The Last Leaves Falling (30 page)

We do not say much else. There’s nothing new to say. My legs hurt, and my arms. And yes, they’re getting worse, and no, there’s nothing anyone can do. But she knows all that.

I sit there, staring at the bonsai’s twisted branches, its thick, gnarled roots. It is an ugly thing, and yet, it is so beautiful.

Strange, that.

And it sounds like something you might read about in a book of ancient poems:

The most broken, bare of things,

Is the most wonderous.

Stupid.

I try again.

Outside, quiet, but there is a song within.

No.

The gnarly tree

Deadened, goes on living.

Almost, perhaps, but it is too simple. It lacks elegance.

Except . . .

Goes on living? Goes. On . . .

What about people who die and are brought back to life? They must know what’s out there, right?

Nobody ever comes back to tell me,
she said. But I bet they’ve told
somebody
.

I think Doctor Kobayashi looks at me strangely when I smile to myself, but she does not say a word.

Finally, the clock hits its target, and I’m free. I cannot wait to get home and look this up.

“Thanks.” I grin as she escorts me out.

“What for?” She sounds confused, but there’s no time on the clock left to explain.

does not bring me any more results than the last time, but draws up more than simply reviews of old B movies. Halfway down the page I see,
SCIENTIST SEES THE LIGHT. LITERALLY
.
Professor Gregory used to believe
that when you die, it’s all over, until . . .

I click.

Professor Simeon Gregory, a lecturer across the sciences at the local university, would have been the first to tell you that the afterlife was nothing more than fairy-tale poppycock.
Would have.
But one frosty morning in November, everything changed.

Gregory slipped on ice, hit his head, and wound up in an ambulance. Where he died.

“I died,” says Gregory, “clinically, properly died. I had no pulse, wasn’t breathing. I was gone. Except I wasn’t. I could hear everything that went on in that ambulance as the paramedics brought me back.” And that isn’t all, Gregory goes on to explain. “There was a shadow-figure, beckoning to me. That’s when I knew I had a choice. Walk with the shadow and leave this place, or stay and finish my work here. It was an easy decision. I know now that when I’m ready, there is something waiting for me.”

Paramedics say that the professor should not have survived. “It was a miracle; the kind we always hope will find us.” And Simeon Gregory would agree.

There are more stories like his—of bright lights and watching loved ones at your bedside. Of things that people could not possibly have seen and heard and known. And there is one, nestled amongst all these tales of hope:
OUT OF BODY ‘AFTERLIFE’ IS NOTHING MORE THAN ENDORPHINS AND THE DEATH OF CELLS.

I bet the scientists have explanations for everything, but right now, I do not want to know.

70

Hiiiiii guys! So all the way home I was thinking, and we SHOULD bve making the most of everything. All of us. You’re right. So I’m starting right now, and I have something for you.

Really?

ME OR HIM?

Haha. Both of you (-: Here . . .

A file appears, and I click download and wait, watching the progress bar turn blue. What is it? The filename is just a string of numbers. No clues there.

WHAT IS IT WHAT IS IT WHAT IS IT?

Heee! You’ll have it in a second. Wait and see.

The blue bar inches forward. Shudders.

Oh! I hope you like it! :-S

Finally!

I click, and the file expands across my screen.

A picture, in black ink. A picture of three snow monkeys, sitting beside a pond.

I can feel a smile spreading across my face, and I stare and stare at it, trying to soak up every last pen stroke, every detail. The right-hand monkey is small and dainty, and she’s gazing dreamily into the sky. It is undoubtedly Mai.

On the left, a larger monkey slouches in exactly Kaito’s way as he casts a line into the water. And in the middle, on a throne of rocks, there’s me, staring out directly at the viewer with eyes that hold a hundred thousand tales.

I love it!

WOW, MAI, DID YOU DRAW THAT?

(-: yes. You like?

Yes!

YESSSSSSS!

*blush* yay. I am SO glad. I was worried you would think I was a talentless fool, or think that I was making fun.

No! Not at all!

NOOOO!

ALTHOUGH I NEVER PICTURED MYSELF AS A MACAQUE BEFORE.

Haha. It’s a compliment.

*BOWS* THANK YOU, KIND LADY.

Hmm . . . out of curiosity, what would you see yourself as?

HAHA.

PROMISE YOU WON’T LAUGH?

Yes.

A LEOPARD.

Hah. I would not have guessed that.

HEY! YOU SAID YOU WOULDN’T LAUGH!

I’m not, I’m just surprised.

REALLY? YOU DON’T SEE THE RESEMBLANCE? SLEEK AND MUSCLY, POWERFUL, MYSTERIOUS?

Hahaha. Mayyybe. What d’you think, Sora?

I picture you as

a raccoon dog.

I type out the words slow and steady, in short bursts so my friends are not left waiting.

Which I PROMISE

is a good thing.

They’re brilliant.

Smart and funny and loyal

And when she’s sure I’m finished, Mai adds:

And they’re sort of adorable.

HAH. YEAH, BUT THEY WOULDN’T LAST TWO SECONDS IN THE RING WITH A LEOPARD.

Ok. Sora? What’s
your
animal?

I think the monkey’s perfect.

Aww thanks ^_^

IT IS. BUT IF HE WERE ANYTHING ELSE, I THINK SORA WOULD BE A CRANE.

I think of the crane, long-legged and beautiful, a bird around which legends are weaved; a creature strong enough to carry people up into the heavens, long-lived enough to observe the world and impart happiness and wisdom. I am neither of these things. So why the crane, out of all the creatures he could choose from? I try to see myself that way, imagine myself strutting serenely through wet green pastures, offering advice to minnows, but I cannot. When I try to place myself inside the bird, it changes, shrinks into itself, feathers tousled and wings chained to a tree.

I shake my head to rid myself of this awful image, and I change the subject.

It’s GREAT, Mai

You’re really talented.

^_^

YEAH. SORA’S RIGHT. YOU NEED TO DO THIS.

Has your mother SEEN these?

Does she know

How good you are?

Aww, you two! <3

I’m serious . . .

Please please please please tell her

I can’t! The interview is in 3 weeks, it’s all organized. I can’t pull out now.

Please?

71

Between each mouthful, I watch my mother’s face, the attention written over it as she waits for me to chew and swallow. Neither of us says a word, but the silence screams with meaning.

Scoop, lift, wait.
My son.

Open, close, chew.
I’m
sorry.

Scoop, lift, wait.
I will always be here.

Chew, swallow.
You shouldn’t have to do this.

Scoop.

Chew.
I’m sorry.

It takes an age, and by the time we’re done, my mother’s plate has long gone cold, but she does not complain.

She swallows hers in two bites while she waits for water to make tea, and then she sits back down beside me.

I watch her steady hands pouring the light green liquid into mugs, listen to the familiar sound of tea on china as it flows, and my mother’s breath, slow and calm, above it. But somehow it is different tonight. The tea sounds stressed, stretched, as though it is being poured from too great a height and would rather stay inside the pot, and Mama’s exhalations are tight, deliberate.

“Here.” Her voice is too loud, and there is not room for it in here with all the quiet. But if she notices, she is not saying anything. She lifts a mug up to my mouth, and I close my lips around the rim and sip.

And I recoil, but it’s too late, the burning liquid is already on my tongue, blistering my palate. I splutter, spitting tea all over the table as my mother leaps up to fetch water and a cloth.

My mouth stings, and I have to swallow fast as saliva pools into it in response. My eyes water.