with would inevitably be a suitably conventional young miss. In other words, the best I could hope for would be the sort of marriage my parents had—and I had no desire whatsoever to form a household anything like theirs. On the contrary, I wanted to break the cycle of such mass-produced couples. And that would mean that no more children like me would be born.
In fact, I didn’t care about having children one way or the other, the real issue being that I didn’t want to live with anyone. I was, to be sure, stuck in a wretched routine of prepared meals from the convenience store or McDonald’s. And yet this was all I needed. As long as I was alone, in off mode, I only needed enough fuel—not a feast—to get by. Once I hit the on button, my troubles would begin in earnest. I would have to deal with parents enslaved to a program, incapable of knowing me as a flesh-and-blood human being, have chummy conversations with coworkers, and otherwise explain myself to other people. I would constantly have to be me, and that would drive me crazy. I cherished the time I had to myself, since it was only then that I could chill out and stop being me—it’s impossible to truly switch off when other people are around.
In this context, I felt sympathy for the other ME, now obliged to dine with those same parents of mine. He had to go on being a son to vain and empty parents while I could enjoy the freedom of not being bound to be anyone in particular, despite my humble lot in life. The other ME was no doubt being hounded at least once a week to contemplate his marriage plans.
Perhaps he already had a girlfriend. Indeed, that was only to be expected. Being vastly more sophisticated than I, knowing all the angles, and blessed with all the advantages, he would naturally have a relationship with some fine young lady.
It wasn’t that I’d never had a girlfriend. In fact, for a brief moment at the end of my stint as a photography student, I had a passionate, lovey-dovey, soul-merging romance. She was extraordinarily gifted, had won prizes even before graduation, and had begun to work as an assistant to a professional photographer. As the boyfriend of a girl that talented, I thought I might somehow be in the same league as her. And it was in that frame of mind that I went looking for a job. It was only when I failed at every turn that I realized that I had been mistaken, that she and I were not, after all, the same person. The moment of our oneness thus came to an end.
That time I got into a car crash while speeding can’t really be called just an accident. And it wasn’t entirely the fault of the alcohol. Somewhere in my mind I was seeking self-destruction. If I had been gutsy enough to do such a thing, I might have been able to hang on to Mamiko even if our professional paths diverged. But I wasn’t. I had pressed the accelerator without exactly flooring it and, right before crashing head-on into the guardrail, I turned the steering wheel at the last second, so that we had a side impact. Sitting in the passenger seat, Mamiko fractured her left arm and was unable to work for a while. There was nothing to do but break up.
I was feeling quite disgusted. I imagined that “Mother” would once again grumble on about how I should have stayed with Mamiko and lecture me about my marriage prospects.
First and foremost, for all their talk about marriage, mothers simply don’t understand the plight of men who can’t find girlfriends. After all, it’s not just a matter of sheer effort, as if a guy can land one simply by turning a few spectacular cartwheels. I mean, if I could win over some chick, I wouldn’t be leading this miserable existence! (Hey, Hiyoshi, you jerk! You’re in a fine position to tell me that I should take care of Mother! Put yourself in my shoes!)
I sensed that all my anger was somehow misdirected, that I was barking up the wrong tree or jumping at shadows. And yet the more I pondered where and how everything had gone off the rails, the more befuddled I became. I wasn’t even sure just what it was that displeased me. All I knew was that I was utterly exhausted. The day had simply been too much. And there had been too much of me: me as the son of “Mother”; me as the son of Mother; me as not ME; ME as not me; me as ME—the two of us, me and ME. This surplus of me had made for total confusion and bewilderment. The only thing to do was turn off the switch: off, off, off. Otherwise, there would be a major wreck.
* * *
I awoke the next morning with a feeling of unease. The air, usually cool and stagnant, was filled with an appetite-stimulating aroma, warm and damp. I could hear sounds in the kitchen on the other side of the sliding door. I jumped from my futon to investigate.
“Good morning! How are you feeling?”
It was “Mother,” beating eggs. I had the feeling of having returned to the morning of the day before, as though everything that had occurred had been merely a dream and I had awakened to find her here where she had spent the night, as though the cocoon containing my body had just broken open, with everything that had built up inside me as I slept spilling out. Thus, I weakly posed the meaningless question: “What are you doing here?”
“Making breakfast. I couldn’t help worrying, so I came. The way you were acting . . . the way you were responding on the phone . . . I could tell there was something wrong. I had to see if you were all right.”
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
“That’s why I called before leaving the house, but you didn’t answer. I rang the bell when I arrived, but you didn’t open the door. I guessed you were sound asleep, so I took it upon myself to barge in. You’ll have some egg porridge, won’t you? Can you still make it to work on time? I left you alone because I didn’t want to get scolded again for waking you up.”
I glanced at the clock and saw that it was already eight thirty. I would be cutting it very close. “Really, you shouldn’t come over when I haven’t asked you to.”
“But if I hadn’t come, you would have overslept.”
“I would have woken up of my own accord. That’s normal with me.”
“Fine, fine, whatever you say. But now hurry up and eat.”
I washed my face, then scarfed down the egg porridge and the bean-curd miso soup. Somewhat to my annoyance, I found it all quite tasty.
“How are you feeling?”
“I could be better.”
“Should you even be going to work if you’re not well?”
“I can’t take time off just because I’m feeling under the weather.”
“Don’t overdo it. Your father always insisted he was just fine, so by the time he realized that his health was actually failing, it was already too late. Remember the old saying: Even dust, if it accumulates, will eventually form a mountain.”
“Don’t you think these circumstances are a bit different?”
“Remember that when the body weakens, so does the spirit. When it’s only the body, rest will provide recuperation. But when the spirit falters, one tends to give up on life, even if that is not one’s intention. Human beings are feeble creatures. Daiki, I just don’t want you to wind up on the same path that your father took. That’s why I pester you. But you have to take charge of your own health. It’s a matter of filial duty.” As she spoke, she began to sniffle. Then she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“Okay, I understand,” I conceded. I felt my heart constricting: it was indeed quite as though my father had committed suicide.
“Oh!” Mother suddenly exclaimed. “Here, you forgot this,” she said, handing me the postcard concerning the class reunion.
