The doctor.
Smoothly shaven.
Small eyes behind thick glasses.
There is no doubt. We are sure. Your son is handicapped. A heart problem, as well. No, it can’t be corrected. It’s not something that can be corrected. You must understand. He will be like that. It can’t be operated on. Do you understand? Ohara-san? It is important that you understand. Your son will never be like the others.
I did not understand a word he was saying. When he asked me if I was ready to see him now, I shook my head and went out, without saying goodbye. I think I was afraid he might look like me.
85
A week later they came home. They, I mean Kyōko and Tsuyoshi. I didn’t count myself as one of them. The word family, which once had so mellowed me, now stuck in my craw in a hard lump. I chewed on it, it choked me. The taste of it made me sick. I stood in the hall with a hand in front of my mouth and couldn’t bring myself to go across to them in the baby’s room.
Tsuyoshi didn’t cry. In my heart I had the image of a crying baby. The image of a mother rocking it to and fro, laying it to rest. The image of myself looking down, gently smiling on them both. That’s good, I had wanted to say, that’s good, to pat him on the back, and her on the arm. But I held myself apart. The silence allowed me that. In those days our house was silent. All sounds seemed muffled, suffocated by the silence. Hardly bearable. I longed for an earsplitting bang. For a door to slam shut, a pane of glass to shatter, for any sound similar to the crying of a baby as I had imagined it. The longing drove me away. I got up earlier than I needed to, left the house earlier than I needed to, sat at my desk in the office earlier than I needed to. The desk chair squeaked, the typewriter clicked. I did enough overtime for two. Close to dropping dead from exhaustion. Went drinking afterwards in a karaoke bar, stammered songs of sadness and beauty, the microphone close to my mouth. Stumbled out. Past rowdy streets. Obsessed beyond help by a person who had never been born.
86
Kyōko on the other hand!
She got up out of bed. I watched her as she rose, growing more beautiful by the day. That special glow in a mother’s eyes as she bends over her child’s bed, entranced by his every movement, even when it’s so small as to be hardly noticeable. Just look, he can grasp hold of things already, she’d say. Just look, he’s smiling. Just look, he has your eyes. Don’t you think? Papa’s eyes, she said to him, since I didn’t answer. You have Papa’s eyes. From the hallway I felt envy. I envied her the ability, against all reason, so I thought, against all normal human comprehension, to regard it as ours, to accept it as it was, without mentioning its deficiency, this silent, silent child. Moreover: Not to be aware of any deficiency in him. But she must see that it’s a mistake. Surely, I thought, she’s just pretending. Yes, surely she’s putting on an act. I told my colleagues in the firm our son had arrived in the world hale and hearty. Ten fingers, ten toes. They congratulated me, applause broke out. I remember the sound of hands that didn’t want to stop clapping. And I remember that for thirty seconds time I experienced something like joy.
Our parents came to visit. Kyōko’s. Mine. A dutiful glance into the baby’s room, afterwards, over tea and cookies, we spoke of rising prices, the typhoon in the south and an actor’s affair with a singer. It was a strained conversation, kept faltering, maintained only to prevent it from turning to Tsuyoshi if at all possible. I went into the garden to smoke a cigarette. Oppressive humidity, a thunderstorm was coming. My mother followed me out. I heard her behind me sniffling into a handkerchief. Poor son, she said. She meant me. It’s impossible to know how such things happen. The Matsumotos. Perhaps. Okada-san kept something from us. We should have done more thorough research. It’s not from our side, she whispered. I let it go. Heard comfort in her whisper: It is Kyōko. Definitely. So ill-mannered, she was then, one should have seen it in her bad manners. Enough of that. Not loudly, I said it quietly: That’s enough.
87
Could you hold him? Kyōko pushed him into my arms. I have to check on the water. She was already in the kitchen. I was alone with Tsuyoshi for the first and last time. His weight surprised me. As did the warmth of his body. In my imagination he was light and cool, like something you cannot grasp: A gentle breeze. Hardly there, already gone. He stared at me, his fists stretching up. I held his head. Silky hair. Flat little nose. Open mouth. You. Just cry. A little. Can’t you cry for me? Babies do that. They cry all day. It’s enough to drive you mad, their crying. But you. Why don’t you cry? I pinched his cheeks. First hard, then harder, until my fingers hurt. His cry was a wheeze, shocked, I put him down. No babies cry like that, only old people. I need some air. When Kyōko came back I was already outside under the maple tree, lighting a cigarette. Today I think: If I had stayed, just a moment, waited for his smile. I would have discovered that his handicap was a minor one compared to mine. My hardness prevented me from feeling the softness of his cheeks deeply and sincerely. Of the two of us I had the serious heart defect.
Kyōko didn’t reproach me. She knew my unspoken feelings and feared I would express them. All the people who came to convey their best wishes. She called them jokingly, agonizingly, condolence visits. They came to express their regret. How sad that he is not healthy. And what a misfortune. Could it have been prevented? Kyōko was afraid of hearing the same helpless regret from me. As if he were dead. She snorted in disgust. She raged against the world instead of me.
88
Once, Kyōko’s idea, we were guests at the Sun House. It was a house where parents of children like Tsuyoshi met to share their experiences. To belong. Suddenly that was a suffocating thought. To be part of a group. I arranged a proper smile, put it on, and wore it, as a sign that said: Please don’t touch. I barricaded myself behind it. In the round of introductions I said with a smile: I’m pleased to be here. Five children, I counted. Nine fathers and mothers. One was missing. Me. Yet I was welcomed in: The pleasure is all ours.
Tsuyoshi was the youngest. Five months old. The other children were three, six, ten, one was sixteen. I was amazed. The sixteen-year-old, I think he was called Yōji, was busy painting a picture. He sat bobbing up and down with excitement, a red crayon in his hand, squinted covertly over at us, then bent over his sheet of paper again. Meanwhile the ten-year-old Miki eagerly declared that she wanted to build houses when she grew up. Her father caught her proudly by the shoulders: So, an architect. My daughter will be an architect. What a madman, I thought. My smile was still fixed. The three-year-old crawled between my legs. Tachan, come here! His mother enticed him with a plastic duck. They talked over each other and stumbled over scattered toys. A doll with twisted limbs lay on an eyeless teddy bear. The six-year-old struck at it wildly.
Uncle.
I jumped. A red hand, red as fire, nudged me.
It was Yōji. He had difficulty speaking. He forced out each word as if he’d just learned it: I have painted a picture. Here. Please. It’s you. He held the sheet of paper under my nose.
I saw a face. Angular. The mouth was a line, the ends turned down. The eyes two holes, with two bolts of lightning coming out of them. No ears, but horns. The face of a demon. Yōji’s father apologized: It’s not a very good likeness. And to him: You can do better than that. You see, Uncle is smiling. Yōji sighed and went back to his place.