Chapter Two: The Next Year and a Half
The tree's height no longer made Joe nervous. He leaned his chest against the bole and looked around it at Ken. Spring was coating the mountain forests with green, but he had eyes only for his friend.
Over the past year, as his mother's illness worsened, Ken had more or less moved in with him and Doctor Nambu. Just this morning, Ken's last possessions had been brought to the house. Eileen had, after much delay and rebellion, finally admitted she needed more care than home-help could provide. By tonight, she would be in a nursing home.
Which is worse? Joe wondered. To lose your parents slowly, or quickly? Lately, he was leaning towards slow as worse.
"Joe?"
"Huh?"
"You know I'm going to be staying with you and Uncle for a while." Until Mom gets better, he implied.
"As long as it takes." This sad kid wasn't the Ken he knew. He wanted the other Ken back. That kid was fun to be with.
"This'll change things between us. I'll be here all the time."
Yes, he will. Things had to change. Ken would be like his brother. He'd have to share his otōsan and life. Was that a good or bad thing?
***** ***** *****
The nurse parked the wheelchair in the sun and withdrew a discreet distance. Nambu sat beside Eileen Washio.
"This stinks," she managed to say. Gods, Koza, I never thought I'd end up here.
He put a hand on hers. Late at night, after the boys went to bed, he spent as much time as he could searching the literature for a hint of a clue to beat ALS. Nothing. Either it was so obvious that nobody could see it, or no-one had made the discovery that would point the way to better treatments or a cure.
"I can guess what you've done," she said, carefully forming each word. The disease was taking her ability to speak. "Thank you."
He read the command in her eyes: Spend the time sleeping or with the boys. She knows me too well. "I thought I was the boss."
"Only at work. How is Ken?"
"We finished moving this morning. He's pretty upset." He's waiting for me to make a miracle. "Clarice and Joe are watching him."
"Joe?"
"He seems to be coping, but those two have such strong personalities that I know they'll fight." That would either clear the air or destroy the house.
They sat quietly for a long while, old friends who did not need to fill the space with small talk.
Her care schedule ended the visit. The nurse came over. "Sir, ma'am? Time for supper."
Nambu stood. "I'll come on Tuesday evening," he said. "Take care."
"Bring Ken."
"I will."
***** ***** *****
Determined to present a brave face to his mother, Ken jammed his hands into his pockets as he followed Dr. Nambu up the walk to the nursing care facility. Once past the lobby, his courage deserted him, and he grabbed his uncle's hand.
'Nursing care facility.' The words described the place, but not adequately. He'd watched his mother's decline, and had a good idea what he'd find in her room. A building filled with helpless, sick adults was beyond his imagination.
There were so many, of both sexes and all ages. Very old people bent almost double, shuffling while nurses guided them; unresponsive heads and torsos with limbs so twisted his own hurt in sympathy; men and women moaning, buzzing, barking or jabbering incomprehensibly; angry patients who did not want to be sick, crippled, or disabled.
At home, the machines, tubes and wires attached to his mother had been benevolent alien intruders. Here, they held her captive in the small room. "M-mommy," he wavered.
"Hello, Ken." With effort, she held out a hand.
He didn't want to touch her. Not here, not in this place. That would make it too real, too much, but he could not show her how much it scared him.
Could this be her hand, this clumsy thing he held? No, no: Mother's hands were capable of designing a jet and planting flowers, of soothing his hurts and holding him on his bike when he learned to ride.
"I'm sorry," she said carefully and slowly, looking into his eyes. "I just wanted to see you."
She missed him. He missed her. "I – it's okay." He had to be brave for her. "How are you?"
"Bored."
Beside her bed was a headset that would let her operate a computer and the television by using her eyes, when her voice failed. Poor substitute for the games and activities they once shared.
Ken held out for ten minutes. Before he could break down, she said, "Thank you for coming, son."
"I'll come back," he promised. I'll do better. I'll know what to expect next time.
The lobby was again the turning point: he broke down in tears. Gently, Nambu guided him to a couch and sat down. No scolding, no nonsense about boys not crying or that he was too old to cry. Ken clung like ivy and buried his face against the doctor's shoulder while the man held him.
Eventually, he cried himself out. He looked at the damp spot he'd made. "Sorry, Uncle."
"That's quite all right. Feel better?"
"Sort of. She's not coming home, is she? You can't help her."
Were those tears in Uncle's eyes? Ken watched one slide down and puddle on one lens of his glasses. Without the least embarrassment, Nambu wiped it away.
***** ***** *****
After an early summer fist-fight (of unknown cause), Nambu had suggested (strongly) that the boys needed a controlled outlet for their aggression. After visiting various martial arts schools (Western and Eastern) in Jutland City, he and the boys happened upon a non-descript school headed by an equally non-descript middle-aged Asian whose accent gave no hint of his ethnicity. Subsequent visits confirmed the instructor had the qualifications to teach two energetic, troubled boys.
Ken agreed, but for a different reason. On the walls hung reproduced artworks of mythical creatures, including several reproductions of Japanese prints showing tengu. "Uncle, what sort of creatures are these?"
"Tengu." Despite his name and Eileen's efforts, Ken was more European than Japanese in many ways. "Powerful spirits in Japanese lore. According to legend, they taught the first ninjas."
That decided it for Ken.
Joe stood at the display case of weapons, eyes on the ones he could throw. Multi-pointed shurikens, darts (some pointed on each end), and knives. In his mind's eye, a rose caught the sunlight as it flew towards him. "Right back at you," he mouthed.
***** ***** *****
Knowing what to expect on the future visits to the nursing care facility did not make those visits easier. Some days his mother did very well, and he had to remember that she would never recover from this disease. Other days (which became more common as the weeks became months), she could barely even acknowledge him.
After one visit, as he gathered himself, he heard an Amerisian couple clucking about Uncle's 'insensitivity' for bringing such a small boy to this place. More astonished by this attitude than anything else (he wasn't that small: he was 10), he turned to look at them.
As did everyone else in earshot.
"What?" the man asked the room at large.
In the car, Nambu explained that Ameris was only now ending a multi-decade cultural desire to protect children from any sort of trauma or upset whatsoever. An admirable desire to guard against the roughest bumps on life's road seemed to have turned into a nationwide ad hoc campaign to deny that the road had any bumps at all.
Ken didn't understand that. Bad things happened all the time. How could anyone avoid them? Would (did) that couple tell their children that the sick person was traveling or had moved away?
Ms. Blake and Dr. Branson, Uncle's friends, were Amerisian, but weren't silly like that. His uncle didn't know silly people.
"Or," Nambu added, interrupting his train of thought, "that couple might have children who are easily upset. They may think all children are that way."
***** ***** *****
Clarice Mason unlocked the front door, being as quiet as possible. These days, she too often found Dr. Nambu wherever he'd fallen asleep the previous night, and the boys tiptoeing around him (if not sprawled nearby).
He was her only employer, now, and had been since a few months after he'd become Joe's legal guardian. She had offered to help him take care of Joe, and after some negotiation of duties (she wanted more) he accepted and raised her pay. He no longer moved between his two homes, and was as busy with ISO duties as ever (no matter how many he gave over to colleagues and subordinates).
And now Mrs. Washio's illness. She had met Eileen many times over the years. She liked her. It didn't seem right that so much trouble should visit this family.
And there he was, in an awkward position on the couch, one arm around Ken. Joe was curled up against one end of the couch, all of them dead to the world.
At least it was Saturday. She didn't have to wake them immediately.
***** ***** *****
Chin resting on folded arms, Joe leaned on the back porch railing and looked over the mountains. He wasn't used to sharing Otōsan.
It hadn't been too bad with Ken, at first. They had acted as if it were a longer-than-usual visit, but time passed and passed and they couldn't deny that this was a permanent arrangement. A dozen little annoyances became a dozen mighty grievances. Disagreements became quarrels. At least one fist-fight over something they could not remember.
That it wasn't anyone's fault made it worse. Life had done this to them. You couldn't fight life. A great, impersonal, pervasive force had changed everything. When Joe wanted his father's comfort, he too often found Ken seeking the same. Because Ken had the more immediate need, Joe would withdraw.
Just an hour before, the formless fear that had come with Mrs. Washio's illness had overwhelmed him. In some ways, she had taken over for his own mother. After a search, he found his father with Ken, and gone away. He could come back later.
Maybe he shouldn't visit his mother so much. Those visits always tore Ken up.
He heard the porch door, and his father's steps. "You don't always have to stay away." A comforting arm around his shoulders.
Unsure how to reply, he leaned into the embrace. For a little while, he could pretend nothing was wrong.
"I know, son. We're all afraid."
Yes. This was not just Ken losing his mother. Papa's losing a friend.
Ashamed at thinking only about himself, he returned the hug.
***** ***** *****
Too tired to sleep, Dr. Nambu took a cup of tea out to the porch and tried to relax. The autumn breeze was pleasant, not cold.
So much to do, and so few hours in a day. Supervise the Mantle Project's various operations; run his own research; take care of Ken and Joe; take care of Eileen; analyze new information on Galactor. Take care of myself.
Should he look up a therapist for the boys? Gods knew he wasn't trained for this. Love, compassion, and a shoulder for crying only went so far.
"Don't call him back," she'd said. "Don't tell him."
Kentaro would rip himself to pieces trying to care for his family and learn about Galactor. Surely he could leave that to others, now? But there was no way to know that without endangering him.
Today it finally hit him. It was too late, even if a treatment or cure appeared in the next minute. She was on the downhill slide to complete helplessness and death.
He'd been strong for the boys. They were in bed.
Men cry.
***** ***** ****
The boys didn't want a therapist. Joe worried that somehow Galactor would find out about him from the records. Ken was simply stubborn. He could do this. Really.
Nambu did not give in, but he was willing to give them a little longer before he contacted one. He had some contacts who should know well-qualified therapists.
***** ***** *****
Ken wasn't asleep. It always took forever for him to sleep after he visited his mother.
Months ago, Uncle had warned him that she would get worse, and that it might seem to happen all at once.
She'd needed a machine to help her talk. There were more tubes and wires than at his last visit. The headset was well-used.
"Ken? Can I come in?" Joe hung in the doorway.
"Yeah." Why was Joe still up?
"I'm sorry I've been such a jerk."
"It's all right."
"No, it isn't. I – I – merda. I'm an only child." Joe was having trouble saying what he wanted to say.
"So am I."
"You have real friends."
Ken almost said, 'So do you,' before remembering how hard it had been for Joe to make those friends. BC Island wasn't a good place for friendship. "It's okay, really."
Before he could say more, Joe hugged him fiercely and quickly. "Thanks."
Ken did understand. Not perfectly, but he understood.
All those machines. To help Mom breathe, to monitor her heart, to release the medicines and fluids at the right times, to do so many things that she once could do herself.
Why? Why was she suffering? What god hated her enough to make her suffer?
Joe's parents were lucky. He was lucky. They had died swiftly.
As if he had read his mind, Joe said, "You're lucky, Ken. You get to say good-bye."