bakeneko—A catlike supernatural creature.
Benzaiten—Japanese Buddhist goddess; goddess of everything that flows, including the ar
ts.
bonsai—“Tray plantings.” Miniature trees, cultivated in pots. The art of bonsai is complex and revered.
Gagaku—Ancient Japanese court/dance music.
jūni-hitoe—Traditional, elegant, complex kimono; the “twelve-layer robe” (although it’s not always twelve layers).
Ojiisan—Grandfather.
Otosan—Father.
Okaasan—Mother.
raccoon dog—Indigenous East Asian canine species, named for its resemblance to a raccoon (to which it is not closely related).
sake—Alcoholic beverage made from fermented rice.
-san—A suffix to names, which indicates respect. A little bit like sir/ma’am.
yūrei—Ghosts or supernatural creatures.
SARAH BENWELL lives in the picturesque English city of Bath, where she studied for an MA in writing for young people. Now she writes, runs creative writing workshops for teens and adults, and works retail at unsociable hours. All of which is great, but she’d rather be off exploring deserts and jungles elsewhere. This is her first book.
Simon & Schuster • New York
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2015 by Sarah Benwell
Jacket illustration © 2015 by Yuko Shimizu
A slightly different version of this work was originally published in 2015 in Great Britain by Random House Children’s Publishers UK.
First US edition 2015
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The text for this book is set in Bembo Std.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Benwell, Sarah.
The last leaves falling / Sarah Benwell.—1st edition.
pages cm
Summary: In Japan, teenaged Abe Sora, who is afflicted with “Lou Gehrig’s Disease,” finds friends online and elicits their help to end his suffering.
ISBN 978-1-4814-3065-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4814-3067-8 (eBook)
[1. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—Fiction. 2. Terminally ill—Fiction. 3. Single-parent families—Fiction. 4. Mothers and sons—Fiction. 5. Assisted suicide—Fiction. 6. Friendship—Fiction. 7. Online chat groups—Fiction. 8. Japan—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B468Las 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2014022950