Toyota watched Suzuka lie fast asleep on my futon. As close as we were, he never looked at me the way he looked at her.
“Sakata, I don’t think I can do this much longer.” His smile was at odds with his words, but I could tell he meant it. “It isn’t fair.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Same as always. She won’t do anything.”
Toyota’s father often flew into a violent rage. He didn’t hit Suzuka—he’d set his sights on Toyota and his mother instead—but Toyota said it was only a matter of time before he hurt her. He intervened when his father abused his mother, but when he became the target, his mother only cowered in a corner.
Whenever his father lost his temper, Toyota came to my place with Suzuka.
I understood what he was going through better than most. Before we learned of my mother’s illness, my father would sometimes come home drunk and hit her. Whenever it happened, everything screamed at me to run away. I didn’t want to see it, I didn’t want to feel those emotions, I didn’t want to hear his yell, her screams, or his punches landing.
That was why I decided to offer my small apartment as a refuge for the Toyota siblings.
“You can bring your mom here too. We’ll make space.”
“Don’t bother. She won’t leave him.”
Taking a sip from his plastic cup, Toyota gazed at his sister again. He must have been checking if she was about to wake up.
After a while, he asked, “Have you ever thought about it, Sakata? Why my mom will just sit there crying instead of helping me?”
“Can’t say I have.” I really hadn’t. Why would I?
So what was that awful feeling in my chest?
“There are some things only an adult can do. Did I tell you how I tried to take Suzuka to a shelter once? I asked them if they could let her stay. They called my mom and she told them everything was okay, so they made us go back home.”
“But things aren’t okay.”
“I guess she’s okay with it by now. She thinks she’s got it all worked out. You know, Sakata, I think I finally get it. My mom made her choice. She’s made the same choice over and over for a long time. When he hits her, when he hits me, when Suzuka has to watch—between her safety and our lives, she’s choosing her safety. Why should we have to put up with that?”
“So you’re gonna leave for good?”
When he first came to my place, Toyota told me of his plan: When he graduated high school, he would take Suzuka and leave the city altogether.
“After all these years, I can’t say I’m scared of him or that I’m miserable or whatever anymore. I’m used to it, and if it messed me up, then I’m gonna stay messed up and figure that out on my own. But Suzuka shouldn’t have to go through that. She’s got her whole life ahead of her. I can’t change the past, but I can give her a better future. You get it, don’t you?”
“I do.”
After all, he was the one who said there are some things only an adult can do.
“We’re graduating in a year. We’ll be adults then,” he commented. Voicing that reminder sounded more for his own benefit than for anyone else’s, but even if he had doubts, he wouldn’t hesitate. He had strength in his eyes. He felt responsible for overcoming his fear.
I watched this as if it were a story playing out somewhere far, far away.
If I had a little sister like he did, would I have felt the same way? If I hated my parents as much as he did, would I still have been able to show people kindness?
I hated my father too.
But I didn’t feel the way Toyota did. I wasn’t sure if I had ever felt like that. I wanted to ask him about it, but it felt too conceited of me, so I kept quiet.
Early next morning, Toyota carried Suzuka home.
Just as he’d promised, he picked me up from school every day going forward. Every day, I would go to the Nishikawa residence, be tutored by Nishikawa’s sister, and have dinner with the whole family as well as Masudzuki-san and her daughter. After the meal, he would ask me to listen to him play the piano, which I did.
Once I had followed this routine for a month or so, the fatigue had slowly started to set in. The mental and the physical, yes, but the greatest was how overwhelmed my brain got from learning so many new things.
I tried to hide it in front of my employer, but I suspected my fatigue was apparent from my behavior. One day, he dropped his typical smile, even appearing concerned, as he asked, his fingers on the piano keys, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Although I was unsure how to best reply, I was at least able to conceal my inner turmoil.
I watched his smiling eyes, trying to read his thoughts.
They were a mystery to me.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? I know my family can be a lot. They often tell me they want to learn more about you, but I imagine it feels more like an interrogation.”
“Do they know?”
He answered with a question of his own. “Do they know what?”
He genuinely sounded curious, which made me feel like the only guilty party. My fatigue worsened at that.
“Do they know that I’m only here because you pay me?” I asked.
“They know.” He played a rhythmic tune. There was meaning in this complex piece. It had a happy, carefree sound. “They know everything.”
“And they’re fine with it?”
He burst into laughter as if the answer should have been obvious. “They are.”
They seemed like good people—how could they accept their son engaging in what surely must be some form of human trafficking?
“Well, I’m glad they don’t bother you, Sacchan.”
Then, remembering something, he stood from the piano stool. Just like a month earlier, he opened the sideboard, pulled out an envelope and some paper, and placed them on the round table. The sound of paper brushing against paper was the only thing to break the silence across the room now.
“Here’s your pay for this month. Well done. And since we’ll be renewing our contract, I’ll need you to sign this.”
Having said that, he returned to the piano. He even left the pen on the table, so I sat in the chair and signed the paperwork.
Then, he played a more intentional tune. I found it grating. Just like yesterday and the day before, he always played the same pieces. He always played this piece in particular at least once. I didn’t know what it was called, but the melody had lodged itself into my brain.
Was it ironic that I hated his favorite song?
As I listened to him play, an electronic sound of the same melody rang in my ears.
I didn’t know anything about music. He asked me to listen anyway, two weeks ago now. He told me listening was part of my job.