Warnings: Some medical stuff; beware, if you're squeamish.
Cultural Note: Not-Quite-Keiko uses the Japanese proverb "自業自得" in this chapter. "One's act, one's profit" is basically a way of saying 'you get out of it what you put into it.'
Lucky Child
Chapter 33:
"Left the Nest"
It looked like a staple gun, sort of, square and made of metal with a rubber handle for gripping. The doctor had me grasp it with my left hand. He instructed me to squeeze, hard. A dial spun to measure pounds per square inch of force exerted by my fingers. Then he asked me to take it in my right hand.
I could barely lift the damn thing, let alone squeeze, but I tried my best. My elbow—suffused in a dull, hot ache since the day I shattered it months prior—panged with a current of electric hurt. Bones inside my elbow creaked like dry hinges.
I hissed between my teeth and stopped squeezing. The doctor noted the PSI with a frown.
"Show me the range of motion in your shoulder and wrist," he said.
I lifted my arm as high as it could go, stopping when my shoulder spasmed. My hand was just about level with my scalp. My wrist hadn't suffered much; I could bend it in all directions, but when he pricked my pinkie and ring finger with a needle, I couldn't feel it. I could barely bend any of my fingers at all. I'd been taking my junior year tests orally. Holding a pen had become impossible.
But I'd learned to apply eyeliner one handed, with my non-dominant left hand. So that was a plus, I guess.
The nerve damage was, in a word, 'extensive.' But that was to be expected after shattering one's elbow. We weren't sure the partial paralysis of my right hand was permanent or not, either. Unable to use my hand, unable to lift my arm higher than my shoulder, my mother had to help me with basic tasks like bathing and getting dressed long after my cast (which I wore for months) was removed. Tasks like writing, driving, and using a computer were distant dreams. Mom had to wash my hair for me in the kitchen sink; I had to learn to not stab myself in the gums when brushing my teeth with my left hand.
Initial surgery had repaired my shattered bones as best it could, but it left behind five metal rods and two screws—a lot of hardware in a rather small joint. More surgery removed some rods. The rest had to stay behind. There wasn't enough bone left to go without. Surgeons told me they'd picked out bone shards with a pair of forceps. I tried not to think about that, though, as the physical therapist measured my elbow's mobility. I couldn't extend the elbow fully. I could only bend it 45 degrees. My elbow had the range of motion of a Barbie's leg.
"Therapy will definitely improve your strength, and it will encourage nerve regrowth," I remember him telling me once the assessment was through. "We need to work on fine motor skills, as well, based on your levels of degeneration."
"OK," I said.
"We start today," he said.
"OK," I said.
My assigned therapist—a woman named Nicole, who wore hot pink scrubs and her hair in a gorgeous, curly, natural crown—started that first session by putting me on the arm bike. It was just like a stationary bike for the legs, only the pedals were positioned in the location of conventional handlebars. Nicole set the resistance settings at zero since it was my first time. She turned the dial on an egg timer and set it atop the contraption, saying, "Five minutes forward, five minutes backward. Get to it, woman!"
That day I only managed a dozen rotations in my five allotted minutes, mostly using my undamaged left arm. Sweat poured off my face, a puddle forming on the jutting leather seat between my thighs. My shoulder and elbow burned like someone had heated them in a forge. My right hand kept slipping off the pedal, sending me face-first against the bike's gearbox, until Nicole wrapped her hand around mine to keep it steady. I could barely grip the pedal hard enough to keep myself attached.
"Just breathe through the pain, honey," Nicole said. Her voice was high, sweet, and encouraging, cutting through the sound of my ragged breathing like a cheerful knife. She sat next to me on a stool, palm lightly supporting my bad elbow, helping me keep it aloft as I pressed and pressed and pressed the stupid pedals in their endless circle. When the timer buzzed she said, "Good job, sweetheart. Now we go backward. Get to it, woman!"
By the time we finished the second round, I was crying. I cried into her shirt cradling my arm, hand and shoulder spasming with white-hot pips of sharp pain. She gave me water and painkiller (though only half of my prescribed Vicodin) and waited until I stopped crying to speak.
"It hurts," she told me, eyes firm yet sympathetic. "I know it hurts. But you gotta keep going if you want to make progress, OK? Now let me show you the other exercises."
The other exercises numbered among the following: holding my arms parallel to the floor for set lengths of time (hands empty, at first, holding dumbbells after a month or two); rolling string onto a stick with arms parallel to the floor (string empty at first, string supporting a weight later on); rolling two metal balls around my hand without letting them touch (they were heavy, and slippery, and it took a very long time for them to stop striking each other with a metallic clang); and the Squeeze.
I hated the arm bike, but I hated the Squeeze even more. It always came last. I spent every session, Mondays and Thursdays for the next year, dreading the moment they sat me at a table, placed my elbow on it, and manually bent my elbow past the point it would naturally go. Nicole had to hold me down by the shoulders while another PT put his full weight on my forearm. My arm wound slowly bend, joint aflame, every micrometer of movement a torturous, creaking labor of unnatural, forced mobility. I could feel the bones moving in my arm, hyperaware of the way the metal moved under my skin, huge bumps showing beneath the thin membrane like horns trying to sprout.
I cried almost every time.
By the time I died and became Keiko, I had only managed to bend my elbow to a 90 degree angle. It was far more than the doctors thought I'd be capable of. 90 degrees was practically a miracle. I'd developed a nice layer of muscle in my arms and chest, but my grip strength remain pitiful. The pain hadn't gotten better with PT, either. My shoulder and elbow screamed with it day and night, shrieking even louder when I strained the limb too much. The constant, creaking pain in my joints followed me till the day I died, when I crashed on the IH 45 between Houston and Dallas, driving home one-handed in the dark.
As I explained to Kagome: Yusuke had been in a coma for months. No matter how good Spirit World was at reviving bodies, his body had been dormant for months. He couldn't just hop out of bed and resume his normal life.
And Yusuke absolutely hated that fact.
He wasn't accustomed to being handled with delicacy. He wasn't accustomed to being told to wait. I don't think I realized just how much of Yusuke's identity depended on his physicality, but seeing him confined to a bed drove home the point nicely. His spirit itched behind his eyes, limbs trembling with urges he couldn't fulfill as he lay feeble in his bed.
Yusuke was his physicality. Yusuke was his athleticism. Take that away, and you were left with a grumpy, snappish, lost little boy—a boy who barely knew who he was, or what he was supposed be.
So basically Yusuke was even more of an ass than usual, these days.
After he woke up, he stayed at the hospital for observation for about three days. Eventually they let him go back to Atsuko's new apartment, a contingent of nurses in tow—only most of them quit within a week. I showed up after school and found one of them storming out, face thunderous and carved from stone.
"That boy is a menace," she snarled.
She didn't give me time to ask what the hell had happened. She just stalked off. So I stalked in, right into Yusuke's room wielding my most withering glare. He sat in his bed against a mound of pillows looking thin and pale, but when he saw me, he sat up.
"What?" he asked, alarmed. His voice still sounded like he'd been smoking a pack a day, raw from disuse and intubation. "What? What'd I do?"
"Want to tell me why that nurse just walked out?"
His lip curled in a sneer. "Isn't it obvious?"
I frowned—and then I noticed the mess on the floor. I walked over and lifted up a serving tray to behold a puddle of clear broth, pureed vegetable, and a broken bowl on the floor.
"I asked for a steak," Yusuke said, as if it excused everything. "And that's the crap she brought me. Literal baby food! How many cut-rate nurses—"
"You had a feeding tube in for months, you idiot," I said. "At first you had to spit into a cup because you couldn't remember how to swallow. Do you really think you're ready for a steak after four days?"
Yusuke opened his mouth to reply. He shut it just as quickly and snatched a paper cup off his bedside table—into which he spat a thin ribbon of saliva. Looked quite embarrassed of the whole thing, not that I blame him.
"See what I mean?" I asked. "You still don't have the hang of it. And I refuse to believe a nurse left because you threw a bowl." Nurses were made of strong stuff. "What did you do? Call her names? Attack her?"
I was not to get an answer today. He set down the cup and settled back into his pillows without a word, glaring at the wall like it had insulted his manhood. I sighed, cleaned up the broken bowl, and fixed him a new dinner in the kitchen. He hadn't moved by the time I returned. I settled the food on a serving tray and put the legs of it on either side of his thighs.
"I know you hate this," I said, "but your physical therapist comes tomorrow. You need to keep up your strength and eat." I'd made a special broth, calorie-rich and recommended by the doctors for patients transitioning away from feeding tubes. "Let me help you sit up, and I'll—"
Brown eyes flashed defiant. "Fuck that."
Took him almost a minute to even sit up. His fingers fumbled around the spoon, still not sure of their fine motor skills after so long at rest, and he lifted a slug of broth to his mouth.
He spilled it all down his pajama shirt.
I think he tried to throw the spoon, then, but it bounced off the bed as if thrown by a toddler. Yusuke stared at it for a moment, eyes disbelieving. Then he slowly leaned back into his pillows. I watched the fight drain out of him inch by inch, bit by bit, eyes losing their sheen as he realized just how weak he'd become.
It was the single most heartbreaking thing I'd seen in Keiko's life.
Yusuke wasn't meant to look like this. And he most certainly wasn't mean to hold that look of defeat in his eye.
"This sucks."
I hadn't meant to speak, but out the words had come. Yusuke looked at me askance and snorted.
"You're telling me?" he said.
"I'm empathizing with you, jackass."
A longsuffering eyeroll. "Like you've ever been in my position."
Very nearly gave myself away, the urge to correct him reared up so strong. I knew exactly what it was like to be in his position: to have someone feed you, help you bathe and dress, cater to your every unwanted whim because you were too weak to take care of it yourself. I understood with the clarity of experience how humiliating, how undignified it felt to lose your ability to care for yourself—and I knew how pride could be a barrier to your own recovery, your own ability to adjust, accept, and embrace your new capabilities. I'd lived Yusuke's truth before. I knew every helpless detail of it. And I knew better than he did what it was like to live with the effects of it for the rest of your life. Yusuke would get better, I was sure of it. I'd lived with chronic pain, with permanent change to my way of life, so don't you dare tell me I don't know what it's like, asshole.
But I couldn't say any of that.
"True," I told him, even though it hurt. "I don't know what it's like, but I have a heart, and an imagination. I can still empathize." I swiped the spoon off the floor and cleaned it before scooping up some broth. "C'mon. Eat."
I held the spoon out, hand underneath it to catch any drips. Yusuke refused to look at the spoon, or me, but then his stomach rumbled. He accepted the broth with grudging tolerance, practically growling under his breath as he allowed me to feed him. Didn't take him long to eat everything. Boy had had a bottomless pit for a stomach even before his coma. I put the spoon in the empty bowl with a small smile and stood up to take it to the kitchen. Hopefully Yusuke would be able to set aside his boundless pride long enough to accept the help he needed to recover. If he didn't—
"I hate you seeing me like this."
He spoke with face turned away; I couldn't see his expression. I sat back down, bowl rattling like a hollowed skull on my lap.
"You've seen me when I'm a blubbering mess," I said, keeping my tone airy. "Consider us even."
His eyes flashed my way. "Keiko—!"
Yusuke stopped talking and took a deep breath. He looked away again.
"I mean it," he said in a softer voice. "I mean it, Keiko. I hate this."
Yusuke didn't need to explain further. I knew what he meant—and more importantly, I knew what he needed. Even if it came at my expense, I knew what my best friend needed.
His ankle radiated heat through the blanket covering it. He looked up when I rest my hand on that joint, surprise and confusion and raw, agonizing hurt waging war in his brown eyes.
"I can stay away if you want," I said.
Those conflicted eyes widened.
"It's no big deal," I said, shrugging. "If you want me to stay away while you recover, I will."
He didn't speak.
"I made a friend at my new school whose mother is dying," by way of explanation. Yusuke's brow furrowed at the apparent non sequitur, but I pressed on. "A lot of people want to help him, but I've noticed that helping him makes them feel better. They're doing it for him, but also for their own benefits." I shrugged again. "I don't want to be that person here. I admit not helping you would make me feel guilty. But my feelings matter less than yours in this scenario."
Yusuke muttered my name, then. I met his eyes with a smile—a warm, supportive smile, judgement-free and nurturing. He probably felt like the world was against him just then. He needed to know that I was on his side.
"Whatever you want, Yusuke," I told him. "If it's for me to stay away, so you don't feel embarrassed, I'll do it. Just let me know."
He searched my face, looking for…hesitation, maybe? I wasn't sure. Eventually his shoulders sagged. This obviously wouldn't be an easy decision for him. I certainly didn't want him to send me away. At the same time, having your best friend watch you in your most vulnerable moment wasn't comfortable. If not having me around helped soothe his wounded pride, and allowed him the freedom to get better, I'd gladly trade proximity for his progression. Gladly. Any day of the damn week.
Yusuke searched my face a moment more. He sighed and shook his head.
"I don't know," he said. "I'm sorry, I…I just don't know."
"That's OK. Just keep me posted." I patted his ankle in a casual gesture of comfort. "But if you never want me to see you like this again, you'd better not chase off your physical therapist. That's how you'll get through this. That's how you'll get better."
He screwed up his eyes at me. "What do you mean?"
"Like I said, your physical therapist comes tomorrow," I said. "You can't chase her off like you did the nurses. You'll need her to get better. The harder you work, the faster you'll recover. 'One's act, one's profit,' as the saying goes."
Yusuke started to speak, but he stopped when I stood up and walked to the door. Under its arch I paused. I looked at him over my shoulder. This time I didn't smile.
"Therapy will be hard," I told him. Even though he didn't know my past, my heavy tone rendered him quiet. "Therapy will hurt…but they're called 'growing pains' for a reason. Every exercise will be an uphill climb. You'll want to give up. But you can't." I allowed a smirk to break through. "Not unless you enjoy it when I feed you like a baby."
Yusuke bristled. "I ain't no baby."
I grabbed the spoon and waved it in a circle. "Whoosh! Open wide! Here comes the airplane!"
"Oh, fuck off, Keiko!" Yusuke said. He had to manually lift his middle finger with his opposite hand, but the meaning was clear. "Screw your plane and open wide, 'cause here comes the goddamn bird!"
He dropped the hand and cackled. I laughed, too.
"Screw you, too, Yusuke!" I said through my giggles. "You're the worst!"
Nothing in what he said hurt my feelings. Not that day, at least. In our language, those insults were expressions of affection. I cherished each and every one.
"Funny," Kagome said. She stared into the space between us without seeing it. "In the anime he just hopped out of bed and was back in action like it was nothing."
I shrugged. "Apparently not everything from the anime translated perfectly into real life."
"Hmm. Weird." Sincere worry resonated in her words. "But he's doing better now?"
"Now, yeah. After we found a therapist willing to work with his loud ass, of course." Apparently rumors of Yusuke's temper had resonated throughout our town's small medical community. "His therapist is great, a real trooper. We're lucky to have her. Only person who doesn't balk at Yusuke's foul mouth."
Kagome giggled. "That little firecracker. He's so cute."
"Yeah. He is." Because Yusuke wasn't around to protest, I said: "He's like a baby bird learning to fly again."
The thought was both entertaining and sobering at once: entertaining because picturing him as a small, chirping bird made me laugh, sobering because the thought of what came next sent a worried shiver up my spine.
The sooner Yusuke got better, the sooner he became the Spirit Detective…and the sooner he'd be in danger.
"Uh oh." Kagome's lips twisted in a knowing grimace. "Judging by the look on your face, you're probably thinking of leave-the-nest metaphors and worrying for his safety, right?"
That got a laugh out of me. "You know me too well. But speaking of leaving the nest…"
Yusuke worked at physical therapy harder than anything in his life. Seriously, if the guy put that much effort into school, he'd be at the top of his class. He attacked every exercise with the tenacity he normally preserved for street fights or pissing off Keiko. Sometimes I walked in on him doing his therapist's prescribed stretches on his own time, or snuck up on him while he performed repetitive movements meant to reengage his fine motor skills—like tapping his fingers against his thumb, for instance, one by one in a loop. At first his fingers tapped slowly, unsure of their own motion, but soon they picked up speed, faster and faster until they blurred into one another.
Still: although he attacked his exercises with gusto, the going wasn't easy.
True to what I'd told him, therapy hurt. It didn't hurt as much as mine had, if I had to take a guess (frustration seemed in greater supply than actual pain when it came to Yusuke), but his joints were stiff from disuse and his muscles had atrophied past the point of swift return. At first the therapist made him stretch, working on engaging nerves that had collected dust during their time of inactivity. Yusuke called it "namby pamby yoga bullshit," especially when Tamaguchi-sensei made him perform a watered-down form of meditation she called "conscious corrections."
I'd heard of conscious correction when I took tai-chi classes in my past life. Essentially, Tamaguchi had Yusuke sit very still and concentrate on each of his individual muscles, starting from his scalp and working his way from there down to his toes. The goal was to simply make him aware of his muscles, reconnect body to mind, but to Yusuke it just felt boring. He groused and griped about not being given actual strength training before, during, and after every single session—but when they finally transitioned to strength training, he sang a different tune.
Namely the tune of "shit-goddammit-fucking-hell", to be precise.
Tamaguchi wasn't the type to pull punches. Using weights, elastic straps, stability balls, and good old-fashioned techniques reminiscent of the Squeeze I'd so hated in my old life, she poked and prodded and pounded Yusuke's muscles and nerves until they sang with energy and new life. Yusuke at first was mad she didn't let him "pump iron" (or whatever his macho teenage self called it), but soon his complaints quieted. Tamaguchi worked Yusuke hard, though judiciously, challenging him in ways I don't think even he realized he could be challenged. Yusuke would call a session a breeze immediately after it ended, but the next day he'd be a writhing ball of agonizing soreness.
"I didn't even know I had muscles in my goddamn ass," he said after one particularly grueling leg session, "but fuck it, they hurt."
Tamaguchi was sneaky like that. With her help, Yusuke progressed quickly, resistance training getting more and more difficult with every passing therapy session.
One day, about two weeks after therapy started, Tamaguchi and I crossed paths on the street outside Atsuko's apartment. She carried her usual bag of tricks over her muscular shoulder, grey hair gathered in a braid down her back. We exchanged a few pleasantries, but it didn't take her long to drop social niceties in favor of asking what was on her mind. Not very Japanese of her, but I appreciated her direct nature.
"Maybe you don't know, but I have to ask," she said. "Is he working outside of our sessions?"
"He's doing the exercises you gave him. Why?"
She nodded, considering this a minute. "His muscle recovery is…well." She scowled. "It's spectacular."
"That's great!" I paused as her dour look sank in. "So why do you look like you swallowed a needle?"
Her scowl deepened. "I assume he's doing extra exercises on his own."
For a second I considered saying Yusuke wasn't the type to put extra effort into something so reminiscent of homework, but then again, this was his strength we were talking about. He'd do just about anything to be strong again…maybe even homework.
"I want to deny that he'd do extra work," I said, "but I can't. That sounds exactly like something he'd do."
Tamaguchi looked grimly satisfied. "I warned him overexerting himself could set back his recovery, but it seems that fell on deaf ears."
"Stubborn," I corrected. "Stubborn ears. He can hear you just fine. He just doesn't listen."
"He doesn't listen to me," Tamaguchi said, odd emphasis on the last word.
There followed a moment of silence. She stared at me, expectant, until I figured it out.
"…but he listens to me." Seems Tamaguchi could use subtle Japanese implications when it suited her, after all. "I'll talk to him, if you want me to."
"Yes, thank you. That would be ideal."
Indomitable woman though she was, even Tamaguchi didn't fancy confronting Yusuke directly after a session, when he was at his most grumpy.
True to form, Yusuke gnashed his teeth when I asked him if he'd been exerting himself without Tamaguchi's guidance. Face streaked with sweat from his session, he lay on his back on the floor in the living room and glared up at me. Barely had the energy to move, but that glare of his still had teeth.
"That nag," he said. "Always telling me to slow down. Why I oughtta—"
"Maybe she has a point," I interjected.
"Point, schmoint. I hate being cooped up and I wanna be back on the streets, dammit!" He summoned the energy to lash out a hand as if striking an invisible enemy. "So what if I exercise a little more than normal? If it gets me out of here faster, screw Tamaguchi!"
I flopped down near his head, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. I kept my tone mild when I said, "She said your recovery is spectacular."
Yusuke's scowl turned into a grin. "See? It's working! Tell the old broad to lay off!"
"But she said you could overexert and send yourself back a step, if you aren't careful." His grin faded at my matter-of-fact wording. I flicked a finger at his nose; he snapped his teeth at me. "Look. I can't control you, and I won't nag you. But keep in mind your limits, OK? Stop if something starts to hurt worse."
"You worry too much. Almost as much as that naggy therapist." He thrust a fist toward the ceiling. "I'll slow down when I'm dead—hear that, Tamaguchi? And I ain't dying again any time soon!"
His words triggered associations in my head, stopping any pithy replies in their tracks. Yusuke grabbed onto the couch and used it to lever himself upright. He leaned against it and swiped his shirt over his face to mop up the sweat. Then he frowned.
"What?" he said. "What're you looking at me for?"
"You were dead," I said.
Yusuke shifted, not looking at me. "So they tell me."
"Like, really, really dead. Stone cold dead. Deader than the Monty Python parrot."
His brow furrowed. "The what?"
"Never mind." I made a mental note to track down tapes of the Monty Python sketches and educate him at some point. "It's just, Yusuke—what happened while you were gone?"
Yusuke froze.
I mean, I hadn't expected much else. This was his death we were talking about. He was bound to have some complicated (and unprocessed, knowing him) emotions about the whole ordeal. I hadn't had the opportunity to ask about his time as a ghost yet. Had been waiting for him to bring it up, but I couldn't keep the curiosity bottled forever. Sometimes Yusuke needed a nudge to acknowledge his feelings, and that nudge I was more than happy to provide.
Yusuke didn't move for a few seconds. He stared at the floor in front of his outstretched legs without expression, lost in thoughts I couldn't decipher.
"I saw your corpse," I eventually murmured. "I…I touched your hand. It was cold and you were dead. They didn't miss your pulse in the ambulance, like we told the authorities. You actually died."
Yusuke's eyes flickered in my direction. They flickered away just a quickly.
"You died, and you came back," I said.
He took a deep breath and, sounding like a child in a middle school theater class, said: "I don't know what you're talking about, and—"
"I'm not an idiot and I know when you're lying."
He winced at my brusque words. I didn't crack, though, not even when he shot me a look of helplessness—like he was pleading with his eyes for me to let this go.
"I'm not supposed to tell you," he said.
"Why?"
"They told me not to."
"Who's they?"
Annoyance narrowed his eyes. "Just this annoying Spirit World brat who—"
Yusuke stopped. He clapped his hand over his mouth.
"Spirit World," I quoted, a though speaking the word for the first time. I pasted a look of interest across my face. "Like the afterlife?"
He shifted uncomfortably, but he admitted: "Pretty much."
I paused, pretending to think about it and put the pieces together. I already knew the truth, of course, but Yusuke didn't need to know that.
"Somebody in the afterlife helped you come back," I intoned with all the gravity such a discovery should deserve. "Interesting. So there's really an afterlife?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny," he said—but then a grin broke through his awkwardness. "Oh, fuck it. Let's just say even hell couldn't handle me!"
He looked quite proud of himself; my reactionary laughter was completely genuine. "Damn straight, hell couldn't handle you." I leaned toward him. "Why, though? Why did they bring you back?"
Another awkward shift. "I'm really not supposed…aw, to hell with it!" He smacked a fist against the carpet, eyes blazing—because nobody told Yusuke what to do, least of all a toddler brat too big for his britches. "Apparently they thought I was such an asshole, I wouldn't help that kid get out of the way of the car. They didn't prep a place for me in heaven or hell. I had nowhere to go but back to life. So this blue-haired lady who said she was as grim reaper came out of nowhere on an oar and—"
He told me a surprising amount of details, then, from Botan's appearance to Koenma's ordeal to what he spent time doing while he was dead. He didn't tell me about throwing the egg to save me from the fire (he just said Spirit World 'helped' protect me, as well as his body), but for the most part he told me everything. If I looked shocked during his story, it wasn't because I was acting. I was floored he'd tell Keiko all of that, because he sure as shit hadn't told her this much in the anime. Why the change, I wondered? Maybe it was a timing thing. In the anime he'd been recruited as Spirit Detective just after waking up, but now, with all this extra time between his awakening and his recruitment…
Yusuke settled back against couch cushions with a long, dramatic sigh. I'd helped him move onto the couch halfway through his story. I sat next to him while he talked, at one point bringing a glass of water when he started coughing. He closed his eyes a minute, silent, then cracked them open in my direction.
"Damn, I actually feel better," he said. "I haven't had much to do but watch daytime TV so I think about what happened a lot. Fucking annoying, thinking all the time." He smirked. "No wonder you're such a pain."
"Ha ha, very funny," I snarked. "Wow, though. That story…that's a lot to take in."
Even though I knew he had told me the truth, real Keiko—realistic and level-headed—wouldn't likely buy into Yusuke's tall tale right off the bat. Best act just a little disbelieving, at least at first. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at Yusuke with a frown. He frowned back, head drooping atop his tired neck.
"Keiko…do you think it was all a dream?" he asked with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Everything I said, it's crazy. Do you think I just dreamed it?"
Panic—as sudden as it was hot—clenched inside my chest, breath halting with a sputter. Aw, fuck. I hadn't meant to make Yusuke doubt himself!
"Me telling you what I think won't make you feel better," I said, every scrap of willpower funneled into maintaining a calm, self-assured demeanor. "You need to listen to what you think."
"I think it sounds insane," he said. Comical anger had him throwing up his hands. "There were ogres in loin cloths and Spirit World is run by a toddler, Keiko! What the fuck is that supposed to mean!?"
He used anger to cover frustration, doubt—and he'd never admit it, but probably a little fear, too. Fear that his own perception wasn't correct, and that he'd invented the fantastical story that explained so much of his existence. Hurt me to my core to see that doubt in his eyes, concealed though it was by his irate griping. But what could I do to help fix this?
Eventually I settled on: "Let's try the Socratic Method."
He blinked. "The what?"
"…never mind." Philosophy was this overthinker's gig, not his. "How did your body get spared from cremation?"
His eyebrows lifted like rockets off a launch pad. "Um. Do you have amnesia, Keiko? I went inside your dreams and told you to save my body, duh."
I didn't rise to his taunt. "Did I have that dream, and did I do what you asked?"
"Yes to both, but—" He stopped. His eyes widened. "Oh. Oh."
"How did you come back to life?" I asked.
"I went inside your dreams and told you that I was coming back if you—well." He looked away, rubbing the back of his reddened neck. "You know."
"I do know," I said. "Did I do what you asked me to do?"
"Yeah."
"Does that lead you to any conclusions?"
He nodded. "It wasn't a dream."
"My side of the story corroborates yours," I said.
The panic in my chest unclenched when the hesitation in his eyes cleared, clouds of doubt scattered by a logical wind.
"So it was real," he said. He smiled for a second, but then he looked infinitely disturbed. "Holy fucking shit, the afterlife is run by a baby."
His attitude's heel-face-turn reduced me to a fit of giggles, but before I could recover and ask more questions about his time as a ghost, the doorbell rang. Yusuke glared in the direction of the door and sighed.
"Tamaguchi forget one of her torture implements?" he grumbled.
"No idea," I said. "Let me check."
It was Sunday, and Atsuko was out…somewhere. She didn't often leave a note. A nurse wasn't due to arrive for another hour, hence why I'd come over. Somebody had to make sure Yusuke didn't try sneaking off to pick fights before he was ready (he'd tried that once before, though he didn't get too far when his legs cramped up). I peered through the peephole wondering if the nurse was early today, but when I saw the face on the other side of the door, I gasped in surprise.
"Oh, hey Keiko!" Kuwabara said when I opened the door. He wore casual clothes, jeans and a baseball jersey with a jacket over it. Somehow the clothes made him look like less of a punk than usual. "Sorry to come over unannounced. I called your house and your mom said you were here, so…"
He trailed off, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. I made sure to smile when I said: "It's no problem. Are you here to see Yusuke?"
Kuwabara beamed. "Well, technically I was trying to find you, because I have something really really awesome to show you, but then I heard you were here, and—well, two birds with one stone and whatnot. I figured I'd stop by and cheer him up." His sunny grin could melt a glacier. "And boy, Keiko, do I have something that'll cheer him up! He'd have to be dead to not love this!"
"Well, he was dead until recently, so…"
"Ha ha, very funny." He rolled his eyes at my poor joke before pulling something out from behind his back: a cardboard box with holes cut in the top and sides. He handled it with care normally reserved for infants and fine china, big hands gentle and careful around its corners.
"Um," I said (and while I looked doubtful on the outside, inside I had suspicions about what lay inside that box). "That's dubious."
"Trust me, it's amazing," he said. "So is Yusuke awake?"
"Yeah. He's awake. Come with me." I lead him inside and into the living room. "Yusuke, you have a visitor."
He looked over his shoulder with a scowl. "Who the hell would—Kuwabara?!"
Kuwabara lifted a hand as Yusuke's eyes bugged out of his skull. "Sup, Urameshi?"
Yusuke tried to leap off the couch, but he got halfway up and his legs failed. He opted for pointing dramatically in Kuwabara's direction, instead. "What the hell are you doing here?" he yodeled.
"Shh, keep your voice down!" Kuwabara said. "You'll scare her!"
"Scare who?"
"Oh my god," I said. I pointed at the box, allowing excitement to creep into my voice. "Is that—?"
Kuwabara preened, pride glowing in every pore. "Shizuru decided I needed a present when my report card came back. All B's! Except for science. I got an A in science."
My excitement about the box faded, replaced by excitement for his grades—because oh my gosh, Kuwabara making As and Bs? That was huge! I clapped my hands and bounced on my heels. "Kuwabara, that's amazing!"
Yusuke, meanwhile, was less than impressed by Kuwabara's academic prowess. "Will somebody please tell me what's in the damn box?" he hollered.
"Urameshi, stop yelling!" Kuwabara said. "Just gimme a minute, OK? She's shy!"
Well, that confirmed it, didn't it? I watched with my breath held, knuckles pressed to my mouth as Kuwabara put the box on the coffee table. He melted the minute the flaps on top opened, features softening into a sweet, sentimental mess as he reached inside and gently—oh so very gently—lifted a tiny, fuzzy kitten to his chest.
"Meet Eikichi," Kuwabara said in a voice like freshly dried laundry or bread rolls right out of the oven. "Isn't she beautiful?"
I clapped my hands tight over my mouth as the kitten (which fit in the palm of Kuwabara's dinner plate hand) heaved an adorable, tiny yawn and cuddled up to Kuwabara's thumb. Kuwabara beamed at my reaction, but then Yusuke spoke and ruined everything.
"Huh," he said, as unimpressed with the cat as he was Kuwabara's grades. "Didn't figure you for a cat guy."
"What's wrong with cats?!" Kuwabara snapped.
"Nothin', if you're an old spinster."
"Oh my god," I squeaked. "Can…can I hold her?"
Kuwabara turned to me with a gleaming smile. "Yeah, of course! I want to get her nice and socialized."
He handed me Eikichi with instructions on how best to support her body so she'd be comfortable—and truth be told, I needed the pointers. I'd been highly, deathly allergic to cats in my past life, and my current cat hated to be held. Silly, standoffish Sorei. I'd always thought cats and kittens were so adorable, but this was the first time in my forty years of consciousness that I'd gotten to hold a kitten without fear of losing my ability to breathe. Her fur felt like fuzzy velvet against my hands, and when I tucked her under my chin, she rewarded me with a purr like a toy car. I gave a little squeak of delight at that, thumb brushing over her silky ears as I cuddled her close.
"Oh my god," I whispered. "Oh my god."
"Right?" Kuwabara said. "I mean, right?"
"She's so fucking adorable, I want to scream."
"She's the prettiest cat there ever was," Kuwabara said.
"She's the best kitten to ever kitten," I said. My throat ached and my eyes stung, but not from dander allergy. "Ten out of ten, good kitty. I love her. I love her so much. Oh my god."
Kuwabara blinked at me. "…are you crying?"
"No, shut up, you're crying," I said with an obvious sniffle. I turned away, holding the purring cat safe against my chest. "Oh, Eikichi, who's my sweet lovey-lump? Is it you, my precious baby? Is it you?"
She meowed as if responding to my question, and I damn near about keeled over and died from the sheer cuteness.
"Seriously, though," Yusuke said. "Kuwabara, you like cats?"
I turned around in time to see Kuwabara round on Yusuke, lower lip jutting. "What's wrong with cats?"
Yusuke spoke as though it were obvious. "Dogs are manlier, duh."
Kuwabara's face reddened—but then he grinned and gestured at Yusuke's legs. "Says the guy in ducky pajamas!"
Yusuke did a double take at his clothes. He wore a t-shirt and pajama pants…pants that were indeed patterned in little yellow ducks. Boy hadn't been paying much attention to fashion while stuck at home, that's for sure.
"Hey!" he said, face turning a shade of red to rival Kuwabara. "They're comfortable! Ducks are better than kittens, anyway!"
Kuwabara's face turned purple, more or less. "What the—?! You take that back!"
Yusuke lurched to the edge of the couch, fist raised. "Make me!"
"Now, now," I said, still riding the high of my kitten-induced zen. "Settle down, you two."
Both of them ignored me.
"I swear to god, if you weren't such a charity case, I'd tan your hide for insulting cats!" Kuwabara said.
Yusuke rolled his eyes so hard I feared he'd pull a muscle. "Oh, please. Even with this handicap I'd still wipe the floor with you, you son of a—"
"Boys."
Even with a kitten in hand, I managed to sound authoritative. They 'eeped' in unison and leapt away from each other, shooting fearful glances in my direction.
"You're scaring the kitten," I said, and then I winked. "And don't worry, Kuwabara. Yusuke will be back in action soon. You can beat each other black and blue when he gets better."
There followed many promises (or threats; take your pick of terminology) to do just that—and Yusuke delivered. Every time Kuwabara visited, I noticed Yusuke would work a little harder at his lessons, grumbling all the while about needing to get back in action and take back his turf.
"Kuwabara got cocky while I was gone," he told me when I scolded him for overdoing it. "Somebody's gotta put that jackass in his place."
Kuwabara, too, told me he'd been training his hardest in Yusuke's absence. "Gotta be at the top of my game when he gets back, or else it's not a fair fight," he told me when I noticed a bruise on his meaty arm. "I'll beat him fair and square or not at all!"
That was their relationship in a nutshell, I supposed. Even when beating each other to a pulp, or threatening one another, or insulting the other's masculinity, they found ways to drive each other to new heights.
I was good for Yusuke in a lot of ways. I could comfort, and use the Socratic Method to help him draw his own conclusions—but Kuwabara was his bro. And during his recovery, Yusuke needed a brother in arms like Kuwabara at his side.
Kagome appeared completely charmed by Kuwabara and Yusuke's interaction. She giggled into her tea and scones as I told her about the boys' renewed rivalry, fondness etched into her young, open features.
"I bet you feel better about stepping back, knowing Kuwabara is there," she said.
"Well, Yusuke never outright told me to bug off," I said. "I've been giving him space and reading his moods as best I can, but yeah. Knowing he's got Kuwabara there took a load off my shoulders."
"Good to hear. You really do worry too much." Her grin warmed me despite the January cold outside the café. "So it sounds like Yusuke is doing OK?"
"Yeah. To be honest, I think he's almost better." I stirred my tea with a spoon, inhaling steam as it rose warmly from the cup. "Doctors say they've never seen anyone recover from a coma this fast before. They're honestly stumped." Couldn't exactly tell them Spirit World likely had a hand in his swift recovery. "But even so, it's not fast enough for Yusuke's liking."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course it's not."
I chuckled. "Even though he's not strong enough to fight, he'd rather be throwing punches than doing therapy. I caught him trying to climb out a window the other day. I swear, if it weren't for the nurses, he'd have flown the coop a long time ago."
"Do you think he's ready to fly?"
Her question—a serious inquiry at odds with her earlier joking tone—gave me pause. I covered my unease by dipping a biscotti in my tea and taking a bite of the soaked pastry.
"I think…he's just about ready," I eventually said.
"You know the minute he does fly the coop, Spirit World will strike, right?" Kagome said. "I bet you that Botan'll come calling the minute he's ready to become Spirit Detective."
"Yeah. That occurred to me." Much as I wanted to see him realize his destiny, I was still no closer to having any powers myself. Soon weak little Keiko would become a footnote in Yusuke's story. Sighing, I set my tea aside. "But at least this time around, Keiko is in-the-know about things regarding Spirit World."
Kagome nodded. "It's good you got him to tell you about being dead. In the anime he hid everything from Keiko, right?"
"Mm-hmm. Which always felt weird." I waved my spoon around, agitated gesticulation sending drops of tea across the table. "She had those dreams, she saw the fire turn blue, and Keiko isn't stupid—she already had hints about the supernatural existing. Why would Yusuke think she'd freak out if he told her the truth?"
"Wasn't it about secrecy?" Kagome said. "Like, keeping Spirit World secret and stuff?"
"Yeah, that was Botan's reasoning, I think. But even that doesn't make sense. The cat was already out of the bag about the supernatural since Keiko kept having semi-prophetic dreams thanks to Yusuke."
"Yeah, yeah, I agree," Kagome said with an emphatic nod. "And besides. Keeping Keiko in the dark endangered her."
"For real," I said. My thoughts strayed to the pepper spray in my purse, which I planned to use during the Saint Beast arc just as much as my aikido training. "I'm glad Yusuke told this Keiko the truth so early. Saves her—I mean, saves me the trouble of pretending to not know what's going on." I leaned toward Kagome and dramatically whispered, "Acting is exhausting."
Kagome giggled, but then her smile faded into solemn curiosity. "Say. Why do you think he told you the truth, and not the other Keiko?"
I didn't reply right away. I'd been wondering the same thing, but my theories were just that: theories.
"Maybe…maybe he can sense that I'm older, somehow," I said, speech slow as I put my feelings into words for the first time. "Maybe I feel more like a maternal figure to him that the other Keiko. He's always telling me I'm a little old lady on the inside, after all." My smile felt tight even to me. "I consider that a good thing, all things considered about our ages."
Kagome nodded. "That would make sense. I feel like you act older than your physical age, so even if he doesn't have a reason to think you're literally an old soul, maybe it's something he intuits subconsciously."
Relief flooded me. Kagome agreeing with me validated my uncertain emotions; I hadn't realized I needed that validation until she gave it to me.
"Right," I said. "And I counseled him through his doubts about his experience as a ghost, so…I dunno. Maybe he looks at me like a confidante more than he did the other Keiko: a guidance counselor rather than a peer. But that's just conjecture." I allowed a smile to curl my mouth. "Or maybe I'm just more persuasive than Keiko since I know which questions to ask to get answers about Spirit World. I just have an advantage on interrogation."
"Yeah, maybe," Kagome said. She started to speak, but then her eyes widened and she shut her mouth. One finger rose above her head, commanding my attention. "Oh—right. Questions. That reminds me. You've been so busy lately with Yusuke's return, we haven't had time to talk about the fairy tales!"
I winced. "Yeah, I'm so sorry about that. I've been swamped this past month."
"Nah, no worries. Your best friend coming back from the dead is pretty distracting," she said with a generous wink. "You're excused. I haven't had much time, either."
"Good to know," I said. "But really. Sorry I've been AWOL."
Kagome's merry smile faded a little. "Really. It's OK. I'm just glad we got together today, because I think I figured something out—and it's super weird, Eeyore. Like, super weird. And I brought it today to show you."
It wasn't like Kagome to wear a look of such severity. Smiles suited her face more than scowls, but as she reached for her backpack and put it on the table, a scowl is what she wore. A pulse of thin adrenaline zinged down my arms at her odd behavior. When she unzipped her bag and pulled out a slender book, I looked at her and asked: "What's that?"
She didn't reply. She just handed me the book and sat back, eyes intent on my face as I skimmed the gilt title on the book's green cover.
"Oh," I said. "The Unabridged Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm, Japanese translation. Nice."
She swallowed. "Check the table of contents."
Shooting her a what-the-hell look, I flipped open the cover and thumbed past the title page. The table of contents availed itself in short order. I skimmed the page with a frown, opening my mouth to ask what I was supposed to be looking for—
But I didn't have to ask. Within two seconds, I noticed.
I noticed, and my blood ran like ice.
"Wait," I said. I flipped the page over to the back, where a few more stories were listed. All in all the table of contents was only a page in a half in length. "Wait just a fucking second. This can't be right."
"That's what I said," Kagome said. "But I found a bunch of other editions, and they all look the same."
The oddity of that struck the breath from my lungs. I scanned the list—that list only a page and a half long—a dozen times. Eventually my eyes came to rest on the title at the top of the page.
The Unabridged Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm.
Unabridged.
And yet—
"It's missing at least half of the Brothers' stories," I said.
Kagome grimaced. "Yeah. I thought maybe I just didn't remember how many there were in our old life, but now that you say it—"
"I took courses on fairy tales in college, Tigger. I know what I'm talking about." I flipped the page back and forth, back and forth, receptive motion as comforting as it was maddening. "You didn't imagine a damn thing. Half—no. About seventy percent of the stories are just gone."
"Yeah," Kagome whispered. "And that's supposed to be the full, unabridged, completed works of the Brothers Grimm."
Puss and Boots. Sleeping Beauty. Rapunzel. Rumpelstiltskin. I saw those included amongst the titles on the page.
But Cinderella? The Frog Prince? Snow White? Hansel and Gretel? I didn't see any of them listed. I didn't see several of the Brothers' hallmark stories—the stories for which they were famous, and the stories for which I'd read them as a kid. And that's saying nothing of the many lesser-known stories absent from this table of missing contents. My pulse beat like a boxer at my throat as I dragged my finger down the list, looking in vain for titles that just weren't there.
What the bloody hell was going on, exactly? And what did this imply about the reality I now called my own?
"What does it mean?" Kagome said. Her wide eyes trained hopeful on my face, as though trying to read answers in the knit of my brow or the purse of my lips. "Mother Goose is the same way. So are the Aesop Fables. I can find them, but they're missing a lot. But for the Brothers Grimm to be missing material? These are where fairy tales came from. These are the originals. And they just aren't there?"
I put the book down, thinking back on all the college courses I took on the subject, turning over my memories like a river tossing a stone.
"Well, the Brothers Grimm aren't where the stories came from," I said.
Kagome's head tilted. "They're not?"
"No. They adapted most of their stories from oral tradition of peasants, or retold the stories of French author Charles Perrault, who in turn retold many stories by Italian author Giambattista Basile. Perrault and Basile predate the Brothers Grimm by centuries. The Brothers added big Christian messages to their stories, too, to please the rulers at the time." I smirked, recalling the older versions of the stories the Grimm's Brothers appropriated. "The Brothers Grimm have a reputation of being super dark, at least compared to Disney and whatnot, but they're sunshine and rainbows compared to Basile and Perrault. Basile and Perrault are fucked up."
"Well, that's all news to me." She pointed at the book in my numb hands. "Even so. Why all the missing stories in this book? It's hella weird that it doesn't at least include Cinderella, right?"
"Could this be a translation error?" I asked. "I wonder if I can order an English volume from the library."
"Already did." She tossed her hair with a beam, proud she'd beat me to the punch. "Librarian said it would take a few weeks to come in, though." At that she dropped her smile and sighed. "Ugh. Waiting. I hate waiting."
I looked at the book. "Me, too."
"And that librarian didn't know much about those stories, either." She huffed, kicking her foot like the impatient kid she was in some ways, and wasn't in others. "Fat load of help she was. You'd think a librarian would know literature, but…"
Thoughts connected and bounced off each other like they'd been caught in a pinball machine. I held up the book and asked, "Hey. Can I borrow this?"
"Uh, sure. But why?"
"You just gave me a great idea, that's why." It was my turn to beam. "If a librarian didn't have answers, then I might as well consult a certain literary genius for his opinion."
I didn't get to talk to Kaito that day, unluckily for me and my burning curiosity. It was Sunday, and I wouldn't see him until I went back to school. I left my meeting with Kagome with her book tucked under my arm and promises to use Kaito as my Literary Google Machine on my lips.
To be honest, it felt good to talk to Kagome about something other than Yusuke. Yusuke consumed the majority of my time and energy these days. Having something of my own to chew on—my own plot, so to speak—reminded me that even though Yusuke's story was on the verge of taking center stage, I still had something to do. I still had something to occupy my time, something personal and not dependent on the Yu Yu Hakusho storyline into which I'd been shoehorned.
Still, though: Much as I liked having my own independent plot, I was very much a part of Yusuke's. After I left Kagome I found myself walking to Atsuko's apartment with a take-out bag in hand. Figured Yusuke might like a lemon tart. Add a little spice to his cooped-up life, you know?
Seems I didn't need to try.
Yusuke had taken care of adding variety to his routine all on his own.
Minute I walked in the door to the apartment, one of the nurses popped up. Eyes wide, hands shaking, she looked at me and said, "Oh, Keiko, thank goodness! Have you seen Yusuke?"
I paused just inside the door, one finger hooked into the back of my shoe as I tried to take them off. I looked up at her and said, "Wait, what?"
"Have you seen Yusuke?" she repeated. Her voice cracked on the last syllable.
"He's not in his room?"
"No, I came in and—where are you going?"
I didn't bother taking off my other shoe. I dropped the lemon tart bag, leapt over the raised platform into the house, and sprinted down the hall to Yusuke's room. All but kicked the door down, his name bubbling on my lips like magma.
Too bad no one was there to hear me.
Yusuke's room was empty.
The baby bird had left the nest.
NOTES:
Chapter too long; couldn't squeeze in Kurama. Sorry, guys. Next week. Dissatisfied with this overall but oh well. At least there was a kitten!
The Grimms Brother created very few fairy tales as we know them. Often people credit them as the creators of the fairy tales we know and love today, but that's not the case at all. Check out "Sun, Moon, and Talia" by Basile for a look at one of the earliest renditions of Sleeping Beauty. It makes the Grimm's Brothers' version look like an episode of Barney & Friends.
So, about my arm…that first section is biographical. Hesitated to include it but it's a huge part of my life and felt wrong to leave out, I've come a long way since my PT days. I can drive again (one handed, with my left), and I can wash my own hair most of the time. On bad pain days I still need help with some tasks (buttons and hairbrushes are my enemy) but it's amazing how far I've come. Chronic pain isn't fun, but PT really did help. I need to go back. My nerve damage is spreading again.
It's been a rough week. Family dog (Speck) passed, and that…just hurt. Dogs are very special. Speck was my grandfather's companion and my grandmother died earlier this year, so Grandpa is not doing very well and feels very alone. Worried about him. Your support has meant the world this week: HereAfter, CrystalVixen93, EVA-Saiyajin, ahyeon, tw2000, Archaeological, Corralinne, xenocanaan, DiCuoreAllison, Yunrii, EdenMae, rya-fire1, The Story Teller Sentinel, Marian, Guest (x4), Maester Ta, Alice, wennifer-lynn, britneycase3, Dec Jane, Counting Sinful Stars, compass96, ballet022, giant salamander, Kaiya Azure, reebajee, Just 2 Dream of You, MetroNeko, Luki Dimension, essex2, FireDancerNix, sousie, CaelynM, buzzk97.
