Confessions (12 page)

“It’s not a fever exactly. More like a headache.”

I’m sure he’s not really ill. But he’s not just playing hooky, either. The prospect of going to school brings up that whole incident for him again, and I think that’s what’s keeping him at home.

Naoki is weary at heart. He needs rest. Which is why I’m going to take him to the doctor and get a medical excuse. If he just stays home without a diagnosis, the neighbors will start calling him a
hikikomori
.

He may not like the idea, but we need to see the doctor just this once. I’ll have to put my foot down about this.

Today I took Naoki to see a psychologist in the next town.

I knew he would put up a fight. But I didn’t want to be one of those parents who loses control of her own child—the type who settles for calling him a
hikikomori
.

“If you won’t go with me to see the doctor,” I told him, “then I want you to go to school right now. But if you’ll go and get them to write you a proper excuse, I’ll stop insisting you have to go to school. I know you may not realize it, but psychological problems are considered real illnesses nowadays. Just go and talk to them and we’ll see.”

He thought about it for a minute.

“They won’t need to draw any blood?” he asked. He’s been afraid of shots since he was a little boy, and it made me love him all the more to realize that’s what he was most worried about. He’s still just a child.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell them not to give you any shots,” I said, and with that he started to get ready to go. It was then that it occurred to me that he hadn’t been out of the house since the last day of the previous term.

They gave him a quick physical at the clinic and then he received nearly an hour of counseling. No matter what they asked him, however, he just looked at his lap and said nothing. He seemed unable to explain how he was feeling either physically or psychologically, so I had to step in and tell the doctor what’s been happening.

I told him that Naoki had been falsely accused of a crime by last year’s homeroom teacher and that he no longer felt comfortable going to school. I also mentioned his problems with compulsive cleanliness and the rest of it.

The doctor told us that Naoki is suffering from “autonomic ataxia.” He said I shouldn’t try to force him to go to school—that the most important thing now was to avoid causing him stress and to help him relax. I was given strict orders to keep him at home.

On the way back I asked Naoki whether he wanted anything to eat. He said he wouldn’t mind a hamburger and mentioned a fast food chain he said he likes. I don’t care for those places myself, but I suppose at his age he craves that sort of food from time to time. We went into a restaurant across from the station.

I wrapped a paper napkin around the burger so I wouldn’t have to touch it, and as I was eating I realized that Naoki had chosen a fast food restaurant because of his new hygiene concerns. In places like this you don’t have to use plates and utensils that other people have used before you, and no one else is going to use your dishes after you’re finished with them.

A little girl about four years old and her mother were sitting at the next table. I found myself disapproving of the woman for bringing such a young child to a place like this, but then I saw that the girl was drinking milk and I felt a bit reassured. Or I did until she dropped the carton and it splattered on the floor. Milk got on the leg of Naoki’s pants and on his shoes, and he turned white as a ghost and went running for the bathroom. I think he lost his whole lunch; he was terribly pale when he came back to the table.

He’s almost certainly mentally unstable, but I’m also concerned he’s not physically well, either. I’m going to send the doctor’s excuse to school tomorrow and let him rest at home for the time being.

Naoki spends a good deal of his time cleaning now.

His fingernails have grown embarrassingly long, but he endlessly scrubs every dish. He’s forever washing and drying his clothes, though they’re always wrinkled and mussed. And every time he uses the bathroom, he scours the toilet, the walls, even the doorknob.

I tell him I can do all this, but he pays no attention, and if I try to help, he screams at me for touching his dishes or clothes. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with what he’s doing and I know I should probably just leave him alone. But then again, I’m sure this all has to do with what happened at school, and I feel as though I’ve got to do something.

I know he should be taking a bath at least once a week, but since he’s not going outside he’s not sweating or getting dirty, so it hasn’t become too unpleasant.

Teatime is my favorite moment in the day, and if Naoki’s in a good mood, I bring out a treat—a trick I learned after the neighbors brought those bean sweets. We sit eating together, and sometimes he’ll even tell me he’s hungry for my special pancakes. He no longer comes along with me when I go shopping, but at least I can enjoy picking out something he likes when I’m in the store.

I’m not really sure what he’s doing the rest of the time—working on his computer, playing video games, sleeping—but he’s always up in his room and he makes very little noise.

Perhaps he’s just taking a little break from life.

Naoki’s new homeroom teacher, Yoshiteru Terada, was kind enough to pay us a visit today.

I had spoken with him on the phone several times, but meeting him in person I was extremely impressed with his energy and dedication. Naoki said he did not want to come out of his room, but Terada-sensei listened very carefully to what I had to tell him.

He also brought along copies of the notes from all of Naoki’s classes. I was particularly grateful to him for this since I’ve been worried about Naoki’s studies. He may need time to rest at home, but I don’t want him to fall behind in school. This Terada seems like an extremely caring and concerned teacher.

The one thing that bothered me, however, was the fact that he brought Mizuki Kitahara along with him. He may have been thinking that having a classmate here would help Naoki relax, but I wish he’d chosen someone who didn’t live right here in the neighborhood.

I’ve been in touch with the school about Naoki’s condition, but I don’t know what Terada-sensei has told his class. If Mizuki goes home and tells her parents that Naoki has become a
hikikomori
and they tell their friends, then the whole town will know in no time. But I will call the school tomorrow to thank Terada, and I may also ask whether he could get the class to write something to Naoki to perk up his spirits.

I went up afterward to give Naoki the notes they had brought, but when I opened the door to his room he threw a dictionary at me and yelled something horrible—about being a foolish old hag and blabbing to everybody. I thought my heart was going to stop. I had never seen him act like that or use such awful language. I’m not even sure why he was so upset. Later on I made him a hamburger, his favorite, but he didn’t come down to dinner.

But I think Terada-sensei might be able to help Naoki, and that gives me the courage to go on.

Naoki’s obsessive behavior continues, but he may have grown tired of washing dishes. He asked me today to start serving his meals on paper plates. He also wants to drink out of paper cups and use disposable chopsticks. It sounds terribly wasteful, but if that’s what it takes to keep him calm, I’ll go and get everything tomorrow.

He hasn’t taken a bath in more than three weeks, and he wears the same clothes and underwear day after day. His hair is greasy and his body has started to give off a sour smell. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer and I brought a damp towel to wipe his face even though I knew he’d be upset. But he shoved me away and I fell and hit my head on the banister.

He no longer comes down for his afternoon snack.

But he’s still cleaning the toilet.

He seemed to be calming down for a while, but now he’s terribly agitated. How did he get like this?…I’m afraid it’s these visits from his teacher and Mizuki. They come every Friday, and I’ve begun to notice that Naoki stays locked in his room for longer and longer periods around their visits. He knows I’ve said he can stay at home for the time being, but I suspect they’re causing him to wonder whether he can trust me on this, or whether I’m secretly trying to get him to go back to school.

As for Terada-sensei, his energy and enthusiasm had filled me with hope, but as time goes by and he comes back again and again, I’ve realized he isn’t accomplishing anything. He brings the notes, but he seems to have no idea what to do beyond that, no plan or strategy at all. He must be discussing Naoki’s problem with the principal and the head teacher for the grade, but it’s a mystery what they’re thinking.

I’ve thought of calling the school to ask for help, but I’m afraid if Naoki got wind of it he might stop coming out of his room altogether, so for the time being I’m going to have nothing to do with the school.

We live in the same house, but it’s been days since I last saw Naoki. He no longer comes out of his room at all.

When I take food up to him—on paper plates—he asks me to leave it outside his door and waits until I’m gone to get it. He hasn’t had a bath in over a month, and there’s no sign that he ever changes his clothes.

He does have to come out to use the bathroom, of course, but he seems to pick times when I’m out or busy with something. When I come home, I often find the toilet freshly scrubbed but a sour smell lingering in the air. Not a bathroom smell—more like the stench of rotting food.

Naoki seems to see himself as a warrior of some sort—his armor is the filthiness of his body, and his room is his besieged castle.

I had thought he would get over all this if I just watched and waited. But he seems to be cutting himself off more and more each day. I suppose I’m going to have to confront his fears and anxieties myself.

Dressed in his armor of filth, Naoki lies sound asleep in his frighteningly neat room. If all goes well, he’ll stay that way until sometime this evening.

I’m not proud of having slipped a sleeping pill in his lunch, but I couldn’t think of any other way to get him cleaned up—get this filthy armor off of him. I’m convinced that his filth—itself a product of his feelings of guilt—is what keeps him locked away from the world.

The curtains were closed and his room was dark, so I had to get close to the bed—despite the smell—to see his face. His skin had been beautiful, but there were sore-looking pimples coming up in the grease and grime, and his hair was covered in crusty dandruff. Yet I still couldn’t resist the urge and rubbed my hand gently along his cheek.

Then I brought the scissors in my other hand close to the shaggy hair above his ear. The scissors—the same ones I’d used when I was sewing a little bag for his school supplies in first grade—made a loud clack as I took the first snip of oily hair, and I was worried he would wake up, but somehow I managed to give him a haircut of sorts.

I hadn’t really been intending to give him a haircut at all. I just wanted to make it look so bad that he would want to go to the barber. I just wanted to put a chink in his armor, so to speak.

The clippings fell all over the bed, but it occurred to me that they might make him itchy and convince him to take a bath, so I did what I could and left him sleeping there.

A cry like the howl of a beast came from upstairs just as I was starting to make dinner. It was so inhuman that it took me a moment to realize it was Naoki. When I did, I ran up the stairs and gingerly opened the door to his room—only to have his laptop come flying out at me. The room, which had been neat a few hours earlier, was now a complete shambles, and the creature that had been my son was making bloodcurdling sounds and throwing everything he could reach against the walls.

“Naoki, stop!” I screamed, so loudly I surprised myself. And he did. He froze, and then turned slowly to look at me.

“Get out,” he said, his voice completely flat.

I realized then that he had gone mad. And I suppose I should have taken my life in my hands and simply embraced him, held on no matter what he did. But for the first time in my life I was terrified of my own child, and I found I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. I ran from there as fast as I could.

I realized I couldn’t handle this alone any longer, and decided to talk to my husband, tell him what’s been going on. But then I got a text message on my phone—which I almost never use—telling me that he had to work late and might not be coming home at all tonight.

There’s nothing I can do but write all this down here in my diary.

Naoki’s room is right above me, and it’s quiet again, so perhaps he’s fallen back asleep.

I must have nodded off in the living room while I was writing, but sometime before dawn I woke to the sound of the shower coming from the bathroom. I thought my husband must have come home, but I found Naoki’s clothes in the dressing room instead.

He decided all on his own to take a bath. It’s hard to imagine after seeing the way he was last night, but perhaps sleep had calmed him down and he’d reconsidered.

So my strategy of opening a chink in his armor had worked!

The shower ran for more than an hour, and I found myself worrying that he might be contemplating something radical—suicide, even—so I kept going to the bathroom door to listen. But each time I could hear the sound of the stool on the tiles or the scrubbing of a washcloth, so I went back to the living room to wait. It was his first bath in nearly two months, so of course it was going to take time.

I’m afraid I let out an audible gasp when he finally did come out of the bathroom. He had completely shaved his head.

It was shocking, but I realized it was the most hygienic solution. With his head shaved like that, he looked like a monk who had shed all of his worries. His fingernails had also been trimmed, and he had changed into some new clothes I had bought him.

But to be honest, the Naoki standing before me wasn’t a very reassuring sight. His face was completely expressionless—as though, along with the dirt, he had washed away every trace of human feeling.