Chapter 14
After parting with the man in Niigata, Kisaragi returned to work.
After a while, he realized that he could not sleep, but it was convenient for getting his accumulated work out of the way. He could no longer eat, but it was no inconvenience to him. He no longer had the desire to eat because could not taste anything, anyway.
As the end of the year grew near, both the outpatient ward and inpatient wings overflowed with patients. Kisaragi offered to cover shifts for colleagues who had developed high fevers from the flu. He began working even more than before.
A week into the New Year, when New Year pine decorations were put away and the bustle of the year-end and beginning had died down, Kisaragi collapsed in the middle of his shift.
One day, when Kisaragi was receiving an infusion, Associate Professor Matsuyama, who was the attending physician of Kisaragi, knocked and came in.
“Kisaragi, I’ve consulted the psychiatric department,” he informed him.
“What are you talking about?” Kisaragi sat up in bed. The associate professor hastily left the room. In his stead came Nakazaki, a lecturer of the psychiatric department who was in the same cohort as Hasunuma and also was on friendly terms with him.
“Kisaragi, the professor asked me himself.” There was nothing Kisaragi could say if that was the case. He reluctantly submitted himself to Nakazaki’s questions. Nakazaki had even scrutinized Kisaragi’s nurse’s records.
“Your nurse’s records say you’re reading books at three in the morning.”
“So? I always do. Even at home.”
“It’s called early morning awakening. At least in our field.” Early morning awakening was characteristic of depression, and Kisaragi was also aware of this fact.
“Please don’t tell me you’re implying I have depression.”
“That’s exactly it.”
“How? I’m working diligently, and I have motivation. It’s true that I can’t sleep, but it’s not a problem, is it? I don’t get sleepy during the day, either.”
Nakazaki frowned. “That’s called being manic defensive,” he said. “Your manic state is aggravated because you don’t want to admit that you’re in a depressive one.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Kisaragi.
“That’s exactly a sign of illness,” the man shot back. “You aren’t acknowledging it. Typical.” Nakazaki drew away from his bedside and lapsed into thought. “The professor has been telling me the same thing. Let’s file for worker’s compensation. You need to take a break.”
“A break?”
Nakazaki turned back to face him and smiled. “Knowing your personality, you’d probably still read or do research at home. Let’s see… you need to go away somewhere to rest.”
He then stared into Kisaragi’s eyes.
“To tell you the truth, I called him right away when I heard you’d been admitted to the hospital. He was really worried.” Even Kisaragi could tell that the man was talking about Hasunuma.
“Get admitted to his place. It’s a perfect opportunity.”
Kisaragi bit his lip and shook his head. “No. I don’t want to be a burden to him.”
“What are you talking about? You’re best friends.”
If he refused too vehemently, it might be seen as suspicious. Kisaragi finally reluctantly nodded in assent.
“Don’t tell me you’re just starting to pack?” he heard a familiar voice say. Kisaragi paused from packing his bags to be discharged and turned around to see Hasunuma.
“I came to pick you up because I couldn’t wait,” Hasunuma said cheerfully as he approached the bed and began to fold the clothes that were laid out upon it. “Or, more like, to make sure you wouldn’t run away.”
Hasunuma closed the suitcase, picked it up, and started walking away with it. He stopped at the doorway and turned around.
“Hurry up.” He had said the phrase many times to Kisaragi like this during university, when Kisaragi had dawdled in getting ready. This time, he was looking straight at him, face to face. There was no hesitation in his gaze, and Kisaragi found himself unable to break their eye contact.
“But…” he said under his breath.
“It’s alright. Just leave it to me.”
The hospital was located in a comfortable region of Sotobo, where the climate was mild. Kisaragi felt both physically and emotionally at ease when Hasunuma was by his side. His mental and physical strength, which had been sapped until now, gradually recovered.
Hasunuma’s hospital was sprawling. It not only had an inpatient facility but a newly-built work centre for outpatients who came for regular sessions. There was also a group home onsite, where patients lived together and helped each other out.
One day, Hasunuma took Kisaragi on a tour of the facilities. They strolled through the vast property as if on a leisurely walk. The place appeared to be under expansion. Small trucks trundled to and fro, and a portion of the bamboo wood was being cleared. A number of men were busy bundling the bamboo stalks that had been cut down.
“Are you increasing the number of beds?” Kisaragi asked.
“Nope,” said Hasunuma, shaking his head. “We’re building a work centre.”
Closer inspection revealed a pile of logs where the bamboo wood used to be. The building, when complete, would be a log house. Patients would attend on a regular schedule to help build it.
“Work centre? So you’re expanding it?”
“You could say we are. It’s a work centre for people with intellectual disabilities, as well as for people who are mentally ill. Actually,” Hasunuma admitted, “my older brother is one of them. There were some complications when my mother gave birth to him, and he was left with a brain disorder.”
Kisaragi had never heard this story before, and looked up at Hasunuma’s face. Hasunuma was wearing his usual calm smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Kisaragi asked.
“It was a personal thing.”
Kisaragi had always thought that the man’s life was full of light and happiness. He now felt regret at his shallow assumptions.
“I guess I didn’t know anything about you,” he said.
“Neither did I. I wasn’t able to understand you in the true sense. Not until it was too late － until you were sick.” Hasunuma laid a gentle hand on Kisaragi’s shoulder.
“I think people have a right to live where they want to live. Society might think that the handicapped are more comfortable living in a facility where people will take care of them, but… that’s not true. Everyone wants to live as a part of society. People have the right to live where they want, with whom they want.”
Kisaragi thought of the nation that had been divided into the North and South. He prayed that the man’s homeland would one day become one, and that people would be able to live freely where they pleased.
The work center that was already established contained a bakery. The facility was designed like a sun room to let in lots of natural sunlight. Regular psychiatric outpatients kneaded dough along with the intellectually-disabled.
“Eat this, doctor,” said a young man with Down syndrome, offering Kisaragi a freshly-baked melon bun. The bun, which was colored a faint green in the likeness of a melon, was soft and sweet.
“Is it good? Is it good?” The young man asked eagerly, wearing an innocent smile as he looked up at Kisaragi.
“Yes,” he Kisaragi said. “It’s so delicious, it’s making me cry.”