The Last Leaves Falling (17 page)

She bows to him again, but slips me a look. I know that she heard “secret.”

Our guests slip off their shoes and slide into the company slippers on display by the door. Leaving their shoes, they step inside, and my mother ushers us all down the hall and into the kitchen. Mai hangs back behind NoFace. She does not even look at me.

“Please, sit.” Mama gestures to the table.

I wait until my friends are seated, before sliding my chair up to the table. Mama places two heaving pots before us: glistening mapo tofu and fluffy white rice. The pepper in the tofu steam makes my eyes and mouth water in equal measure.

“I trust your journeys were pleasant?” I ask, watching Mama move toward the sink. I wish she’d hurry up so we can start.

“Uh-huh.” Kaito nods. “Quiet.”

“And yours?” I ask Mai.

She shrugs, staring intently at the table.

“And everything is well? I mean, with you?”

They both nod. Kaito flicks his fringe out of his eyes and smiles encouragingly at me.

Is there pity there? I cannot tell.

My mother is filling up the water jug, and for a moment the only sound is that of water echoing inside the old ceramic jug, changing in pitch as it fills.

I watch my guests, sitting politely, waiting.

I don’t know what to say. I have forgotten how to do this.

Finally, my mother joins us, pouring water into each of four glasses and then taking her place.

“Please, help yourselves.”

There is a second of hesitation before Kaito nods thanks and reaches for the bowl of rice. He ladles a respectful portion into his own dish, then tops it with the spicy meat. Mai follows suit.

Mama fills her own dish and mine, because I cannot reach across the table. I am glad. I do not have the chance to spill the whole meal onto the floor.

“This smells delicious, Abe-san.”

“Thank you.” My mother blushes. And then she gives the word, “Let’s eat.”

It
is
delicious. The hot, salted black bean sauce prickles at my tongue, and then it gives way to a softer sweetness, sated by the silken tofu.

I let the first piece of tofu slip down my throat before I break the silence. “Did you know that mapo tofu translates as ‘pockmarked-faced lady’s tofu’ or ‘leper woman’s tofu’?”

Kaito chokes down a mouthful of food, surprised. “No!”

“Yeah. Legend has it that an old widow-leper was forced to live outside of town because of her condition, but she lived along a street that traders had to pass through, and to make ends meet she rented out her rooms to workers. They, in turn, would often bring her meat and tofu and request she cook it up for them.

“Soon, her great cooking was known by traveling businessmen all over, and when they reached the town they’d ask specifically for the pockmarked-faced lady’s tofu.”

“Is that true? Or is it some kind of dreadful moral tale?” asks Kaito.

Mai sneaks a sideward stare at me.

Oh! They think I’ve made it up. A people-with-a-handicap-can-do-just-fine tale. Ugh.

I shrug. “Who knows. The other theory is that the name derives from ‘numb,’ because of all the peppercorns.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Where do you learn this stuff?”

“I don’t know. I read.”

“Well, you must have a whole library in that head. I haven’t even
heard
of a book on the origins of food names.”

“Neither have I. I probably read it on the Internet somewhere. Or somebody told me. I don’t know.”

“I do.” Mama lays her chopsticks down and smiles. “Your grandfather told you. He used to joke that he married your grandmother for her skills with food. He’d wink, and kiss her on the cheek and say that
any
woman who could turn out plates like that would find a man, even if they were a leper woman.”

I laugh. If a girl served me food like Bah-Ba’s, I’d marry her too.

The rest of dinner passes with barely a word. I try, once or twice, to start the conversation, but it’s awkward. My friends’ questions hang over the table, waiting to be asked. Mama glares across the table. I’m the host. I should be making my guests comfortable, making more of an effort. But I don’t know what to say. We need to get away from here so that I can explain.

I swallow down my meal as fast as is polite, and wait.

Eventually, Mama says, “Well, now that we’re done, why don’t you show your friends to your room?”

I let Mai and Kaito enter first, and close the door behind us. It smells in here, like plastic medications and stale air. I have not noticed it before.

“Please.” I gesture to the bed, the only place to sit. At least my bed is made today, with fresh, clean sheets straight out of the laundry.

They perch uncertainly, their eyes roving across the room, over the desk and bookshelves, and my old world map and baseball shrine. They are judging me. For everything I am. A stack of books. A yellow Tigers bobble hat hanging from a nail. A wheelchair.

“I’m sorry.”

Kaito draws in his breath. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Because I didn’t want to be that Sora. Because that Sora is weak and useless. Because you’re looking at me as though I have webbed feet and three heads. “I don’t know.”

Would you have come, if you knew?

“So, you’re a Tigers fan?”

I nod.

“Me too. Sort of. I mean, I like to watch occasionally.”

He stands up to get a better view of my display. “So do you . . . I mean did you . . . did you play?”

“Just for the school b-team. I wasn’t going on to be a star or anything.”

“So did something happen?” Mai’s small voice jingles as she talks, almost disguising the weight of the question.

I glance down at my legs.

“What’s wrong with you?” she demands.

My stomach lurches, but I have to tell them. Don’t I? They’ve seen my chair. They
know
.

And they’re still here.

I don’t look up, mumble to my lap, “I have ALS.”

“What’s that?” Her voice is softer now, the jingling turned to velvet.

Kaito sinks back down onto the bed, and they wait for my answer.

I take a deep breath and force myself to look into their eyes. “It stands for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. And it means”—I have to push the words across my lips—“I’m going to die.”

“You’re what?” Kaito mutters to himself, then louder, “I’m so sorry.”

Mai just stares, her muscles tensed like a sika-deer waiting to run.

And then she coughs politely and gets to her feet. “I’m sorry too. I just remembered that I have to be home early. I really have to go.”

She does not even look at me as she strides to the door and slides it open.

I stare after her. I hear her in the hall, thanking my mother, gathering her things.

Kaito looks from the doorway to me, and back, unsure. Trapped.

I release him. “You should probably go after her.”

“Thanks, Sora. I
am
sorry,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I would have liked to stay.”

And then he’s gone.

•  •  •  •

I expect my mother to come in and lecture me about the proper rules of entertaining and of friendship, tell me how I embarrassed her and was not fair upon the others, that she expected better.

But she does not. When my mother brings me my pills, she does not say a word. And I don’t know which is worse.

29

I sleep badly, drifting in and out of dreams of huge ice caverns that go on and on, where my wheels slip everywhere and I am alone. Completely, utterly alone. And I awake in the still-dark with an emptiness sitting heavy on my gut.

I switch on the lamp and heave my body upright, out of bed. I have to apologize to them. Explain.

But when I log in to the site, there is a message waiting for me.

Dear Sora,

I am so sorry that I ran out earlier. Please apologize to your mother, as well. I did not mean to be so rude, and I hope you are not terribly upset.

I really didn’t mean to leave like that, but I was shocked.

I think I understand why you didn’t say anything. I would want to forget too. But I wish that you had told me.

I hope you can forgive me.

Your friend, Mai

p.s. Are you really going to die? :(

I click reply immediately.

Yes, I am.

It’s okay that you left; I am not offended. Sorry, perhaps, that I did not warn you. It was selfish of me. Although I did try, I just couldn’t find the words.

I understand if you don’t want to be friends with me after I lied, or if you do not want to be friends with a dead boy. But please, if it is the latter, do not tell me.

Sora x

I sit back, and sigh. There should be some kind of deal: I should get superpower-wisdom and empathy as an exchange for this body. I wish it worked like that.

I don’t expect I’ll hear from her again, but at least I have apologized.

Can’t sleep? Me neither.

Of COURSE I still want to be friends.

Can you promise me something, though?

Really?

Hi.

What?

Can we not do that again?

If you have a secret like that, tell me. It’s what friends are for.

No secrets. I think I can do that.

Right. Let’s start with this: What is it you have, exactly? I know you said, but I forgot.

Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.

I’ll be right back. I’m going to look it up. :)

I wait, watching the cursor blink, ON
off
ON
off
ON
off
, focusing on the rhythm instead of the words I know she’s reading. Progressive. Paralysis. Fatal. ON
off
ON
off
ON
off
ON.

She is gone for quite a while, but just as I think that the words have scared her away, she says:

Do you really have all that? Those symptoms?

Some of them.

I cannot tell her that the rest of them will come, in time. It is written, she will know, if she reads, but I cannot write the words. Not yet.

She barely hesitates.

Which ones?

Do you really want to know? It’s . . . I am not a normal boy.

Yes. I guessed that when you appeared in a chair with wheels. :p

Okay . . .

I give her a moment to change her mind, retreat.

My legs don’t really work. And now it’s started in my hands, my arms.

When you say “don’t work,” what do you mean?

The muscles cramp, they weaken, and they waste away. They ache a lot, and I can’t move. It starts with shaking and weakness, and it just gets worse.

So, it will get worse in your hands, too?

Yes.

So . . .

What happens next?

What do you mean?

I mean . . . Oh, I don’t know. It isn’t FAIR. Why can’t someone ELSE be ill?

Someone else?

Someone old, who’s already done everything they want to do. It says it’s mostly old people, so why do YOU have to get it? )-:

MOSTLY old, not only. Besides, how old is old? Our grandfathers? Our parents?

But you’re . . .

I know.

Well, if not someone old, someone horrid then?

Sometimes, I wonder the same thing. Not horrid, exactly, but the undeserving. Why should I be banished from the world when there are people who do not make the best of it?

But I used to read a manga series where a boy is given powers to choose who dies, and I can’t read it anymore. I would not want that choice.

It doesn’t work that way.

How can you be so REASONABLE? It SHOULD. It isn’t FAIR.

I know.

But I’m still here.