Chapter 13

The doctor was standing by the bed, holding his hands behind his back. Flowers decorated the windowsill, their white heads blooming at the end of long, thick stalks. They almost looked like fireworks exploding in the night sky. Every time the white curtains fluttered in the breeze, I could smell the sweet scent of the flowers. The doctor spoke again. I should have been prepared for what he was about to say—but my voice came out intermingled with tears. “I’ve had enough. Let’s end this.” “Please don’t give up, Sorano,” the doctor said, offering some encouragement. Soon after Koharu passed away, I was diagnosed with colon cancer. When they discovered that same old adversary that had taken Koharu’s life in my body, I’d been determined to defeat it. The treatment, however, was futile. The cancer spread to my liver and then to my lungs. It was already stage IV—what they called “terminal.” Every day since my diagnosis had been a rollercoaster. To tell the truth, I was exhausted. The repeated surgeries and the severe side effects of the medication were a lot to deal with. As the painful treatments continued, it gradually became too much to handle. Eventually, I ended up abandoning treatment altogether. It was nighttime when Sakura came into the hospital room with some flowers. “Why do you look so lifeless, Dad? Mom will get mad at you in heaven.” Sakura Sorano was twenty-five. She was Koharu’s and my only child. Koharu had continued battling her illness for two years—ever since her first year of college—before she was finally able to be discharged. She had been told she only had six months to live, so this was nothing short of a miracle. She’d taken a break from college to battle her cancer, but once she recovered, she came back and finished her studies. After that, we got married, and we were blessed with a child. Koharu never gave up. However, when she was forty-five years old, Koharu was diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d battled the disease all over again. But three years ago, she’d passed away, leaving our daughter and me behind. When the strength drained from Koharu’s body and her pulse stopped, and the doctor delivered the news, I felt more numb than sad. Oh, she’s really gone, I’d thought in a listless daze. It had taken a while for her death to actually sink in. Koharu’s mother had insisted on doing her beloved daughter’s makeup for the funeral, but her hands had been shaking too much, and she’d broken down in tears. That was the moment Koharu’s death finally hit me, and I broke down as well. The sense of loss, that I was never going to see her again, overwhelmed me. I burst into tears, not caring who saw me. Even now, there were times when the realization that she wasn’t around anymore made me tear up. Losing Koharu had been just that unbearable. If I were to die as well, would I just be leaving Sakura with even more grief to deal with? “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I found this thing in Mom’s dresser,” Sakura told me. It was an old voice recorder. I took it from her. “I’ll change the flowers,” she said, leaving my hospital room. Once she was gone, I put the earphones in. I pressed PLAY on the battered voice recorder, and miraculously, it still worked. The first thing that played was my recording reading of The Diary of Anne Frank. Honestly, my skills as a narrator were atrocious. It was painful to listen to. I know she was my wife, but I still couldn’t believe Koharu had listened to this reading for years. At that moment, though, another recording started playing. “Dear Kakeru.” It was Koharu’s voice. I hurriedly rewound the recording and listened to it from the beginning. Dear Kakeru. First of all, please forgive me for passing away before you. I’m sorry about that. Things were hard for me this time. I apologize for bidding you a slightly early farewell, but I hope you won’t be too sad about it. You haven’t cried over my passing, have you? Well, I guess you might have. You’ll probably cry at the funeral, at the very least. But once you’ve said good-bye properly, there’s no need for any more tears. You don’t need to cry at all. I mean, I don’t have a single memory that makes me want to cry. In fact, you should praise me for living so long, considering everything I’ve been through. If you hadn’t been around during that summer of my first year at college, my life probably would have come to an end right then and there. But I went on to live a really long life. I got to wear a wedding dress. We even managed to go on a honeymoon. But that wasn’t all. You took our family to all kinds of different places. Of course, you gave us lots of other happy memories, too. You were a good father and a wonderful partner. Of all the joys in my life, Sakura, the child you gave me, was the greatest. Because of my condition, I had never expected to be able to become a mother. Thank you. I am truly grateful that we met. I was able to dress Sakura in the kimono I wore for my Shichi-Go-San ceremony. You even took me to Parents’ Day. I never imagined I’d be able to do something like that, being blind. I was even able to dress Sakura up in my family’s best formal kimono. I never imagined I’d get to experience so much of what it means to be a mother. Thank you. I even got the opportunity to attend Sakura’s wedding, too. We both cried, didn’t we? Say, Kakeru? You’re not assuming I had any regrets, are you? When I think about it, leaving you and Sakura behind is undeniably sad. But during that summer when I was nineteen, I had already made peace with the idea of my death. When you look at it from that perspective, do I really have anything to regret? It all started when I gave in to your stubbornness—that day I gave up on giving up on you. Every single day since I chose not to give up on life has been filled with joy. Every single moment has left an imprint on my heart—just like fireworks. Oh, I’ve been so happy. I’ve had such a wonderful life! Thank you, Kakeru. Thank you for meeting me. Thank you for choosing me. Kakeru. Are you going to be okay without me? Whenever you feel like you’re starting to lose heart, think about those fireworks we watched together. That was my way of getting through the difficult times. Carrying the fireworks display you held for me in my heart allowed me to keep going. My journey might be ending here, but yours will continue on to a faraway place. I believe in you. Before I transferred to that hospital in Hokkaido, you told me you believed in me. Now let me say the same thing to you. I believe in you, as you journey off to a faraway place. I believe in you—that you’ll keep going with your head held high. Please. Please live your life with a smile on your face.” That was the end of her message. The voice on the recording was confident and lively rather than tearful, and I thought back to how my mother had told me that raising a child made you strong. I clutched the recorder as if I was clinging on to the one remaining fragment of the person I loved so much. Just then, the sliding door of the hospital room clattered open. “Oh! Dad. Why are you crying?” “Ha-ha, sorry.” “These new flowers smell great.” Sakura placed the vase on the windowsill and repositioned the stems. “Do you know what those flowers mean?” I asked. “Spider lilies?” Sakura shook her head. I told her what the flowers symbolized. “I believe in you, as you journey off to a faraway place.” “Really?” “Yeah. Your mother lives on in both our hearts. I’m sure she’ll keep sending us that message as we journey through our lives.” Thinking that, I felt as if I could face the future again. “Huh? Dad, you’re smiling now?” I hadn’t even realized it until Sakura said something. “They say smiling scares cancer away.” Someone had once told me to keep my head up and move forward. That person had been Koharu Fuyutsuki. Koharu was blind. She’d endured terrible illnesses. Yet despite this, she’d never given up on life. She always smiled and had a radiant presence. Could I become like her? Could I connect with people the way she had? “Oh, fireworks.” Sakura pointed outside. “Dad, they’re setting off fireworks.” Outside the window, white flowers exploded in the night sky. A boom followed a moment later. The sight of those lights brought back memories of the Children’s Fireworks show we’d held in college. “Sakura.” “Yeah?” “Could you fetch the doctor for me? I want to discuss my treatment.” The fireworks kept going. They lit up, bloomed, and left a mark on people’s hearts. Could I be like those fireworks? When I closed my eyes, I saw Koharu’s smile. I was so glad I’d met her.