A flock of migrating birds flew across the featureless winter sky. They formed a single column, propelling themselves with big flaps of their black wings. When it seemed they’d risen high in the sky, they circled and receded into the distance, carried by the wind until finally they were only tiny black specks that vanished into the clouds.
Where were they going?
I contemplated the question as I gazed at the birds from the hospital window.
The winds were strong today. They’d built a relatively large courtyard in the hospital, where the patients could take walks. On warm days, you’d often see people there, but no one was out today. The fierce wind blew through the line of pine trees, bending their branches till they creaked wildly. Cold outside air poured in through the window I’d left slightly ajar.
“See something interesting?”
When I looked, I saw Momoko, sitting up in bed, peacefully knitting as she watched me standing at the window. I closed the window gently.
“No, I was just noticing how windy it is today. Is it okay that I shut the window?”
“It’s fine. Thanks.”
Momoko’s knitting needles moved lightly back and forth in a nice rhythm. Lately, she seemed to be lost in her knitting, her gaze focused always on her hands.
“What are you knitting?”
“Gloves.”
“Even though it’s the end of February?”
“It’s okay. I’m only doing it for my own enjoyment. It’s perfect for killing time.”
“Hmmm . . .” I sat down on the folding chair beside her, and the two of us watched her hands as she knit.
“Takako? Could I give you these? I don’t need gloves.”
“Sure. I could use them. But how long will they take to finish?”
“I might be done in March? But you could wear them again next year too, right?”
Next year.
I repeated the word to myself. It was impossible to imagine that Momoko might not be with us next year. Or rather, I didn’t want to imagine it. Trying to negate that unpleasant thought, I said cheerfully, “Yes, please.”
“Got it.”
She lifted her head for a moment and gave me a smile. A perfectly innocent smile, overflowing with affection. She was staying in a four-person room at a general hospital in the city. She’d had surgery before in the same hospital. The room she stayed in then was different, but apparently it was on the same floor. At that time, she was still separated from my uncle, so she would’ve had no one at her side. It must’ve been so lonely.
The room itself smelled of medications and that antiseptic particular to hospitals, and also slightly of sweat. Behind the cream-colored curtain, the walls were bright white. A little bit cold and indifferent. “That’s what hospitals are like,” Momoko said. She had an exasperated look on her face, as if to say, “That’s just how things are.”
“Well, you should go home. I can’t bear you sitting there forever.” Momoko gestured with her chin toward the door. Her hands never stopped moving. When I came to visit her at the hospital, she always sent me home within the hour like this. I couldn’t tell if she was doing it for my sake or if I was really annoying her.
“You don’t need to look after me like that. As you can see, I’m fine,” she always said at the end of my visits, giving a little snort. I’d end up leaving the hospital like I’d been shooed away.
But Momoko’s complexion was good, and her skin was firm—she looked like the picture of health. She ate up all the food they brought her, and even in bed her posture was as good as always. It’s strange to say this, but there was so little change in her appearance it almost seemed anticlimactic.
On the night I went for that long walk with my uncle, he kept grumbling all the way back, “She’s such a troublemaker,” sighing a little each time. We walked along the road to the station, shoulder to shoulder, moving slowly as if it were against the law to walk any faster. I have absolutely no memory of the route we followed from the Imperial Palace. But afterward, I could still hear the sound of him quietly sighing as if he couldn’t keep his emotions from overflowing from inside him.
Then I came to know a few things I’d never imagined could be true.
Momoko’s cancer was already fairly advanced; they had detected that it was already spreading through her lymph nodes, which meant surgery would be difficult. That’s what the doctors had informed her. Momoko had accepted this and didn’t want to undergo another surgery. At first, my uncle had protested vehemently, but after repeatedly meeting with the attending physician, he started to think that might be for the best. For him, the most important thing was to respect Momoko’s wishes.
Walking beside him, I could only respond listlessly with a “Yes” or “Is that right?” Caught off guard by this sudden news, I couldn’t gather my thoughts. I didn’t know what to think. As I listened to my uncle talk, the only thing I understood was that the situation was far more serious than I’d thought.
The sound of my uncle sighing blurred together with the sound of passing cars. For a while, I just stared at the asphalt without saying a word.
“You said she told you on the trip, right?” I asked, suddenly preoccupied by this possibility.
“Yeah, she dropped it on me with no warning. I was shocked. I mean you know how she jokes around a lot, but she would never joke about something like that. I realized pretty soon that she was serious.”
“So, you’ve known for a long time.” All I’d wanted was for that trip to be a chance for the two of them to rest. To think that this was what they were talking about. Looking back, I realized that it was after that trip that my uncle became noticeably quiet. He held that secret in his heart for a long time without saying a word. I could sense how difficult it was for him to tell me. To say it aloud would mean fully accepting the truth. That had to be scary.
“It must’ve been hard for you to be the only one who knew,” I said.
“Nah, not really.” He laughed dryly.
“Like I told you, it’s not something that’s going to happen right away. In a little while, she’ll probably have to go to the hospital. And then they’ll have to see how things go from there.
“Oh, I see . . .” So when he said they weren’t going to operate, it wasn’t that she was going to make a full recovery—it meant she didn’t have much time left.
That came as the biggest shock for me. The thought that the disease lurking inside her would soon grab hold of her and carry her away from us to the other side. That before long, Momoko would be gone from this world. It was impossible to believe such a thing. I’d already let myself imagine the kind of sweet old lady she would be one day. And I imagined that she would run the Morisaki Bookshop forever together with my uncle, who would’ve aged like her and turned into an old man.
I realized I was sighing softly now just like my uncle. As if on cue, my uncle muttered, “I give up. Just when I thought she’d come home after five years, it turns out she’s sick. And even worse, we’re nearly at the terminal stage. She’s acting like nothing’s happening, so it hasn’t sunk in yet at all. It would help if she could let herself act a little more like a patient.”
My uncle shook his head miserably and let out another little sigh.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I can’t win with her.”
He said it again and again until we made it to the station.
But for a long time after that, the days went by as if nothing had happened, just as my uncle had said. At the bookshop, Momoko looked after the customers, just as she always did, and a few days each week, she went over to help at the little restaurant nearby. Sabu and the other regulars were always stopping by the bookshop, looking for Momoko’s polite smile. On the surface, not a thing had changed.
Even when I went to see her at the bookshop after I knew about her illness, her response was matter-of-fact.
“Well, that’s how it goes,” she said, sounding unconcerned.
“But, um . . .”
I wanted to say something, but before I could open my mouth, she said, “There’s just nothing we can do about it. I’m prepared. And I’m halfway ready for it. So please don’t look at me with that grim expression on your face. You’ll end up getting me down too,” she said, smiling, and slapped me on the back. It felt like she was the one cheering me up.
Since she herself was acting that way, it didn’t seem right for me to be depressed.
The day was coming, but until it arrived, I felt strongly that I wanted to spend as much time as possible being Momoko’s niece, and her friend, however far apart we were in age. And I needed to be of help to my aunt and uncle in whatever way I could.
And then, a little while later, they decided it was time for Momoko to be hospitalized. It happened after the start of the new year.
At first, it was supposed to be temporary, but they said it could become long-term depending on her condition. She explained the situation to Mr. Nakasono, and she took the rest of January off from working at the restaurant. Mr. Nakasono was the one who suggested they think of it as time off, rather than an end to the job, but although they said it would be for a month, it was the last time he would see Momoko in her apron.
My uncle tried to think of all the little things that might make Momoko happy. He even tried to get her to go on a trip before she began her stay at the hospital. But what Momoko wanted was to relax at home.
My uncle suspected she was worried about him, since she knew how reluctant he was to take time off from the bookshop. “One trip is enough,” she told him firmly. “Take care of the shop. I could watch you look after the shop all day long.” After he’d heard that, my uncle didn’t bring it up anymore.
It was around that time that everyone they knew in Jimbocho learned of Momoko’s condition. Like me, when they first heard the news, they couldn’t really believe it. “Not our Momoko?” People like Sabu pressed for more information—he even called me on the phone and demanded almost angrily that I give more details. And yet, in accordance with Momoko’s wishes that we keep things the same, no one acted as if they were particularly worried for her, not on the surface at least, and no one showed her how heavyhearted they were.
Until she was hospitalized, Momoko had more free time because she was off from her job at the restaurant, so she often dropped by the Saveur. At times, she would get into conversations with Sabu, the owner, and even Takano. Momoko was cheerful there too, and she was even relaxed enough to tease Sabu and the others about being so dispirited. And she adored the milkshakes the owner made for her, and always seemed happy whenever she had one.
Once the two of us had tea with Wada. That was when Momoko deliberately came out and said, “How’s Wada #2 these days?” She seemed delighted with the result, and sat back and watched as Wada very earnestly asked, “Wada #2? Who is that? Am I Wada #1 then?”
Then as if she were remembering something, Momoko turned to Wada and said suddenly, “Look after Takako, will you? She can be indecisive, but she’s a good kid.” It didn’t sound like Momoko at all.
I was taken aback, and I sat there wide-eyed with surprise as Wada, sitting next to me, answered, “Of course.”
Around this time, my uncle always seemed depressed. He somehow seemed to be feeling much worse than Momoko. Even still, he ran the bookshop as usual, and now and then I went by to see how he was doing.
“Uncle, are you okay?” I would ask, feeling worried.
He would always answer, “Oh, I’m fine.”
But he didn’t look the least bit fine.
If I said anything more, he would get annoyed and take offense, so instead, I brought up a topic that I thought might make him feel better.
“You don’t have any books to recommend, do you?”
“Hmmm? Oh, that’s right. I can’t think of anything now, but I’ll find something for you next time.”
Even when it came to a subject he normally would’ve jumped at the chance to talk about, he could only muster this listless response. And then of course he started sighing again.
“Um, is there anything at all I can do?” It was a sincere offer. Seeing the sullen look on my uncle’s face was more than I could bear.
If there was a way I could be of help, I wanted to do it no matter what it was. But my uncle looked back at me astonished, as if to say, What are you talking about? “You’ve already done so much for us. You even accompanied her when she went to the hospital. I can’t ask you to do any more than you’ve already done. It’s too much,” he said. Then he gave a weak laugh and that was all.
In that moment the Morisaki Bookshop, which used to resound with the sound of my uncle’s cheerful voice, now seemed a terribly desolate place.
In the beginning of February, a week after Momoko had been admitted to the hospital, the doctor declared she had six months left to live. But even after my uncle told me this, it still didn’t feel real to me at all. They were just meaningless words. I found it impossible to imagine that within that time frame Momoko would be gone. More than anything, I couldn’t detect the slightest indication of it from Momoko, who was breathing and smiling at this very moment.
Death itself seemed far off in the distant future. This was Momoko—couldn’t she just laugh it off and make it go away altogether? It seemed just about possible when you looked at her.
When I went to see Momoko at the hospital it was mostly to confirm this. When I saw that she looked exactly the same, secretly it would ease my mind. I really said to myself, “Oh, doesn’t she look fine, she must be healthy. In October, or even September—once it’s cool outside, we should go to Mount Mitake again together.”
One day later that month, when Momoko was lost in her knitting as usual, I asked her to go with me. The two of us could climb the mountain on the funicular like we did last time and stay at that same mountain inn that was basically a hostel. Haru and the innkeeper must still be there now. Let’s go see them again. Then we could look out from the viewing platform at the mountains stretching across that gorgeous landscape, and at night we could put our futons together and sleep side by side.
“It’s a good idea, isn’t it? You said yourself that you had a good time,” I said, now at the edge of my chair.
“Yeah . . .” Momoko hunched her shoulders as if the whole idea seemed like too much of a hassle. “But Takako, you just complained the whole time that you were tired and your feet hurt.”
“I’m not complaining now.”
“You were complaining.”
“I might have complained a little bit, but what if I say I won’t complain this time?”
“Doubtful. You’ll start whining right away.”
“I’ll make a vow not to, okay?”
“That reminds me, Takako. Remember when you fell down on the mountain right smack on your butt? That was brilliant,” Momoko said with a mischievous grin.
Ultimately, the conversation came to an end without her offering a definitive answer about where she would or wouldn’t go.
I could see in the courtyard on the other side of the hospital window that early cherry blossoms had already started to fall. Their petals spun in little whirls, dancing at the edge of the path.