Short Story: The Immortal Us

When I was in the sunny ward on the south side of the fifth floor—I think it must have been since I was a baby, but before I knew it, I had become close friends with Mii—she was deaf, and being deaf meant that even though we were born in the same country, lived in the same sea of words, and belonged to the same 'species,' we did not share the same language, which made me realize there were still many mysterious things in the world I didn't know about.

But because Mii lived in a world without sound, she was very sensitive to the scent of the air and the color of light, and above all, she could understand a little bit of what we in the world of sound were saying by watching the movement of our lips, and when I learned that, I respected her a little.

"That's amazing, you're like a psychic."

I said that while braiding Mii's long hair, which she couldn't tie up well because the IV tube was in the way, and she shrugged her shoulders.

(Do you think so?)

She gave me a look that said that. No, it really is amazing. When I said I wished I had that kind of ability, she gave me a look that said (Yu, you can hear, so isn't that fine?). When I talk to Mii, I make full use of simple hand signs, facial expressions, and writing on paper. The reason we have never had a 'trouble' where we couldn't understand each other is because we have been together since we were babies, and I think it's because I like Mii very much, and she likes me very much.

"Being able to tell what someone is saying just by the movement of their lips, you could be a spy, that's kind of cool. I want to be a spy when I grow up."

(Isn't being a spy impossible for you, Yu? You collapse even if you run a little. Besides, you have to be healthy to be a spy.)

"I see... I wonder if I can do something about that before I grow up."

(Well, if it could be done, wouldn't the probability be the same as me growing up? You should become a hairdresser, Yu, since you're good at braiding.)

"A hairdresser isn't just a job where you only do braids, you know."

Up to this point, 40% of our conversation is written, 40% is simple hand signs, and the remaining 20% is facial expressions and reading lip movements. After all, Mii is incredibly fast at writing, and she is a genius at writing sentences. When I'm not at the hospital, she often sends me letters from the ward.

Mii had a severe hearing impairment that no mechanical aid could help, and on top of that, she had a disease where her heart's strength would surely weaken little by little from the time she was a baby. On the other hand, I could hear normally, but my heart was born with a completely different structure from a normal person's. For starters, it's like a joke that my heart, which should be on the left, is on the right, one of the blood vessels that should send blood to my heart is closed, the blood vessel to my lungs is strange, and on top of that, one of the internal organs that should be there is missing, among other things. It's all congenital; for some reason, our bodies have very complicated shapes.

"God made a small mistake when He created us."

My mother says things like, 'But we are living like this,' but this is not at the level of a 'small' mistake. This setup of ours, which is truly unsuitable for living in the original sense, is more of a bug than a mistake. I'm sure my mother doesn't understand that part, like the fact that we aren't trying to overcome it or making an effort for it, but first and foremost, we are thinking, 'I really wish you'd spare me.'

Even so, unlike Mii, who has spent most of her time in the hospital since she was born, I had several surgeries when I was a baby, was discharged from the hospital before I turned three, and was able to enter a kindergarten with a red roof near my house soon after. It was a small kindergarten where all the children together only numbered about 50, and I went on the spring parent-child field trip, participated in the autumn sports day, went on the autumn bus trip, and even attended the winter Christmas party without missing a single one.

On the day of my first field trip, under a sky where a single contrail was flowing straight, I was so absorbed in picking up acorns, thinking, 'I'm going to pick up everything that's fallen in the park,' that I had completely forgotten that I was a little different from the other children. I entered elementary school two years later, carrying the bright blue, shiny leather school bag that my aunt had enthusiastically prepared for me, made new friends there, and when those friends said, 'Let's play freeze tag in the schoolyard,' you'd normally say, 'Yeah, let's do it,' right?

In January, when it had snowed a little at dawn, I filled my chest with the damp air that smelled of snow and ran out into the schoolyard, competing with my friends. Then, the world suddenly went dark. I remember the feeling of the cold soil I touched when I fell face down on the damp ground, but after that, the world was pitch black without a sound. When I woke up a while later, it was the white ceiling of the pediatric ward, so I was truly disappointed.

"I was seriously depressed, thinking, 'Oh no, the hospital again.'"

"That's why I always tell you not to run at full speed, you didn't listen, did you?"

It's a game of tag; if you don't run at full speed, the 'it' will catch you.

I shrugged at the words of Dr. Nakamoto, who would come to my hospital room around 8:00 every morning during my stay to check on how I was doing.

Yu, you get more sharp-tongued every year. You're incredibly dexterous with your hands too, aren't you? Mii-chan said you're exceptionally good at braiding hair. On top of that, you must have great athletic ability. That's the hardest part—when you're capable of doing anything you try.

My body is tall for a child with this kind of illness, and because of that, my limbs are long and covered in well-proportioned, high-quality muscle. While I am much thinner than average, that is attributed to having the 'physique of a track athlete,' as if my body were a sports car meticulously crafted to run gracefully at high speeds on the road. However, that only applies to the muscles and skeleton; inside, it's as if a light car engine has been placed in a sports car that requires a significant amount of displacement. When I told the doctor that I'd rather he replace it with a 2,400cc Formula One engine instead of a light car engine, he said,

It's not that simple.

He scratched the back of his head, saying he would love to be able to cleanly replace the hearts, lungs, and all the other malfunctioning parts of all the children under his care and give them sparkling, healthy bodies. Even if that were possible, he said, Mii is much further ahead in line than I am.

Mii-chan was hospitalized right after she was born and was able to be discharged once at age two, but she ended up back in the hospital a year later and has been here for three years now. Your body can be managed to some extent with surgery, Yu, but that's not the case for Mii-chan.

Don't tell me you're planning to operate on me again?

In the worst-case scenario, that's what will happen, so you need to do what the doctor says.

Then just write it down on paper for me. Like, tag is forbidden, but hide-and-seek is okay, and... what about the horizontal bar? Is swimming allowed? Can I do Ring Fit?

Tag is forbidden. Hide-and-seek is fine if you don't run. You shouldn't put pressure on your sternum with the horizontal bar, and... let's see... swimming is a full-body exercise, so... and Ring Fit... depends on the mode.

That's basically everything forbidden.

Don't say that. I've been working hard alongside you since you were a baby. You might feel it's boring or unreasonable that you can't do the same things as your classmates, but please take care of the body you have now. I want you to help me fulfill my dream, too.

What's your dream, Doctor?

It's for all the children I treat to grow up properly into adults.

Hmm...

That's right. No one ever says such a sad thing out loud, but there is a common understanding shared by everyone here.

Some percentage of the children in the south ward on the fifth floor will never become adults.

That was like an inescapable rule for us. It couldn't be helped; after all, humans aren't immortal to begin with.

February, the day of the beginning of spring, is a cold winter day where only the calendar insists, 'Look, it's spring now.' For a while, Mii had been unable to shake a low-grade fever of unknown cause, and Nurse Okuda, who had known us since we were babies, would bring me letters written by Mii, saying, 'That's why you can't see her right now.' One day, she delivered one folded into the shape of a cat, which contained the message, 'It's boring not being able to play with Yu,' written alongside an illustration of Mii's favorite character, Kirby.

“It’s worrying, isn’t it?”

“It really is. Dr. Nakamoto is working hard to find the cause, though.”

“Dr. Nakamoto won’t be able to go home again, will he?”

“This ward is his home now, isn’t it?”

“Is it true, Doctor, that you’ve been living in that interview room lately?”

“I’m not living there, but I did sleep with five chairs lined up the other day.”

It was the day after we had that conversation that I, who had been laughing along with Ms. Okuda, saw Mii being transported to the room at the very back of the 5th-floor south ward, where only the most critically ill children were gathered. That was the last time I saw Mii in the ward, even though I had been told I would be discharged if my blood test results were fine. Mii’s fever of unknown origin had only been a slight fever until a few days ago, which was within the range of just keeping an eye on her in the ward, but it seemed to have suddenly turned into a high fever so severe that her very heartbeat was in danger. When Mii, with her red face and a dazed expression as if she were half-asleep, was being transported in her bed, accompanied by three ward nurses, as if being sucked into the white door at the end of the ward corridor, I happened to be right there, and as we passed each other, I just moved my mouth and said this to Mii.

(Come back.)

Even in the split second as we passed, my words should have reached Mii properly; Mii had very good eyesight to make up for her hearing loss. We knew many children who had never returned to the ward from beyond that white door; they all disappeared quietly without leaving any trace, as if a small star were fading into the night sky. I didn’t want that to happen to Mii. Then Mii said this to me.

“See you later.”

I felt like I had heard Mii’s voice for the first time—a voice that, even if she could produce sound from the back of her throat, was very difficult for her to form into clear, correctly pronounced words.

Three days later, on the day I was discharged along with a giant trunk stuffed with the belongings I had brought for my hospitalization—which for some reason had swollen to 1.5 times their original size—I wanted to ask someone what was happening to Mii, who should have been behind that white door, and when she would be able to come out. But the adults in the ward—Dr. Takiyama, the first-year resident who would always talk to me if he was there, Ms. Okuda, the nurse I was close with, and even Nakano-san, the cleaner who was like a grandmother to us—

(We don’t know, we can’t answer anything, so please don’t ask.)

They were exuding that kind of atmosphere from their bodies. Even without that, the ward in the morning is always very busy, with everyone walking at a brisk, competitive pace. It’s not uncommon for something to happen to someone in the ward first thing in the morning, leading to all the doctors in the ward gathering in the treatment room. Children born and raised in the somewhat special world of a hospital become sensitive to such atmospheres, despite being children. I was no exception, so I couldn’t ask anyone there, “What is happening to Mii right now?”

“Don’t come back here until your next check-up admission.”

Please, don’t run at full speed, and if you feel tired, rest immediately. After receiving Dr. Nakamoto’s instructions regarding my post-discharge life following my final check-up, my father, who had come to pick me up, carried my luggage out first. My mother received the various documents, and when the two of us reached the elevator hall on the 5th floor, I spotted Mii’s mother standing blankly at the edge.

“Oh, Mii’s mom.”

How is Mii doing? I instinctively rushed over to ask, but the moment I took a step toward Mii’s mother, my mother, who was next to me, pulled my arm hard to stop me.

“It might be painful for her to see Yu’s face right now.”

After my mother said that in a low voice, she immediately and smoothly changed the subject, without giving me a chance to ask what she meant.

“I’m so glad you were discharged in time for Riko’s wedding. Aunt Riko insisted that you had to be the ring bearer, and she even threatened to call off the wedding if you didn’t do it. Grandpa scolded her for that, which turned into their usual parent-child argument—it was quite a scene, especially considering she’s the bride and he’s the father of the bride.”

Aunt Riko is my mother’s younger sister, twelve years her junior, and she was set to have her wedding in March to a boyfriend she’d been dating since her college days. His name is Satoru, a guy with natural curls. He’s a kind groom, the same age as Aunt Riko, who looks a lot like Linus, the boy with the blanket from the Snoopy cartoons.

Aunt Riko lost her mother—my grandmother—to illness when she was in middle school. Up until then, she had been a quiet, well-behaved, and serious student with perfectly black hair and decent grades. But suddenly, she dyed her hair blonde, started wearing false eyelashes and extremely short skirts, and pierced her ears multiple times, turning into a stereotypical delinquent. Once, when I was at Grandpa’s house looking at an old, rather hardcore and avant-garde photo album from that time, I asked her, “How on earth did this happen?” and Aunt Riko said,

“My mother died suddenly, and it felt so unreasonable that I couldn’t help but be furious.”

She explained that it was a form of protest against the rule of the world called “death,” which no one can ever resist. I can sort of understand that. It’s a sudden, random, and incredibly unreasonable event, and I know all too well the frustration of not being allowed to resist it or even leave a scratch, and how that sorrow can eventually undergo a chemical change into anger.

Aunt Riko graduated middle school with that delinquent look, and in high school, she would go some days and skip others, living a somewhat wild life where she’d be home for three days and then gone for three. It seems she gave my mother, who had to attend parent-teacher conferences in place of our late grandmother, quite a hard time. But in the spring of her third year of high school, I was born, and when it was discovered that I had a severe heart condition that left my life hanging in the balance,

“I’ll take care of that child.”

She said that, and suddenly she stopped the blonde hair, the piercings, and the staying out all night. She studied intensely and enrolled in the nursing program at the medical school closest to my mother’s parents’ home, becoming a nurse four years later. Naturally, she dotes on me fiercely. After all, she was the one who bought my elementary school backpack two years before I even started school, beating out my father’s parents and my mother’s father—all three of my grandparents.

That Aunt Riko, when I pushed myself a bit too hard at school and collapsed, leading to an emergency hospitalization,

“If Yu can’t attend, I’m not having the wedding at all. What’s the point of wearing a wedding dress if Yu isn’t there?”

She apparently kept saying things like that. So, my mother was relieved that I was discharged, and while I can’t say much for Aunt Riko’s intense and blind affection for me, I generally agreed that it was a happy thing to be able to attend the wedding of someone who is so important to me.

Though I still felt uneasy about Mii.

Even so, my mother, who acted as a mother figure to Aunt Riko, took care of everything for the wedding: booking Shinkansen tickets for Grandma’s sister from Osaka, reserving hotels for Satoru’s (a.k.a. Linus’s) family and relatives, and renting the morning suit for Grandpa. After a February that passed like a typhoon with all those little arrangements, the Sunday in March arrived. Under a sky without a single cloud, in the light of the white church, Aunt Riko in her pure white satin silk dress looked as majestic and beautiful as a queen from some kingdom, and seeing her, I felt strangely happy.

My mother says that Aunt Riko’s features, her posture, her slender, sloping shoulder line, and her slim build are all exactly like the late grandmother’s. On this day, Aunt Riko was wearing a very old dress that Grandma had worn at her own wedding with Grandpa, which had been altered for her. Seeing her in it, my mother said,

“It’s like Mother has come back to us...”

She had been clutching a white lace handkerchief and sobbing long before the ceremony even began. And though she was crying, she looked very happy. So, I thought once again that I was really glad I had been discharged and could witness Aunt Riko’s special day.

“Congratulations, Aunt Riko.”

“Yu, I’m so glad you were discharged. I was so worried. I’m so relieved it didn’t turn into an emergency operation or anything. Your complexion is good, too. Here, show Aunt Riko your hands and nails.”

In front of the large mirror in the waiting room, sitting on an old upholstered chair, Aunt Riko jumped up when she saw me. She held out both hands, covered in white gloves that reached her elbows, and checked the color of my fingertips and nails. Since my body is always short on oxygen in my blood, my fingertips turn a bluish-purple whenever I’m even slightly unwell, so it’s become a habit for Aunt Riko to check my fingertips first whenever we meet.

“How was the pediatric ward this time? I was so busy I couldn’t get out of the ICU at all, and I’m sorry I couldn’t visit the ward. Is Dr. Nakamoto still not going home, as usual?”

Auntie Riko chuckled. It is true; this Auntie Riko, out of an excessive and overflowing love for me, now works at the university hospital where I am a regular patient. It is not the pediatric ward, of course, but her current department is the ICU (Intensive Care Unit), and because of that, she knows my attending physician, Dr. Nakamoto, very well. It seems that even during my most recent hospitalization, she would come to ask him repeatedly about my condition, what kind of problems were occurring, and when I could be discharged, pestering him about it. I know this because Dr. Nakamoto, my attending physician, complained to me, saying, 'Yu's aunt is scary...'

'You know, she was so busy she couldn't go home at all, and the on-call room was full, so she lined up five chairs in the consultation room to sleep on, fell off, and hit her head on the floor. Dr. Nonaka from neurosurgery laughed at her and said, "You're such a fool, shall I take a CT scan for you?"'

'The doctor is always so busy, the ward is basically her home now, isn't it?'

'Ms. Okuda said the same thing.'

'I suppose so.'

Auntie Riko chuckled again, then gathered up her lace veil embroidered with lily-of-the-valley so she wouldn't step on it, crouched down to meet my eyes, and gave my cheek a light pinch.

'But you look a bit down. What's wrong?'

'Hmm... well, I couldn't meet my friend before I was discharged. We always say "see you later" when one of us is discharged, and she loves writing letters, so I usually get letters from her after she leaves, but there haven't been any. So, she might be quite ill. I haven't asked anyone properly, and no one has told me the details, but maybe...'

When I said that, Auntie Riko's right eyebrow—which looked even more beautiful than usual because of her long, glossy eyelashes, the shimmering powder lightly dusted on her face and shoulders, and the faint cherry-blossom pink on her cheeks—arched in a way that said "Oh."

At that moment, I realized most of it. That white room at the back of the 5th-floor south ward is the PICU, the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, and I know from Auntie Riko that it is in the same line of departments as the ICU where she works. Children who can no longer be managed in the PICU are transferred down to the ICU just below it. That is why Auntie Riko knows well about children who suddenly take a turn for the worse in the pediatric ward, or children who don't recover well after surgery—and, naturally, about the children who have died.

So, I understood. I suspect that Mii is already...

In the small room next to the chapel, where soft, spring-like light was streaming in, I decided not to ask Auntie Riko any more about Mii. Even if I did, Auntie Riko has strict rules about not gossiping about patients to others, and above all, such things happen over and over again in that white hospital. We are just a little bit special, children living in that kind of world.

It's okay. I am much more used to such things than ordinary children.

'Are you okay?'

'I'm fine. It's nothing.'

My slight, tiny hope, no bigger than the tip of a little finger, quietly withered and vanished. Even so, I put on a "it's nothing" face and fulfilled my big role as the ring bearer at the wedding. I carried the wedding rings on a white satin cushion sewn with lace, beads, and ribbons, very calmly and carefully to the pastor at the altar. After handing them over, I bowed and returned to my seat. Afterward, I sat quietly on the wooden pew, didn't look around or chat, and sang the hymns properly.

I am used to it.

Auntie Riko, standing before the altar, was undeniably beautiful. Satoru-san, who has been in love with Auntie Riko ever since he fell for her at the university entrance ceremony, promised to marry her on the day of their graduation, and now works as a nurse in the angiography room at the same hospital as her, looked teary-eyed with deep emotion. Seeing that made me truly happy. It was a very lovely wedding. Today's warmth even brought some early cherry blossoms. It is an important anniversary for my family. God is blessing Auntie Riko and Satoru-san's marriage to the fullest. Everyone is happy.

But when was Mii's funeral? When did Mii go to heaven? Why won't anyone tell me that in plain words?

'See you later.'

Amidst the sound of the pipe organ, I replayed Mii's voice in my mind about a hundred times, a voice that remained deep in my ears and wouldn't leave. Why did Mii say "see you later" to me? When people die, it's always unexpected and beyond what one imagines, so maybe Mii really thought she would be coming back to the ward. But she knew well that she wouldn't live long unless she had her heart replaced with a brand-new one, and she had told me as much (in writing, that is). She also knew that if she were sent to the PICU again, there was a high probability she wouldn't come back. If that was the case, why did Mii say "see you later"? Perhaps it was because having those words made the sadness of parting a little easier to bear.

(What do you mean, "see you later"?)

While I kept turning over questions in my head that no one would answer anymore, Satoru-san was reading his vows to Aunt Riko at the altar. That said, Satoru-san was at the peak of being overwhelmed with emotion and was sobbing incessantly. The vows he read, stuttering and stumbling through tearful sobs, were taking a bit of time, and the guests, including myself, were watching with bated breath, wondering, "Will he be okay?"

"I, who am to be the groom... take you, Riko, who are to be the bride, as my wife... *hic*... and in good times and bad, in times of wealth and in times of poverty... *ugh*... in sickness and in health, until death do us part..."

"I object."

"...Huh?"

Just as everyone gathered in the chapel was listening quietly, seriously, and solemnly to the groom's words, someone suddenly raised their hand to object during the second half of the vows, at the part where he said "until death do us part." It was Aunt Riko, the bride standing opposite the groom, so the venue erupted in murmurs and the groom pulled back his tears. And my mother, who had been lost in happy tears until just a moment ago, stood up from the end of the pew with a look of pure fury.

"Riko, what on earth are you joking about at such an important time?"

"What do you think death tears apart? Honestly, I don't think it fundamentally exists at all."

Aunt Riko said that while looking straight at Satoru-san—so straight that it made everyone feel a wave of emotion, thinking that she loved Satoru-san, who was usually so gentle and did whatever she said, and whom she bossed around as if it were only natural, much more than anyone had imagined, and that she wanted to be with the same person in the next life, and that she loved him enough to declare it before all the congregation. But I knew full well that those words were actually for me, whom Aunt Riko loved excessively.

"There are many things that death tears apart in a physical sense, but in essence, they don't actually exist."

People like me and Mii have been next to that "death" since we were born. It was something all too real, and I had the realization—no, too much of a realization—that it was something that would happen to me in the not-too-distant future, and I thought it was something very terrifying. But perhaps that's not the case. Not being able to see Mii for a while, not being able to braid her soft hair into long plaits anymore—that is very lonely, though.

"That's what I mean, isn't it?"

I said this to Aunt Riko after the somewhat turbulent wedding ceremony had ended safely and she had officially become Satoru-san's wife before God. Aunt Riko doesn't think that when someone dies, that child or that person disappears without a trace and ceases to exist entirely, does she?

"That's right. If you can keep them from being forgotten, as if carving them into every single cell of your brain, you might be able to meet someone you parted with at a surprising moment somewhere again."

"Then, are we essentially immortal?"

"In a sense. If you don't forget, doesn't someone who has lost their body live on inside someone else? That's why, Yu, you at least try your best to grow up. And by doing so, keep Mii alive inside you forever."

Because that is also the dream of all the adults around Yu.

"Even I, today, when I wore Mom's wedding dress and put on as much makeup and hair styling as I could, I felt like Mom, who should have been dead, was right in front of me, and I laughed out loud. Yu's grandmother was a hairdresser, and she was very stylish and always wore beautiful makeup, but it was totally unexpected that I looked so much like her. Mom is inside me. That's why, Yu, you will surely be able to meet Mii again somewhere. Of course, it might not be in a physical sense, but there will surely be days in the future when you think, 'Oh, so Mii was here all along,' or 'She was waiting for me in my future.' Surely, many times over."

Just before the family-only dinner held at a restaurant very close to the church, when Aunt Riko said that to me while wearing her peach-colored furisode for the reception, I heard Mii's voice faintly behind me. It was a truly faint voice, perhaps not even a sound at all.

"That's why I told you 'see you later'."

I didn't look back. I knew that Mii, who no longer had a physical form, was a presence I could no longer see. But it seems that death doesn't tear us apart, Mii. I might not be able to become a spy, and I might have to give up on playing tag at full speed, but in exchange, I will properly grow up, and then I intend to meet you somewhere again. I'm sure we can meet, as long as I don't forget.

After finishing the wedding, the reception, and cleaning up all the various things, my mother and I, exhausted, held hands, and when my father finally returned home carrying a mountain of luggage, the sun had completely set and the sky had turned a faint indigo.

Thinking that the edge of the western sky, where indigo and madder red were quietly melting together, was very beautiful, I carried the two paper bags that had been in the taxi's trunk into the entryway, and then, on a whim, I looked inside the mailbox and found a letter addressed to me; it was from Mii's mom. It was in an envelope the color of the gentle evening sky.

"A letter Mii had written to Yu-kun was found between the pages of the copy of 'The Little Prince' she was reading. I believe this is her very last letter, so I am sending it to you on Mii's behalf. Thank you so much for being such good friends with Mii ever since you were babies."

It was a short letter written in beautiful adult handwriting, and enclosed with it was Mii's final letter. In it, she wrote about how boring it is to have a fever, how bed rest is the worst, and how Dr. Nakamoto worries about her so much that her hairline is finally starting to recede, which is pitiful. There were many things written in Mii's own handwriting that were just like her, but at the very end,

She had even underlined the word 'definitely' with a red pencil, and written that I should make Dr. Nakamoto's dream come true.

"I understand."

The March air, with the scent of flowers drifting in the evening breeze, was very kind to me. Outside the house, which had become dim now that the sun had completely set, I felt as if Mii were standing under the mimosa acacia that my mother treasures, and I whispered that one phrase, even though there was no sound there at all.