Marisa

Marisa
the scars that remain
Marisa
the scars that remain
James Miyamoto
Self-published on www.lulu.com
2014
Copyright James Miyamoto 2014

The right of James Miyamoto to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First Printing: 2014
ISBN 978-1-326-07127-1
Available to order from lulu.com
Illustration Copyright Jihyun Park 2014

www.jihyunart.com
The song is over. But the melody

lingers on.
A Wild Sheep Chase, Haruki Murakami
Thank you for the music.
Contents
Motion Picture Soundtrack
The Touhoku Earthquake
The Loneliness of a Middle Distance Runner
Break the Chain
Caught in My Shadow
Winterlong
Wave of Mutilation
A Place Called Home
Hurt
Dog Days Are Over
Anthropogenic Climate Change
Born To Die
Guts
I Know Places
Earthbeat
Me and My Charms
motion picture soundtrack

december 2011
In the winter streets of Kawanishi, people flow in and out of the station in regular
waves. Shortly after a train pulls in, groups of dark-suited men and women pass
through the barriers, and emerge from the building. They pause and blink for a
moment in the bright light, then pull their coats tight around themselves and hurry
on their way. The sun hangs suspended in a cloudless blue sky, saturating the city
with light; but it offers no warmth.
The people march across walkways suspended high above the streets. Some move
together, laughing and talking; most walk alone. Their eyes are fixed ahead, checking
their path for obstacles; but their main attention is elsewhere. Their minds eyes
survey their own worlds.
The crowd thins. Some of the people have entered the maze-like shopping
arcades, rushing to meetings or work or a hurriedly snatched breakfast. By the time
the walkway descends to street level, the crowd has dwindled to just a few
pedestrians. They wait patiently at the crossing. The lights change, tinny music starts
to blare, it is the cars and their drivers turn to wait. Everything is ordered. The
rhythm of the city, built of the contribution of each individual, proceeds and unfolds
like a perfectly predictable machine. The city is a giant clock, and time is certainly
passing.
Do some of the pedestrians, or the drivers waiting in their cars, glance at the
squat, nondescript building across the road? It is only four stories high; the station
and office buildings and department stores in the city tower over it. This building
stands in its own space - it is isolated from the life of the city. Perhaps the rest of the
city is reluctant to come too close. There is a clear and distinct distance between it
and its nearest neighbours. In every other way, the building is unremarkable,
without even a small sign or clue as to its purpose.
Some people do glance at the building. But perhaps there is more significance in
the gazes which studiously avoid acknowledging it at all.
The windowless room on the fourth floor blazes with light and colour. The walls
are gold and cream. The seats, arranged in precise rows, are upholstered in deep
rich red velvet. Sprays of beautifully ornate bouquets adorn the walls, the white and
blue and purple of flowers that have no place in winter. Time is frozen in this room.
People mill around, exchanging words in muted tones, before being ushered to a
seat. They are all dressed in black, the men wearing suits and ties, the women in
starkly simple dresses. Gradually, the seats are filled and the room quiets. When
complete silence has descended, someone presses a button, and from small speakers
unobtrusively mounted on the walls, the sounds of an organ starts to swell.
Where are the minds eyes of these people? Can they all be staring at the same
world, or at least their version of the world that has brought them together? Every
face, the line of every body, speaks - screams - something: denial, anger, grief,
stunned disbelief, desolation. They are the survivors of a disaster that no one had
predicted, and what was once certain can no longer be trusted. Time is frozen and
splintered as they try to understand what has happened, what is happening.
Wherever they look, their eyes are always drawn back to the room, and the dais
they are facing. There is a cabinet on the dais; on the cabinet, flanked by candles and
more flowers, and offerings of fruit, there is a picture: a woman, hair pulled back in
a careless knot, sitting in a cluttered office. She is dressed in a shirt with a company
logo on its breast. She is stroking a dog, cradling its head in her hands. The dogs
eyes are almost completely closed - he looks as if he is luxuriating in the attention.
The womans eyes are open. She is gazing directly at the camera. She is smiling
broadly.
Marisa. The director of ceremonies has walked to the front of the room, and
taken a position to the left of the dais. She is holding a microphone in her hand, but
she does not use it. There is no need: the room is still. The people in the room have
forgotten to breathe; the whole world could be holding its breath. The music from
the speakers continues, though; now a man is singing, his haunting voice blending
effortlessly with the organ. I think youre crazy, maybe
Marisa. We are here today to mourn for her, and to remember her, and send her
on her last journey. She was thirty six years old. Marisa. We are gathered here:
friends and family, colleagues and people whose lives she touched. Marisa. She left
us too soon, but she has left so many precious memories. Let us talk, and share what
we remember of Marisa.
One by one, people stand and walk to the front of the room. Some speak clearly;
some mumble a few words; some do not speak at all. All the people, though, pause
and spend a frozen moment gazing at the body lying in the coffin. In the picture,
Marisa is smiling. In the coffin, her mouth hangs open slightly; she looks serious, as
if there is something important that she is about to say. In the picture, her eyes are
dancing; in the coffin, her eyes are closed, and they will never open again. She is
gone.
As the people take their turns to stand, and look, and perhaps speak, or perhaps
find that their words have been stolen away, the music continues. I will see you in
the next life sings the vocalist, voice arching up, soaring into the skies. The music
fades away, a cascade of liquid harp chords falling like gentle rain.
People continue to speak. Their words seem to summon the music back, a refrain
of something that refuses to die. Their memories and feelings refuse to let the music
end. Somewhere in their spiralling, halting words, there is a glimmer of Marisa;
perhaps, somewhere in the trackless past, there is an explanation: how did we get
here? what just happened? this cant be happening.
The Touhoku Earthquake

Earthquakes are an almost daily occurrence in Japan. The islands balance
precariously on the meeting of four tectonic plates, and devastating seismic events
are a tragic part of the nations pastand its future. History has taught the Japanese
people to always think of and prepare for the next shock. New buildings, bridges
and tunnels must comply to strict regulations. Households and offices are equipped
with survival kits which include food and water for several days. Pupils take part in
earthquake drills as soon as they start attending kindergarten.1
Despite all the measures taken, Japan and its people lead a fragile existence.
On 11th March, 2011, at 2:46PM JST, a 9.0 Mw megathrust earthquake struck off
the east coast of Honshu, Japan. The epicentre was approximately 80 miles east of
Sendai. The earthquake was the most powerful to affect the region, and one of the
five largest in the world, since the beginning of seismological record-keeping in the
late nineteenth century.2
The quake moved portions of northeastern Japan by as much as 7.9 feet
eastwards. The earth shifted on its axis by estimates of between 4 and 10 inches. A
250 mile stretch of coastline dropped vertically by 2 feet. This in turn allowed the
ensuing tsunami to travel further and faster onto land.3
As of June 2013, there were 15,883 confirmed deaths, 2,667 missing persons, and
6,145 injuries associated with the earthquake.4
The tsunami destroyed the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant, resulting in
significant and ongoing radioactive contamination of the Japanese aquifers and
oceans. In November 2011, the Japanese Science Ministry reported that long-lived
radioactive caesium had contaminated 11,580 square miles (30,000 sq. km) of the
http://www.livescience.com/30226-japan-tectonics-explosive-geology-ring-of-fire-110314.html, viewed 27th

July 2013
2
http://www.webcitation.org/mainframe.php, viewed 27th July 2013
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/14/world/asia/14seismic.html?_r=0, viewed 27th July 2013
http://www.npa.go.jp/archive/keibi/biki/higaijokyo_e.pdf, viewed 27th July 2013
land surface of Japan. Some 4,500 square miles was found to have radiation levels
that exceeded Japans allowable exposure rate of 1mSV (millisievert) per year.5
The long-term effects on both the local and global environment is unclear; but it is
currently estimated that the process of decommissioning the plant will take at least
40 years.6
http://www.psr.org/environment-and-health/environmental-health-policy-institute/responses/costs-andconsequences-of-fukushima.html, viewed 28th July 2013

6
http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2013/sep/01/fukushima-radiation-levels-higher-japan, viewed
29th December 2013
the loneliness of a middle distance runner

11th march 2011
Morning mist curls around the trees. Evidence of the winter lingers; there are still
some stubborn patches of snow on the forest floor. Spring comes late in the hills. On
the plain below, the first cherry blossoms are already preparing to unfurl; here the
winter is deeper and not so easily shaken off. But the hoary old trees are slowly
awakening from their slumber, sap starting to stir sluggishly. There is a sense of
anticipation and imminence in the air. The time for dreaming is coming to an end.
A woman runs alone along the narrow dirt trail in the forest. The mist breaks and
eddies around her, swirling lazily as she passes. She runs steadily, not quickly; her
stride is smooth and measured, meant for practicality and efficiency rather than
speed. She carries scars, reminders of times when she ran too fast and pushed
herself too hard. Her balance is something that has been hard-earned, but is easily
lost.
She knows that there are hidden dangers on the path; but when she loses herself
in the rhythm of her stride, she can, if only for a brief moment, escape herself.
The track emerges from the forest and broadens, then joins a small road. The
woman continues steadily. The end is in sight, but that is no reason to change her
pace. She isnt racing, not even against herself.
The road crosses a shallow river, and is joined by a deep irrigation ditch running
alongside it. Carefully tended plots of vegetables and rice start to appear, then the
occasional house, old fashioned and weathered, with peaked roofs designed to
withstand deep winter snows. Finally, the houses gather together and the road
enters a quiet, sleepy village. A huge building broods on a hill overlooking the
cluster of houses: it is a school, and it could hold the entire population of the village
several times over. Children from countless, even smaller settlements are gathered
there every day. They arrive at the tiny station, crammed into the carriages, and
march up the hill to the school, bringing life and shouts and loud laughter; at the
end of the day, they leave, and the village is left once again to its slow and peaceful
slumber.
The steady rhythm of the womans stride slows to a walk as she enters the village.
She turns into a narrow drive, unlatches a gate, and climbs the steps to an old,
weathered house. In the small garden, she sucks in deep breaths of air, and performs
a series of stretches. She is serious in her concentration, focused on performing the
simple actions as purely as possible. When she frowns, the scar on her forehead,
usually barely visible, puckers and tightens, the smooth skin catching the growing
morning light.
Her stretches are complete; her balance is set and her mind is clear. She takes a
moment to look at the hills that surround the village. They rise precipitously around
her. There is overwhelming peace and silence on their wooded heights; sometimes it
is more than she can stand. She feels a longing to climb what she thinks of as her
hill, and spend some time in the places she knows. It is a pilgrimage, though, not a
trip to be undertaken lightly; she will prepare for it as meticulously as a traveller to a
holy place.
She slides open the front door to the house. Removing her shoes, she calls out,
Im home.
She has been living in the old house in the small village for more than a year. The
walls of the house are packed earth, covered by a veneer of plaster and wood that
have fallen away in places. There is no heating or air conditioning. Colonies of
insects make their homes in the walls, burrowing deep to build their nests. In
winter, the house is frozen, the wind rattling through the ill-fitting windows; in
summer, the house swelters in oppressive humidity, and insects of prehistoric size
emerge from the walls.
But the hardwood floors are polished to a dull golden gleam, and the rooms are
spacious. In the summer, when all the windows are opened, a stray breeze can
occasionally be coaxed inside. In the winter, the electric kotatsu - a low table with a
built-in heater - provides an oasis of warmth. The sturdy bookshelves are crammed
with well-worn companions. Pictures of family and friends, and souvenirs and
mementoes from a different life, a life on the other side of the earth, adorn the walls.
Like a plant that has been repotted, her life has been carefully transferred, and is
now flourishing and blossoming in a new world.
She showers and dresses, and prepares a simple breakfast. Although it is still early,
not even six oclock, the sky is already bright. She leaves her bowl and chopsticks in
the sink for when she returns in the evening, gathers her keys and laptop, sits on the
step in the genkan - the entrance hall - to pull on her shoes, and locks the front door
as she leaves. It doesnt make the house particularly secure, but in the sleepy village
there is no need to take elaborate precautions, at least compared to other places she
has lived.
Come on, Taro.
The dog comes to her heel silently. His fur is a mottled black and brown, with
white frosting spreading across his muzzle. He is almost eerily silent, and always
alert for any dangers. His experiences have shaped him so. Only a year ago, he might
have been thrown into a hokenjo - a mechanized gas chamber known
euphemistically as a dream box. The hokenjo serve as a convenient dustpan for the
inconvenient, the unfashionable, all the street sweepings which do not conform and
which have no part in the carefully ordered and tended design.
Taro allows a lead to be clipped onto his collar. They make their way down the
street towards the train station, and stop at a small kiosk. The woman exchanges a
few words with the shopkeeper. She collects two large onigiri - balls of rice wrapped
in seaweed - which have been prepared for her lunch. She bows her farewell, and
makes her way back up the road. She lets the dog roam around a patch of common
land; when he is ready, they clamber into a small Subaru van.
Reversing the van along the narrow drive is nerve-racking. There are deep
irrigation canals on either side of the road, and no barriers. The woman has only
once allowed the wheels of the van to slip off the drive, but it took the better part of
the morning to rescue the van.
Today, she gets on the road without incident, and soon the van is speeding
towards the place she works. This is how another busy day in Japan starts for Marisa
Miyamoto.
In the sparsely populated hills to the north of Osaka, surrounded by fields and
forests, there is an eccentric, eclectic collection of ramshackle buildings. They cluster
together drunkenly, leaning on each other, corrugated iron roofs tilting at
precarious angles, muddy paths meandering between them.
Some of the buildings serve as offices; another is a clinic. There are some living
quarters for staff required to stay the night; but the bulk of the buildings are
accommodation for rescued animals. The occupants could be anything from goats to
foxes to geese, but are usually cats and dogs. The animals are treated and cared for,
rehabilitated, and, hopefully, either re-homed or released.
The shelter is an organic growth: born of beliefs and dreams, shaped by reality
and disasters, and kept alive by passion and determination. It feels very far removed
from the carefully pruned and tended streets of the distant city.
In January 2008, the shelter received an enquiry from the UK regarding the post
of full-time veterinary surgeon. Employing their own vet would allow the shelter to
dramatically expand the scale of its operations; long-nurtured plans to expand the
scope of the shelter could be implemented. Even more importantly for the English
founder, who was often disparaging of the ethics and competence of Japanese vets
and nurses, the applicant had been trained in a British university, and had spent
most of her career working at British veterinary clinics and shelters.
After the protracted process of gaining a Japanese veterinary license, Marisa
Miyamoto took up the position just over a year ago, in March 2010.
The van pulls up on the dirt parking lot; the narrow, angular roads which divide
the fields have been negotiated safely once again. The door opens, and Taro bounds
out; Marisa clambers down more slowly after him.
The shelter is already awake. There has been a new influx of animals, and the
kennels are once again close to capacity. The vets first task will be to check the new
arrivals, in particular one dog with a fierce temper; it has suffered obvious
maltreatment, as well as being gauntly undernourished. She will spend some time
with it, and perhaps later in the month see if she can take it home for a week, so that
it can slowly become re-accustomed to human company.
Taro stays close by Marisa's side as she walks towards the small office. More than a
year ago, Taro had been found near the body of his owner, a homeless man living in
the streets of Osaka. No one is quite sure how old Taro is, or how long he lived on
the streets. He is still cautious of strangers, but after spending almost five months
accompanying the vet, he has become a little more relaxed in his new environment.
Marisa knows that he should be returned to the kennels soon, but each passing day
makes it more difficult. There is something in the street-wise dogs silent watchful
loyalty that, despite herself, has touched her heart.
Outside the office, she pauses. The precious time she has to herself is over. She
must take the stage. She opens the door and enters.
Ohayou gozaimasu, Marisa san!
A bright and cheerful call greets her. The young man is part of a group of friends
which the vet has taken to calling the boy band: five earnest but easygoing men
who have taken her into their circle. Marisa was worried that she is too old for them
to be comfortable with her, but they quickly dispelled that notion. All the staff
appreciate her honesty and humour, and the fact that she listens to and values their
opinions about the best treatment of the animals. To Marisa, this approach is natural
and sensible; after all, it is the staff and volunteers, those who feed the cats and take
the dogs for walks on a daily basis, who are in the best position to notice any
problems or changes in the animals behaviour. Marisa does not think of herself as a
superior, but as part of a team.
The boy band are fascinated by the foreign perspective she offers. She does not
hold herself apart, and is made uncomfortable by any displays of Japanese respect
for a sensei. The young men are eager to show her the cheapest and best restaurants,
and introduce her to singers and performers she would never have discovered on
her own. They are also part of the underpaid but incredibly competent and
dedicated staff that sees to the day-to-day running of the centre.
Morning! How are you? And is it looking busy today? she asks the boy band
member.
Im well, thanks! There are a few cases that wed like you to check up on
particularly, but I dont think theres anything too serious. I had a bit of a late night,
but luckily were not expecting a crazy day today; and the boss isnt here, either.
Marisa pulls a sympathetic grimace. The English founder of the shelter is not
always an easy person to get along with. Despite living in Japan for more than twenty
years, the boss refuses to learn more than a smattering of the language; she is often
contemptuous of the efforts of her staff, constantly contrasting them unfavourably to
their British equivalents - a ridiculous comparison! Marisa is frequently taken aback
by the level of commitment and compassion displayed by people who are treated as
little more than casual workers.
When the boss is in the office, the staff tread warily. The boss can swing from
positive and energetic to cantankerous and dictatorial without warning, her moods
and whims as changeable as clouds passing over a mountain. Nevertheless, she is
respected by everyone at the shelter. Without her, the shelter would not have even
started all those years ago, let alone become what it is today.
Marisa gathers the files she needs. She leaves Taro in the office; he is unobtrusive
and well-behaved, and is popular with the staff. Waving goodbye to the member of
the boy band, she starts her rounds.
How have I come to be here; what am I doing here? It is a stray thought that is
left unexamined. There is no time for introspection.
Much of Marisas job involves the diagnosing, vaccinating, neutering and treating
of new admittances, as well as overseeing the semi-permanent residents of the
centre. She also found she had to create entirely new filing systems. Part of the
paperwork was necessary to comply with government regulations: the centre now
holds a locked safe containing controlled and dangerous drugs, and is licensed
under her name as an official clinic. Equally urgently, a reliable and consistent way of
tracking the admittances was essential for the smooth running of the clinic, which
had been operating on a largely ad hoc basis for some time. Numerous vets have
worked at the shelter for short periods over the years. Records, if they were written
at all, were kept by whoever happened to be in the office; they were often
inaccurate. Now, a year after Marisa took up the position, an animals name can be
entered in the office computers, and its entire case history can be read on a single
page.
Marisa also makes periodic field trips all around the Kansai conurbation, from
Osaka to Kobe, Nara to Kyoto, and beyond. She loads her Subaru van with drugs,
syringes and other basic equipment, as well as cages. Sometimes accompanied by
some of the maintenance staff, but often alone, she responds to requests for
assistance. The requests come from individuals, and from town councils. Sometimes
the animals Marisa encounters on these occasions are domestic, but have bred out of
all control; at other times, the animals are near-feral, having been abandoned by
their owners. Some can be treated in the field; the more serious cases are returned
to the centre to be admitted and nursed back to health. There are always more
animals in need of attention than there is capacity at the centre.
Dealing with even feral animals is often easier than dealing with people. In any
society, there are those who are pushed to the margins, who are unwilling or unable
to behave according to the accepted standards of their culture. They are outsiders,
and their separateness might be their pride and strength.
On the mountain of Tanba, near Kyoto, a man kept a pack of half-wild dogs that he
refused to control. Representatives from both the shelter and from the council had
visited him for many years, reasoning and pleading and threatening in futile attempts
to handle the man into controlling his animals. Each attempt only made the man
more intransigent. He did not trust anyone.
But he came to trust Marisa. He allowed her to neuter fifteen dogs, and accepted
her advice on their care. The people at the shelter were relieved and impressed in
equal measure. That was really something, they said when she returned.
Marisa has her own secret. Despite being able to navigate confidently through
society and the real world, she cannot help but feel that she has more in common
with those at the margins, rather than with those at the centre. She is an outsider
too.
It is past three oclock. Marisa has nearly finished her rounds, and has attended to
the cases which needed urgent attention. She glances at her watch. She hasnt
stopped to eat her onigiri yet; she decides she will eat them in the office as she
updates the paperwork. Then she will continue with the more routine cases. Perhaps
she will be able to leave the centre before eight oclock this evening.
She looks up, hearing her name being called. Someone is beckoning to her. The
office is far away, but urgency and panic are transmitted clearly across the distance.
Closing the kennel, Marisa begins to run, and joins the stunned group gathered
around the television, and watches the tragedy unfold.
break the chain

february 2005 - december 2006
I've got it! Yes, thats how its going to end!
She was elated.
This can tie everything together, without having to say everything, or get too
sentimental. Its perfect! Its the way that it has to end.
She was talking about the book she was writing. It had started with a notebook
she had been given, more than a year and a half ago, when she was in hospital. She
had lost half the field of vision in one eye, and was undergoing an endless series of
tests, questions and scans. She was passed between at least ten different consultants,
doctors and neurologists. She was scrutinised by entire football teams of students
and researchers. American football teams. She said she felt like an empty house
which people were inspecting, poking about and lifting the floorboards.
She felt herself becoming transparent, invisible. She was a clinical case, of interest
because she was undefined and unclassified. The entries in her notebook became
one of the few ways she could reassure herself that she even existed; seeing the
words she had written was proof that she had not, in fact, disappeared completely.
Eventually, her writing took on an urgency that could not be ignored. She had to
tell her story, if only so that it made sense to herself. She was more than a patient.
She was more than someone whose questions were ignored. She was more than
someone who had to meekly accept everything she was told. She needed to find her
own answers, a way to make a narrative that she could accept, so that she could
move forward and reconstruct her life. When she came out of the hospital, her world
was like a scene from the aftermath of an earthquake. The rubble had to be sorted
through, salvaging what could be saved. Assumptions which had been taken for
granted had to be carefully tested, and either discarded or adjusted.
Gradually, new structures emerged from the devastation. Perhaps they were not
what she had imagined when she was dreaming of her future - perhaps they did not
have the idealistic grace she had hoped for - but they were strong, and real, and
somehow more valuable than before. She had earned them, she had built them; they
were hers.
When she was discharged from the hospital, it was with a sick note from work for
three weeks. She returned home, to the row of red painted buildings in
Wolverhampton, the grey English city where she had a small apartment. Across the
road, the sprawling old brick building that had once been an orphanage was full of
students, overflowing with energy after their Easter break. In front of the apartment,
the tree-sheltered grassy hollow - it had once served as a mass grave when a cholera
epidemic had struck the orphanage - was bursting with urgent new spring growth.
She felt like an intruder, alienated from the life she had once lived; she didnt
know who she was anymore. Except, in that small apartment, where she lived with
the dog and cat she had rescued and adopted, she gradually found her home again:
a place where she could think and feel, and just be.
And somewhere, the seed of the book that she needed to write was growing and
starting to send out questing roots.
I call it the Mulholland Drive ending, she said, more than a year and a half
later. All credit to David Lynch, although its not really a rip-off; he just gave me the
idea. I think Ive nearly finished it - the last chapter almost seems to have written
itself.
Im going to put it away for a few months, and see if Im still happy with it next
year. Before I do, though... will you read it? And tell me what you think?
And that was how Many Scars7 was born.
Multiple sclerosis is often described as an autoimmune disease. It affects the
central nervous system. Recurrent immune reactions damage nerve tissue - initially
the myelin coating which sheathes nerves - in such a way that nerve signals which
run through those areas are weakened, or lost completely.
http://catrehomed.wordpress.com/2012/04/11/many-scars/
When looking at the brain of someone who had MS, the most striking feature is
the presence of multiple greyish scars, mainly in the white matter... Just like scars in
other parts of our body, they remain for life.8
Scar tissue does not pass on any nerve signals, and this part of the brain or spinal
cord is no longer functional.9
It is thought that genetic predispositions play a part - up to 35% - in whether or
not someone acquires MS. Environmental factors are also crucial, with diet, levels of
vitamin D during gestation and childhood, stress, exercise, and the age of exposure
to the EpsteinBarr virus (EBV ) all thought to act together as a potential trigger.
Children born in October and November have a slightly lower chance of developing
MS than children born in May or June, possibly because of the amount of vitamin D
their mothers absorb in the summer months. There is evidence that children who
are exposed to the EBV at a younger age have a lower chance of developing MS.
The highest occurrences of MS are in countries which are farthest from the
equator. In developed countries, advanced health care services may actually increase
the risk of MS, as exposure to the EBV often occurs at a later age.
MS affects women more than it does men: It is thought that at least twice as many
women as men have MS. In the general population in the UK, the risk of developing
MS is about 1 in 700.10
They just wont tell me anything, she fumes. She is walking Skeeter through
Bantock Park. They are moving more slowly than usual, and Skeeter shoots her the
occasional quizzical look. Not that hes complaining - it gives him more
opportunities to investigate intriguing scents - but dinner will be waiting after the
walk. That is one of the fixed points of his life, and it doesnt seem right to postpone
it. At this rate, it might be hours before they get home.
They run all these tests. They ask endless questions. They scan my brain. Ive
tried telling them that Im a vegan, but I havent always taken vitamins regularly.
8
S. Amor & H. van Noort, Multiple Sclerosis, OUP, Gosport, 2012, p3
ibid, p8
10
L. Martin, Multiple Sclerosis: The Essential Guide, Need2Know, Peterborough, 2010, p21
They dont seem to care. They ask more questions - if I have tingling in my hands, if
Im feeling tired. I try telling them Im often tired, and that it might be related to
those years when I was counting calories fanatically. They just ignore me, or tell me
that its not relevant.
Skeeter whines. Shes stopped walking completely! Is she taunting him? Punishing
him? He is enjoying the evening, but hes hungry, dammit.
She looks at him. Im sorry, Skeeter. I dont mean to go on at you. Its just so
frustrating. When I finally get discharged, its only with a possible diagnosis of MS.
And a prescription for steroids. What are they meant to do? Are they for MS? If they
are, then why is it only a possible diagnosis? I dont understand anything.
She ruffles Skeeters ears. He sniffs at her hand and gives it a lick, in case she is
holding something edible. She isnt.
Come on, lets start heading back. Its getting late, and its time for your tea. I
dont think my legs will make it all the way round the park, anyway.
She isnt angry with him, after all. Thats a relief. He wants to help her, but, really,
if she doesnt understand anything, how can he? Anyway, life doesnt stop just
because it becomes confusing. And life needs food.
They make their slow way home.
MS affects the central nervous system, but it can manifest in any part of the brain
or spinal cord. This means that a wide variety of symptoms can be presented, all of
which could have a cause quite different from MS. This makes the recognition and
diagnosis an uncertain and time-consuming process.
There are three stages to the diagnosis of MS. The first is the dissemination in
space of symptoms. This means that a single symptom, such as optic neuritis, is in
itself insufficient to make a diagnosis. Stronger evidence is provided by additional
symptoms which affect different bodily functions, for example a tingling sensation in
the hands, or fatigue.
The second factor to be considered is dissemination in time. MS is not an
isolated incident, and a positive diagnosis of MS should include evidence that the
symptoms recur. The recurrence of symptoms should take place at least one month
after the initial presentation.
A problem with this is that, in some cases, remission between relapses has been
known to last for several years; but advances in the diagnostic use of Magnetic
Resonance Imaging (MRI) scans have allowed neurologists to arrive at a diagnosis
more quickly. Although relapses tend to occur about once a year, actual immune
reactions in the brains of people with MS develop surprisingly frequently. MRI scans
show immune reactions in the brain occur approximately ten times more frequently
than relapses.11
Finally, viral and bacterial infections need to be eliminated as a potential cause of
symptoms.
Even after a diagnosis has been made, it is very difficult to predict the progress MS
will take from patient to patient. As stated, there may be periods of remission which
last for several years, where no new symptoms manifest. In the case of primary
progressive MS, progress to disability appears to proceed much faster.
Papers are strewn around the usually neat flat, covering the floors, the sofa, the
coffee table. Many of them are bills and statements. Others are insurance policies,
pension plans, and contracts.
She concentrates on the rows of numbers in front of her. She doesnt use a
calculator, but slowly and painstakingly works out the figures: expenditure, income,
savings, essentials, disposables. She ruthlessly economises wherever possible. There
are many decisions to be made. Sometimes the decision is taken away.
The DVLA says theyre happy for me to drive, as long as I feel safe. No, Im afraid
they werent any clearer than that. As I understand it, theyll evaluate my case and
make a decision in the next couple of months. So, I wanted to ask: will my insurance
remain the same, at least until the DVLA arrives at a decision? Oh, it wont? So how
much will the new premium be? Yes, just a rough figure is fine for now... oh, I see.
Somewhere in that region? Well, thank you for your time.
11
She looks at the telephone for a long moment after she hangs up. Then she opens
her laptop and starts looking at how much a train pass will cost.
In the end, having checked her figures carefully, she makes an announcement.
Well, its not going to be easy, but I think if I do decide to go part time, I should
be able to cover all my expenses and still be able to save a fair bit every year. Maybe
Ill even be able to afford one of these ground floor flats if they come up for sale.
Skeeter looks at her mournfully. Recently, their walks have become shorter than
he is used to. That isnt right. If anything, she loves their jaunts even more than he
does. Not that he doesnt enjoy them, but he knows that after a walk, there will be
breakfast. Or dinner. Which makes coming home from a walk pretty damn enjoyable
as well. She used to take him out for longer than he considered strictly necessary.
But now the walks are almost becoming too short. And she walks a lot more slowly
and unsteadily. More often than not, he has to wait for her, even though these days
his battered bones keep him to a halting limp. It makes him uneasy.
Are you paying attention? Youre one of my main expenditures, you know. Well,
you and that ginger fecker-mecker, but we wont count him. He could do with going
on a diet, anyway. But I know youd be upset if you didnt get the odd rawhide chew,
right Skeeter?
He raises his head and thumps his tail. Rawhide, chew, Skeeter. Thats a good
combination of sounds.
Right, got to write a letter to the grumpy old man. Knowing him, he wont be
much for talking about me coming back to work. Hopefully, putting it down on
paper will make it easier for him. Im hoping hell let me come back to work part
time on a trial basis. I wish I didnt feel so guilty about it, but its probably for the
best. Maybe Ill be able to go back to full time after I get used to everything.
With any luck, HR wont get involved until after I find my feet, when I know what
I can and cant do.
Skeeter lowers his head, forgotten. He lets out a heartfelt sigh. Oh well, shed
remember the rawhide chew later. After all, shes practically promised him one! And
she always keeps her promises.
In the letter to her manager - the grumpy old man- she writes that she will hand
in her resignation if she finds she has become an ineffective member of the team.
Significant progress has been made in MS research and support. The MS Society in
the UK was established in 1953; today it has 350 local branches and over 40,000
members. Together with the MS Trust, established in 1993, it funds MS research,
runs respite care centres and provides grants, education and training on MS.12
Education is particularly important, as there has always been a plethora of myths
surrounding the disease.
As recently as the 1980s, common advice given to patients on diagnosis was
Youve got MS - go home and learn to live with it.13 It was assumed that there was
nothing practical to keep patients from an inevitable decline, ultimately resulting in
loss of mobility, muscle control and cognitive faculties.
Doctors and neurologists today can prescribe some drugs which have shown
success in slowing or arresting the onset of relapses and degeneration. These
include cortisone and beta interferon. They are not perfect solutions. Beta
interferon, for example, has several potential side effects. Flu-like symptoms are
fairly common, commence up to 4-5 hours post injection, and generally last no
longer than 12-24 hours. Patients can also experience headaches, fever, muscle
aches, insomnia, injection site reactions and dizziness. Occasionally patients
comment that MS symptoms can worsen.14
The importance of diet, exercise and remaining active and engaged is emphasised
in advice about managing MS. A healthy diet can prevent secondary complications,
such as bladder infections and diabetes, which can have serious repercussions for
those with MS. Regular exercise to improve muscle strength can reduce the impact
of relapses. It is also accepted now that withdrawing from society is one of the worst
possible responses to MS.
12
13
ibid, p9
14
N. Embrey, Beta interferon therapy in multiple sclerosis: an audit of patients in North Staffordshire Hospital
Trust, in MS Trust. December 2009, viewed on 3 April 2013, http://www.mstrust.org.uk/professionals/
information/wayahead/articles/06042002_01.jsp
People with MS should lead normal and active lives within the limitations of their
symptoms. This means that we encourage activity more than rest, staying involved
and active rather than withdrawing and dropping out. We want people to remain
productive and working. It is understandable that symptoms and problems may
make this harder for you, that doing things may take more time and energy, but its
still better to do it than not to do it.15
There is substantial anecdotal evidence to suggest that stress can exacerbate the
frequency and intensity of relapses. But there is no such thing as a stress free
environment, and, additionally, not enough stress can lead to depression and
alienation.
Well, fuck.
She puts the phone down and starts to cry.
She had been speaking to the HR department about her situation. They had
phoned her unexpectedly, before she had even sent her letter to the manager. They
had received the sick note from the hospital. It said Multiple Sclerosis on it.
So why had it said most likely MS on her discharge papers? Had the neurologists
confirmed the diagnosis? Surely they should have told her before informing her
employers?
HR had arranged a meeting. They were perfectly cordial - they had expressed
sympathy about her situation - and said that the meeting would be to discuss some
proposals about the best arrangements for your continued employment with us.
She knows, with sickening certainty, that she is being eased towards an exit.
She stops crying, and is blindingly furious.
Its not fucking fair! I can still do the job, I know I can!
Her carefully considered plan for a trial period while she finds her feet is in ruins,
she is sure. They will never agree to it. Once she is working part time, there will be
no way to return to full time hours. All her planning and calculations, and she wont
even be allowed to test her new limits. She has convinced herself that with enough
15
C. Benz & R. Reynolds, Coping with Multiple Sclerosis, Random House UK, London, 2005
lists, enough organisation, she will be able to control what is happening. There is no
chance of that, now. The decisions are being taken from her.
She is shaking. She looks down at her trembling hands, and clasps them together
to try to still them.
Skeeter essays a whine from the corner of the room. He has made himself very
small, and looks at her with liquid eyes. She had thrown a book across the room,
and it had nearly hit him. Why? Had it been something hed done?
Oh god, Im sorry Skeeter. No, its not you. Its me. Im sorry. Come on mate.
She talks to him soothingly until he calms down. He gives her a cautious lick. She
grabs him in a wrestling hold. He growls and bucks free, then leaps for his rope toy.
They tussle over it. As usual, he wins. And they are friends again, and the fear is
pushed away again.
Lets go for a walk, and get you fed. Then Id better make some phone calls.
The symptoms associated with MS make a dauntingly long list. They can include
bladder and bowel dysfunction (affects about 75% of people with MS), sexual
problems (difficulties in attaining an orgasm and a reduced libido), speech and
swallowing impediment (the melody of the speech typically becomes flatter, and
people may start slurring).16 Loss of balance, muscle spasms, and tingling or
trembling extremities can become severe enough to seriously hinder mobility and
the ability to perform previously simple tasks.
Chronic pain is experienced by about 50% of people with MS.17
It is important to note that not everyone will experience all of these symptoms.
Depending on what area of the central nervous system is affected, patients may
manifest some of these symptoms relatively mildly, or not at all. MS is impossible to
put in a neat box with a label on. It can be an elusive, unpredictable condition not
least in terms of its combination of symptoms and rate of progression.18 Planning
work, leisure activities or holidays is no longer straightforward, as it is almost
16
S. Amor & H. van Noort, Multiple Sclerosis, OUP, Gosport, 2012, p18/19
17
18
ibid, p49
impossible to provide anyone with MS with a reliable prediction of what to expect

from their condition.19
Well, thats not at all vague or worrying, then.
She closes the web page with a sigh. Maybe it isnt a good idea to be googling MS.
She has spoken to both the MS Society and the manager at work. Both phone calls
have reassured her.
The person from the MS Society she spoke to was less than impressed with her
treatment from the hospital, but didnt seem all that surprised by it. They were
surprised that no one had offered her interferons, and suggested contacting an MS
nurse at the hospital.
There are MS nurses? I didnt know. No, I havent really been told much, to be
honest. I still havent been told that I do have MS.
They also said that there was absolutely no reason that she would have to prove
her fitness for work. If there were any problems, the Disability Law Service could
help. When she hung up, she felt as if she had finally found a dependable ally,
someone to be on her side.
The second phone call was even better. Her manager was usually taciturn, and he
tended to avoid conversations which he found uncomfortable. He seemed to find a
lot of subjects uncomfortable. She generally referred to him - affectionately - as the
grumpy old man.
He really lost his temper on the phone, though. Of course youre coming back!
Youve got a job here for as long as you want, for as long as Im in charge anyway!
And well work out the hours that are best for you! And if anyone even thinks of
trying to tell you differently, they can fucking well answer to me!
When she put down the phone, she had cried again, but for a different reason.
A wide range of cognitive problems, affecting the ability to communicate,
recognise things, remember, learn and plan, might be experienced by up to 65% of
19
people with MS.20 Physical exercise is the most effective way to alleviate these
symptoms.
She puts the book to one side, and groans. Takes off her glasses, pinches the
bridge of her nose. Sighs, heaves herself up, totters to the kitchen, puts the kettle
on. The cat appears and brushes against her legs, looking up at her plaintively.
Sorry Captain, I havent fed you yet, have I?
Meh, he voices almost silently. Im so weak from hunger that Im losing my
voice. He conveys the message eloquently.
She snorts in disbelief, and puts him in front of his bowl. It is still half full. Captain
starts purring, then eating, then choking. He coughs, embarrassed and angry. He
glares at her, stops purring, and starts eating again.
She snorts again, then surprises herself when a burst of laughter escapes.
Later, sitting in the living room with a cup of tea and Captain rumbling
contentedly on her lap, she picks up the book again. She has been reading the same
chapter for most of the morning. Each time she gets towards the end, she realises
that she cant remember the beginning. Each time she plunges into the flow of the
book, she is sure she can navigate it; each time, she finds that it streams past her, and
she has caught nothing when she resurfaces.
Maybe I should try some short stories instead. What do you think, Captain?
He purrs more loudly.
Mood swings and depression are potentially primary symptoms of MS. It might
be that mood swings happen because of a persons reaction to having MS, but they
can also be a direct result of the nerve damage on the front parts of the brain which
control mood.21
She surveys the flat. It is ready for her new life.
20
21
ibid, p71
It started with planning her diet, and the kitchen was scourged ruthlessly. Then
she had attacked the rest of the flat. Her commitment to veganism has been renewed
and strengthened, and anything containing animal products has been taken to a
charity shop: belts, shoes, bags.
Dont look so worried, Skeeter. You can still have your non-vegan food. And I
suppose Captain can as well.
She has phoned the council and they have agreed to provide her with a recycling
bin. Making trips to the recycling centre will be impossible without a car.
Then she looked at her providers: bank, phone, electricity, gas. She changed to
cooperatives where she could. Ethical considerations outweigh financial ones in her
mind.
She found she couldnt stop there. She went through her bookshelves like a gale,
sorting books into piles: must keep, must read, wont read again, will never read.
She went through the notes, folders and certificates she has accumulated. They
date back years, from secondary school to college to university. There are even
certificates from Japan. The most recent folder is half-completed, from the
photography course she had started. It made her pause.
Photography. Id forgotten about that. She leafed through the folder, feeling a
growing sense of excitement. She found her camera, gathering dust, forgotten. She
cleaned it carefully, and was thinking about taking it on the walk that evening. Until
she came to a section in the folder about film. Every type of film contains gelatine.
Oh. After she read that, she replaced the camera in the back of the cupboard,
and put the idea out of her head. She has to follow the rules she is setting herself.
She has to gain control of every aspect of her life.
The dauntingly precarious stacks of CDs and tapes were next. She began
converting them, and archiving them on her hard drive. Listening to music takes her
to places and people she has almost forgotten.
I must get this organised properly, she tells herself as she falls in love with a
song all over again. I cant afford to forget this ever again.
By the time she finishes, the flat looks almost empty. The evidence of the things
she had done and the life she had lived are either catalogued and carefully packed
away, or discarded, jettisoned forever. She cant afford to carry any extra baggage
anymore. She has to reclaim responsibility for herself; she has to become the
archivist of her own life.
Skeeter looks shell-shocked. His comfortable flat has been turned upside down.
Old, familiar scents are fading away.
Captain had fled almost as soon as the first flurries had begun. He will come back
when his feline senses tell him that the storm has passed.
I think were ready. Skeeter looks at her, ears flat. Ready for what, he wonders.
She doesnt explain. Somewhere in her mind, a nagging, traitorous thought is
growing. What if all the decisions she has made haven't really been her decisions at
all? What if it is the disease, the scars, that are making her so ruthless? What if she has
accidentally thrown away something precious?
Fuck. I dont think I am ready, Skeeter. I dont know what Im doing.
Skeeter can sympathise. He doesnt know what he is doing, either, most of the
time. He does what he wants to, and what he thinks will make her happy. Its easier
that way. He doesnt really know much about ethics and organisation and
streamlining.
He rests his head on her knee as she sobs quietly, hopelessly.
Fatigue is one of the more challenging symptoms of MS. Fatigue is not the
normal state of feeling tired, which disappears after a good nights rest. Fatigue does
not disappear, and is still there the next morning. Heat, caffeine, steroids, frequent
trips to the bathroom at night, pain, anxiety and depression can all contribute to
fatigue. People with MS can often do themselves a favour by carefully selecting the
best time of day for important activities, and to space demanding activities over the
week.22
Fatigue is an invisible symptom that is difficult for others to understand or notice.
Quite a few people with MS do not show any clear signs of their condition at all to
22
untrained eyes... Family members and colleagues may sometimes think that
complaints may be exaggerated, or even imaginary.23
Is there an MS personality? Any answer to that is likely to be subjective, but it is
tempting to agree that there are some strong characteristics that many persons with
MS seem to share. The stereotype is of an active, healthy, attractive young adult who
works long, hard, unselfishly and without complaint, putting up with things rather
stoically - maybe even a bit of a perfectionist.24
Try not [to] compare your existing energy levels with what they used to be, or to
those of other people around you. It can take time, but if you can learn to measure
your life by your own individual accomplishments, rather than other peoples, it will
help you to manage your MS.25
She puts the phone down. She feels shaky and hollow, but she is determined not
to cry again.
It has been nearly a year since her discharge from the hospital. The trial period
she had set herself passed, and she had realised that there was no way that she
could sustain returning to full time hours. Even when she just works in the morning,
often she can do nothing but collapse when she returns home. She experimented
with different shifts - working two and a half full days, instead of five mornings - but
instead of getting a long weekend, she found that the days at home were mostly
spent recovering from work. By the time she felt she had enough energy to go for a
walk, or read a book, it was time to return to work.
This is the first time she has phoned in sick since her initial diagnosis. She is
determined not to use her MS as an excuse; she is determined not to be a burden
at work, and she often stays much later than her hours to complete whatever cases
she has taken on. Today, though, her symptoms have flared up viciously. Her right
leg will not obey her. Her mouth feels dry and swollen, and she has difficulty
speaking clearly. A new symptom: a spinning in her head that feels like the nausea of
23
ibid, p11
24
C. Benz & R. Reynolds, Coping with Multiple Sclerosis, Random House UK, London, 2005
25
seasickness. And her hands, which often tremble slightly, are shuddering
uncontrollably. Even if she could get to work, there is no way that she can perform
even the most routine operations.
I guess this is a relapse. So maybe it really is MS, and I havent been imagining
everything, after all. Sorry, Skeeter, looks like we wont be going for a walk today. Ill
let you go to the Cholera Pit for a bit. Then I better get an appointment at the GP,
and book a taxi.
Skeeter looks uncomfortable. He doesnt much like his routine being changed. He
can sometimes be a grumpy old man as well. But he doesnt understand. If she is
tired, she should rest. Why does she have to push herself so hard? What is so urgent?
Sleep when youre tired, eat when youre hungry, run and fight and play when you
have the energy. It seems pretty simple to him.
Maybe youre right, Skeeter. I just hate being useless. Im petrified of letting
people down. And I need work to keep my mind off things. I need to feel needed
somewhere.
Well, he needs her, doesnt he? And that ginger idiot, Captain, would be lost
without her. More to the point, she needs herself as well. If she doesnt take care of
herself, then who will?
Youre right. I know youre right. I just didnt believe it until now. I have to ease
up on myself, and save my energy for the things I really want to do. Otherwise Ill go
mad. Well, you know. Madder.
Skeeter grins, panting. It seems that thats sorted out, then. Now, if shed just let
him out, because he really needs to pee...
Approximately 85% of MS cases are classified as relapsing-remitting. The gaps
between relapses vary widely, from months to years, although there is usually, on
average, one relapse per year. In many cases, proper management of diet and
lifestyle, combined with carefully monitored medication, can allow patients to
experience these periods of remission with minimal discomfort or manifestation of
symptoms. In periods of remission, the body can initially reverse and repair at least
some of the effects of demyelination, and neurological faculties can be restored to

previous levels. It is a myth that MS patients constantly require a cane to walk.
The effects of relapses can also be controlled to some extent with proper therapy.
However, there is as yet no treatment, or combination of treatments, which has
been found to eliminate relapses, or reverse the damage they cause. Sooner or later,
relapses will occur, and the majority of patients will at some point get to the stage
where remissions become less clear. Ten to twenty years after diagnosis, the
symptoms gradually become persistent. Relapses become less frequent, but recovery
from these episodes of worsening no longer occurs. This is when relapsingremitting MS becomes secondary progressive MS.26
She takes one more picture.
I think thats it. Thank you Skeeter, thats a wrap!
He abandons his carefully maintained pose and bounds over for his treat. They are
doing something new. He doesnt really understand it. In exchange for staying still in
a certain position while she points a camera at him, he gets treats. He doesnt
understand the game, but that doesnt matter. He loves the attention. And he loves
the treats. Which does he love more? That is a metaphysical question, and one which
can be explored later. Tomorrow, or the next day, maybe.
And thats the last portfolio completed, if they turn out alright. Photos from
Skeeters point of view! I hope they turn out well.
The Cholera Pit is gradually emerging from darkness and morning mists. She
looks up at the beautiful, cloud streaked sky. It is pink and brightening in the east,
and deepens to the darkest blue, almost black, in the west. A few stars still glimmer
faintly, but are gradually fading away, cloaked in the light of the rising sun.
A breeze rustles through the trees, heralding the dawn. She closes her eyes and
breathes in the scents deeply. She knows she made the right choice, when she
decided to free herself from the tyranny of her own control, and allow herself to
start using her camera once more. When she opens her eyes again, Skeeter is looking
at her. He is grinning again.
26
Time for breakfast, right? Lets go get you fed then.

It is good to be alive.
Many people with MS become experts at living in the present moment, finding a
new sense of appreciation in many things.27
So, this is it.
She handed me the binder. I flipped it open and looked at the first page. Many
Scars, by Marisa Miyamoto.
You finished it.
Yep. I didnt think I would for a while. Some of it was really tough to write. It
needed to be done, though. Its really helped me to break the chains Id wrapped
around myself.
Since the diagnosis, you mean?
No, not really... from before that. Im learning to forgive myself a bit more now. I
dont feel that theres this huge pressure to have everything perfect. I cant always
live up to the standards I set myself. Ive found some limits that cant be negotiated
or ignored. But finding them has somehow set me free. I can just let myself be happy
now, without always looking over my shoulder.
There are so many things I want to do - writing, photography, translation, travel,
visiting friends, doing the best I can at work, being there for the family, hanging out
with you, and Skeeter. And Captain, sometimes. Too many things, really, and theres
no end to it. And thats good! Its probably a horrible feeling, to look up and find
that theres nothing you want to do.
In some ways, MS opened my eyes. Its difficult, but its helped me start to
become who Ive always wanted to be.
I looked at her, surprised. She sounded perfectly sincere, almost as if she was
grateful to MS. She smiled ruefully.
27
It isnt always easy. To be honest, some days are just shit. But Ive got too many
things going for me to spend all my time thinking about how things should be or
could have been.
She was amazing. She had found peace and balance, joy and hope. She wasnt
dreaming of her future, she was living it. She said she had accepted and surrendered
to her new reality, but it seemed to me that she had somehow risen above and
transcended the prison she had found herself in.
She had accepted MS, but she refused to be defined by it. She was more than a
patient. She had her own story to write, her own story to live.
At her side, Skeeter grinned up at me. He almost winked.
I couldnt wait to read her story.
caught in my shadow
may/june 2011
She sits on the bench in the Cholera Pit. A bunch of flowers rests on her lap, the
gentle fragrance of the daisies melting into the air. Through the trees to her right, a
row of red buildings is visible; in a small apartment there, her carefully nurtured
world - her world with Skeeter and Captain - once blossomed and bloomed. It seems
long ago and far away. The building does not appear to have changed much, but she
does not want to take a closer look, or go to what used to be the entrance of her
sanctuary. It is better to remember it as it was.
The Cholera Pit is a shallow grassy bowl, lined with trees, with a concrete path
offering a shortcut through a peaceful oasis in the grey city. Everything is as she
remembers; but everything has changed. The ginger cat no longer bursts out of the
undergrowth to mock-attack her legs. There is no questing dog, snuffling for
interesting scents and discarded food, who she needs to keep an affectionate eye on,
and warn away from the road.
She sighs and stands up. She will make the long walk to take the flowers to the
church graveyard, and remember her friend.
This is no longer the place where she belongs.
She has been back in Wolverhampton - the place where she once lived - for two
days. She had been met at the airport by her brother and his wife, and is staying with
them in their flat. When she saw them, it felt as if no time had passed, and she could
almost believe that she had never left. But she found that some things have changed,
and been lost. She has changed. She has moved on, and there is no going back.
Her brother seemed content. He is more confident than she remembered, more
certain about the choices he is making and the world he is building with his wife. It
makes her happy and sad at the same time, to see that life in the grey city where she
had once lived is moving on without her.
Unexpectedly, the ginger cat, Captain, remembered her, even after more than a
year. His is an uncomfortable mixture of aggression and affection, recklessness and
cowardice, and she had thought that he would scamper away and hide from her; or
attack her, defending his territory. Instead, he rubbed against her legs affectionately,
and butted her outstretched hand, demanding attention. He meh-mehed her
querulously, as if enquiring where she had been for so long. When he had finished
scolding her, he kneaded her lap into a comfortable shape and settled down,
purring, eyes drifting shut. He was fatter than she remembered, but his scent, and
his voice, and the sensation of his warm body under her fingers remained the same.
Perhaps there is still a place for her in the grey city, after all.
She walks down the familiar road, traffic and memories rushing past her. There is
the pub where she and her friend spent so many late nights; there is the curry house
that had seen so many boisterous gatherings; there is the path where she and her
friend had walked the dog. She had been so happy then, secure and comfortable in
the world she had chosen; it had felt so natural that she hadnt realised how
precious it really was. When it had started to fall apart, she could only stand by and
watch aghast, and desperately try to salvage what she could from the wreckage.
You were too late. Always, too late. Even now, she cannot believe how heedless
she was. She can only shake her head at herself, disgusted, and promise herself again
that from now she will clutch her world to herself as tightly as she can.
Too late.
Her visit to Britain, anticipated for so long, had been postponed. In the aftermath
of the quake, there was simply too much to be done. The kennels at the shelter, full
before, are now crammed beyond capacity with dogs and cats rescued from the
disaster area. Some of their owners made their way to the centre, but too few. How
many of their owners would never be found, fragile lives snuffed out and buried
forever? The sheer scale of what had happened could not be grasped. Rescuing one
animal is a triumph; it is moving beyond words to see a family weep as they are
reunited with a pet - a part of their lives - they thought had been swept away forever.
But always, more animals are brought to the centre. Seeing the new dog or cat perhaps the only survivor of the destruction of an entire world - allowed at least a
glimpse of the immensity of what had happened.
The staff at the shelter are strained past their limits, and then pushed harder. They
drive themselves on, conscious that they are part of a whole country united against
the tragedy of nature. Sleep is a stranger for most; when it comes, it is short, and
broken. They rise from their uneasy slumber, unrested but unable to rest while so
much work remains to be done.
She is uneasy as she approaches the church, and unconsciously checks her pocket
again. She does not have her phone with her. She has left it at her brothers flat. She
wants this day at least to herself.
The guilt is growing, though. She has promised that she will check her emails
constantly, and stay in touch with her colleagues in Japan in the ten days she will be
away. What if there is another urgent case? There is bound to be another urgent
case.
There is no one else at the centre who can make the decisions she can. She
should not have left Japan, although she knows that she had to get away; she should
not have left her phone, even though she is desperate to retreat into herself, even for
a moment. She can feel herself unravelling, spending more energy than she has, in
her attempt to help stem the relentless flood.
Cant you try to relax, at least for a bit?
They were sitting in the living room of her brothers apartment. It was the day
after her plane had touched down. She had just finished writing a detailed answer to
an email from the staff at the shelter; but another email had arrived as she was
replying to the first, just as urgent and pressing.
Her brothers question infuriated her. What did he know? He may have spoken to
her, and their family, and seen the footage on the news; but he was not living what
was happening. He could afford to ask her to relax because, living on the opposite
side of the world, he could put the tragedy out of his mind. She didnt have that
luxury.
No, I cant. You cant understand what its like. And you dont understand what I
have to do.
She stopped, aware that her voice was too high and too tight. Her head was
pounding, her eyes felt gritty and hot. When had she last slept for more than a few
hours? She made a conscious effort to soften her tone. She was like a bird on a wire,
frozen as she was about to take wing, muscles taut and her whole body screaming
that she was needed, that there were things only she could do.
Sorry. I know you mean well, but you really dont understand. I cant stop now.
Hopefully, though, it wont carry on at this rate for much longer. We cant carry on
for much longer at this rate. And you know what really gets me? Its the fact that I
believe in the work we were doing before this happened; I think it was valuable, and
we were making a difference, even if it was only slowly. But now, thats all been
shoved aside. Were all about getting more publicity, so that we can get more
support, so that we can rescue more animals, so that we can get more publicity. The
shelter seems to be running out of everyones control. Maybe it would be best if we
reined ourselves in, and concentrated on what we can do well, rather than trying to
do everything. At this rate, we might end up doing more harm than good, and I
dread to think of whats going to happen to the centre - to the staff - in the future...
She trailed off, uncertain. She knew that what she was saying was right, but she
also knew that slowing down was not an option. She understood the Japanese
mentality - it was her own: if you see a problem, you try to fix it, rather than leaving
it for someone else. If you strain or hurt yourself, well, in an emergency, you
shouldnt expect to escape unscathed.
She looked at her brothers worried face. He was trying to understand, but he
didnt.
If you wreck yourself trying to save the past, what will you be able to do in the
future?
She tried to smile at him. It was typical of the way her brother thought - pretty,
neat, glib. She knew that the issue was much simpler, that he was muddying the
water to try to let her off. The fact was, there was work that needed to be done, and
she was in a position to do it, so she had no choice but to do it. How would she be
able to respect herself in the future if she spared herself now?
Ill try to relax a bit. Im definitely not going to waste this holiday now that Im
here.
She straightens from her crouched position. Her protesting knees tell her that she
has been there, lost in thought, for longer than she has realised. She takes a moment
to steady herself, then reaches out to touch the golden lettering carved into the
stone.
Take care of yourself. Ill bring you more flowers and catch up with you next year,
I hope. Im always thinking of you.
The next days passed in a blur. She visited her friends in Wolverhampton and from
work, and spent as much time as she could with everyone. There was never enough
time, and it ran away from her too quickly. She visited her best friend, and found she
was just in time to help him move house again; she felt she barely had time to say
hello before it was time to leave again. Her conversations were frantic: she wanted to
know everything that was happening in her friends' lives, and catch up with the
people and places she had once known.
She told them about her life in Japan as best as she could: where she worked and
her house in the strange, tiny village with its giant school. She talked about her
family: her father, sometimes peaceful but often seized by manic flurries of activity;
her aunts and uncles, and how she recognised something essential in their lives,
unchanged since her childhood; her cousins, and the unexpected pleasure of finding
that she had more in common with them than she had suspected.
She talked about her new colleagues: the founder and boss, erratic and
changeable; Johnnie Walker, driven, ambitious and charmingly unscrupulous; The
Colonel, who had taken her under his wing: quiet, conscientious and unendingly
kind; the boy band and late nights in tiny bars she would never have found on her
own. The people she was introduced to: musicians and writers, artists and
photographers, all living on the fringes of society - a Japan she had not known
existed, that she had not dared dream of. Once again, she had found a new place she
could call home.
Perhaps, despite her best efforts, she could not understand everything her friends
told her; perhaps they couldnt understand everything she told them. They were all
living different lives. It didnt matter, though. They listened to each other because
they were friends; no matter what, they would always think of each other, and there
would always be a home when they were together.
As the days rushed by, she gradually relaxed. She didnt need to spend all her time
chasing after what she had left behind. It was all waiting for her, not exactly as she
had left it, but still there: a place for her.
Perhaps I do still belong here, after all. Perhaps Im not too late this time.
In December 2010, when she had been working in Japan for nearly ten months,
Marisa was suspended from her position. The reasons given were contradictory and
unclear; more than five months later, she was still uncertain about the nature of the
complaint against her, although unprofessional conduct was cited by the shelters
boss. Apart from her refusal to sign a contract that had looked as if it had been
thrown together on the back of an envelope, no specific instances of
unprofessionalism were brought up. Through January, Marisa found herself waiting
as the board of directors met to decide her fate. Ultimately, the decision to suspend
her was made by the Englishwoman who ran the shelter.
The staff at the shelter were shocked and bemused, and protested the decision,
and asked the founder to clarify her reasoning, and what it was that she wanted.
When pressed, she could offer no complaint about Marisas ability to carry out her
duties, or her role as a representative of the animal sanctuary. Marisa had formed
good relations with the local veterinary associations, and was respected by her
professional colleagues; the reputation of the shelter had been boosted considerably
as a result. It was a bewildering episode for everyone involved.
Ironically, the boss, who had spent years extolling the virtues of British
veterinarians and nurses, and denigrating their Japanese counterparts in the animal
welfare sector, was equally dissatisfied when she actually found herself working with
a British-trained vet.
In February 2011, the boss offered to reinstate Marisa; but still no clear
explanation for the original suspension was provided.
Once back at work, Marisa could only pick up where she had left off, as if nothing
had changed. The staff were relieved to welcome her back, partly for personal
reasons, but also because a considerable backlog of work had built up - work which
could only be done by Marisa. It took a month to catch up again, but, by early March,
the centre was almost back to normal, at least on the surface.
Marisa was aware that she was standing on uncertain ground. She felt that she had
been carrying out her duties as well as could be expected. The people around her her colleagues, and the vets who occasionally visited the centre - felt that her
contribution was greater than anyone had a right to expect. If the management did
not appreciate someone so dedicated, professional, experienced and qualified, there
were many private veterinary clinics which would leap at the chance to employ her.
She believed in the work that was being done at the shelter. Despite essentially
being on call twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, she had no desire to work
anywhere else. She knew, though, that no amount of sacrifice or dedication had
made her position secure. She could be discarded at a moments notice, with no
explanation given. The boss had made sure that she understood that very clearly.
She groans and clutches her head. A cup of coffee cools on the table in front of
her. For some reason, everything in every airport tastes the same. Thin, and oddly
tasteless.
Or maybe its because Im hungover, she thinks to herself. That could be it.
She is sitting with her brother and his wife. Last night - her last night in the UK they were in the city with about a dozen people from the place where she once
worked. If there was any awkwardness or sadness, it disappeared quickly, and the
long night was full of laughter. Hours after her brother and his wife had gone home,
she was talking and drinking, drinking and laughing, dancing and drinking with her
friends. It was as if she had never left, and no one had wanted the night to end.
Although that was quite a tame night compared to what we used to do. I dont
know, maybe theyre slowing down a bit.
Really!? says her sister-in-law, impressed.

She winces. Not so loud, please...
She buckles her seatbelt and leafs through a magazine while waiting for the plane
to finish boarding. Despite her pounding head and the too-bright sunshine, she is
happy. A box of presents and food will make its slow way across the seas to Japan;
she doesnt have space for everything she wants to take back. She wants to take
everyone back to Japan. But her best friend, and her brother and his wife, and some
friends from work will be coming to visit her, hopefully this year. She cant wait.
Even if they arent with her, though, she knows they are thinking of her. She feels
revitalised, ready to face the insurmountable and never-ending challenges at work
once again. She is missed, and a place and a home remains for her on this side of the
world, even if the ground is cut from underneath her in Japan. As the plane starts to
accelerate down the runway, she smiles. She is leaving, but she will never lose her
friends.
They take off and start to climb, the land falling away, the shadow of the plane
running across the ground. The shadow chases after the plane, but grows smaller
and smaller as the plane rises, until it flickers and fades and cannot be seen
anymore. A tapestry of green fields unfolds, criss-crossed with roads and motorways,
interrupted by towns and villages. The sun is reflected in momentary flashes of light
from windows and cars, before the plane rises through a veil of cloud.
Marisa will never be seen on this side of the world again.
winterlong
january 2006
Just been told that theres a cold weather front moving in from Russia. Its going to
be -20 even without windchill! Ive got some warm clothes for you, but you have to
bring a hat and gloves, and as much else as you can. Maybe some whale blubber
for insulation - is there a vegan equivalent?
18th January 2006
We met at the airport in Wrocaw, in the west of Poland. She was wearing so many
layers that her arms protruded slightly away from her sides. Hugging our hellos was
more awkward than usual, and she waddled precariously when she walked.
I didnt want to take a huge bag, so Im wearing most of my clothes, she
explained cheerfully. I dont know what youre talking about, anyway - its not that
cold here!
We passed the final bored-looking soldier at the entrance to the airport. Cradling
some kind of semi-automatic rifle in his arms, he glanced our way, casually
indifferent. We passed through the final doors and the air instantly struck and
numbed any exposed skin.
Holy shit! She turned and grinned at me, snow already starting to cling to her
hair. Alright, thiss a bit nippy...
Id been in Poland for three months by then. Wed kept up an exchange of letters
and, later, emails; getting thick envelopes full of the stories she told and the stories
she translated was always a highlight for me. The post at the apartment where I was
staying went into a locked cage which had to be opened by the landlady. She only
came around once a week, and, peering into the cage, I would often see a letter
waiting for me. It might be days before I could open it; then Id struggle to decipher
the densely packed pages of atrocious handwriting.
It was like Christmas. Not so much getting a present, but in that her writing would
take me to somewhere I thought of as home.
Id visited Krakw with my flatmate in December. I fell in love with the town, and
was sure that my sister would too. When she confirmed her flight, and said she was
coming out to see me, I knew straight away where I wanted to take her. I spent
hours working on our schedule - here was my chance to play the guide for my big
sister. I couldnt wait to see and share her reactions to the places which had so
moved me - as if the experiences would not be quite real until she confirmed them
for me.
More than that, though, this was virtually the first trip that she had taken in over a
year. In the winter months of 2004/5, she lost half the vision in her left eye. After
being passed from the GP to the optometrist to consultants to neurologists, she
found herself at home on Easter Sunday with a discharge note from the hospital
stating most likely multiple sclerosis, MRI brain = multifocal white matter disease.
I always loved my sister, but I had never before realized just how strong she was.
Knocked to the ground, her life and plans in tatters, she gradually picked herself up,
and never blamed anyone apart from herself for what had happened.
Of course, she wasnt to blame. Some things happen despite our best efforts, and
when they do, we can only acknowledge how fragile and insignificant we are.
The train pulled into the station at Krakw. The carriages were divided into
compartments, like in old films I had seen. It was heated and comfortable, even
though the benches were bare wood. Stepping onto the platform was a shock - it
was even colder than it had been in Wrocaw. The cold was a physical presence,
assaulting us and stealing our breath.
Where to now Jimiski? my sister asked. She was doing her best to blend into
eastern Europe. The girl who joined us looked at me dubiously. Shed sat next to my
sister on the flight from Luton, and it had turned out that she was going to Krakw
as well, and was even staying at the same hostel. She didnt speak any Polish, and
although she had a phrase book, it was even less use than usual because it was
impossible to open and turn the pages with cold-clumsy fingers. My sister had told
her she should follow me - I was practically fluent, and would see us right - but my
confidence had already been shaken at the train station. I had taken us - confidently -
onto the express train, which we didnt have tickets for. The guard had kicked us off,
and wed somehow managed to find the right train. I was mortified.
She looked at me calmly, patiently, eyes crinkled in a half smile. And, as always, I
felt better. We would get where we were meant to, and if that wasnt where we
expected, well, life is full of surprises and diversions. I took a deep breath and said confidently - that as the hostel was just 20 minutes walk away and we didnt have
much luggage, we could walk and see a bit of the town. My charges nodded, one
happily, one suspiciously, and we set off.
Krakw is not a large town, but it has so much to see, and so much densely
packed history, that walking through its streets is something you could never grow
tired of. From the narrow alleys, through the near-deserted Jewish quarter, to the
broad river and the castle on the hill overlooking it, you pass by squares, markets,
food vendors on every corner, hidden shops, inviting restaurants and packed bars:
you cant hope to be able to see everything in just a few days.
Parts of Krakw feel steeped in sadness and loss. They blend seamlessly with
districts which are vibrant and full of romance and optimism and life. Even after the
indignities, tragedies and atrocities witnessed in Poland, the people love life and
seem to live it with a flair and joy that is both infectious and refreshing. Maybe it is
the experience of hopelessness which allows life to be appreciated and savoured.
A Polish friend told me a story from the Second World War: on the 1st September,
1939, the Germans crossed the borders into Poland with Panzers supported by
infantry units. The Polish army, hopelessly unprepared for modern warfare, still
fielded cavalry units which could trace their origins to medieval mounted knights. At
Krojanty, the Polish lancers gloriously and insanely charged the German tanks, and
were inevitably massacred. This story is still repeated today, with it being described
as the most romantic and idiotic act of suicide of modern war in the Guardian28.
The story was created by the Nazi and Soviet propaganda machines in order to
portray Polish officers as absurdly careless about the lives of their troops.29 My
28
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/sep/01/afghanistan-war-on-terror-history
29
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/apr/06/myth-of-polish-cavalry-charge
Polish friend was certainly angry about this patronising, out-of-touch image of
Poland that is all too often accepted as fact. Nevertheless, I thought I detected a hint
of pride in his eyes as well. No matter how well-led or brave the Polish army had
been, the occupation of Poland was inevitable, trapped as it was between two
inexorable, unstoppable forces.
When tragedy is inevitable, isnt it better to spit in its eye and defy it, rather than
meekly surrender?
In my enthusiasm, I had over-planned all the different places we just had to visit.
Once we were checked into the hostel though, and were standing on the street
outside, none of that mattered. I threw away the schedule Id made, we chose a
direction, and started walking.
We passed the gothic Wawel Castle, rounding the hill it crouches on, and came to
the river. It was broad and grey, and looked sluggish and sullen under the clouds.
Flakes of snow drifted down and melted silently into the water, dissolving without
protest.
The path led us to a table and benches overlooking the river. She brushed away
some of the snow which had piled on top of the table, and revealed a chessboard
engraved on the stone.
This really feels like The End of the World, she said. Thank you so much for
bringing me here. Its perfect - this is somewhere my memories can live.
Haruki Murakami is a Japanese author, and one who my sister often credited with
inspiring her to learn Japanese again, something we had both forgotten and lost
after our family moved to Britain. Many of the translations she sent me were of his
short stories which had not been published in English; my sister opened a window
to a world I would not otherwise have been able to see with my kindergarten level
Japanese literacy.
In Hard-Boiled Wonderland and The End of the World, there is a city that has
been created by one person, filled with memories both trivial and profound. It
becomes clear, though, that there are no trivial memories; there is meaning in
everything, even if we dont always have the time to understand. The accumulation
of the trivial makes us who we are.
We had already seen echoes of Murakamis book in Krakw. Near St. Marys
Basilica and the Main Square, there are hundreds of stalls, some selling souvenirs
and craftwork, others with artfully directed clouds of fragrant steam to quicken the
appetite. In one section there was a selection of hand-carved woodwork: chess sets,
clocks, utensils, stationery and figurines both grotesque and beautiful.
My sister had stopped to admire a stall displaying dozens of intricately decorated
canes.
Maybe Ill need one of these someday soon, she said quietly, half to herself.
Ill come back and get you one when you need it, I replied lightly. She had given
me a long, level look, then smiled.
Its a promise, then.
We had walked through the town for most of the morning, wherever seemed to
call us, and talked - about the people we saw, the shops and signs, the buildings and
streets and food. We didnt talk much about the past, or the future. As the snow
continued to fall, we could forget ourselves and the brave fronts we put up, and
could just be. The scars and worries and troubles were eased, or at least concealed
and forgotten. Somehow, in a strange country, we found that there is a place of
peace, with no struggle, no need to wear a mask. And as the real world receded,
there was a warm oasis surrounding us in the snowbound streets. Somehow we had
found our way home.
We looked out across the grey river until our freezing feet reminded us that we
needed to keep moving.
Come on, I said, theres a place that youre going to love. Its just round the
corner.
Massolit is a new and used English bookstore in the old town of Krakw. It
doesnt look very promising from the outside - small and slightly dilapidated, it
advertises American style baked goods available in the cafe.
When you enter from the grey and white snow-covered streets, you are hit by a
wave of sensations. Mellow, golden warmth; the rich scents of coffee and chocolate
and baking mingled with leather and glue and paper; an abrupt sting as your ears
and nose reawaken and remind you that they are, in fact, still attached to your face.
Outside, the snow has already started to blur your footprints.
At first, it doesnt seem as if there are too many books or shelves; its just a small,
cramped room.
But you see a small doorway, which leads into another room, with bookshelves
reaching to the ceilings. There are leather armchairs scattered around, and warmth,
and the soft murmur of voices, and the rustle of pages being turned. And after that,
there is another door, and another. Some are small and almost hidden, and you are
Alice entering Wonderland.
Climbing a ladder to see a section high above, you feel as if you are on a ship,
voyaging through time with a cargo of beauty and art and knowledge. Here are all
the stories ever told and all the thoughts ever written, the dreams of men and
women, just waiting to be discovered. Even though you may never know anything
but a fraction that is contained within, it is reassuring to know that the books exists,
waiting for someone to find them; all you need to do is look. Nothing is lost forever.
Emerging, blinking, back at the entrance, arms full of treasures gathered, you feel
as if you have returned from a different world. Buy a cup of coffee and an American
style baked good - try a brownie - and browse through your finds; have a chat, then
plunge back in.
We ended up spending most of the afternoon there, then took our books back to
the hostel. Nestled among my sisters haul was one I had found for her - the Polish
translation of Hard-Boiled Wonderland and The End of the World. It would
eventually find its way to her shelves in Britain, and rest next to the Chinese edition
she had bought in Beijing a couple of years ago, when she took part in a sponsored
walk along a section of the Great Wall.
When we came out of the hostel, the sun had set, and we were introduced to real
cold. As we carefully navigated the icy path between pools of light from the street
lamps, we lost more and more sensation in our extremities; our balance became
clumsy, unsure. We talked, but as our cheeks grew stiffer, and our minds numbed,
the words became slurred and disconnected. I looked at my sister; her eyelashes
sparkled with tiny specks of ice, and her face looked as pale as death. Her eyes were
still alive, though, and even if the words were lost in transit, we still supported each
other; huddled together, leaning against the wind, slipping and staggering, we
carried on walking, and knew that nothing is lost forever, but only waits to be found
again.
This is just too much!
We had stopped at another cafe. It was perhaps our third stop in an hour. We
couldnt spend any more than twenty minutes walking the streets before we had to
dive back in. My sister had found that her boots werent waterproof; she said that,
before she lost all feeling in her feet, it felt like someone was peeling off her toenails.
Breathing was painful, at least until the nostril hairs froze. Then it was just very
difficult.
We looked at the menu in the cafe. We had already ordered enough coffee to fill a
small bath tub, although we were more interested in clutching it in our hands than
drinking it.
Whats this? she asked.
I squinted at the Polish menu. Cheese toast, I think.
So tosti is toast?
I nodded and she chortled in delight. She had been looking at the signs in the
streets and learning some Polish. Her vocabulary now included alcohol (alkohole),
delicatessen (delikatessiny) and computer (komputery). Oh, and shop (schlep). As
we were walking, she would point at a sign and say: Look, Jimiski, a komputery
schlep. Shame, I really want some alkohole, but never mind!
She looked at the other side of the menu. How about this?
Three something soup. Whats falosowa? Beans. Three bean soup.
Zupy is soup - fantastiky! I think Im nearly fluent already!
She ordered the soup. I opted for a non-vegetarian option, happy that we had
stumbled upon a rare cafe that served vegetarian food. As part of my research, I had
looked for vegan restaurants in Krakw, and had found a grand total of three on the
internet.
By the time the food arrived, we had thawed out enough that our hats could be
removed without feeling like we were yanking out our hair by its roots. We decided
that after we had eaten and thoroughly warmed up, we would scurry back to a
cinema we had passed and see what was showing.
Jimiski, she said, stirring her soup with a spoon, there appear to be just three
beans in this soup. The rest is sausage I think.
I looked at her apprehensively. My sister is the most forgiving and tolerant person
I have ever met, with a seemingly unending supply of patience and understanding
for the people around her. When it comes to herself and her own principles, though,
she is unreasonably harsh and unyielding. The standards she holds herself to can be
stringent and extreme.
She caught me looking and smiled. Dont worry, Ill eat around it. Ive given
myself a holiday from being a vegan non-smoker anyway.
I sighed in relief. Really, she could be too hard on herself, and in some ways it had
gotten worse since her diagnosis, as if she was punishing herself, consciously or not.
It scared me sometimes, to think that she would hurt herself in some way rather
than compromise or give herself a pass.
We watched Me and You and Everyone We Know in English with Polish subtitles. I
cant remember the plot, but I do remember laughing all the way through it. It
seemed we didnt stop laughing at all that day.
Before we went back to the hostel, we schlepped to the schlep to pick up some
snacks. We were sharing a room with the girl from the plane, and she was fast asleep
when we got back, so we ate Polish sesame snaps in the corridor.
The next day we had breakfast at the hostel and went to the train station. We met
our roommate there; she was heading back to Wrocaw, and we said goodbye to her
over yet another coffee. My sister insisted that we make sure she got on the right
train; then my sister and I got on a train to Oswiecim, about 30 miles west of
Krakw.
It was a clear day, with an unblemished blue sky. It was still bitterly cold, though,
and the countryside was covered in a thick blanket of snow. It felt strange and otherworldly to be sitting in a warm carriage, looking out of the window. The endless
white was relieved only by the stark black of fences and trees. The monochromatic
landscape could have been from another old film; I imagined the scenery hadnt
changed much in hundreds of years.
From the train station at Oswiecim, it is only a short walk to the camp. We bought
our tickets and joined a group of people waiting for a guide. When enough people
had gathered, we were led under the infamous sign, full of malicious humour and
spite: Arbeit Macht Frei.
Cant find the words to describe how I felt about Auschwitz. The piles of suitcases,
shoes, glasses, prosthetic limbs, hair; the prisoner photographs, how they all looked
the same with their shaved heads and stripy uniforms until you looked properly
and saw they were each actually completely different people. Alert, unfathomable
eyes staring at the camera. No apparent sorrow, fear or anger. The death wall,
where a lot of the political prisoners were shot. The prison cells. The canisters of
pellets laced with cyanide. Standing inside the gas chamber, opposite the camp
commanders house where he lived with his wife and children. The furnaces.
What got me most of all was the wooden barracks where the Jews were kept at
Auschwitz 2, hundreds crammed into a space not much bigger than my flat. Rows
of three story beds, ten were squashed on each level of each bed. How the heating
was never on. How they were fed just enough to keep them going for a few months,
but only just, so they were strong enough to work but not strong enough to resist.
How they all had hunger diorrhoea but were only allowed to go to the toilet shed
twice a day, when they actually needed to go ten times or more. (Everyone wanted
to sleep on the top bunk.) The Germans made one of the prisoners in charge of each
block, and that person wound up being hated even more than the Germans
themselves. The Germans could predict, and were totally in control of, the physical,
mental and psychological effects of the regime.
I found the concentration camp a lot more shocking than the gas chambers. I
couldnt help but feel all those people who were taken straight off the train to their
deaths were more fortunate than the ones that were left behind.
As for the rest of the world turning a blind eye at the time, and Holocaust denial
later on, even today, none of it surprises me very much. All of us have the potential
to be evil, but its easier to pretend we dont, or blame someone else for it. Im glad
I went to Auschwitz. It opened my eyes and forced me to think. I will never forget.
Marisas diary, 21st January 2006
We were quiet and lost in thought on the train back to Krakw. I thought about
the people who had lived and worked at the camp, and the people who were sent
there, and died there. All people, like me, but an accident of birth or a twist of fate
decided who would be sentenced, who would pull the trigger, who would survive
and who would be remembered.
Perhaps some of the guards who worked at the camps were fanatic believers in the
rightness of what they were doing. Perhaps some of them saw it as a job, unpleasant,
but something which needed to be done. Surely some of them were kind and
compassionate, and tried to ease the fates of the people in their charge. Maybe some
few actively tried to help the prisoners escape.
Which kind of person would I have been? Would I have had the courage to live by
my principles, and to put what I believed to be right above my own safety and wellbeing? It was not a comfortable question.
I know for certain how my sister would have acted.
Our last day in Krakw was spent deep underground, in the Wieliczka Salt Mine.
The mines are breath-taking, with sculptures and designs carved from salt. There are
incredible frescoes of the nativity and other religious scenes, and one of Snow White
and the seven dwarves. There are pools of salt water in which you can see perfect
reflections. There are chapels, including an almost cathedral-like chamber which
seems small when you are looking down on it from above. Its only when people
start filtering down there that you realize the scale of it. The whole thing is made of
salt: the walls, the floor, the chandelier, a replica of the last supper...the perspective
and acoustics are amazing.
The tour guide was brilliant. She was short and blonde, and neatly, almost primly
dressed, and ready to work in any office - apart from her green, sturdy, incongruous
Wellington boots. She wore glasses that caught the light sharply. She could have
been a librarian who had somehow wandered into the mines by mistake, but she
obviously loved her job. She provided a steady stream of anecdotes in a lilting
accent, in between scolding us to keep up because, Really, theres so much more to
see, the best parts are yet to come! At the end of the tour she told us, And now, like
they say in the song, its time for us to say goodbye.
We squeezed into the old lift, pressed tightly among the bodies, and were pulled
back up to the surface. We lingered in the small gift shop, looking at small figurines
and sculptures made of salt. We chatted to the other visitors in our halting Polish,
then clambered onto the last bus that returned to the town.
It had been too cold to take any pictures when we were walking the streets, but I
had tried bringing out my camera in the mines. We looked at the photos on the bus.
They were blurred, the long exposure and camera shake smudging our features, so
that our faces dissolved around our smiles, as if the Cheshire Cat had been captured
as it was disappearing.
Can I tell you something Jimiski? Dont get too upset now.
What?
Youre crap at taking photos; just really bad.
Well, this camera doesnt seem to want to cooperate...
Its not the camera.
And I wanted a cigarette so my hands were shaking a bit...
Your arms are made of spaghetti. Not al dente, either.
If youd kept still for just a bit longer...
I kept still for ages! Youre just really bad! Hang your head in shame.
I hung my head in shame. She nodded, satisfied at my repentance. She looked out
of the window - we were coming to the outskirts of Krakw - then glanced back at
me.
Youll send me those pictures when you get to a computer though, wont you?
Of course.
Back in town, we went to one of the vegan restaurants I had found. The waitress
at the restaurant reminded us of a startled woodland animal. She looked as though
she was close to panicking when she saw us come through the door, and seemed
ready to bolt as she showed us to a table. The place was quiet, with just one or two
other customers. It was dimly lit, with flickering low-watt lightbulbs; gentle,
unconnected sitar chords played from hidden speakers. We found ourselves
whispering.
Can I have some Tibetan dumplings please? my sister murmured in passable
Polish.
Id like some Indian pancakes please. I practically mouthed the words at the
lady.
She gave us a quick, jerky nod and a suspicious look before scurrying away. She
seemed to expect us to leap up and attack her at any moment.
She seems a bit nervous, my sister observed. Maybe a bit more yoga would be
good.
The interlude was coming to an end, and the real world was insistently starting to
close in again. Back at the hostel, we talked and talked until we fell asleep, as if we
could hold the morning at bay. Eventually, though, the time slipped away.
On the train back to Wrocaw, she was quiet. It was as if a light had been shuttered
inside her. She was focused inwards, gathering her strength and preparing herself
for the flight home, and for picking up the threads of her life.
I wondered what this trip had cost her. How much of her carefully conserved
reserves had she burned through? Had it been worth it?
She glanced up at me as if I had spoken. She often did that. Even when she
seemed lost in her own thoughts, she was always aware of the people around her,
and she always tried to make their lives easier. It was who she was.
Its been worth it. God, its been worth it. If someone told me that this is the last
trip Ill ever make, Id still have no regrets.
It wont be the last trip. Therell be others, I know. But thank you so much for
these few days. I feel like Ive found my old self again.
She thanked me? As always, she had gotten it completely backwards. But that was
who she was, as well.
We said our goodbyes on Monday at Wrocaw airport. I would be going back to
Britain in a couple of weeks; she would be going back to work the next day.
Although the future was as uncertain as ever, we both felt calmer, and more
confident that we would be able to face it. It would never be easy, but we would
always have each other to rely on, and we would always be able to use our words
and laughter to keep reality from overwhelming us; we would always be able to
create our own world which would be proof against a long winter. If nothing else, I
thought that I would always be able to do that much for my sister.
Always is never as long as we expect it to be, and the world does not stop.
wave of mutilation
october 2011
She waits in the airport with her father. He is restless and excited; he will soon be
seeing his son for the first time in more than a year. She is looking forward to seeing
her brother and his wife as well; but she checks her watch and the arrivals board
frequently for a different reason. She has taken some time off work to pick up the
visitors from the airport, and she is conscious that she needs to be back.
The plane has landed. The first passengers are emerging. Some are met by
welcoming faces; others stride alone towards the bus stop, or the train station, or
the smoking area. Others stop, and pull out maps and leaflets, looking around and
scratching their heads as they try to orient themselves in a strange new land.
Her father shifts impatiently, then goes to wait at the barrier, as close to the doors
as possible. She represses a sigh. Her father had insisted on arriving ridiculously
early, but she knows that her brother and his wife will be among the last to be
ushered through immigration. She sips her coffee, and resists the urge to check her
emails again.
When her brother and his wife finally emerge, the arrival hall is nearly empty and
almost quiet. She watches as her father hugs her brother, and gives a more restrained
greeting to her brothers wife, Pek Wan; then it is her turn to step in and add her
own welcome. It is good to see them again, these people who are pieces of the life
that she has left behind. As she looks into their familiar faces, she is reminded again
that nothing is lost forever; the remains of her life and the home where she once
lived still exist, she is still connected, there are still threads leading back to the
person she once was and the life she once led.
Her brother and Pek Wan are tired, drained by the long journey.
You look tired as well, sis. Hows everything going at work? Have you managed to
take any holidays yet?
The look of genuine but ineffectual concern on her brothers face is familiar to
her, too. She doesnt want to talk about work - give me some time away, dont make
me go back, not yet! - because shes afraid she wont be able to stop. So she shrugs,
and says that work has been busy, but shes hoping to get some time off over the
next two weeks.
I hope we can spend a couple of days together, maybe take a day in Kyoto or
Osaka. Im sure there are lots of places you and Pek Wan want to visit.
The four of them walk to the car park, where Taro is waiting patiently in the van.
She will drive them to the small village where her father grew up, where he brought
his wife and children all those years ago, and where he is living once again. Her
father and brother and sister-in-law chatter and laugh, and talk about the places they
will see - and the food they will eat! - and the plans they have made. As they load
their bags into the Subaru van (which she has dubbed the ice cream van), she
checks her emails one more time. There is nothing urgent yet.
Sorry about Taro, she says as Pek Wan climbs into the passenger seat. I cant
leave him alone at the house, though - hes really good, but he gets incredibly
stressed if hes left alone. His owner was this homeless man in Osaka, and they were
always together. Hes gotten used to me, and Ive gotten used to him - somehow we
seem to have adopted each other! But now, he gets pretty anxious if Im not
around.
Taro graciously allows Pek Wan to sit next to him, but makes it clear that he has no
intention of relinquishing his place next to the driver.
They sit in a restaurant in the new supermarket, not far from her fathers familys
house. It is blessedly cool, a retreat from the unseasonably warm autumn weather;
summer has lingered far into October, the leaves on the trees wilting and browning
rather than turning red or golden.
It is a family restaurant, some kind of bland chain, far removed from the grittier
but more authentic bars she prefers to frequent. She glances around at the other
tables, then back at the menu. None of the choices look particularly enticing. She
wishes she could relax, and have a beer, but she will be driving back to the house and work - after the meal.
Her father seems to have no trouble relaxing. He is more animated than she has
seen him in a long time. He is translating and explaining the menu options to Pek
Wan; he is happy to be the guide. He has been looking forward to this visit for a long
time.
She smiles at Pek Wans enthusiasm. Her sister-in-law is also having trouble
deciding what to order, but mostly because she wants to sample everything. Her
sister-in-laws wide-eyed desire to soak up as much as possible is as infectious as
ever, and Marisa looks at the menu with fresh eyes, conscious again of how far she
has travelled, and how thoroughly she has become used to this new country she is
living in.
She looks across at her brother, sitting opposite her. Youre being very quiet, Jim.
Have you decided what you want?
Im having the yakisoba, I think. My tooths really starting to hurt, though, so I
dont know if Ill be able to eat it all. I think Ill have a beer first and try to numb it a
bit. How about you?
The food arrives. She wolfs it down, then composes an email in reply to a query
from work as she waits for the others to finish.
By the time the van turns into the small parking lot in front of her house, the sun
is sinking behind the hills. The over-sized school broods over the village, empty
windows starkly shadowed in the last slanting rays of the day. Night falls quickly in
the hills; the light does not linger long.
Her brother is sprawled out on the seats in the back of the van. Pek Wan is
nodding off in the passenger seat, even her energy temporarily exhausted. Taro is
still awake, though, sitting alertly and looking out of the windscreen throughout the
long drive. She cuts the engine and sits with him, looking across the village which is
surrendering to the night. She looks at the school rising above the houses, then up
at her hill rising above the school, then the darkening velvet sky, streaked with the
pink fingers of the retreating sun. There is a rhythmic pounding behind her eyes,
unnoticed until she stops moving. She lowers her head and rests it gently on the
steering wheel, and wishes she could disappear and melt away into this brief
moment of stillness.
The sun sinks away, the village plunges into darkness, the hills backlit as if they
are on fire. She looks up, then gives Taro an affectionate pat. She gently shakes her
sister-in-law, then calls to her brother.
Wake up, guys. Were home.
Repressed sigh of exasperation. Her brother is sitting at the table in her kitchen,
cupping one side of his face.
Cant you come out, just for a bit?
My tooth feels really bad. I cant eat or drink anything, and I dont want to sit and
watch you two eat. You go ahead, Ill wait here.
Its a chance to catch up on the gossip and stuff; and a friend of mine is going to
be there - she really wants to meet you and Pek Wan. Come on, Jim!
It hurts to even talk! Look, Im sorry, but Im sure itll be better tomorrow, after a
good nights sleep. Ill unpack a bit, and wait for you here.
The sigh cannot be repressed this time, but it is as much resignation as
exasperation now. She recognises the stubborn look on her brothers face, and
knows that it is useless to try to change his mind. He has decided that he cant go
out, and no amount of talking will convince him otherwise.
She and her sister-in-law leave him in the house.
I love him to bits, but he does my head in sometimes. He can be so sulky when
things arent going his way. I know hes in pain, but you guys are only here for a bit;
he could try to make a bit more of an effort, at least.
Pek Wan is opposite her. They sit in a neon-lit restaurant, at a booth with a plastic
table, in a town about ten miles from the house in the hills. It is an unprepossessing
place, but the gyoza is delicious, served on functional plastic dishes. No frills; no
pretension. It is the perfect place to relax and find respite in raucous anonymity.
Pek Wan nods sympathetically. I know what you mean. He can be really difficult
sometimes. Hes taken me to a few different places already, but he looks so
miserable and grumpy! I know I should be more understanding; Id probably be just

like him if I had toothache. And I know he wants to spend more time with you.
Probably, Marisa thinks. There is so much that she wants to talk about, though,
and so much that she wants to hear. She has been looking forward to this visit as
much as her father has. But her brother does not seem to understand, or want to
acknowledge, that her time is limited. Even taking yesterday away from work to go to
the airport, and finishing work early today to go for a meal, has been difficult.
Tomorrow morning will be spent catching up on several jobs that can wait for one
day, but will soon become urgent.
Maybe her brother knows this. She has certainly told him about how much work
she has to do every day at the shelter. Maybe he does know, but maybe spending
time with her is not that important to him.
A woman approaches the table where she and Pek Wan are sitting, and greets
them. It is her friend, who used to work at the animal shelter. She has a different job
now, at the domestic airport to the north of Osaka. She joins them and introduces
herself to Pek Wan, and soon the three are chatting and laughing together. They
order food - a plate of gyoza, and sweet and sour pork and rice omelettes.
Hey, theres this drink you should try, Pek Wan; its called chuu-hai. So, where
did you go today? What did you do?
When the food arrives, Pek Wan makes everyone wait as she takes a picture. Marisa
rolls her eyes and apologises to her friend: Pek Wan wants to take a photo of
everything she eats in Japan. I dont really understand, but as long as the food
doesnt get cold
Pek Wan looks up guiltily, but relaxes when she sees Marisa and her friend
smiling.
Here, let me take a picture of you taking a bite. Ooh, Im going to order these
buns as well - look, theyre shaped like rabbits and hedgehogs! Youve got to get
some pictures of those!
Her life does not stop; it has weight and momentum. She cannot stop. If she
thinks too much about where she is, or where she is going, she will not be able to
continue. Why have I come here? What am I doing? If she spends too much time
thinking about the difference between what is and what she wants, she will be
buried and lost; if she does not spend enough time living her own life, she will be
swept away. She must cling to the threads that hold her life and self together, and
continue to weave, and knit, and record and archive and be. She will never
relinquish what she has earned. She will - as always - come closer to her truer self
amidst the chaos of life.
I like that...before I took them, my photographs were just light, and before I
wrote them, my stories were just chemicals floating around in my head.
She is determined, as always, to be the author of her own life, even though the
time and energy to pursue her own dreams seems to be shrinking every day. She will
not meekly surrender to the demands of work and family and society - she will do
what she believes is right, and she will do it in her own way.
This is the story of her life, and she will make her decisions herself. She has
earned that much, at least.
Once I have mastered all the moves, I intend to rebel against patterns, and start
creating random, ugly, and most probably useless works of art all of my own.30
If only there is a little more time, a little more space; if only she doesnt feel as if
the decisions she has made and the responsibilities she has shouldered are crowding
her out of her own life.
They walk along the broad, tree-lined street. When the peach blossoms are
flowering, walking down the street is like walking into spring, into a gently scented
cloud of pink and white. The trees are bare today, but it is still a warm day.
Where should we go? Therere a few places that I could show you; theres a huge
manga museum - a friend took me there once, and we ended up spending the
whole day browsing. Or we could go to some touristy places - theres the castle, and
loads of temples. Or we could get some bento and walk to Arashiyama. Do you
remember we went there when we were little, Jim? Thats where the bamboo
gardens are.
30
http://catrehomed.wordpress.com/2008/08/20/i-made-these/
Her brother smiles, and says he remembers. The day stretches ahead of them, the
first - and only - full day they will be able to spend together. They will walk, and sit,
and laugh, and occasionally talk about the lives they once led, and the lives they are
leading, and the dreams they have for the future. This is the long-anticipated day.
Over the last week, brief moments have been snatched, times they have been able
to spend together. She reluctantly took her brother and his wife to a department
store, looking for clothes to wear to a formal wedding - a wedding she is only going
to because she lost a bet. She has nothing suitable in her wardrobe - almost all of her
clothes are functional and practical, well suited for the rugged lifestyle she leads.
Now, she is the bemused owner of a necklace, high heels, a wrap, and a simple and
elegant dress of midnight blue. Ill wear all this for the wedding, but will I ever
wear it again? Probably not, she thinks to herself.
Her brother looked like he wanted to burst out laughing when she was choosing
what to buy; but even he seemed impressed when she modelled the whole
ensemble. Afterwards, they ate okonomiyaki in a restaurant in the food hall.
Another day: after she came back from work, they clambered into the van and
drove a few miles to the flat stretch of road she uses to train. She is running a
marathon in a couple of weeks, after her brother and Pek Wan leave. She is touched
as they struggle to keep up with her - she is reminded of when they lived in the grey
city on the other side of the world. It is strange to have some company again, to not
be running alone. Afterwards, they lean on the van in the parking lot, looking up at
the violet-blue sky, and the world is soft and peaceful, the ragged edges of life
smoothed away.
Another day: she takes them to the hills above her house, along the steep and
narrow path that circles behind the school. They stand in the place she chose nearly
a year ago, the place that has become her shrine and retreat, the place where she can
stand, high above the world, and breathe freely. She wishes they could stay longer;
she wishes they never have to leave.
Pek Wan suggests getting some breakfast while they decide where to go first.
Thats a good idea. Your husbands less of a bear with a sore tooth now, so hes
got no excuse to be sulky. The big baby.
They turn into a side street, off the main road, she and Pek Wan teasing her
brother until he is driven to defend himself. They shout him down, and continue
walking, laughing. The three of them are relaxed, and the day stretches ahead of
them, full of promise.
The phone in her pocket vibrates. It is a message from work. She is needed, and it
cannot wait.
Im sorry, but I have to go back. You two have a good day, and Ill see you back at
the house this evening.
She looks at her brother. She cannot tell if he is going to cry, or shout, or both.
She sighs. She speaks so softly that she can barely be heard.
Im sorry. I have to go. Please dont be like this, Jim.
Her brother doesnt say anything.
She sits at the kitchen table, head in her hands. It is still early, but it is nearly time
to go to work. Last night is a blur, spent in music and food and laughter at a threewalled treehouse. She remembers trying some home-brewed sake. It had a kick like
a donkey. It hasnt stopped kicking yet.
On the table in front of her is a wrapped package. It contains a thick slab of bacon,
and some sausages. Like the sake, it is made by the owner of the treehouse. He is a
short, grey-bearded man, who has travelled the world and has a thousand stories to
tell. His home is always lively; it is full of artists and photographers, wanderers and
writers, musicians and poets. There is always something happening at his unfinished
house.
The man who she calls omg - oh my gaaaah - cures the bacon himself in a coffin.
There is a scuffling sound, and her brother emerges from the spare bedroom. He
says good morning quietly. Pek Wan must still be sleeping.
Morning, Jim, she whispers back. Hey, Im just going to take Taro out before I
go to work. Wanna come along?
Five minutes later, they are stepping into the crisp morning chill.
She walks beside her brother, Taro off the leash but staying close beside them. The
village is hushed and still. In the soft, diffuse light before dawn, the world seems
leached of colour - subtle shades of grey and blue, the delicate coating of dew
gleaming with a faint opalescent sheen.
And, just like that, she finds she is not hurrying anywhere. She is not anyone but
herself, and her brother is no one but himself, and they are walking and talking as
they once did, as they will always be able to, and this could be Poland or Britain or
Japan, it doesnt matter, no matter how far she goes, she will always be herself, she
will always have a place to belong, because nothing is lost forever, and she is always
connected to the path and the past she has walked and lived, and the future shrinks
and recedes and becomes manageable once more.
There are nights like last night, and there are mornings and moments like this.
Life is good.
It is late at night in the small village. The van is empty, the last of her fathers
furniture and boxes taken into the house. She stands on the small road outside the
house. It is still warm, despite it being November.
Thats everything. Im not sure what the rush was, but papa asked me to bring it
over straight away.
She speaks to her brother. She can barely see him in the darkness. The village is
quiet and dark; the people here go to bed early, and wake up before sunrise. She
wishes she could crawl into her bed, and sleep forever. It has been a long day at
work. She is beyond tired; her body does not feel like her own.
Well, at least its done, I suppose. Cant you stay and rest here for a bit? Drive
back tomorrow, or take tomorrow off?
You know I cant, Jim. Ive got to go in early tomorrow morning; therere a
couple of cats that I need to see to first thing, and Johnnie Walkers coming back
from Fukushima with another van load of dogs. I cant stop now.
Her brother shifts, uncomfortable. Try to get some rest sometime, though.
Is she smiling or grimacing? It probably doesnt much matter; her brother cant see
her in the shifting half light anyway. She makes her voice lighter with an effort. I
will. Ive got the marathon to run. And the scary wedding to go to. But Ive also got a
few days of holiday which Im definitely taking, come what may. Ill be fine. I think
therell be fewer animals coming from Sendai soon. Ill be fine.
Have fun with papa this week, but dont let him do too much. Hes really excited
to have you and Pek Wan here, but he doesnt have as much energy as he used to.
Dont let him overdo it. Ill try and come over sometime this week - maybe we can all
go out for a meal or something.
They hug. She climbs into her van.
It is the last time she will see her brother.
a place called home

(part one)
may 2006 - august 2006
Marisa sat in the passenger seat, one arm out of the open window, fingers splayed
to catch the air. It was a beautiful day, with just a few cotton white clouds in an
otherwise pristine blue sky. The countryside whipped past, the roar of the wind
nearly drowning out the radio. The road seemed to go on forever. It could have been
a perfect day.
She glanced at her brother. He was talking, nearly shouting to be heard. He kept
his eyes on the road, and was driving relatively smoothly, all things considered; but
he wasnt driving as fast as usual. Well, she didnt want the journey to be over, either.
She focused on what he was saying.
That was pretty much the last holiday we took together, wasnt it? Eight years ago
in Japan, I mean. He was living in the apartment in Osaka, and youd just graduated.
He was still working, but wed all meet up for a meal in the evening, and visit the
aunts in the village at the weekends.
She nodded, remembering; absently, she lit a cigarette, passed it to her brother,
and lit one for herself. She hadnt smoked for about five months. That was, until the
last weekend. She had been chain smoking since then. It seemed like much longer
than a week, or even a year, to her. The days were endless: work in the morning, the
long journey in the afternoon, the longer journey home in the evening, then
composing an email to the family in Japan. It took her a long time to find the right
characters in Japanese, and even longer to find the right tone. She had to plot the
treacherous path between despair and hope.
Skeeter was being looked after by a friend. She didnt have the time or energy to
take him for walks. She could feel herself being spread thinner. She hardly had the
energy for anything. Fatigue was a permanent shroud over her brain, a thicker and
darker blanket with each passing day.
She picked up the baton of conversation. It was the way they fought the shadows,
and prepared themselves for the journeys end.
He was pretty worn out then. He retired not long after, and came back to Britain.
Maybe he should have retired sooner. He could have; hed worked for the company
for more than forty years, so theyd have looked after him. Still, work was important
to him.
He seemed happy when he finally did retire though.
She wasnt so sure. He hadnt really known what to do with all the time he
suddenly had. He still followed news from the company, and would often say things
like Weve opened a new factory in China, or Look, weve just launched this new
television, as if he hadnt left at all. Work was all he had known, and maybe he had
become lost without it. He hardly left the house, and didnt speak to anyone outside
his immediate family.
Her brother was closer to their father than she was, the pampered and celebrated
son, and saw him almost every weekend. Maybe it was easier for her, standing at a
distance, to notice the changes: the yellowing eyes, the slurred words, the glass that
was never far away and never empty. When she had seen him at Christmas, about six
months ago, she had been taken aback by how much he had changed - how much he
had shrunk.
Then again, maybe her brother had noticed. It was difficult to tell, sometimes. Her
brother usually saw what he wanted to see, anyway.
I think he was happy at first, but I think he needs something more to keep him
busy and get him out of the house. Maybe we can talk to him and mama about it
once we get him home.
Hm. Thats a good idea. Her brother spoke absently. They were leaving the
motorway and entering the outskirts of the city. The journeys end was still some
twenty minutes away; but it was looming closer, a brooding and ominous cloud. She
closed her eyes and wished they could drive past the city. It was an idle wish, she
knew. She couldnt escape the phantoms in her brain, no matter how far or fast she
tried to run.
The crippling pain, the soreness and stiffness which had made even lying in bed
an agony, had disappeared a week ago, as suddenly as it had appeared. There had
been no reasoning or compromise with it; barely able to shuffle to the Cholera Pit,
let alone the train station, she had had to accept that she could not go to work. Even
if she somehow managed to get there, she would only become what she hated and
feared: a burden to the people around her.
It turned out that she could not control fate, and that was what MS was: her fate.
She had spent last weekend preparing to return to work, searching for her rhythm
again after what she finally knew was an MS relapse. She had thought she had
known and accepted her MS - she had been shown the MRI scan of her brain, after
all, with the white and grey patches speckled across it - but each relapse taught her
the difference between knowing, and believing her fate with every fibre of her body.
Every step needed to be taken with renewed care, as the ground could crumble
away at any time. Relapses would come, inevitably. She needed to be better
prepared when they did.
She joined an online expert patient programme, a six week course where longterm health conditions could be discussed. It was involved, and draining, but she
needed to change, and she wasnt sure she could do it on her own. She spoke to her
friends and managers at work, and said that she felt ready to return, but that she
could not always work as quickly as she once had. They seemed relieved when she
admitted it, and agreed steps that could be taken to limit the amount of time she was
on her feet or operating. She surrendered to MS, and realised that no one else was
judging her as harshly as she was judging herself. No one else was judging her at all.
People at work - her friends - wanted to help her, as much as she could allow them
to. When she finally had to admit that she needed help, she found that the people
around her wanted to give as much support as she could accept. She found she had
a home.
Then her brother had phoned on Sunday evening.
They parked outside the hospital, the journey finally over.
The ward was brightly lit. There were maybe ten beds lining opposing walls, each
one surrounded by a bewildering array of equipment. The room resembled the deep
hibernation bay of a space ship, the cosmonauts sleeping restlessly until they arrived
at their destination. A nurse walked down the aisle, checking displays and charts,
and exchanging quiet words and smiles with some of the patients. All of the beds
were occupied, at least physically.
Her father was in the first bed on the left, nearest the door. She had seen him that
morning at five oclock, when he was being prepped for his operation. He had
looked small and alone and lost as he was wheeled into the theatre, and he had not
recognised her, or her brother, or her mother. Now he lay in his bed, a bandage
wrapped around his head, his legs swaddled in special pads to help his circulation;
but his eyes lit up when he saw her enter the ward. He was back. She felt a ray of
pure, healthy light pierce the cloud of sick-ominous-dread, and almost gasped in
relief.
Marisa, he said. Actually, he said . His English had been sloughed away
that week, leaving only a few words which he struggled to fit around the thoughts in
his mind. But at least now he was conscious, and alert, and seemed to be aware of
his surroundings. The terrible confusion - the vacancy and disconnection - was over.
He was back.
The afternoon flew by. A little later, her mother came with a bag of sushi and
yoghurt and strawberries. Her mother wore a small, fixed smile as she entered the
ward. She looked ill at ease, like an actor who had wandered onto the wrong stage,
thrust into a production for which she hadnt rehearsed. After a few minutes,
though, she too was finally able to relax a little. She could speak to her husband, and
could follow his replies. He was back, and, aside from the edge of hysterical relief,
the chatter and laughter around the bed could have belonged to a meeting of any
normal family. The afternoon flew by, and the journey home was a sunlit trip, the car
almost seeming to float down the motorway.
Her brother dropped her off at her flat. It was evening already, the soft light of the
summer dusk softening the edges of the grey city where she lived. They had agreed
that from the next week, they would take it in turns to visit their father. He was
surely out of the woods, and would hopefully be home early next week.
She waved goodbye as her brother drove away, back to their parents house, then
unlocked the door to her apartment. The sounds of scales being practiced on a
saxophone drifted down from the flat above hers. Tomorrow was Saturday. She had
the weekend where she could stay at home and gather her strength.
She opened the window of the living room. Captain appeared instantly from
wherever he had been hiding, and jumped in. He was vocal about his indignation at
being left alone for so long. He devoured the food she put out for him, then looked
for the attention that was his due.
Collapsed on the couch, the cat on her lap took on an indescribable weight. She
couldnt move him. She couldnt lift her arms. She couldnt even summon the energy
to try to lift her arms. Her limbs were leaden lumps, totally unresponsive. Her
thoughts ran sluggishly, viscous and congealed.
How long she sat there, she couldnt say. When she came back to herself, night
had fallen. The window, still propped open, reflected the room, the sofa, herself.
She barely recognised herself. She looked like an abandoned mannequin, limbs
contorted in unnatural angles.
She struggled to her feet. Captain let out a sleepy protest as he was dumped on
the sofa.
She wouldnt have done anything differently that week. But she had known that
she would have to pay for it. It was time to assess the damage, then try to reclaim her
life again, and gather herself for the week ahead. Work was busier than ever; she was
needed there, and she needed to be there.
I want to give this expert patient programme my best shot. Ive got to fill out that
questionnaire before the next hospital appointment next month. I need to eat
properly and get some sleep so Im as fit as I possibly can be for work. I dont want
them to worry as much about me as they have been. I want to pull my weight. I want
to be there for other people as much as theyve been there for me.
I need to stop smoking again.
I just have to find some space for myself somewhere, thats all.
Captain looked at her, disgusted. He didnt deign to answer, but started bathing
himself pointedly.
She sighed. I miss Skeeter. Ill get him back on Monday, hopefully.
Before she went to bed, she composed an email to the family in Japan, telling
them the good news.
The phone rang on Monday morning just as she was about to leave for work. It
was her brother.
Marisa? The hospitals been in touch. Papas refusing to cooperate with the
doctors and nurses. Theyve asked us to come in and try to calm him down. Were
going to drive up there now. I know you werent going to come up today, but it
seems like an emergency...
When she put the phone down, she felt the tentative steps climbed over the
weekend kicked away from beneath her. She felt the world closing in again. She was
drawn back out of the orbit she had plotted for herself, pulled away from what she
needed by the incessant and irresistible demands of life.
After work, she took the train to the hospital in the city.
Her father glared at her furiously, then turned away in disgust. He ripped his hand
out of her grasp, batting her away. He stared unblinking at the wall, tears pooling,
jaw tightly clenched. His face, oddly misshapen without his teeth, displayed
everything he was feeling as clearly as a cinema screen: frustration, fear, and, most of
all, rage.
He had been trying to explain something, pointing at a leaflet he had been given.
Look. NHS. N-H-S. N is national. This is all government. Everyone here is
government. Nurses, doctors. They all government. They dont care. Theyre not
good. They dont care about me.
Look! He had gestured across the aisle to the bed opposite his. That man.
Where come from? At night, he screams. No one comes. No one cares. No one visits.
Look! He had jabbed his figure at the NHS logo again. NHS. Not good. I cant
be here. I need to go home. Where are my shoes? I need to go home now. No more
medicine. No more tests. Enough! I cant stay here. Take me home!
He hadnt shouted although he had obviously wanted to. His frustrated need to
communicate what was so clear to him had made his voice taut and urgent, despite
the effort he made to speak calmly and reasonably.
She had tried to reason with him. She had told him that she wanted him to be
able to go home as well, but while his wound was still open, it was impossible. This
was the best place for him at the moment. But he had to cooperate with the nurses,
and let them help him. This was a free service, and the nurses were over-stretched,
but they wanted what was best for him. They wouldnt keep him here if it wasnt
necessary. He had to take the drugs he needed in order to get better, otherwise he
would find his choices being taken away from him.
He had shaken his head, amazed that his wishes were being ignored. He needed
to go, couldnt his family see that? Why were they doing this to him? Finally, unable
to convey what was so obvious to him, he turned his face to the wall. He didnt
acknowledge his visitors again for the rest of the hour.
When she stood up, the visiting hours over, she said that shed try to come back
the next day. He didnt look at her, but he finally responded.
Dont come back. Leave me here. Im not your papa.
Her brother found her sitting on a bench outside the hospital. He offered her a
cigarette. Her world was crumbling away anyway. She took the cigarette.
He doesnt mean it. He doesnt know what hes saying. Hell go back to the way
he was once he gets better, and all this will be a bad dream.
Her brother always looked for the best possible outcome. He never looked at the
world as it was, but always thought of the world as he wanted it to be. She thought
that their father knew far more than he was being given credit for.
Shed seen him like this before. This was the way he was. The way he talked, the
way he staggered all over the place, the way he couldnt be reasoned with, the mood
swings, the petulance that swiftly descended into fury: everything was exactly as it
had been all those years ago when she was a child.
Remembering, she felt a nearly forgotten terror rising up in her.
When he had left her, and her mother and brother, in Britain, she had been
relieved. She hardly spoke to him for ten years, refusing to visit Japan or attend any
family functions. She had built her own life, and every step was something she could
be proud of because they were steps that she took, with no support or
encouragement or even much interest from her family. Every step took her further
away from the past, or so she had thought. She found, though, that she had not
escaped. The terror was still there - had always been there - and had only been
waiting for its chance to pounce.
It was impossible for her to say if the way her father was acting now was due to
the brain haemorrhage, or to alcohol withdrawal, or his refusal to take the thiamine
supplements which the doctors had prescribed, and how much was his real self,
furious and terrified at the situation he found himself in. What was his real self,
anyway? Would there be anything left of him once the seismic shocks finished
ripping through his defenseless brain? Would he be able to pick up the pieces of his
self after the dust had settled? Would there be any pieces left to pick up?
She looked at her brother. She didnt say what she was thinking. There were
things that her brother never wanted to hear. But her brother was the only reason
she was able to return to the hospital. Maybe they could get through this if they had
each other.
I hope hell be better soon, too. Then we can take him home.
She was sitting in her parents house, writing a letter to the family in Japan. It was
Saturday. The end of the second week since her fathers nightmare had begun.
Papa has been quite difficult this week.
That was an understatement. He was in danger of losing all sympathy from the
staff at the hospital, and would have been ejected already if they were enforcing their
zero tolerance policy strictly.
Hes had another operation, to drain some more blood off his brain.
The nurses had somehow managed to sedate him. They had given up on the
antibiotics, though. Hes had a few days worth so that should do for a bit. Bullshit.
Not with pus leaking from the wound in his head.
Weve managed to get him out of the ward every day, and he seems to be getting
stronger.
It was a compromise they had reached. Every time they visited, her father would
demand that he be taken home. The only way to calm him briefly was to take him for
a walk around the hospital grounds. Once outside, he would be happy for a time.
But soon he would start demanding that her brother bring his car, or that her
mother phone a taxi, and take him away from the hospital.
He enjoys getting out in the fresh air. Getting him back in the ward can be
difficult, though.
The last time - yesterday - had been a nightmare. They had humoured him as far as
they dared, conscious of the nurses instructions, but when it was time to take him
back to his bed, nothing had worked. They had reasoned, pleaded and begged, but
he was adamant that he would not return. In the end, they had tricked him into
getting into the lift, saying they would collect his things. It had been that or see him
manhandled back into the hospital by the orderlies. By the time he figured out what
they were doing, it was too late. He was livid, and whatever little remaining trust was
destroyed.
His Japanese is becoming clearer, but he has difficulty communicating and
reading in English.
But probably not as much as the doctors thought. He would glare furiously at her
mother and the doctors or nurses as they talked over his head as if he wasnt there.
He suspected that decisions were being made about him behind his back. It added
to his frustration, and his determination to escape.
It would be really nice if you could write him a letter. Ill take it in and read it
for him.
She broke off her writing as her mother called for her and her brother. Her
mother looked pale and feverish as she said that the hospital had phoned. They
wanted someone to come in immediately; her father was out of control, and they
were worried that he would hurt himself, the staff, or the other patients.
Her brother gathered his keys and cigarettes, then looked at her inquiringly.
She felt something break inside.
Im sorry, but I cant do this anymore. I cant go today.

I understand. Dont worry, weve got this. Ill give you a lift home when we get
back.
The next week - was it only the third week? - was again spent alternating between
the demands of work and the demands of the hospital. She felt that she was doing
both badly, and was losing everything she had worked to gain. Skeeter wasnt at
home, but her brother was often collapsed on the couch in her living room. She
tried to tell her father what he wanted to hear, and felt as if she was deceiving him.
Worst of all, she couldnt help but take her problems into work, and hated the
worried looks and awkward pauses that seemed to surround her. She was dying
inside as everything she cherished was stripped away from her, discarded and
trampled like so much rubbish.
After the third week, she realised that she had to make a choice. And she thought
about the things that had happened to her over the last years. The people at work
werent, for the most part, people she could talk to about her problems, but they
were nevertheless there, quietly waiting for her, and never giving up on her. Her
loyalties, she decided, lay with them. She was letting them down.
In the end, it wasnt a hard decision. She had fought hard to get where she was,
and she wasnt going to throw it all away. She told her brother that, except for the
weekends, she would not be visiting the hospital again.
a place called home

(part two)
april 2007
She stopped typing and read what she had written of the letter so far. It was a
letter to her best friend, but she was unsure if it would ever be sent.
A breeze blew in through the open window, stirring the gauzy curtains, causing
the wooden wind chimes to clack gently together. The sounds of children coming
from the pool next to her apartment drifted in, excited shrieks and running feet.
Birds scolded each other in the trees, busy preparing their new homes. The scents
and sounds of new, growing life were everywhere, rich and vibrant.
The cat was sprawled luxuriously in a patch of sunshine on the floor, although his
occasionally twitching ears and the gleam of green half-lidded eyes showed that he
was well aware of the birds outside. They would be left in peace for now, though.
Skeeter was stretched out on the bed, twitching occasionally as he chased rabbits in
his sleep.
It was a peaceful April day. It was almost difficult to remember the dark winter
months.
My brother finally left last month, and got himself his own place to live. When he
took the last of his things away, I could finally reclaim my own space, and with just
me and Skeeter and Captain, I can breathe freely. The apartment feels spacious and
airy again, the suffocating cloud of negativity is dissipating. I honestly thought that I
was going to go insane with him here. I couldnt stop smoking, I ate really unhealthy
food. Its not entirely his fault, but with him around I couldnt get anything at all
done. I couldnt read, or write, or even think. Everything was jagged, nothing was
peaceful.
I need to keep reminding myself, its not entirely his fault. He came back from
Hungary in the new year, and he didnt have anything to come back to, really. Hed
messed up the job he had before he left, around when our dad was in hospital. He
applied for some teaching positions in Japan, but they didnt work out - Im not sure
how seriously he took the interviews, to be honest. After that, he seemed to give up
on Japan again. I dont know why. My dad, and even my mum, were ready to follow
him to Japan, and I think my dad especially is really disappointed that its all come to
nothing.
Hes had some work since the new year, but hes been spending most of his time
with a girl, Pek Wan. When hes not with her, they seem to be on the phone to each
other constantly. That wouldnt be so bad, although I think he needs to sort himself
out, and get some fucking self-respect, before he starts chasing after someone; I
think hes running away from his problems, and trying to start a new life again. Ive
had some experience of that, and it never really works. You can never outrun your
problems, or yourself - at least not for long. Like I said, though, all that wouldnt be
so bad, if it wasnt so obvious that he was using me and my flat as a convenient place
to dump his stuff and go off and see this girl. I was being squeezed out of my own
life, and my home wasnt my own anymore.
I hope that we can go back to being friends, now that hes left. I cant bring
myself to care that much at the moment, though. Im just relieved that hes gone.
Her brother made her want to bang her head against the wall and scream in
frustration. It didnt help that he was worried about her, either; his ineffectual
concern made her feel even more trapped and helpless.
Ive been going up to my parents house once every two or three weeks. The
atmosphere there is not great, although my dad hasnt been nearly as frantic and
frustrated in the last few months; hes often quiet, now. It might seem as if
something has broken, but I dont think thats true. I think that, slowly and carefully,
hes considering all kinds of things. When I see him, we spend hours talking - about
work, and Japan, and the past, and our respective problems with our brains, and our
respective dogs, and our shared family. Actually, the only thing that really winds him
up these days is talking about my brother. I sympathise.
I think this is the closest Ive ever felt to my dad. He seems to be gathering
himself back together, and I really like the person Im starting to see now: hes
funny, and wise, and philosophical, and seems to be more himself than I can ever
remember, without all that anger and frustration. Its difficult to explain, but I think
that rage and impatience were never part of who he really was, but only something
he picked up from somewhere, and had forgotten to let go of. Although hes slowed
down a lot, hes thinking thoroughly and clearly, and seems to be moving through
life more gracefully and peacefully. Its such a relief to see him like this after last
year. He says that he doesnt remember anything about his time in the hospital, and
Im grateful for that, as well.
My mums been doing a lot of thinking as well, but its not as clear where her
thoughts are taking her. She knows that my dad desperately wants to - needs to - go
back to Japan; and even if he didnt, it would make the most financial sense for
them. But since the job applications fell through and my brother seems to be settling
down again in Britain, my mum seems to be having serious doubts about going back
to Japan. I think I understand - she had a really difficult time when we all lived there
years ago, and she might well be worried and scared about living with my dad if she
feels theres no one around to support her - but as far as I know, she hasnt talked to
anyone about the way shes feeling. Shes just agreeing with everything my dad says
one day, then coming up with a dozen small problems and delays the next. Which
frustrates everyone. Shes like my brother: she should decide on what she wants to
do, and do it, instead of prevaricating all the time. But she cant even be honest
about what she really wants.
One way or the other, though, my parents plans seem to be taking shape. They
need to put the house on the market soon, theres no arguing about that; and my
dad is planning to visit Japan sometime this year, and take a look at a few
apartments. Hes found some places that have English-speaking communities near
them. Theyre generally the more expensive places, but at least it shows that hes
doing his best to make it as easy as possible for my mum, if she does decide to move
with him.
I do feel for my mum; shes in a difficult position. But she needs to say what she
wants, and soon, because I think shell either end up trapped into a decision she
didnt make, or trapping my dad into a situation he cant afford.
This is my family, she thought, depressed. They were held together by self-interest
and habit, a motley group of individuals who just happened to share the same name.
Everyone had an idea of how things should be, rather than considering things as
they were. She felt worn out by them, and relieved that she was once again able to
take refuge in the world she had built for herself. She would defend her world, her
home, as best as she could.
It had been even more difficult than usual, recently. It was as if the place she lived
in was suddenly falling apart and starting to crumble. As soon as she fixed one
problem, she would be confronted with another.
Ive had some time off work these last couple of weeks. Its been more than two
years since my diagnosis, and Ive been relapsing again. I didnt want to admit it at
first, and I definitely didnt want to take any time off, especially because of all the
trouble I caused last year. Ive been incredibly stupid, and stubborn. I see that now,
but I cant change what happened.
At the start of the month, two weeks ago now, I was feeling so bad that part of me
knew that I really should phone in sick. I felt so guilty, though, that I shuffled in.
I was on ops that day. Id booked a Jack Russell puppy (ironically called Lucky)
with Legg-Perthes disease in for an excision arthroplasty weeks ago. The moment Id
scrubbed up and was standing in front of the draped leg in theatre, I knew Id made
a mistake. But I was too scared to say anything. Or worse, maybe just too stubborn.
It took hours to do the surgery and I made a terrible mess of it, practically butchered
the leg. The worst part is that even after all that, I still dont know what I did wrong
exactly; I stitched the leg back up without sorting it out. The poor puppy took a long
time to come round. I waited a while with her but once one of the nurses was free to
take over I had to go and consult. Her tube was out but she was still only semiconscious as I was leaving.
Afterwards, someone offered to cover the Saturday morning I was down to do. I
told her Id be OK, but she insisted I take her mobile number anyway. I thanked her
but deep down I resented it. Everyone seemed funny with me that day. It was
probably only because they were worried about me and didnt know what to say.
They couldnt seem to look me in the eyes. So it was my fault, as usual. I just wanted
to disappear. I felt completely alienated and out of sync again, isolated, exactly the
way I did two years ago.
I dont remember how I got home, but it wasnt until I was in the Cholera Pit with
Skeeter, smoking a cigarette, that I finally realised what Id done. Ive got MS, and I
was having a relapse. I was having a relapse, and Id fucked up. Badly. I was going to
have to face up to that and start doing something about it, before I did any more
damage, before it was too late.
She sighed, and stopped typing again. It felt good to finally write this down. Even
though she was still not sure if she would ever send the letter to her best friend,
writing it was helping her to understand and clarify what had happened, and what
she was feeling. She could almost see her friend nodding, she could almost hear
what he would say, his calm, wry, reasonable words that would put her world back
into its proper shape.
He always helped her, even when he didnt know that he was; without even being
there, he was there for her. It seemed like a neat trick. She wondered how he did it.
In the end, I phoned work and said that I thought I might need some extra
support on the Saturday, and that I might have to take some time off the next week.
I spoke to the head nurse, not the grumpy old man, and she said she thought I
shouldnt work on Saturday at all. I started crying again then and said I felt awful
about everything and was thinking of quitting because I obviously wasnt up to my
job; I was letting everyone down, not just the people at work but the animals and
their owners as well. She said she didnt think that was true; the Jack Russell was
more awake now and didnt seem to be in any pain, she said.
It was good to talk to her, and she was really nice about everything. She said that
people were worried about me, but they wouldnt know how to help me if I didnt
let them in. In the days that followed, I got calls and texts from other people from
work, and they were lovely as well; although I did make one person cry when I said
that it might be time for me to move on, because I felt people at work knew too
much about me. I said I didnt think they liked me much anymore.
Ive phoned the MS Society helpline as well. The woman I spoke to didnt say
much, and I did most of the talking. I told her I was having a relapse and she said
she was sorry. I started crying again when I told her what happened at work. I told
her I didnt feel capable of doing my job anymore and it was destroying my
confidence, as well. And, although the people at work know about my MS, and help
in all kinds of ways, I work in the kind of place where targets, like how many
consults and operations we get through, are increasingly important. Theres no slack
in the system as it is, and its not an option for me to slow down. But I cant seem to
keep up with everyone else anymore, and when I try, things start to go horribly
wrong. I feel like Im letting everyone down; but the worst part is feeling out of my
depth, and I cant live with the prospect of doing more harm than good.
The woman asked if there were other kinds of jobs available in the veterinary
profession. Theres the private sector, I said, where the pace of work might be
slower; but whether anyone would be happy to hire me knowing I have MS is
questionable, and, eventually, Im likely to run into the same problems with
operating and out of hours again. I also said Id feel like I was selling out. I only
started feeling like I was doing something I genuinely believed in when I started
working for the PDSA six and a half years ago. As for things like teaching or research,
its probably too late for me to get my foot in the door.
I said that when I was first diagnosed, I had the idea that Id leave the veterinary
profession and do something different. Like what? she asked. I didnt mention
writing; starting to write has been a dream come true, but Im not so nave as to
believe Im going to get anywhere with it as a source of income. I did tell her about
something I started looking into two years ago. I said my favourite part of my job, a
part I still feel I do well, is helping people with problems. I was thinking I should
maybe look into doing that from a different direction, and was wondering about the
possibility of social work. I should probably chase that up, I said. What have I got to
lose? I cant keep going through this, and things are only going to get worse, I can
see that now. I need to salvage something from the wreckage of my career, before its
too late, before I ruin everything completely.
The woman said she thought it would make sense for me to start looking for a
more realistic and sustainable way of life in the long run, but sometimes just
knowing that there are other options is enough, even if they are never taken. I
shouldnt make any rash decisions now. At the end she said, Youre going through a
bad time. Yeah, I said. I thanked her for listening and hung up.
She thought about what the woman had said. It was true: just knowing that there
were ways out helped to calm her. It gave her a moment of light-headed relief; the
same feeling she had had last year, when she realised that she didnt have to kill
herself visiting her father in hospital every day. No one apart from herself was
making her do it, and she could let herself off: extract herself from the situation
(run away from the situation, a voice inside her scolded). She had that much
control over her own life.
Now, though, the idea of starting again was more than daunting. It was
impossible.
I got a call from my brother, as well. I havent told him about whats going on,
just that I havent been feeling very well. Later, he sent an email, and said he wished
he could be there for me, and that he was thinking about me. All these people being
nice to me fills me with dread. I dont deserve nice. I cant face the world when Im
like this. I wish I could fall asleep and never wake up again. But I know that even if I
manage to fall asleep, I will have to wake up again at some point, and when I do
nothing at all will have been resolved. I wish I could write or do something
constructive to save myself, but the only voices in my head are berating, accusing
and judging me, telling me how worthless I am; I just dont have the energy to rise
above them at the moment.
She had to stop herself from writing much more. She knew she was teetering on
the edge of an abyss. She had been thinking a lot about how to escape, recently, and
how appealing it would be to give in. She had wondered about the logistics of
injecting herself with euthatal, or slashing her wrists, but mordantly told herself that
her IV and surgical skills would let her down. She wouldnt be able to trust her
knots, either, so hanging was out of the question. She couldnt think of anything tall
enough to jump off; and all the trains at the station slowed down and stopped, so it
would be useless to leap in front of them.
She couldnt imagine that anyone would miss her, or at least not for long. Some
people might be sad for a while, but she couldnt imagine anyone being lost without
her. Shed miss them a lot more than theyd miss her.
But...she looked at Skeeter, dozing peacefully now. She couldnt leave him. He
knew her, and she knew him better than anyone else did. She couldnt abandon him.
And the cat. What about Captain? His constant attention-seeking often annoyed
her - he always expected the world to revolve around him, and would frequently
scratch at the windows at four oclock in the morning, whether he was in or out of
the flat - and she didnt think anyone else, even her brother, would put up with him
if she was gone.
She couldnt leave yet. But she was still smoking. It was her slow release suicide
option, which was about as stupid a reason for smoking as she could think of.
I didnt go to work on Saturday in the end. I hoped Id feel better over the
weekend, but I felt worse and worse. On Sunday evening, I phoned work again and
told them I wouldnt be able to go in that week. I told them Id go to the GP on
Monday and get a sick note, and probably a referral to the neurologists.
It wasnt the usual GP on that day, but a doctor Id never met. He was pretty
abrupt, but I couldnt be bothered to say much anyway so I just told him I was
having a relapse. It started two weeks ago, I told him, and although I had thought I
could handle working through it, I was turning into a liability at work. I said I was
hoping if I took some time off it might just go away; if not completely, at least
enough for me to function again. That was what happened the last time. He nodded.
At that point, someone buzzed him and he shouted a lot down the receiver,
something about how he was leaving at twelve thirty, no matter what, so theyd just
have to ask someone else to cover the afternoon clinic. At the end, he said Cool?
and slammed the phone down. What a wanker.
He asked me how long I wanted off. I said I didnt really know, and he suggested
two weeks for starters. He told me that if I wasnt feeling better after that, I should
go back to the neurologists. He asked what he should write on the note, and I told
him that people at work knew what was going on, and he could write MS relapse, if
he wanted to. He thrust the sick note at me and told me to come back in two weeks
if I was just the same. I thanked him and left.
I hate doctors.
She saved the document and closed the laptop. She did feel a bit better for
writing down everything that was happening, but in the end, it didnt take her any
further than before. It was up to her to start moving again, however painfully slowly
that might be.
Come on, hound. Let's go enjoy the spring.
Skeeters head jerked up at the sound of her voice, and his eyes darted around the
room. He was disorientated for a moment, perhaps looking for the dream rabbits he
had been chasing. He heaved himself up with a grunt, and was soon waiting by the
door, tail up and nose questing the air.
The letter was never sent, because it didnt need to be. Her best friend phoned, as
he always did, as if he could sense when she was in trouble. He asked her how
things were going, and she said they werent. She told him everything.
Im blaming it on MS, but thats just an excuse. Its all my fault really, for being so
useless and shit.
He listened, and never judged her, and showed her in a hundred ways that he
would always be there for her, no matter what she went through. His quiet words
calmed her. They talked for hours, and she found laughter again, clear water in an
arid land.
He told her about what was going on in his life, and how he had met someone
who he really liked. The other person wasnt interested, though, and just wanted to
be friends. Her best friend didnt want to be just good friends. He asked her what
she thought, and she said the guy sounded like a tosser. He laughed, and agreed, but
said he didnt know what to do. She said she didnt either, but maybe they - she and
her best friend - should retire and go to Bognor Regis or somewhere and be trailer
trash. He laughed again, and said that that was their final escape plan.
After he hung up, nothing had changed, except that she found herself standing on
firmer ground again. That was what her best friend did for her, and had always done
for her: accept her as she was, without her having to pretend to be stronger or better
than she was.
There were other phone calls in the weeks ahead. A card arrived, signed by
everyone from work. There were texts, and emails, and even a sudden and
unannounced visit. Her friends at work had put together a collection, and a
representative came to make sure you spend it on some really nice stuff, and spoil
yourself properly! No one said it outright, but every message and gesture and
thought told her that she would always have a place in their world, that she was
missed, that people were standing by her, cheering her on with all their might.
She was overwhelmed by the waves of support, but, eventually, was able to lean
into them and trust them. It wasnt just her who was fighting to preserve her world.
This is my family, she thought, grateful beyond words.
She sat in the Cholera Pit as Skeeter snuffled around. He was looking for any
discarded cartons from the fast food shop nearby. He hadnt found any in a while,
but that never affected his optimism. After all, if he didnt look, hed never find
anything.
She smoked what she knew would be her last cigarette. She felt a little stronger,
physically; not as dizzy and disconnected from her body. She felt immeasurably
calmer, and stronger. Her world was stable again. It was not what it had been; the
world kept changing every day. But she knew, more clearly than ever, that her world
was worth fighting for. Her friends made her world worth fighting for.
As she crushed out the cigarette, only half-smoked, she thought about a poem she
had read that morning.
Thirty today, I saw

The trees flare briefly like
The candles upon a cake
As the sun went down the sky,
A momentary flash
Yet there was time to wish
Before the break light could die

If I had known what to wish
As once I must have known
Bending above the clean candlelit tablecloth
To blow them out with a breath31
It was time to decide on her own wish. It was time to decide again what kind of
life she wanted.
31
Men at Thirty, Donald Justice
a place called home

(part three)
november 2007 - january 2008
The following are extracts from a blog called elephantasmagoria that Marisa
started keeping at the end of 2007. It has been removed from the internet now, but
there are some fragments remaining.
11th November 2007
the cat returns
My dad is moving back to Japan, and my brother, his girlfriend, the dog and I went
up to visit him on Friday night. My dad has been talking about going home for a long
time, but what with the brain haemorrhage he had last year and the aftermath of
that, and then the endurance event that selling the house became, for a while it
seemed like it would never happen. But it's happening now, and it's been happening
really fast ever since the house finally sold last week. My dad booked a flight to
Kansai, and on Friday we went up to say goodbye.
My dad has hit some major low points recently, but on Friday night he was on
form and the happiest I have seen him for ages. He showed us the apartments he is
going to look at in Wakayama and Osaka. He wants to live near enough to his three
sisters and their families, but also far enough away. One of the apartments he is
interested in is in a building called Neverland. I have visions of strange, plastic-faced
men with single white gloves moonwalking down well-oxygenated corridors past my
dad, shrieking things like 'shamon' and 'hee-hee', possibly with a troupe of dancing
chimpanzees in tow. Anyway, we laughed, we ate miso soup and chestnut rice, and
we talked about his plans. We talked about the proper oden he will be eating in a
few weeks. And the Mild Sevens he will be smoking. I almost don't dare think this,
but maybe things are going to be OK.
The house was pretty much empty. My dad isn't taking anything with him apart
from a couple of suitcases. This move is going to be his new beginning. There
weren't any beds so we slept on the floor in empty rooms. The wind was howling
outside, and the dog and I curled up together under a big pile of blankets in my
brother's old room.
We left my dad on Saturday after lunch. I said I was going to try to book the day
off to come and see him off next week, but he told me he didn't want me to. 'I'll cry,'
he said, in his broken Japanese-English. 'I'll cry, but then I'll go through the
departure gate and laugh, ha ha ha.' He is planning to come and visit us in the early
summer, a few months after my brother and his girlfriend's baby is due to be born. 'I
don't like babies when they're small and wet and slimy,' he said, and pulled a face.
He has invited me to visit any time I want, and my brother and his girlfriend, too,
once their baby is big enough to travel. I will probably go over in the autumn. My
dad has already planned all the things we are going to do, and has promised he will
take me round all the best bookshops.
Nobody said very much in the car on the way back. I looked out of the window
and watched the world go by. After my brother and his girlfriend dropped us off, the
dog and I went to sleep for a few hours. The cat hadn't turned up yet, so I'd brought
his food bowl in and left the window open for him. When I woke up he still wasn't
back.
It was after six by then, so I went out with the dog to the Cholera Pit. No sign of
the cat. We came back in and had our supper. Still no cat. The window was open and
it was freezing outside; there were fireworks going off everywhere, more of them it
seemed than on bonfire night. I was feeling increasingly anxious, and kept thinking
about The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, but not in a good way. I wrote and posted
yesterday's blog. I refiled my hard drive. I read some more Beckett. Still no cat. I felt
guilty about the bad thoughts I think about the cat when he is annoying. I felt guilty I
hadn't thought of him once while we were up at my dad's house under all those
blankets. Then I felt guilty I hadn't even mentioned the cat in this blog yet, so I
found a photo of him and I was going to post it under the title 'come back cat, all is
forgiven'. But at that point I heard a 'meh meh meh' at the window and there he was,
in all his gingerness. He came in and I gushed and picked him up and gave him a big
hug. The cat purred and rubbed his face against mine, and then bit me. The dog
rolled his eyes and groaned.
Lately, I sometimes find myself getting this overwhelming feeling of being at
home, and when the cat came back last night was one of those times. I wouldn't
want to live anywhere else but here, with anyone else but the dog and the cat, doing
anything else but this. He tried, but for the past nine years he has lived here I don't
think my dad ever truly felt like that about anywhere or anyone or anything in
Britain. I hope when he goes back to Japan, he finds a place he can call home.
24th November 2007
the long walk home
For some reason there was a mix-up with the dates, and my dad didn't go back to
Japan last week. His flight is on Monday. His flight is on Monday, but he will not be
flying.
After supper on Thursday night, my dad had a seizure. He fell off the chair he was
sitting on and hit his head. He was rushed into hospital. He was conscious at the
time, but when he started fitting again they anaesthetised him. The scan of his head
showed he'd had another brain haemorrhage, a year and a half after the last one.
They weren't going to operate this time.
By the time my brother and I got there, my dad was on a ventilator, and hooked
up to an array of drips and monitoring machines. The hospital let me phone Japan,
and I spoke to his oldest sister. She was going to cycle over to the temple straight
away to pray like she did last time. I sat up with my dad all night in ICU, holding his
hand. Sometimes he squeezed my hand, and sometimes he looked as though he was
starting to come round. When he did that one of the nurses came over to top up his
anaesthetic.
I'm not religious so I didn't pray, but I spoke to my dad inside my head. I talked to
him about the last time we went to Japan together. It was in the late spring over four
years ago, and we were supposed to be going to the wedding of one of my cousins.
The week before, my dad told me he wasn't going to let me go. I was skinny and
funny in my head at the time, and I got the impression he was embarrassed for the
rest of the family to see me that way. So he was going to go to the wedding by
himself, and I was going to hang around in Osaka.
I was furious with him, and at the airport and on the flight over I didn't speak a
word. We stayed in a hotel in Tennoji the first night we got to Japan, and I went
straight to my room. I was moving my stuff over to a youth hostel in Nagai the
following evening.
In the morning the phone rang and my dad said he was taking me out for
breakfast. I was completely vegan back then, and he said he wanted to show me the
kind of things I could eat. I said I could figure that much out for myself, thanks, but
he said, 'Please,' which wasn't like him, so in the end I agreed.
We went to Yoshinoya and he bought me natto (fermented soybeans) and rice. He
asked me what I was doing that day, and I said I was going to go for a walk. 'I don't
have anything to do, so I'll come with you,' he said. 'Whatever,' I said and he
followed me out of the shop.
I walked extremely fast in those days and I stormed from Tennoji up to Umeda. I
looked back a few times and my dad was trailing behind, struggling to keep up. At
Umeda I went into a bookshop and bought a pile of books while my dad smoked
outside. When I came out I started walking again, and my dad followed.
When we got to Osaka Castle my dad called my name and said, 'Hey, can we stop?
Please, can we sit down?' We had been walking for hours by then. We stopped and
sat down on a bench opposite the moat.
My dad talked about when he worked in Brooklyn when he was my age, twenty
seven. He talked about how he used to walk the streets by himself. He had a few
Jewish friends and he talked about them. He said he used to eat bagels all the time.
He asked me if I like bagels. They're OK, I said.
We went to another shop and my dad bought me some warabi mochi, which is a
kind of seasonal sweet somehow made from bracken that you dip in this yellow
powder made from soy beans. It sounds disgusting, but it really isn't. After that my
dad went to ride the subway back to Tennoji, and I resumed my walk.
My dad went to the wedding, and I spent the rest of the week mostly walking and
taking photographs. We met again at the airport. He brought me a bag full of
presents from my cousins and aunts. On the flight home I listened to him talking
about other things he remembered from when he was my age. When we landed in
Britain, I went back to my life, and he went back to his. I don't recall seeing him
again for almost two years. It has only been over the last few years that we have
become close. Then he got sick and now this has happened and I was afraid I was
never going to see him again.
When you wake up, Papa, I said to him in ICU, please remember who you are.
Whatever else happens, I thought, it might be shit, but I'm sure things will work out,
as long as you can be who you're supposed to be, if only inside your head.
25th November 2007
i remember osaka, 2003
It's strange what you remember at times like this. After I wrote what I wrote
yesterday, I dug out the negatives from that trip to Osaka four years ago. I took a lot
of photos over there. As I've been scanning a few and getting rid of the worst of the
scratches and dust, I have remembered all kinds of things.
For instance I remember now why I signed up for that photography course. It was
because of these photos. They were the first ones I took with the Nikon FM2. Up
until then if I ever wanted to take photos of something, I bought a disposable
camera. I had no idea what I was doing with the FM2. I vaguely focused and fiddled
with the shutter speed and aperture until the light meter said '0' rather than plus or
minus. It all seemed a bit too much like hard work at the time, I seem to recall. I'm
not sure why I bought black and white film. It was probably the mood I was in. I
remember I couldn't find anywhere to get it processed in Osaka.
But back in Britain, when I got the prints back from the lab, I remember thinking
the photos looked cool. I still do. I doubt I'd have the courage to take photos like
these anymore. I had a lot of nerve, I think, pointing my camera at strangers like
that. Or maybe I just didn't give a shit. But anyway, that's why I signed up for the
photography course. I wanted to learn how to use my manual camera properly. One
thing I notice I learned on the course is how to hold the camera straight. Almost all
the Osaka photos lean to one side. I also learned that it's much more fun processing
my own images rather than leaving it up to the lab.
As for the camera, I remember now where that came from, too. My dad bought it
for me when I graduated from university in 1998. He still lived in Osaka then, and I
went over to visit. I hadn't been to Japan for ten years, and I had rarely seen my dad
for nearly as long. I remember we went to a camera shop in Shinsaibashi. My dad
wanted to buy me an automatic SLR like the one he had, but when I saw the FM2, a
heavy, clunky brick of a thing with a few dials that goes 'thunk' when you press the
shutter release, I asked if I could have that one instead. 'Why?' my dad asked. 'Do you
know how to use it?' I don't know, I said, and no, but I'll figure it out. It wasn't for
another five years that I began to try.
So photography is something else I owe to my dad. My dad is awake now. He
knows who we are, but he is going through his own private hell at the moment, and
he isn't ready to let anyone in yet. I can only hope the day will come soon when I
can tell him about the things I remember, and how grateful I am for not just the
camera, but everything.
3rd December 2007
smoking, new mobile phone, the shipping forecast
My dad was discharged from hospital on Wednesday. He was meant to stay in for
longer, but to cut a long story short the people who were 'taking care' of him ran out
of patience with him, and we ran out of patience with them. It was unpleasant and it
was sad. When I think about it now, more than anything I feel sorry for the doctors
and nurses, I mean the ones who clearly hate their jobs. It must be hell for them to
have to get up in the morning (or evening) and go to work. I guess the only way they
can deal with it is to stop thinking about their patients as people.
So anyway we took my dad home, or at least to the rented place my mum moved
into after their old house sold. The plan was for her to live there while she decided
where she wanted to go next. My dad would have been back in Japan for a week by
now, of course. My brother and his girlfriend have problems of their own at the
moment, so I have moved in with my parents for the time being, to keep my dad
company. The dog has gone to stay with my friend, and her dog, who is my dog's
best friend. The people where I work were going to look after the cat for me, but my
brother couldn't figure out how to get him into his basket (it turned out my brother
was trying to get him into the litter tray, don't ask), so the cat is flat-sitting on his
own instead. My brother has been coming over to feed him and let him in and out.
Mostly, in the suburb of a suburb of a town that hovers on the border of North
Wales and England, I have been eating too much. I have started smoking again. I
have been listening to the wind and the cows. I have been reading. I can't get on the
internet on my computer, which is good in a way, because it means I have started
working on issue two of The Elephant Returns. The internet is great, but it is also
very distracting. Another distracting thing is Heroes. One of the nice grumpy old
men at work has put a few episodes on a DVD for me, and in between everything
else I have been catching up with season two. I noticed while I was watching episode
seven that my new mobile phone seems to be a much lower tech version of the one
that Claire (Bear) has. That only makes it worse, as far as I'm concerned. My old
phone had a difficult temperament and it only worked if you beat it into submission,
and one day last week I hit it too hard and it died of concussion. My brother bought
me a shiny new one from Tesco. It is bright pink, which my brother seems to find
very funny. I don't. Still, at four-thirty in the morning on Thursday and Friday, it
reliably got me out of my makeshift bed of two pushed-together armchairs to catch
the train to work, with its extremely loud and annoying ringtone, ironically entitled
Moving Train. It also has a radio, so I listened to the shipping forecast while I was
waiting for said train to the landlocked metropolis where I earn a living for the dog,
the cat and me. Friday was a bad day for gales at Dogger, Fisher and German Bight.
I am on holiday this week. I know, I was only on holiday last month, but I like to
take the bulk of my holiday towards the end of the year, much to the vexation of the
chief grumpy old man. I have come back to the flat today because I have a dentist's
appointment later. I thought about cancelling it, but one of my teeth has been
hurting for months, so I suppose I'd better have something done about it. Not that
anything will get done today. Today I expect will be for prodding and poking and
cataloguing my teeth, not to mention my fillings. I have more fillings than teeth.
The cat seems pleased to see me. He'd put one of my bobbles in the bath and
peed on it. Maybe my brother didn't let him out in time, maybe he was just angry
with me. He won't use the litter tray. The litter tray was the other cat's, and he hated
that cat. I am suspicious he was responsible in some way for her unsolved
disappearance. I'm amazed my brother lived to tell the tale of his vain attempt to
push the ginger one into that litter tray. I miss the dog. The cat is almost unbearable
without him.
7th December 2007
once upon a time in wakayama
My dad was born in 1947 in Japan, in a rice farming district outside Wakayama
city. His family was poor; he had a strict father but a liberal mother, and three older
sisters. He graduated technical high school, managed to get a job in an electronics
firm in Osaka, and in 1969 he was transferred to New York. That was where he met
my mum (my mum is from New Zealand), and that was where my brother and I were
born.
Until recently, I didn't know much more about my dad when he was younger. We
didn't get on very well when I was growing up, so mostly I didn't know any more
because I didn't want to know. After my dad had his first brain haemorrhage last
year, I went up to his room and found a wooden Suntory whiskey box full of old
black and white photographs. All of the photographs were taken before he left
Wakayama almost forty years ago, at the age of twenty-one. I had never seen them
before. In the photographs, my dad was strikingly handsome. He looked almost
exactly like my brother did not so long ago. My dads eyes were lucid, without a
trace of the weariness or anger I had always known. There were images of my dad in
his student uniform complete with cap, surrounded by innumerable friends on his
graduation trip to Nara. In others he was leaning against a wall with his sisters,
hugging his pet dog, lounging in the sun, or posing on his motorbike in a denim
jacket and traditional wooden clogs. He was laughing in most of the photographs.
Even when he was drunk, I had rarely seen my father laugh. I had certainly never
seen him laugh before with a mischievous look in his eyes.
My Japanese grandmother was standing in the background of a few of the

photographs taken outside the house in Wakayama. Her hair was jet black and she
wore simple kimonos that were captured in various shades of grey. She looked on
serenely from the shadows as my dad enjoyed the limelight. I could see my dad in
her face for the first time. Before, I had never been able to find him there.
This past week, my dad has been doing a lot better. He seems almost like his old
self - I don't mean how he was just over two weeks ago before he had his second
brain haemorrhage; in a strange way, he seems young again somehow, the way he
was in these photographs. We were looking through them together the other day,
and he told me all kinds of stories from back then. I had a revelation this week that,
really, I'm not so different from my dad. When he told me about a road trip he went
on with one of his friends, for instance, I remembered the time my best friend and I
hitch-hiked to Amsterdam. My dad nearly amputated his little finger once during a
rice harvest, and that reminded me of the time I was kicked in my head by a horse in
my final year at college; we both have the scars to prove it. My dad found his first
dog wandering around in the middle of a road. I found mine and took him home
after he was hit by a car. And my grandmother used to protect my dad from my
grandfather, in much the same way that she protected me from my dad during the
five years I lived in the house in Wakayama. It was my grandmother that bought my
dad his motorbike. She didn't buy me a motorbike, but in a community where being
different was frowned upon, she let me be myself. I didn't realise until I was much
older, but even after we moved away to Britain when I was ten, she was always a part
of me.
My dad is a part of me, too; it has taken me a long time to get to know him, but
now that I have, I wouldn't want him to be anyone else. Above everything, my dad
taught me not to have any regrets, and I am relieved that he doesn't have any, either,
in spite of all that's happened.
11th December 2007

bagpuss, stoicism, the dog returns
I have a hot water bottle with a big furry Bagpuss cover, which [speaks if you
squeeze it really hard.] When the alarm went off this morning I squeezed it really
hard and it bit me. I was confused until I realised it wasn't Bagpuss I was cuddling. I
was in fact cuddling the real cat, the evil ginger pissing-on-my-bobbles-in-the-bath
one. It is unusual to find the cat in bed with me when I wake up. I suppose he was
there this morning because the dog wasn't around to keep him warm. It is bloody
freezing today.
I moved back into my little flat at the end of last week, but the dog didn't come
home till today. It has been sad here without him, but I don't think the dog has
missed me much. He's had a great almost two weeks with my friend and her dog.
He came bounding into the staff room this morning with a great big smile on his
face. 'Hey,' I said, and he looked at me like, 'Oh hello, it's you,' and jumped around a
bit, before rushing off to greet the rest of his friends. I like to think he was at least a
little pleased to see me. The coolest thing about the dog is how cool he is.
I am not nearly as cool as the dog. I started taking antibiotics for my tooth
yesterday, and it hurts much less now most of the time. As long as I don't eat or
drink, the pain is relatively low-grade and grumbly in a slowly-wearing-you-down
kind of way, which is much better than the machine-gun-fire, eating-you-alive-fromwithin variety. I'm starving, though. It is torture watching people at work stuffing
their faces with mince pies and biscuits and chocolate and things. I am having
mashed potatoes for tea tonight. I tried to have some soup for lunch but like an idiot
I bought sweet potato and sweetcorn chowder, whose chilli content meant I
managed all of three spoonfuls.
I don't know what I'm moaning about. I've eaten enough food in the last few
months to keep me going for at least another two weeks, and my appointment with
the dentist is only ten days away. And besides, there are much worse things than
toothache. The dog and I took some flowers over to my brother and his girlfriend's
flat today. I can't begin to imagine what it must be like to have to say goodbye to
someone you love who you haven't even had a chance to meet yet, and I'm sure
having other people telling you how they think you should feel doesn't help in the
slightest. I spoke briefly to my brother outside, and it struck me that he has always
been the stoic one. His and his girlfriend's pain and sadness is infinitely more sad
and painful than mine, and I really have no right to complain.
11th January 2008
enormous changes at the last minute
I haven't written for ages, but since last week a ridiculous amount of stuff has
been happening.
Since the end of November, when my dad had his second brain haemorrhage a
few days before he was finally, after a long, long wait of a year and a half, supposed
to be going home to Japan, I have been thinking about how I might go back, too. My
dad will have to wait at least another six months now before he can try again, but
when he does, I'd like to be there for him. I just hope that isn't too little, too late.
I haven't lived in Japan for twenty-three years. I kind of speak Japanese; I can read
and write it much better. But the main problem is I work in a field that is almost
completely alien to Japanese society at large. I believe in things that the vast majority
of Japanese people don't.
I think I've mentioned that I like what I do. I find the thought of going back to
Japan and starting again - doing something completely different, trying to fit in extremely depressing. I spent most of Christmas and New Year lying in bed and
staring at the ceiling. Quietly, I've wanted to go back to Japan off and on for a while.
But until recently I have always dismissed the idea, because I thought it would be
impossible to go back and be who I am. And then there's the dog, of course. I didn't
think I could bring myself to leave the dog behind. But since the end of November,
like it or not, I haven't been able to dismiss going back to Japan, because this isn't
just about me anymore. Sitting in ICU with your dad and being told he might not
wake up again changes a lot of things.
But I think I might have found a way to go back and maybe make a difference,
maybe even be happy. Hopefully, the dog could come, too. I sent my CV to a place
in Osaka on Tuesday night, and since Wednesday there have been emails and
telephone calls, the upshot of which is I am flying out to Japan for ten days next
month to see if things might work out. Nothing is certain yet. It all sounds too good
to be true, and I am waiting for the catch. But as someone I know pointed out to me
the other day, maybe I deserve a little bit of good luck after all the bad stuff that's
happened over the last seven years. I don't know if such a thing as luck really exists,
and if it does I'm not sure I deserve it, but I hope they're right.
Anyway, until I go next month, I'm going to try not to think about Japan too
much. I'm going to read The Three Musketeers, get issue two of The Elephant
Returns published, and start preparing my entries for the 7th Shizuoka International
Translation Competition. I'm going to go to work, and try to be normal - I'm going to
try not to be too happy or too sad.
hurt
november/december 2011
The ice cream van has been equipped for the expedition. New winter tyres, a
present from The Colonel; a sleeping bag and blankets, courtesy of omg; a small
gas-burning stove, supplies of coffee and instant noodles. Dog food. Music. Maps.
She checks everything once more, tightening a strap here, making sure that bundle
is secure: a knight making sure of her steed before she sets off. She climbs into the
drivers seat. Her squire, Taro, waits for her patiently on the passengers side.
Thats it, Sancho. Let the wild sheep chase begin.
Tongue hanging out, Taro grins. The key is turned, music starts playing, the van is
backed onto the road, the quest is begun!
They will be going on a thousand mile journey to Kushiro in search of a UFO.32
Her brother and sister-in-law have left, and returned to Britain. Her father is finally
and fully settled in his new house - he has returned to his beginnings, the house
where he grew up. She has attended her friends wedding, attired in unfamiliar
finery. She has, for now at least, caught up with her responsibilities at work.
She has worked hard to create this space for herself, and for this brief time, she is
free.
The van shudders to a halt. The ignition is turned off, and the engine pings quietly
as it cools. She reaches across to give the dashboard an affectionate pat. The trusty
ice cream van has done well - they have travelled more than a hundred miles - but
the journey has barely begun. There is still a long way to go.
They have left behind the sprawling city and the mountain village where she lives.
The Meishin Expressway took them past Kyoto, then past the south shore of Lake
Biwa, where they briefly joined the Tokaido, the ancient road that connected Kyoto
with Edo. The Tokaido continues along the eastern coast of Honshu: to Nagoya, and
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U.F.O. in Kushiro, Haruki Murakami (translation by Jay Rubin published in The New Yorker, 28th March,
2011 http://archives.newyorker.com/?i=2011-03-28#folio=092)
Shizuoka, past Mount Fuji, Yokohama and finally Tokyo; but she has chosen a
different route, one which avoids Sendai.
She and Taro have arrived in Tsuruga, on the Sea of Japan. Here, they will rest
briefly, before hitting the road again.
Ive put a lot into coming to Japan, you know. It took two years of studying to
pass those fucking exams. Ive left everything behind - my job, my friends, my home but now Im finally here.
Her brother nods. They are sitting on the balcony of her new house. She has lived
here for only two months, but it feels longer.
She is calmer, today. The rage that had exploded at her fathers apartment last
night has quieted, but is still simmering. Thinking about the hot and fiery words she
and her father had thrown at each other makes her shake. She wants to ask her
brother for one of his cigarettes, but ruthlessly quashes that thought. Theres no
sense in giving herself more reason to be disgusted at herself.
I know papas been through a lot. I know that hes worried about me, and wants
to help me fit in here. He thinks I might be making mistakes. I know Im not
Japanese, not really.
But Ive got to do things my own way. I cant do it any other way. And they
wouldnt have hired me if they had wanted a Japanese vet.
She sighs. It is not her brothers fault, not really. It never is, she thinks. Except
that, ever since she can remember, he has not been able to do anything wrong in
their parents eyes. Their father is so excited by the brief visit her brother is making.
She wonders why she cannot make their father so happy so easily.
You know, a few weeks ago, me and papa were talking about when we all first
moved from Japan to Britain - 1985, I think it was. Do you remember? After a few
years, you told papa that you didnt want to carry on at Japanese school. He was so
upset - he was furious! You got your way, though; you dropped out. He forgave you
eventually - he respected your decision, I guess. But I dont think he ever stopped
feeling disappointed.
Do you know what he said, a few weeks ago? He asked me if I remembered how I
dropped out of Japanese school. He asked me if I remembered how angry he was
with me! I thought he was joking, at first. But he wasnt. He wasnt joking at all.
She wakes from her shallow sleep. For a moment, she does not know where she
is; it is a dark, cramped space, the walls close around her. She thrashes the blanket
off her and scrambles up, bangs her head, panicking, and nearly shrieks as Taro
starts up beside her. His warm, reliable presence is a relief. Of course. They are
sleeping in the back of the van.
She checks her watch. It is nearly one oclock in the morning. Out of habit, she
reaches for her phone to see if there are any emails from work; but she stops herself.
Even if there is an emergency, she is not going back. Perhaps Ill never go back, she
thinks. The thought is liberating.
She feels wrung out, and almost imperceptibly lighter. She splashes some water
from a bottle on her face, and pours the rest into a bowl for Taro. When he has
finished drinking, he cocks his head at her inquisitively.
Yeah. Lets carry on a bit further.
She is sitting in her fathers apartment. It is a wide space, in an exclusive and
expensive area north of Osaka. Her father chose this apartment after much
deliberation. A broad, clean river flows through the centre of the town, with carefully
tended peach trees and flower beds lining the banks. Her fathers apartment is
halfway up a steep hill, about fifteen minutes walk from the station. Her father
struggles with the daunting steps that climb from the river to his apartment; he
usually prefers to take the more gentle road which circles up. The apartment is
worth the climb, though. It is quiet and still, and the balcony offers both a wonderful
view of the town, and a cool breeze.
The apartment is not far from the place where she hopes to be working soon.
Equally important, there are several large communities of English speakers nearby.
She finishes typing on her laptop and posts another entry on the new blog she has
started. One good thing about waiting, she thinks to herself: at least she has plenty
of time to spend on photography and writing, knitting and running. The last year
has been devoted entirely to study, but that is over now. She can only wait for the
results of the grueling exams she took at the beginning of the month.
What will I do if I havent passed? There will be no easy way to return, or to move
forward.
She wants a cigarette.
Firmly, she stops herself from thinking. She decides she will continue working on
the knitted Dalek she wants to send to her friend in Canada. Her friends due date is
not until October, so she still has lots of time; but making a Dalek is a deceptively
complicated business.
She has started a new row when her father calls out. There is something in his
voice which makes her panic. She rushes into the living room where he is sitting at
his computer.
Papa? Whats the matter?
Wordless now, he gestures at the screen. It is a short email from her mother, just a
few lines. She has finally made her decision: she will not be moving to Japan.
It is a sullen morning. The sun is rising reluctantly, the light furtively revealing
grey clouds.
Taro is snuffling in the undergrowth bordering the truck stop where they pulled
in an hour ago. She keeps an eye on him, ready with a poo bag. She stretches the
kinks out of her tired shoulders as she waits.
When Taro is ready, they climb back into the van. She thinks about making a
coffee and some breakfast, but decides to join the expressway before it is clogged
with commuters. There are still many miles to go.
Before she rejoins the expressway, she chooses some new music for the new day.
She is sitting in another car, in another parking lot, on the other side of the world
and a thousand years ago. Her brother has gone into the supermarket to buy some
cigarettes, leaving her and Pek Wan to wait. This is the first time that she has met Pek
Wan, even though her brother has been seeing her for nearly a year. She has not
wanted to meet her, and has not wanted to get involved.
Her brother is being selfish, even by his standards. Their father is agitated, and
desperate to return to Japan. Their mother is equally desperate not to return. In the
meantime, her brother is pursuing what he wants; which would not be so bad, if he
is able to support himself and Pek Wan, if their father can be confident that his son
knows what he is doing. In truth, no one is sure that her brother knows what he is
doing; not even, she suspects, her brother himself.
It must be difficult, with your parents in Malaysia, and ours about to go off god
knows where.
Pek Wan looks sad. My sisters talking about going back to Malaysia as well. She
doesnt much like it over here.
Do you like it here?
Im not sure. Sometimes. But sometimes your brother can be a not very nice
person.
She doesnt know what to say to that, so she just nods. Everyone seems lost, being
helplessly pulled apart by their own currents. What are they waiting for? Do they
expect her to do something? What can she do? She knows the life she wants to lead,
but it is taking all her energy to keep her own head out of the water. She is looking
for her own answers, her own balance. But it seems that the people around her - her
family - expect more from her. They are struggling, and their struggles are a riptide,
sucking her out to sea, away from the haven she is trying to create. Once again, more
is being demanded of her.
He can be difficult. It seems everyone in our family is difficult, in our own special
ways. If theres anything I can do, though, please dont be afraid to ask.
They have been driving for more than five hours. The day has brightened a little,
but the heavy grey clouds form a low ceiling which leaches colour and life from the
landscape. The expressway is monotonous; it follows the coast, passes around cities
and towns and villages where people are leading the lives that have been chosen for
them. She could be driving anywhere. The road is as anonymous as she is, as
constricted and hemmed in as her life has become. There is no respite. What efforts
we make to take charge of our lives, she thinks. And after all the effort that we put
forth, does anything ever really change, in even the smallest way?
She is lost. She keeps her eyes open for a sign - she knows they have passed
Niigata, but doesnt know where she should be driving next.
The next sign they pass is for a small town called Murakami.
What do you know, Taro? We are on the right road after all!
They stand on the cliffs high above the sea. They have passed Murakami - a
nothing kind of place out of an old-school Haruki story. She has left something
behind there. She feels as if she can stand straight and breathe easily once again.
Perhaps somewhere behind her is a Marisa-shaped cocoon, the husk of all the
responsibilities and cares and worries and burdens that she had not even realised
she was carrying.
Taro sits patiently beside her as she stares out across the sea. The sun breaks
through the clouds.33
She continues driving. Route 7 takes them past Tsuruoka and Sakata; then, leaving
the coast for Hirosaki, a brief rest (more than six hundred miles covered) followed
by a dash to Aomori to catch the ferry. She and Taro disembark at Hakodate - they
have arrived on Hokkaido at last. I might be wrong, but the sky seems higher, the
roads wider, and everything is slower and goes on forever in Hokkaido.
Time stretches. She drives past nondescript towns where nobody goes. The roads
are wide, the sides marked by arrows to guide drivers through the deep winter snow.
They gaze at the shadows cast by clouds on mountains. They stop to sleep, or walk
on beaches, the urgency of the mainland falling away, until finally they arrive at
Kushiro, forty eight hours and nearly a thousand miles from Osaka. It is dark when
they get there, and they find a place to park, and wait for the dawn.
Snuggled up in the sleeping bag, she checks her watch. The hands are not
moving. She smiles. Time really has stopped here. Her eyes close, and she sleeps.
33
http://twitpic.com/7c0k1w
In the morning, a U.F.O. lands in Kushiro.34

On the drive back, time speeds up once again. Like a ball that has been thrown
up, she has reached the limit of her flight. Now gravity takes hold, and is pulling her
back to the life she left behind. The real world comes rushing back at her with each
reluctant mile that she retraces.
She is not the same. She has rediscovered who she is and where she is going. She
drives past Iwate, Miyagi, Fukushima; there are no words, but she will continue to
do her small part to rebuild, with all the energy she can muster, because it is work
worth doing. She has a place, and a job to do.
She looks up from the dog that has been brought into the clinic. It is a stray that
roamed the hills. It has been caught in a trap set out for wild boars.
Since coming back from Hokkaido more than three weeks ago, Marisa has thrown
herself back into her work. It does not seem possible, but the stream of animals
being recovered from Fukushima and Sendai is finally slowing. It does not seem
possible, but she can almost see a time when the kennels at the shelter are not
overflowing, when the work that was being carried out before the quake can be
picked up once again. Maybe Ill even get a day off this week.
There is no way to save the leg, and it must be amputated. But it is a feral dog,
unused to human contact. If the shock of the operation does not kill it, it must be
given time to recuperate in the sanctuary before being released or re-homed. She
explains this to the boss, who reluctantly nods in agreement. Preparations are made
for the procedure.
Despite her renewed belief in the value of what she is doing, Marisa has been
determined not to once again lose herself completely in the demands of work. She
has run a marathon. She has spent more nights with friends, at the treehouse with
omg and late nights in izakaya with the boy band. She has found the time to help
her father with his pension application. She has planned a trip to Okinawa with her
best friend when he comes to visit in the new year. She hopes that she will be able to
34
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find the time to read, and perhaps translate some short stories. There is a Murakami
story that has not been translated into English, and she wonders if she can send it to
her brother in time for Christmas.
Hokkaido has reminded her how tightly she must cling to herself, how important
it is to be able to have her own space to be herself, even if only within her own
mind.
The operation is complete. The dog is still unconscious, but is breathing
comfortably. So far, the prognosis is positive, but it will be a lengthy rehabilitation.
Marisa. It is the boss. Theres been a slight change in plan. Weve decided that
we dont really have enough space to justify keeping the dog here. Well be releasing
it tomorrow...
It is Saturday, the 10th of December. She is talking to her brother on Skype.
Hey Chumpsey, how you doing?
Yeah, alright, you know, same old same old...how 'bout you?
Had a really shit week, which has finished with me handing in my notice. Just
back home now, and I'll be working there for another month, after that I'll be a free
woman.
Jesus, really? How come? What happened?
Well, it's a long story, and I don't really want to go into it now. Basically, it's all
over with the job now, though. I'm gonna work there until 10th January, then...well,
I dunno. I'll have to look for a place to live first.
Was it your boss? Has she gone off on one again?
Yeah, a bit...she went back on what she said she would do, and she's doing
something that I can't agree with, and don't want any part of. She didn't fire me, but
I can't carry on working for her, or have my name associated with the place.
You're standing up for your professional ethics, huh. That sounds like you. Is it
gonna be a busy month?
Nah, actually, I seem to have finally gotten on top of the work; there aren't nearly
as many dogs coming in from Fukushima, and it's probably going to be an almost
eerily quiet month after the madness this year. Seriously, it's just been non-stop...a
few people at work have been saying that I look really unhealthy - I think I've lost
too much weight again, and I'm just incredibly tired...
MS?
To be honest, I'm not sure. I might have had a relapse, but I think I'm too tired
to notice.
Jesus. Fucking hell. Well, it sounds like you've got to stop, argument or not. It's
great that you've finished the work - I don't think anyone else could have done it but enough is enough, right?
Yeah...I'm worried about what's gonna come when I stop working; I think my
ego's writing cheques that my body just can't cash to quote Top Gun...I think I'm
gonna crash, badly.
Have you thought about what you want to do?
No, not really, not yet. There's no way I'm going to Kawanabe. I think I'd just go
nuts there, Jim; and I think Id drive papa nuts as well. There's a guy at work - The
Colonel - who says he's going to help me find a flat; and I had some scary suit from
this ultra-modern private practice come and headhunt me last month...but Ive got
no interest in working in the private sector again.
Where do you want to go?
Well, I was thinking of Hokkaido. It's just beautiful there. I can see myself living
in a shack on a beach somewhere, a million miles from anyone, just me and Taro. I
think I'm finished with veterinary now; maybe I could do some translation, and do
some of my own writing as well.
That sounds...
Alternative? Radical? Crazy? Unrealistic?
I'll go for 'alternative'...and a bit crazy, but in a good way. Seriously, if there's
anyone who deserves to just do what makes you happy, it's you. Papa's finally living
with family, so you don't need to worry about checking up on him, and at least
you've got a hopefully quiet month and you can think about what you want, right?
...yeah...
Hey, your best friend is coming over to Japan soon, right?
Yeah, he's coming in January, 10 days after I stop at ARK.
You're going to Okinawa, right?

Yeah...yeah, I'm really looking forward to it. I haven't seen him in ages. I wish he
was coming now - a month seems like such a long time - but I can't wait to see him
again.
She talks to her brother and Pek Wan for over an hour. It is good to hear their
voices. They are shocked by what has happened and seem unsure what to say, but
she is able to make them both laugh a little, and lets them make her laugh. Before
she ends the Skype call, she tells them that she will catch up on all of the gossip
from Britain next week.
This is the last time she will speak to them.
dog days are over

november 2008 - january 2010
The house had not been loved for a long time. Its crumbling brickwork spoke of
neglect and decay; it looked tired and worn out. The large garden in the back had
become common ground, the fences fallen away long ago. Scattered in the tall grass,
the flotsam of abandoned lives: magazines, needles, a rusted trampoline.
Even with all the lights on, the interior remained dim and murky. Shadows
breathed in the corners of the rooms. The windows must have been placed with
careful precision, so that only the minimal amount of sunlight could enter. The
carpets were threadbare, with stains and scars showing evidence of spills and
mishaps. Entering the bathroom, it was possible to commune with nature; the
bottom of one wall had fallen away, providing a direct and convenient passage to
and from the garden for the various denizens of the house. Behind the cabinets of
the kitchen, the skittering of small clawed feet spoke of less obvious thoroughfares.
Although the house had been abandoned by people, others had claimed it as their
own.
The stairs to the first floor were solid, but it was not recommended to rely on the
balustrade. There were three rooms on the first floor. The middle room was mostly
sound, with just a few patches of mold staining one corner. The floor of the smallest
room, suspended over the arched passage which led from the street to the garden,
was falling away, allowing a clear view of anyone passing below. It was really nothing
like A Floating Castle in the Sky, but that became its name.
The final bedroom, the biggest, was an impressive space, and the only room in the
whole house which received some sunlight for most of the day - although the view of
the street below could hardly be called inspiring. The eye was drawn to the small
surgery across the road, with its dauntingly high fence topped with barbed wire and
security cameras, and then up to the distant skyline. The buildings of the grey citys
centre were familiar, yet oddly alien from this angle. The house was in the same city;
but it was like visiting a different world.
In addition to the view, the large room boasted another feature: a small walk-in
annex, that could be used as a wardrobe, or even converted to a dark room. The
positive effect was spoiled, though, by the tortured Polish writing etched through the
faded and peeling wallpaper. It wasnt necessary to understand the language to
decipher the writing on that wall. Every letter, scrawled with deep, angular strokes,
spoke of anger, and frustration, and despair.
I think this is the best place weve seen, said my sister afterwards.
We had visited several other places already, and, for one reason or another, we
had ruled out all of them. Too small, too expensive, intimidating neighbourhoods,
too far from the train station, impossible for the dog and the cat. But surely this
couldnt be the best place for us?
Its going to take a bit of work, for sure. But it could be a really nice house again
if we fix it up. Strip the wallpaper and carpets, fill in the holes, paint the walls and
sand the floors, clear the garden... well probably need to hire a skip, but we can
definitely do it. Anyway, it wont be for long, just over a year, and then well leave.
She was enthusiastic. Shed visited her best friend earlier in the year, and had
helped him renovate his new house. She was confident, and wanted to use what she
had learned working with her friend. She saw the vision of what the house could be;
the fact that it would take months of work only added to the value of her dream.
Most of all, though, she was desperate. She wanted to move out of the small, neat
apartment where she had lived with the dog and the cat for more than seven years.
She wanted to move as soon as possible, rather than continue to watch her world
fall apart around her. Her new neighbour, who had bought the apartment above hers
three months ago, had ripped apart and trampled over her carefully tended
sanctuary. My sister described her as a one-woman stomping herd of screaming
asthmatic chain-smoking elephants, who frequently unleashed dense clouds of air
freshener on her unhygienic neighbours. I pictured my sister and the dog huddled
in an apartment that had become a bunker, uncertain when the next bombardment
would arrive.
Often, at three or four oclock in the morning, my sister would be woken by her
neighbour screaming and screaming and screaming something that sounded like
Hygiene! Hygiene! Hygiene!
It was galling for her to realise again just how fragile her world was. But maybe it
was for the best. If things went according to the plan she had made, she would soon
be leaving the grey city completely, and starting a new life in Japan. She would have
to start saying goodbye sooner or later.
Leaving her flat felt like a commitment. She was striking out for new land,
determined to carve a new path. She would burn the ship which had carried her so
far, so there would be no temptation to try to return to a past that no longer existed.
Pek Wan and I let ourselves be carried along by her energy. After all, she was doing
this to help us as well.
In November, my sister, the cat and the dog moved into the crumbling house. A
week later, Pek Wan and I, married for two months, followed after them.
We never met the landlord. He was a mysterious figure, described as having a
difficult life, troubled by alcohol and depression. His brother acted as his emissary to
the outside world, attending to his various properties and investments.
The brother was at the house when Pek Wan and I arrived in the morning with our
van-load of possessions. He was talking to my sister in the living room, standing in
the midst of half unpacked boxes and stacks of books. There was nowhere to sit yet.
Nice to meet you guys. So youre moving in with your sister, huh? Thats cool.
Your sisters really cool. Ive just been telling her that any problem, she can phone
me anytime. Ill sort anything out straight away, no worries. My names J, by the way.
Do you guys drink? Fancy going down the pub later on?
He was a slight, short man, who carried himself with a self-conscious swagger. He
was casually dressed, in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt; he wore a baseball cap set
perched on his head at an improbable angle. His hairline was shaved into an almost
painfully sharp line, and descended into a thin and precisely geometrical shape
along his jaw. His movements were odd. He seemed to shift from pose to carefully
staged pose, as if conscious of photographers capturing his every movement. His
eyes darted from face to face to see what effect he was having. He gave off a sense of
carefully repressed energy, and always seemed to be twitching, no matter how still
he held himself.
Cool dog. Looks like he could be useful in a fight, too. Skeeter arched an
expressive eyebrow at him. Just make sure he doesnt make a mess of the house,
hahaha.
We looked around the dilapidated living room, and laughed as well. Skeeter
started twitching in counterpoint to J.
Seriously, my brothers been meaning to do some work on the place, but what
with one thing and another, he hasnt got round to it. The house is a bit run down
now, I suppose, but sos my brother, hahaha! What do you guys do? Hey, do you
wanna go down the pub? Oh, right, youve got to unpack. Well, let me know if you
change your minds. And call me anytime if anything needs to be fixed.
When he left, taking his strange energy with him, Pek Wan, Marisa and I looked at
each other.
So, thats our landlord.
Well, our landlords brother.
Seems nice enough, but theres something about him...
I think Ill call him Jay-Z. He might like that. That was my sister. She was always
renaming people, and the names she chose often turned out to be oddly
appropriate.
Hm. Fancy going down the pub later?
I think Ill pass, thanks. Come on, let's get this room sorted out a bit anyway.
Weve got a lot to do to make this place ours...
By the time the living room was arranged to our satisfaction, it was starting to get
dark outside. We collapsed on the sofa and armchairs that had been donated to us by
Pek Wans friend; my sisters bookshelves were neatly stacked, her unfathomable
categorization system preserved in the move; Skeeter had a bed set up, although he
would always prefer to share the sofa with one of us. And the cat...
Wheres the Captain?
Havent seen him for a bit. I think he went outside this morning.
We trooped out onto the small patio outside the kitchen. The terraced house next
to ours was an abandoned shell, the windows broken or boarded up. The next plot
was solidly fenced; invisible but loudly fierce dogs patrolled the garden. We would
later discover that this was where the family who owned the corner-shop lived, but
we wouldnt find out much more about them. After more than a year, we would be
able to count on one hand the number of words exchanged with the lady behind the
till.
Our garden ran down to an overgrown ditch. Beyond the ditch, there was a small
patch of grassland which bordered an estate of uniform houses.
My sister opened a can of tuna, the sound of which never failed to bring the cat
scampering to her feet. There was no cat that evening. We poked around the garden,
but were wary of wading into the knee-high grass in the failing light, where any
number of shards of metal and glass lurked.
Hell be OK. Hes probably just restless after being cooped up for a week. Hell
be back when he gets hungry.
We filed back inside. We half-watched a film, but mostly made a list of things that
needed to be done in the days and weeks ahead. We glanced out of the window
frequently, hoping to see the familiar slightly rotund ginger shape of the missing
member of our family. When we finally went to bed, though, the cat had not
returned.
That was our first day together in our new home.
Here, take this. My sister handed me a picture of the cat. A photograph she had
taken, it was beautifully framed and composed, the cat looking dignified and
thoughtful. I barely recognised him.
Give them my phone number, and ask if they could give me a call if they happen
to see the cat anywhere. Ill go round the estate; you knock on the doors on our
street.
We met back at the house in the afternoon. We were both tired and discouraged,
and more than a little shaken by our first encounters with our new neighbours. This
was not a particularly welcoming or cosmopolitan area, it seemed. A few people had
promised they would keep their eyes open, though. I had also been offered some
cheap, nearly new mobile phones. My sister had had mixed experiences on the
estate, too.
I met a naked guy. He just opened his front door completely stark bollock naked.
He didnt seem bothered, so it seemed rude to mention it. I told him wed just
moved in and lost the cat, showed him the picture, gave him the number. He was
nice, seemed genuinely concerned - I love cats! he said; actually, he was the nicest
bloke I met. His name was Gavin.
That evening, we unpacked the kitchen utensils. The kitchen was easily twice as
big as the ones we had been used to, and there was plenty of space for everything.
Bit by bit, we were moving into the house, although every day the list of
improvements and repairs that we needed to make grew longer and longer.
Pek Wan cooked for all of us. It was our first meal together in our new home.
Afterwards, we played Scrabble, and waited for the cat to return.
My sister joined me in the garden. I lit a cigarette. We were both wearing old Tshirts and battered jeans, and had splatters of paint and filler on our hands and
arms.
We had gone to a DIY store in town that morning, and were now busy stripping
wallpaper, filling in holes in the plaster, and repainting the upstairs bedrooms. It had
been a relief when the Polish writing was finally removed, the wall sanded smooth,
the curse erased.
Still smoking?
Last few packs. Ill give up when weve settled in, maybe - feel like theres too
much going on to try now. I dont know how you do it. How long is it since you last
smoked?
About three weeks, now. Youve just got to find the right frame of mind, take a
run up, and do it. Thats all there is to it, but its bloody hard to do, sometimes. It
gets easier the more you try, though. After all, whats the worst that can happen?
Nothing, thats what. If you fail, you just carry on smoking. But the thing is, theres
always some reason why its not the right time. I just get fed up with myself,
eventually, and dont accept the excuses I make for myself. She grinned at me. I
should write a book about giving up smoking, sometime. Ive done it often enough.
Dont worry, youll find your way soon enough. She breathed in deeply and
stretched extravagantly. Its nice to be free from cigarettes, to realise that a lot of
what holds you back and chains yourself is just you - the shadows you cast in your
own mind.
I thought about what shed said as I finished my cigarette. She was the most
realistically optimistic person I knew.
As I followed my sister back into the house, ready to resume our attack on the
walls upstairs, I paused. I thought I heard a faint call, and I listened carefully. It came
again, from the derelict house next to ours, a forlorn and lonely cry.
Did you hear that, Marisa?
My sister waited on the patio as I contorted my body around the broken shards of
glass in one of the ground floor windows. Inside, the floors had been partially
stripped, the gas and water pipes visible. The remaining floorboards groaned
alarmingly. I made my way up the skeleton of the staircase, dust cascading down
with every step I took. The layout upstairs was similar to our own house. In one of
the rooms, there were signs of habitation: a sunken armchair and some blankets, a
portable gas burner that had left sooty stains up one wall. There was also a bright
orange shape, slightly slimmer than I remembered.
Meh? said the cat. I looked out of the window and waved down at my sister
standing on the patio below. Then I carefully gathered the cat in my arms and made
my way back down the stairs.
Ugh! What the...! Jameseeey!
It was Pek Wan screaming. She sounded horrified. I rushed downstairs to the
kitchen, and burst onto the scene of a gruesome double murder. Blood pooled on
the floor of the kitchen; in the dim pre-morning light, Pek Wan had stepped in a
puddle. The bodies lay side by side, almost peaceful. Their throats had been ripped
out.
Captain sat on the windowsill, complacently surveying the carnage.
My sister came down the stairs, followed by Skeeter. She took in the scene: Pek
Wans ashen face, my shocked horror, Captains proud satisfaction. She quickly
shoved the curious dog out of the kitchen before he could disturb the bloody
corpses, then grabbed a newspaper and thrust it at me.
Wrap up the bodies. Ill distract the Captain.
She made a fuss over the killer, praising him for his accomplishments, and
promising him a whole tin of tuna for his breakfast. He began to purr loudly,
accepting the admiration and adoration that was his due. He didnt notice as the
bodies were wrapped in newspaper, then bagged in plastic supermarket carriers,
the blood mopped up. By the time he had finished his bowl of tuna, the kitchen had
been restored, the evidence disposed of.
The bodies of the rats were heavy. Each of them were nearly half as big as the cat.
Perhaps, unused to being challenged in their territory, they had grown unwary; they
would be the first casualties of the new order in the house. Captain had arrived, and
he was elevated to a position of respect that he had never before enjoyed.
I like the cat a bit more now, said Pek Wan. But I dont want to see something
like that again - I dont want to step in something like that again. Jamesey, you go
down in the mornings first, and clean up anything thats happened in the kitchen,
OK?
I nodded.
Afterwards, my sister asked, Jamesey? Jamesey? When did you get that name? It
sort of suits you, though. Ill call you Chumpsey from now on. Chumpsey the rat
cleaner.
Protest would be futile. Maybe if I ignored her, shed stop. I kept a dignified
silence. Once again, though, the name my sister chose stuck, until it was difficult to
imagine a more appropriate moniker.
I think I know whos been living in the house next door, said my sister.
We were sitting in the living room. It was late. The most pressing repairs in the
house had been completed, and we were growing accustomed to and almost
comfortable in the house. In less than three weeks, my sister would be travelling to
London to face the first major hurdle in the torturous requirements laid out by the
Japanese Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries: the Japanese Language
Proficiency Test. She had compiled a spreadsheet of the required two thousand
Japanese characters, and had been studying for most of the year; in the last month,
she had been practicing listening and grammar exercises every day.
A man was in the garden today. He banged on the kitchen door, but when I
opened it, he shouted Gazette! Gazette! at me. I had no idea what he meant, so I
just shut the door. He looked a lot like Bob from Twin Peaks.
I made a cup of tea and went up to my floating castle room. When I looked out
of the window, Bob had started a bonfire in the garden. He was burning a load of
the rubbish that was lying around, including two mattresses and the trampoline, and
drinking Special Brew or something.
He didnt seem to be doing any harm, so I left him to it. When he finished, I think
he went into the house next door. Havent seen him since, though.
The next morning, I looked at the charred remains of Bobs bonfire. The
trampoline and mattresses had been scorched and twisted, but not consumed. The
garden looked worse than ever.
The idea had grown. It had been a tentative, flickering dream in January 2008, but
by November it had become a solid resolution; time, research, study and, ultimately,
my sisters future were invested in it.
Marisa had established contact and sent her CV to the Non-Profit Organisation she
had found in Kansai, Japan. The response had been overwhelmingly enthusiastic.
The NPO had been founded and was still run by an English woman, who was
somewhat disparaging of the abilities and ethics of the Japanese vets she had
encountered. The opportunity to employ someone who had trained in London, and
who had spent nearly a decade as a veterinary surgeon for a leading UK veterinary
charity, must have been an almost unbelievable blessing. It is not easy for foreigntrained vets to enter Japan.
She had not lived in Japan for more than twenty three years, but my sister spoke
Japanese; she held a Japanese passport. It was assumed by the NPO that she could
start work almost immediately, and they were eager to meet Marisa as soon as
possible.
My sister arranged a trip to Japan in February. She met vets from private clinics
around Osaka, and was welcomed and encouraged. Many of the clinics were keen to
employ Marisa; there would have been tremendous cachet in having a foreign
trained vet at a clinic.
She was politely noncommittal with the offers. In truth, she had never had much
interest in private practice; as she saw it, the whims of the clients were often put
above the welfare of the animals. Besides, she had been deeply impressed by the
dedication of the volunteers and staff at the NPO; the work that was done there
seemed both vital and worthwhile.
The idea of moving to Japan had taken seed when our father was in the intensive
care unit at the hospital. Along the way, though, it grew into something that Marisa
wanted to do for her own sake too. She had always felt that, at some point, she
would return to Japan, and rediscover the roots she had abandoned. After she came
back from the trip, she wrote I was in a strange place full of strange people and
strange animals, but I felt like I'd come home.
It would not be as straightforward as everyone hoped. The Japanese Ministry of
Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries (MAFF) did not recognise foreign veterinary
qualifications or experience. In order to obtain a Japanese veterinary license, my
sister would have to take a Level 1 Japanese Language Proficiency Test ( JLPT); if she
was successful in that test, she would be allowed to apply for the opportunity to sit
the Japanese Veterinary Exam, an exhaustive series of exams which came at the end
of five years of study. The very earliest that Marisa would be able to work as a vet in
Japan would be in two years.
In December 2008, after we had been living in the house for just under a month,
Marisa went to London to take the JLPT. She was told that the results would be
published in two months.
A Christmas tree had been donated to our house. It had fibre optic lights that
glimmered on and off. Underneath the tree, wrapped and labelled presents had been
artfully stacked. They had already been thoroughly investigated, their contents not
much of a mystery - clothes, CDs and DVDs, chocolate and books. There was a
distinctly bone shaped present, of such size that it could have belonged to a
mastodon, with Skeeters name on it. Brightly coloured cards were displayed on
every available surface.
We had been living in the house for more than a month. The house would never
achieve the potential that my sister had seen in it; the list of problems was neverending. We had managed to make islands of comfort, and were learning to ignore
what could not be addressed. This would be where we would live for the next year,
and, however eccentric or temporary it might be, it was starting to feel like a home.
The dog and the cat were establishing themselves as well. Captain, over his initial
panic at the new environment, continued his nocturnal hunting, aware of the
essential nature of his work. He was developing a conceited attitude, swollen with
pride at his unaccustomed status in the family; but he was kept in check by Skeeter.
When the cat became insufferable - jumping out at us as we walked past, or
knocking things off shelves - Skeeter would sit on him. Skeeter accepted his new
home phlegmatically and stoically - as usual. As Marisa always said, the coolest thing
about the dog is how cool he is.
A week before Christmas, Skeeter had more than usual to be stoical about. He had
had a molar surgically extracted the previous day, and was recovering at home alone,
in an opiate haze.
He probably had no idea what was happening when the brick came flying through
the kitchen window. The boys came in, and found Skeeter staring at them with a
blank, pained expression on his face. They threw a tubful of his treats at him, which
would normally have delighted him, but his surgery wouldnt let him eat. The boys
might have panicked when he started drooling bloodily. They threw a jug, then a
shovel at him. He shrugged mournfully, and retreated upstairs, allowing the boys to
fill the recycling bin full of Christmas presents and make their escape. They didnt
dare go upstairs, although they might have been braver if they had known that
Skeeter was lying gloomily on the bed, cursing the fate that flung food in his face
when he was unable to take advantage of it.
When my sister got home from work, she found Skeeter still lying on the bed, so
depressed that he was allowing the cat to jump up and down on him.
Well, this is a bit shit, isnt it? said Jay-Z. He had spent some time carefully
inspecting the shattered glass, the brick and the gaping hole where the window had
been, and concluded that the window was, in fact, broken.
Ill make some phone calls. Therell be someone around tomorrow, or the next
day. His words were slightly slurred, and his eyes seemed to have trouble focusing.
Fancy coming down the pub for a bit? he asked as he was leaving.
Id better stay here, in case those kids come back again, said my sister.
A week passed. We bought each other new presents, and tried to make sure that at
least one of us was in the house at all times. We didnt want to leave the dog and the
cat alone again, especially as the window had not been replaced; Jay-Z said he
couldnt find anyone willing to come out so close to Christmas. Instead, a
whiteboard had been nailed over the hole. It didnt keep the cold out, but it was
better than nothing. We used it to write out shopping lists.
That was our first Christmas in the house.
On New Years Eve, it snowed. Eddying gusts blew into the kitchen. It was very
festive.
Jay-Z had come to the house, the long awaited repairman in tow. The repairman
was totally without expression. Wearing a cap pulled low over his eyes, carrying a
new window pane, a cigarette dangling precariously from his lips, he could have
stepped out of a minimalist black and white art house film. He had removed the
whiteboard and was preparing the frame to accept the new pane. Marisa and Skeeter
watched, shivering.
Sorry its taken so long. No one wanted to come out during the holidays, you
know. Jay-Z joined my sister in the kitchen, overseeing the work.
Its OK, Im just glad that its finally being sorted out. My sister asked Jay-Z about
Bob, the man who had made a bonfire in the garden a month before.
Oh, him, sure. He hangs around the neighbourhood. He does have a bit of a
drinking problem, but hes harmless enough.
By the way, you still havent been down the pub with me yet. Have you got a
drinking problem?
No; I just dont drink much these days, thats all.
Jay-Z stared at my sister with a sinister smile.
Everyone around here has a drinking problem.
There was a crash. The expressionless man had dropped the new window pane as
he was trying to fit it in the frame. There wasnt another pane. The whiteboard had
split in two when it had been pulled off its nails, and could not be replaced.
Jay-Z pulled a face. Thats a bit shit. Sorry, youll have to do without a window for
a couple more days. Its meant to stop snowing soon, though.
Before he left, he gave my sister a blank cheque, and asked her to arrange for
someone to come and fix the window. It was done the next day, nearly three weeks
after the burglary.
That night, Bob from Twin Peaks and Jay-Z celebrated the new year in our back
garden. One of them was crying. The next morning, when Marisa took Skeeter to the
nearby recreation ground, she found two trails of discarded mens clothing,
including underpants, which had gone crispy in the frost. It is still unclear if there is
any connection between these two facts.
The results arent coming out until the end of March! Fuck this! I cant study for
the next exam until I know if Ive passed the JLPT! Im giving myself a holiday!
Her holiday started with an attack on the garden. She armed herself with work
gloves and bin bags, and sallied forth. Skeeter hobbled out with her to bask in the
weak January sunlight.
He rested his greying muzzle on his paws and watched her. He still loved their
early morning walks through misty parks, and the quiet evening ambles through the
blue gloaming. But he was just as content to rest his aching joints, now. He was glad
that she was taking more time to relax with him these days; but he understood her
moods, and was used to the bursts of activity that could not be repressed. Well, shes
still young, he thought, affectionate and amused.
She filled bags with the smaller items: beer cans, glass, rotting food and worse.
Larger pieces - the mattresses, the trampoline, pieces of rubble and brick - were
stacked near the rickety gate. The gate was still standing, although the fence all
around it had fallen down. She had gotten a quote about having a fence put up. It
would cost more than two months rent. She knew better than to ask Jay-Z to
arrange the repairs.
Skeeters eyes followed her as she methodically crossed and recrossed the large
garden. It was a peaceful day. He let himself drift off.
Skeeter.
He jerked awake. She was standing over him, holding another full bag. He
wrinkled his nose. The bag smelled...interesting.
This is the last of it. Dont stick your nose in it! There was a pile of rotting
vegetables and feminine hygiene products at the bottom of the garden. And
underneath all that, there were dozens of these homemade CD sleeves - look, its
Jay-Z. Hes got a good pose going - very gangsta. Maybe he really is a pop star of
some kind.
Skeeter looked up at her and grinned, enjoying her mood.
Come on mate, lets go to the park, said my sister, stripping off the heavy gloves
she had been wearing.
The future was taking shape, the path becoming clearer. Our father was in Japan
already, and had bought an apartment in an expensive town near a large Englishspeaking community. He was still hopeful that our mother would join him; but he
had also chosen the location because it was near the NPO where Marisa was
planning to work.
Come out soon, he would say. Spring is going to be beautiful. We can go for
walks in the hills. Youll like it here.
But the future was on hold, while my sister waited for the results of the JLPT. She
couldnt help thinking about it, though, and the letters and emails she received, both
from our family and the NPO, showed that other people were dreaming of her future
as well.
My sister and I were sitting in front of her laptop, a Skype call with our father over.
I havent told the NPO about my MS yet. I dont have to, and Im trying to decide
whether I should or not.
Why wouldnt you? I asked. We talked about what we knew about Japanese
attitudes to illness. In Japan, it is often of primary concern not to be a burden on
society, to place societys needs before your own. It is common to see commuters
wearing face masks on trains, for example. While some may be protecting themselves
from allergies, many are thinking about the other passengers on the train; they may
have a cold, which they dont want to give to anyone else. There are many good
things about Japanese customs, but a fundamental under-pinning of Japanese
culture is the imperative not to be a burden or obstruction to others.
Illness in Japan is dealt with, if possible, within the family. Failure to do so - to
inflict your problems on society at large - is frowned upon, and reflects poorly on
the family as a whole.
I like Britain; theres lots of good things about living here. Theres support
available, laws are in place, you can expect certain accommodations to be made for
you to help you at work. But you know, Im often uncomfortable at work these days.
I feel as if Ive been classified and labelled, in some ways. Perhaps people dont feel
they can depend on me; they might hesitate before asking me to cover any extra
hours. Sometimes, when Im having a good day, and can almost forget about MS,
just seeing that other people are concerned is enough to remind me of everything. I
cant get lost in being myself, when so many people are there to remind me that I
have this condition. She sighed. I dont know what Im saying, exactly. Its good
that they care about me, and I know I should be more grateful that they do. But Im
also trapped - my role has been defined, and the longer I stay here, the more Ill be
shaped by peoples perceptions of me.
Going to Japan is my chance to be free, to start a new life. I think I have a good
idea of my limits now, and I know what itll cost if I ignore the warning signs. I think
I can monitor myself and my abilities, and find some more space to be myself, not
the vet with MS.
My sister thought carefully about the decisions she made. She listened to peoples
opinions; but once she had made up her mind, the matter was closed. She would
follow the course she had chosen, and not spend any more time rethinking it, or
second-guessing herself. This was her strength: the ability to make her own decisions
and abide by them. It was what had allowed her to achieve more than anyone ever
expected of her.
It was also her weakness. Brick by brick, she would construct an ideal vision that
was almost impossible to live up to. Her strong principles would become rigid: a
trap that she would build for herself.
I wont tell them. I can do the job - the operations Ill have to do will be routine,
nowhere near as challenging as what Im doing now. Ill decide when I need to take
a break; its my life, and I should have that much control over it. Ive had enough of
meaningless consultations with doctors and neurologists; talks that dont lead
anywhere. I dont want to be told that the way Im living my life is wrong, or that its
perfectly normal and expected to be feeling the way I do. I dont want to be told
how I should be feeling.
My life and my world is mine, its no one elses business. I wont disclose my
MS.
Step by step, the path to the future was being laid out.
The decision made, Marisa continued waiting for the signal. Had she passed the
test, or would she find herself stalled in the dilapidated house? She desperately
wanted to leave.
No offence to you and Pek Wan, but its not a great deal of fun to live with a
couple of newly-weds. And this is probably the ugliest, smelliest, most depressing
place Ive ever lived. Its just what I need to keep my motivation for studying! God, I
really, really hope Ive passed that bloody test!
To keep her mind off the waiting, she knitted. She had started knitting the year
before, and had made a mobile phone sock with my name in Japanese as one of her
first projects. She hadnt been happy when the characters came out slightly skewed.
That year, the presents she knitted for her friends were incredibly intricate. There
were hats and mittens and an alien illusion scarf; there were beautifully patterned
sweaters and tank tops; there were bee-stung bears, tiny Dickensian mice, a Clanger
and a Dalek.
Fucking bobbles on the Dalek are doing my head in, I dont know if I can get
them right, she would report. The next week, Pek Wan and I would gasp as she
showed us her latest creation.
It turned out alright, I guess. A bit loose here, though. What should I try next? Ill
do better next time!
Between cleaning and knitting and other projects, my sister spent a lot of time
with Pek Wan. They learned many things from the television: how to dance strictly;
that Britain has lots of talented people; that there is a mysterious factor that allows
people to be recording artists; how offending and alienating people is the best way
to succeed in business; how you should never invite people over for dinner, because
theyll just bitch about you, your house, your taste, and your cooking afterwards.
The most valuable lessons that stayed with them were about becoming a top
model in America.
Youre all beautiful women. Youve been chosen because of that. But you need to
show your inner beauty, if you want to be as successful as Ive been.
Marisa made a note of this. Inner beauty success.
If the people watching you cant connect with you, you wont be a top model.
Your eyes have to shine; they have to be fierce!
Be fierce was written in the notebook. And then, How??
Youre a panther. Youre walking - no, stalking - through the jungle. Youre
beautiful and deadly. Everyone respects you. You know it. Anyone looking in your
eyes is captivated. Thats how youre fierce.
Fierce = be a panther.
Own the catwalk. Youre a queen! When you walk out, you should know that
everyone is staring at you! The catwalk is your territory!
Claim the stage. How?? Panther = marking territory!?
If you dont have inner beauty - if you arent fierce - if youre dead behind the
eyes - it wont matter how pretty you look, youll never be a top model.
Pek Wan and Marisa went running together. They took Skeeter to the recreation
ground in the mornings. It was called a recreation ground because, next to a path
which circled a wide grassy expanse, different exercise machines were placed.
I occasionally joined them. Marisa would inevitably outdistance both me and Pek
Wan, and usually overtake us. After we had run two or three circuits, Pek Wan and I
would be joined by Skeeter as we waited for my sister to complete her training
schedule. We would use some of the exercise machines.
Marisa was never content. She always had targets, the next step to aim for.
As she was completing her last lap, Pek Wan and I would cheer her on.
Her eyes are so fierce!
Shes really owning that path!
She looks deadly, like a panther!
The look of fixed determination would dissolve, and Marisa would come to a halt,
doubled up and wheezing. Skeeter would grin, enjoying our laughter, and we would
walk home to breakfast. It was a good way to start the day.
The contestants on the television show were put through various tests. They had
to prove they were versatile, and could own the catwalk in any situation. There
would be short tempers, and tears, and recriminations. As always, Marisa felt most
sympathy for those who were going through the most difficult time - those who were
doing their best, but found the odds were continually stacked against them. My sister
never had much time for people who expected the world to be arranged for them.
One test the aspiring models were subjected to outraged Marisa. They were taken
to a stream running through a forest, and dressed in different costumes. They were
shivering with cold, and dazed with fatigue, and the director was in a bad mood. He
barked contradictory orders at the models, and made one of them burst into tears.
That wasnt what angered my sister, though.
Look at her! Shes been dressed up as a monkey! How can she be a panther now?
And her! Theyve made her into a parrot! Shes doing her best to be a fierce parrot,
but she looks ridiculous!
After the test, the contestants were chastised for their performances. There were
more tears. The host of the show was unsympathetic.
She said, That shoot was one of the most unbeautiful things Ive ever seen.
Unbeautiful? Marisa threw away her notes in disgust.
Can you smell gas?
I looked up guiltily. I should have been writing an assignment that was due the
next day, but, as usual, had allowed myself to be distracted. It was only when my
sister came in that I realised that night had fallen.
Gas?
Yeah, its really strong in the hall outside this room. Actually, its even stronger in
here. I cant believe you havent noticed! Youd better get out of here. Ill give Jay-Z a
call, see if he can get someone out here tonight.
When Marisa got home from work the next day, the front door was wide open.
She thought that the house was being burgled again. Instead, Jay-Z was upstairs with
Bob from Twin Peaks. They were ripping up the floorboards in the biggest bedroom,
and drinking Special Brew. Jay-Z was in good spirits, and offered my sister a can. She
politely declined.
We havent found any leaks yet. Maybe you imagined it?
Maybe so. We didnt imagine it in this room, though.

Huh?
She took them to the room where the smell of gas was strongest. Jay-Z became
very excited.
Whoa! Its really strong in here! There must be a leak somewhere! You should
have said it was in this room!
Im pretty sure I did, my sister thought to herself. She didnt say anything as they
started ripping up the carpet and attacking the floorboards. Instead, she went into
the garden, taking Skeeter with her, and phoned the national grid.
Hi. Do you think you could send someone over? Weve got what smells like a
pretty big gas leak in our house. We turned off the gas last night, but the smells still
strong. And now two drunk guys are ripping up the floorboards; Im a bit worried
that theyre going to blow the whole neighbourhood up.
Someone will be over in an hour? Thats great. The front doors open.
She hung up and looked at Skeeter. It might be safer if we make ourselves scarce
for a bit. Lets go to the park.
One day in March 2009, an envelope from SOAS was waiting in the letterbox
when Marisa got home. She put it on the kitchen table and made lunch. She
ostentatiously ignored the letter as she ate. Then she washed the dishes and took
Skeeter out for a walk. When she came back, Captain was waiting outside the
window. She let him in and sat down at the table. The cat jumped up, meh-ing about
the things he had done and demanding attention. She stroked him until he calmed
down. Then she opened the envelope.
93%.
She stood up slowly, her legs suddenly more shaky than usual.
She did a little dance.
Nice, she thought, and phoned her best friend to tell him the news.
That month, she finished the last of her knitting projects. She printed the topic
lists for the next set of exams - the condensed syllabus alone was over a hundred
pages long. Japanese veterinarians were not tested practically, but the theory they
were expected to know covered everything from the proper care of bees, to the
transport of livestock, to the diagnosis of diseases that afflict fish - of which there are
a discouragingly large number. She watched her last episode about becoming a top
model. She finished the books she was reading, and put her translations and writing
on temporary hold. Her camera was left to gather dust once again. It would be a
busy year in the real world. At least for the time being, she would have to put her
world, the world she had made, into hibernation.
She completed her application to take the Japanese Veterinary Exam, and
submitted it to the MAFF. The five exams would be held over three days in March
2010, in Tokyo.
Five years worth of lectures and reading were being crammed into less than
twelve months, but there was too much at stake for her to fail. In the summer,
panicking at the sheer volume of material that needed to be digested, she handed in
her resignation at the PDSA. The future demanded sacrifice and total commitment.
There would be no safety net, no going back.
The year passed by all too quickly, and almost before we knew it, our second
Christmas in the house was approaching. We would be moving out of the house in
January 2010. Marisa would spend a month of intensive study in our fathers flat in
Japan. There was a huge amount to be done, including arranging shipping for her
possessions. The bulk of the boxes were filled with her books. Then there was the
dog and the cat, of course. Skeeter had to be given injections and inoculations, and
prepare for his own tests to acquire his pet passport. As usual, he took everything in
his stride.
I cant imagine moving to Japan without Skeeter. I do feel bad about leaving
Captain behind, but mostly for your sake. Dont let him bully you, thats all. And
dont let him get too fat.
I nodded, conscious of the responsibility. Unchecked, Captain was a tyrant.
Skeeter glanced at the cat, rolled his eyes expressively, and gave me a sympathetic
look.
Despite everything that had happened in the house, I found that I hated the idea
of us going our separate ways. As ever, Marisa understood.
Come and visit next year, after the exams. Me and Skeeter will be waiting for you
and Pek Wan. And Ill come back and visit the UK, at least once a year. Ill miss you.
She looked around the living room, and shuddered.
I wont miss this place, though.
It was November 2009, a year since we had moved into the house. Once again, the
room was filled with boxes. This time, the boxes were being packed. This would be a
new and better beginning, for all of us, but so many memories had accumulated in
just one year, that leaving this house was more difficult than any of us had expected.
Even if was a complete shit-hole.
Got soaked to the skin going to work this morning, and also got pissed on by a
dead dog, so its been a day of multiple costume changes. I feel like Madonna, or
something.
It wasnt overly busy today but I had three euthanasias that really needed
euthanising on humane grounds, but were complicated because children were
there. The first one was an emaciated cat that was dying of kidney failure. The
mother had told the daughter she could hold the cat while we put him to sleep. Had
to explain gently why that wasnt a good idea. Told the young girl, who was upset
enough already without having to witness her cats last gasps, how important it
was to remember her cat the way he was before he got sick. She stared at me like
she hated me and cried. The mother and daughter waited outside while we
euthanised the cat in the end. They took him home to bury.
The second was a rabbit with end stage dental disease belonging to an older girl.
The rabbits mouth was a mess and pretty much the whole of one side of his face
was a bunch of abscesses. Explained to the girl why I couldnt make him better, but
the girl told her mother that she didnt want him put to sleep and she wanted to
take him home. The mother was getting angry with the girl, which wasnt helping,
so I said Id book an appointment for them to come back on Monday to give the girl
time. Said to the girl that her rabbit was very sick. The hardest part about owning
animals is letting them go when theyre suffering, I said, but that is a responsibility
we take on when we choose to own animals. There comes a point when we carry on
for our sake rather than our pets. Asked her to put her rabbit first. She thanked me
as she left the room but I expect that was mostly because she was glad to be getting
out of there with her rabbit still alive.
The third was a collapsed fifteen year old Rottweiler that had abdominal
tumours. It turned out the owner had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer.
She was a nice lady. Spoke to her at great length and she agreed the dog should be
euthanised. At that point her little boy asked if god would punish them if they did
that to their dog. I said I thought god would be pleased that the dog had been sent
back to him, because the dog was in a lot of pain now and was suffering. Wed be
letting him die with dignity, I said.
I dread talking to kids about death, but I think I did OK today. Its been one of
those days I feel Ive come a long way. Sometimes I wonder how I got here.
Marisas diary, 25th November 2006
My sister cradled Skeeters head in her lap. They were sitting in the back of my car.
A light November drizzle was falling on the parking lot behind the veterinary
surgery. The whole world seemed to be weeping.
Skeeter groaned feebly. His sides were hugely and painfully distended. His
breathing was laboured and gasping. He could barely lift his head, let alone get to
his feet.
But he still tried. He looked up at my sister.
Im sorry I cant carry on with you any further. Its been great, though. Ill miss
you.
He licked her face as the tears streamed from her eyes.
Pek Wan and I stood at the gates to airport security, waving madly. Marisa was in
the queue, waiting to show her passport and boarding pass. She looked haggard; the
night before had been spent with her friends from work, and it had been a late
night. We had had a farewell breakfast half an hour earlier, and then checked in her
luggage: a single, bulging rucksack. Her boxes of books were already making their
slow way to Japan by sea.
Skype us when you get there!
I know youll ace the exams!

Well come and visit in a couple of months!
Enjoy living in a place with actual windows!
Be fierce, but not too fierce!
My sister gave us a big smile. She was clutching her carry-on luggage tightly;
inside, there was a small, heavy box containing Skeeters ashes. She called out
something to us that we couldnt quite catch, waved to us one last time, then turned
away to face her future.
Anthropogenic Climate Change

or, everything is connected
There are several means of predicting earthquakes. Deformation in the ground;
changes in the Earths gravitational, magnetic or electric fields; the emissions of
gases; and even changes in animal behaviour. All or most of these signs might be
related to strain and stress changes in the earth before earthquake.
In the longer term, the seismic gap of a region can be a useful indicator. If a
region has suffered large earthquakes in the past, but none in decades or longer, the
likelihood of another earthquake becomes greater with each passing year.35
We know for certain that an earthquake occurring on one part of a fault can put
pressure on the next bit along - a process known as stress transfer - which can then
bring forward the timing of the next earthquake. [] If an active fault is critically
poised and ready to rupture, as the fault off the north-east coast of Japan
undoubtedly was in March 2011 after a thousand years or so of repose, then perhaps
the tiny added stress needed to set it off might be provided by another massive
quake several years earlier and a few thousand kilometres away.36
We are starting to view the planet no longer as an assemblage of disconnected
elements but as an integrated and interactive whole. [] Many geological systems
such as extant volcanoes, active faults, and unstable slopes are shown to be often
critically poised so that even tiny external perturbations can be capable of triggering
reactions in the form, respectively, of volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, and
landslides.37
Earthquake activity in parts of Japan can be linked to loading and unloading by
winter snowfall [] a tiny nudgemay initiate a reaction out of all proportion to
the size of the trigger.38
35
P. Hancock & B. Skinner [editors], The Oxford Companion to the Earth, OUP, Oxford, 2000, p286
36
B. McGuire, Waking the Giant, OU Press, Oxford, 2012, p261/2
37
ibid, ix/xi
38
ibid, p269
born to die
december 2011
I step through the arrival gates. I am one of the first through immigration; I did
not have to wait at the carousel for any suitcases. The airport terminal is airy and
spacious, white plastic and stone and steel stretching up to a glass ceiling. The small
stalls selling coffee and guide books and snacks look incongruous, dwarfed by the
vast space they occupy. They make me think of a primitive tribe setting up their
camp in the shadows and remnants of a lost civilisation.
Kansai, Japan. The airport is as I remember; after all, it has been barely a month
since I last stood here, with Pek Wan and my father, and with her. Everything is the
same, and for a moment I can delude myself that I have slipped back through time.
This time, though, she will not be here.
Marisa.
I am met at the airport by an old friend of my father. He buys a bus ticket for me.
We travel to Takarazuka, the town where my father bought an apartment when he
moved back to Japan. From there, we take a train to Kawanishi Noseguchi. It is
another jarringly familiar journey. From Kawanishi, you can continue to Osaka; or,
you can change to the Nose line. The Nose line becomes a single track as it climbs
into the mountains. The final stop is the village where she had lived. The village
where she died.
We will stop at Kawanishi.
On the train, my fathers friend tells me about my father. He has been staying with
Marisa in Kawanishi since he received the phone call from The Colonel, two days
ago. His friend is unsure if he has slept at all.
Im glad youve managed to come, my fathers friend says. Its good that youre
here for your father.
My father phoned my mother on Tuesday night. My mother phoned me after he
had hung up.
Are you sitting down? she asked. Its about Marisa.

Somehow, before she said anything more, I knew that something irrevocable had
happened.
My fathers friend and I step out of the station. Our destination is not far away. We
wait at a pedestrian crossing for the lights to change. It is a bright, clear morning Thursday 15th - and although there is a slight chill in the air, it does not feel like
December.
The light changes and tinny music starts to play. We cross the wide road. The
funeral parlour is on the corner, a squat four-storied building opposite the station.
It is Wednesday morning. I sit in the cafe in Birmingham airport, waiting for the
flight to be called.
Less than six months ago, Pek Wan and Marisa and I had been in the same airport,
enjoying an extravagant breakfast after a long night in the pub. Just over a month
ago, Pek Wan and I had sat in the same cafe, ready to embark on the long flight to
Japan. Just three days ago, we had spoken to Marisa on Skype.
Just yesterday, I had finished work and was sitting at home with Pek Wan, talking
about our plans for Christmas. We had sent presents and cards to Japan, to Marisa
and my father. And then my mother had phoned, and the world I lived in so
complacently had been forever shifted on its axis.
What the hell happened?
I look down at the notebook I am writing in. I dont understand anything. The
words that I have written are the truth, as far as I know, but they have no meaning.
My fathers friend speaks quietly to the lady at the reception, then ushers me into
a lift. The doors close silently, then open again. There has been no sensation of
movement.
The elevator opens onto an elegant, spacious room. It is decorated in cream and
white, pink and gold. A western style sofa and chairs are arranged around a coffee
table of polished dark wood, their spindly gilt legs resting on a luxurious rug. There
is a glass vase with a single white flower - a lily? - on the table.
My fathers friend indicates a closed door. He tells me that Marisa is there, but that
he will take me to my father first. I am led down a narrow corridor, and my fathers
friend knocks quietly on the flimsy door at the end. This room is much more homely
than the front rooms: worn tatami floor, battered kotatsu, a small refrigerator, a
kettle, teapot and cups resting on a tray.
There are four people in the room. Two of my fathers nieces, dressed in black
dresses, are kneeling at the table. Their eyes are reddened and swollen. They look
worn past the point of exhaustion, drained of energy and life. They are listening to
my father talk, nodding at what he is saying. My father cuts off as we enter; they all
look up.
Jim. You made it.
He gets up. We collapse into one another. My father is shaking.
I dont know how long we stand there, supporting one another.
Eventually, my father pulls back. He wipes his eyes. He draws a deep, shuddering,
shaky breath, and looks around. His eyes fasten on the fourth person in the room, a
young man I do not recognise, who has been talking quietly to my fathers friend.
Jim, this is Marisas friend from work. Lets get out of here and sit down
somewhere, get something to eat.
The young man who was in the room with my father and cousins is The Colonel.
We sit in a restaurant, not far from the funeral parlour, and I hear some more of the
story. Facts are emerging - a chronology - but they make no more sense than before.
On Saturday, 10th December, Marisa handed in her resignation. She would
continue work for one more month.
At about 8 am, she sent her last tweet: this is where the end begins.
Afterwards, she might have climbed the hill behind her house, and visited
Skeeters resting place for the final time.
She sent an email to her best friend, telling him that she had quit. She said that
she might not have anywhere to live when he came to visit in January, but she would
be able to spend more time with him.
On the same day, at about 7 pm, she called her brother and his wife - Pek Wan and
me.
Before sunrise the next morning - Sunday, 11th December - she went to the clinic
at the shelter. She carried the keys to the dangerous drugs cabinet, and left the
centre without seeing anyone.
She phoned her father, and said that she was going to be very busy at work. Would
he mind looking after Taro for her?
She arrived at her fathers house with Taro. It was still early, before six oclock.
She stayed for a coffee, then thanked her father, said that she needed to get back to
work, and said goodbye.
Back at her house, she wrote a letter to The Colonel. She left it, with her phone,
on the kitchen table.
She set up a drip with pentobarbitone. The coroner wrote in his report that she
would have drifted into a deep sleep and died painlessly.
Monday was her day off. When she did not go into work or answer her phone on
Tuesday, someone from work went to her house. Later in the day, her boss travelled
to the police station and identified her body.
Everything that happened cannot explain anything that happened. I dont accept
any of this. The facts are cold, hard, immutable, irrevocable. This cant be real. It is
real. This isnt happening. It has already happened.
We go back to the funeral parlour. We ride the elevator, and open the closed door.
Marisa lies in the open casket. She is dressed in the formal dark blue dress she
wore for the wedding last month. Her cousins brought it from her house.
Her eyes are closed. Her mouth hangs open slightly, as if she is about to speak.
She does not speak. She is gone.
The Colonel offers me a photocopied paper. It is a copy of the letter she wrote to
him. I examine it, but cannot decipher it; I ask him to read it. Even he has some
difficulty making out some of the characters, but he reads smoothly. He has read it
so often that it is committed to memory.
I wanted to carry on laughing for one more month
I wanted to say goodbye properly, then disappear somewhere far away
somehow, everything is frayed and tiresome now, and my laughter has
gone
Ive lost count of the number of new beginnings Ive made
I hope that you will quickly forget about me
you are such a pure and genuine person; I wanted to become someone like
you
today has been decided a long time ago; its no ones responsibility but
mine
if it hadnt been for you, I would have given up on trying to laugh a long time
ago
you saved me
please dont change
Im definitely not someone you should cry for
Im sorry
After he has finished, I thank The Colonel. I leave the funeral parlour, and walk
around the block yet again, staring at the sky, the cars, the buildings, the people
going about their lives. In the hard, bright light of the afternoon sun, nothing looks
real. I smoke endless cigarettes, and listen to the last song she had tweeted, over and
over again. This is real. How could I have let this happen?
As the long night passes, we sit in the spacious room in the funeral parlour. More
cousins arrive, from all over Japan, dressed in sombre black suits, to pay their
respects to Marisa and her father. We sit, and exchange quiet words; the stunned,
broken sentences of those who have been left behind. Occasionally, one of us will
glance at the dark bulk of the casket which rests quietly on the dais. A framed picture
of Marisa and Taro hangs above it. Candles and incense burn around it. Extravagant
bouquets of flowers line the walls. Seats have been arranged in ranks for the service
the next day.
One by one, the people withdraw, until only my father and I remain. And the
casket.
The next morning - Friday the 16th of December - The Colonel takes me to my
sisters house. We do not stay long - not more than ten minutes. It does not look as if
anything has been touched. There are still three cans of beer in the fridge; I had
bought them for her in November.
Feeling like a thief, I choose a CD from the shelf. It is Kid A by Radiohead, the
album she used to name the chapters of Many Scars, the book she wrote.
I run out of the house as if I have been burned. We drive back to Kawanishi,
listening to the CD. We agree that Motion Picture Soundtrack is a good track to play
for the service.
People arrive at the funeral parlour once again. There is The Colonel, and Giraffe,
and other members of the boy band. There is omg, looking uncomfortable in an
unfamiliar suit, broken and weeping. There are family, and friends of the family.
There is the Englishwoman who founded the shelter where Marisa worked.
It is a short service. There is no priest. Marisa had not wanted an elaborate
Buddhist ceremony; her ashes will not be taken to the family shrine in the small
village, to be locked away for eternity with the bones of her family. She will be
released.
People stand to speak of her, as a friend, as a colleague, as a cousin. As a daughter.
Marisa, I remember when we went walking, youd always go so fast. Id try to
keep up, but sometimes youd have to wait for me. Id say, Slow down, cant we rest
for a bit? But this time, you arent waiting for me. Youve gone far ahead of me, and
Ive lost you. Please slow down. Please wait for me.
The music continues to play. The mourners are asked to gather around the casket.
We place flowers over her body, covering it in fresh colours until only her face is
visible. Omg places a haunch of the bacon he cures in his treehouse at her feet.
People touch her face, her hands, and murmur their goodbyes and last messages,
voices catching.
I stand before her with flowers in my hand. I cant find the words I need. In the
end, I only say I love you, and another flower is laid on her body.
The hearse is followed by a convoy of cars. It winds its way out of the town, into
the hills where the crematorium is. The hearse stops, and the cars pull up around it.
People emerge from the cars, looking up at the clear blue skies.
As I join the people filing into the crematorium, my fathers friends daughter calls
out softly. Look. Snow.
I look up, and there are small, feathery flakes drifting down from the cloudless
heavens. One lands on my face, and stays there a moment before melting away. I
look around, sensing my sisters presence. I sense her so strongly that I suddenly
smile. I want to laugh. I want to call back the solemn people walking into the
crematorium, and tell them Wait! Dont be sad. Shes still here! It was a mistake.
Cant you feel her? Shes still here!
The snow stops in less than a minute. The feeling vanishes as quickly as it had
appeared.
The convoy returns to the funeral parlour. A sumptuous meal had been prepared,
but not many people sit down. My father talks with his nephews and nieces, and
they do their best to keep the conversation alive. After an almost indecently short
time, the animal sanctuary boss gathers her employees together. She says they must
return to work. My father nods, and does not look at her.
The meal is abandoned. It has not been what my father hoped. We end up sitting
in the smoking area in the parking lot of the funeral parlour until it is time to leave
again. My father asks when my mother expects to arrive in Japan.
She should be here on Sunday.
He nods, and we talk of many things, and nothing, until it is time to get in the cars
once more.
We are back at the crematorium. This time, it is only the family who have made the
trip. I do not know what to expect. We are led into a room with several
compartments built into a wall. One of the compartments is open, and a silver tray
emerges from it. On the tray is a mound of fine powdery ash, still in the rough
outline of a body. Brittle, calcified bones protrude from it.
Each of the mourners is given a pair of long handled chopsticks. We are asked to
sift through the ashes and collect bones, and deposit them in an urn. My father is
directed to one of the vertebrae near the top of the spine - the atlas? - first.
The mouth of the urn is not wide enough for all the bones. The most bizarre thing
I will ever witness will forever be the sight of one of my cousins, determinedly
breaking my sisters burnt bones with a pair of chopsticks, so that the fragments can
be placed in an urn.
The urn is placed in an ornate box, and fastened with an intricately tied ribbon.
When we leave the funeral parlour for the final time, and get in the car that will take
us to the village where my aunts wait, my father sits with the box clasped tightly to
his chest, tears streaming down his face.
guts
january 2012 - april 2012
I came home from Kawanishi and Japan just before the new year of 2012. My bags
were full of my sisters books and letters and photos - things I wanted to take to her
friends in Britain, mementoes and keepsakes. Hanging from the rucksack on my
back was the large pink Bagpuss hot water bottle. It had travelled with my sister
from Britain to Japan, and was heading back without her. Pek Wan had asked me to
bring it back. What kind of question is it, anyway? Do you want me to bring anything
back for you to remember her by? Standing in her house, the last place she would
ever live, surrounded by her belongings which had become the only physical
remains of her passage through life, I wanted to bring everything with me. Or leave
everything exactly as it was. She was bound to be back, right? There must have been
some mistake, right?
The Bagpuss bottle used to say, Ooh, Bagpuss LOVES a good cuddle! when you
squeezed it hard. Its silent now, the battery dead.
On the flight back, I was sitting across the aisle from a woman and her young
child. He was quiet for the first couple of hours, but when he woke up, the whole
plane heard about his displeasure at being trapped in a metal tube in the sky with air
that had already grown stale and heavy. His mother tried to calm him down, but
without much success. I sympathised with him, and wished that I could join him in
his wailing. Life is often cruel and unfair; often it deserves to be howled at. After a
half hour or so, everyone, including his mother, was ready to howl with him.
I remembered the Bagpuss, and got it down from the overhead compartment. I
tentatively offered it to the mother - after all, it was slightly dirty, and had a few stray
dog hairs stuck to it, like everything else in my sisters house. She accepted it and
introduced her son to it; he was immediately fascinated. Ten minutes later, he was
asleep again, with the Bagpuss clutched tight to his chest. Everyone loves a good
cuddle.
Life carried on moving in the new year. We met some of my sisters friends from
work, and passed on a shoebox full of keepsakes. We went down to London to help
Pek Wans sister move into her new house. I met some old friends from college. I
went through the list of numbers I had taken from her phone in Japan, and told
everyone I could reach about what had happened. It still didnt seem real, or
possible. The holidays finished, and we went back to work.
And the appointments at the hospital began.
We were classified as at risk because of our history, so Pek Wan was asked to go
in for an early scan in January. It was at the same hospital that had seen my sister
diagnosed with MS; the same hospital Pek Wan and I had attended four years earlier.
Nothing seemed to have changed in the maternity ward. In fact, we even met the
same consultant. Although he did have an impressive string of letters after his name,
he was a Mister, not Doctor. That was obscurely reassuring.
After reminding himself of our history, he looked at us solemnly and said, This is
just precautionary. Im sure everything will be different - there wont be any
problems this time. We nodded, clutching each others cold hands. It felt as if we
were making a pact. Of course, things had to be different. There couldnt be any
problems this time.
I dont remember much about work. I went in; there were new classes, students
to assess, exams to prepare for. There were colleagues who asked why I had
disappeared before Christmas. There were folders and paperwork to bring up to
date. There were stories about the usual kind of holiday events - too much food,
crappy weather, too short a break. There were observations, and training sessions,
and meetings. I dont remember doing anything, although I suppose I must have.
Every time I closed my eyes, I was taken back to Kawanishi. There had to have been
some mistake, right?
At home, I frantically collected all the photos I could gather, and read through all
the letters, blogs, emails, translations and stories she had written. I dont know what
I was hoping to find, or why I felt such urgency. If I had to explain it, I might have
said that I was looking for some loophole, some breach of contract: Look, this
happened, so she cant be gone. See, theres been a mistake, Marisa cant be gone!
Of course, there was nothing like that to find. All I saw were signs that said that this
was inevitable, that this was the path we were always walking along, heading blithely
towards hopelessness and despair. Reading her writing, her posts, her tweets, I
could only look at myself in stunned disbelief and disgust. How could I not have
seen this? How could I have missed where she was going? How could I not have
done anything - everything - to stop it?
This looks good, the consultant said. It was the first scan, with the baby at about
10 weeks. I can see the heart; the limbs are developing perfectly; everything is
exactly what we would hope to see at this stage.
Pek Wan and I looked at each other. Our smiles felt alien, as if those muscles had
atrophied. As always, at the hospital, she looked mildly terrified. She has white coat
syndrome - just being around doctors and nurses is enough to make her heart race.
It makes taking her blood pressure difficult.
She smiled now, though, and if it was strained, there was genuine relief in her
eyes. The first hurdle was cleared.
Id like to book an appointment for an NT scan next week. This can be an early
indicator of some genetic or chromosomal irregularities, such as Downs Syndrome.
The consultant was reassuringly businesslike - nothing to worry about, just another
routine test. We arranged the appointment at the reception, and when we left the
hospital, Pek Wan had the first sonogram image of the baby in her purse.
I spent a long time looking at photos. Some of them were from blogs and posts,
others had been stored in a shoebox on the shelf, and others I had copied from the
huge collection in Japan. I gathered them from everywhere I could, as if the images
could be used to piece her back together again.
It is always strange and wonderful to look at pictures of children. The fresh faces,
the clear eyes, the limitless possibilities and perfect futures that stretch before them.
Then the progress through the years. Milestones achieved - birthdays, graduation,
jobs, dates, friends, holidays - and the face becomes wiser, and sadder, and somehow
more beautiful. In the end, the possibilities dwindle, and the path that has been
travelled is all that is left.
My sisters eyes were often tired in the last photos; but there was peace as well.
She had been through so much, and seen so much, and lost so much, that it is
inevitable that she would be marked by scars. Thats what life does. She had made
her decisions without regret, though, and she bore her scars as proof that she had
lived. Her confidence and grace was hard-earned, and she could look at people with
both sympathy and humour.
I dreamt of my sister, many times. In those months, though, my sister and the
baby started to merge into each other. In one dream, I was on an airplane. I met a
young girl - maybe four or five years old. We talked to each other, and although her
name eluded me, I was sure I knew her. She said she was lost. I told her Id help her
find her way home. She looked dubious - she knew enough not to trust a stranger and in that guarded look, wise beyond her years, I realized it was her - my sister. Or
was it? Somehow, she wasnt the same.
I woke up feeling terrified. I was also certain that the baby would be a girl, and
that her name would be Mariko.
We went for the NT scan. It was somebody different carrying out the sonogram
this time. She had a young medical student with her. They worked together, the
student asking an occasional question; together, they made soothing and
encouraging remarks to Pek Wan.
Afterwards, we were asked to wait for the results. When we were called from the
reception of the maternity ward, though, we met the senior consultant again. He was
not quite as composed this time.
Id like to schedule another appointment, he said, after going through the
results with us. This is for a CVS. It is an invasive procedure, and there is a small
chance that it could cause a miscarriage. So we need your consent.
The consultant seemed to be trying to tell us something, but we couldnt
understand what he meant. After all, nothing could be wrong, right? Not this time.
We agreed to the procedure. It would be in five days, with the initial results maybe
a week later. What else could we do?
Youve been taking quite a few days off recently, havent you? Is everything OK?
We were sitting in an empty classroom. The other teacher seemed concerned. I
felt like I was peering up at her from a dark hole in the ground, but even from that
distance I could see the kindness in her eyes, and hear the warmth in her voice. I
found myself telling her everything.
Youve got to keep going, she said. I know its difficult, but you have to be there
for your parents, and for your wife. Itll be OK, but you have to be strong for them.
I nodded, miserable. I was trying to be strong. Everyone was trying to be strong.
But we all knew that, despite the faces we tried to show, everyone was suffering in
their own private hell. I couldnt imagine what my mother and father were going
through. They talked, and I tried to listen, but we circled around what we were
thinking, as if not saying it could somehow stop it from being real.
Time stretched unbearably. Until we could accept the loss, we would stagger
along with a halting step. No one could accept, though, and no one had any idea
how we could move forward. Even thinking about moving forward felt like a
betrayal.
Its good that theres a baby on the way. Itll bring everyone together. Its almost
as if life is carrying on. As one life ends, another begins.
I respected my colleague and her opinions, but as she said those words, I realized
what had terrified me about the dreams I had been having. Nobody is a substitute for
anyone else. Nobody can replace anybody else. And its the worst kind of burden to
place on a child - to want them to become and replace someone who has gone, to
heal wounds that were inflicted before they were even born.
I felt like throwing up.
We went for the CVS, then spent a week tiptoeing around the elephant in the
room. I got a call at work in early February.
Hello? Is that Mr Miyamoto? Im phoning from New Cross Hospital. Is it OK to

talk now?
I excused myself from the class, and stepped into the corridor.
Weve received the initial results from the lab. Theyre all clear, and were
confident in saying that there are no genetic anomalies. Your baby is healthy, and
normal, and developing well.
I breathed in. It seemed like the first time I had in two weeks.
Weve booked another scan to check development in a week, on the 13th. Is that
OK? Alright, well see you then. By the way, do you want to know the gender? Its a
girl...
The city was grey. It matched the sky. We talked, and couldnt see much to keep us
here. We had both moved here because of our sisters; Pek Wan to look after her
younger sister as she completed her degree, and me because my sister offered her
couch as a way to escape from our parents house, and start to stand on my own
feet. Our sisters had gone. Pek Wans was in London, married and with a daughter of
her own. My sister was just gone, leaving behind a grey, weeping city filled with
memories. It had become a ghost town, and not a place we wanted to stay.
I applied for jobs in different parts of the country, thinking we could try to move
before the baby arrived, and try to start a new chapter under a different sky.
It was the senior consultant performing the scan once again. He was quiet,
focused, concentrating intently as he took measurements of the heart. Finally, he
looked at us. His expression was serious, grave.
We would like to arrange another test - an amniocentesis. Again, its an invasive
procedure, so well need your consent. Although the initial results of the CVS were
promising, there was some cause for concern in the more detailed report. And Im
not entirely happy with the development of the heart, particularly considering your
history.
We were mute. Pek Wans eyes were swimming, pleading, drowning. I felt
something dying - again - as I looked at her. I could only hold her hand. I couldnt
protect her.
The consultant waited for us to gather ourselves. He might have left us alone for a
while. I felt a pang of sympathy for him. What must it be like for him, to have to say
something like this, to have two people looking at him with such desperation?
He was speaking again. Its nowhere near as pronounced as last time, though.
What? Oh, the babys heart. Of course. I hope that Im being overly cautious, and
that these anomalies will correct themselves. We always have hope. Sometimes hope
is all we have.
Ive seen that happen many times. As I said, its a precaution Id like to take
because of your history, but, really, theres only a small chance - between three and
five percent - that your daughter is facing the same situation as last time.
We gathered ourselves, grateful for his words and numbers. Only a 3% chance,
thats a 97% chance of a healthy baby, thats better than good - most people would
love to have those kinds of odds. We repeated the words to each other in the weeks
ahead, until we firmly grasped hope in our hands once again.
Just another test, I said as Pek Wan had the amnio sample taken.
Just another test, she said, gripping my hand, but why does the needle have to
be so big?
It is impressive. But youll probably just feel a little prick.
Dont make jokes now! Owww-, she wailed, but we were both too busy
pretending to be strong to admit what we were really afraid of.
Hope and expectation are chimeras. Real strength doesnt rely on them.
The Fetal Medicine Centre at the Birmingham Womens Hospital receives referrals
from health professionals throughout the West Midlands and other centres around
the country. The trains coming into the nearby station are usually full of students
attending the university. As well as the public services provided, there are
departments for research and development.
The main reception is brightly lit and welcoming. We showed the letter detailing
our appointment at the desk, and were directed to the ward and our appointment.
We passed through a dining area; a heavily pregnant woman sat at a table, nursing a
hot drink and staring into space with far-away eyes and a faint smile. A young man
sat with an older, white haired man; the young man looked nervous and proud in
equal parts, and the older man - his father? - regarded him affectionately.
We were led past, to a door marked fetal medicine department. There was a large
waiting room, filled with softly murmuring women. Most of them were showing
different stages of pregnancy. The atmosphere was warm; optimism, expectation and
nervousness showed on all the faces to some degree.
We passed through a small, unmarked door, and were taken up a narrow flight of
stairs. The rooms here were neither as brightly lit nor as spacious as on the ground
floor, and the atmosphere was palpably different. It was quieter, and darker, and
more sombre. We saw some other patients waiting, and they too were staring into
space; but there were no smiles on their faces. We took our place among these lost
souls, and waited to be called for our appointment.
The doctors were smiling at us. We were in a sitting room, decorated with flowers
and pictures. Outside the window, tall grey buildings loomed close, but there was a
glimpse of blue skies in the distance. The view seemed familiar. Pek Wan and I sat
side by side, and three doctors were facing us in a semi circle. All three were smiling,
but somehow they didnt seem to be normal smiles. They were glassy and fixed, as if
there were a message hidden behind them which we could not interpret.
The ultrasound had taken a long time as the baby was in an unhelpful position
for a clear view of the heart. It might have been days, or weeks. It was hard to
measure time in the windowless room. When we emerged, the doctors still not
entirely happy, we found that just a couple of hours had passed.
After a few minutes with the doctors, we were swimming in a sea of words which
meant nothing to us. Or at least, we could understand some of the words, but
relating them to us and to our daughter was impossible.
Dilated cerebral ventricles, hydrocephalus, constellation of abnormalities.
Talipes, neck oedema. Hypo-plastic aortic arch, hypo-plastic left ventricle,
ventricular septal defect, abnormal lobation of lung. Bilateral ventriculomegaly.

Corrective surgery necessary. Un-balanced karyotype, rare cytogenetic
abnormality. Chromosome 8, inverted duplication and deletion defect.
It was mostly one doctor who spoke, a Pakistani gentleman whose toothy smile
remained firmly in place as the words came flooding out. Drowning now, I tried to
catch at something in the torrent.
If the corrective surgery is successful when the baby is born, what kind of quality
of life can she expect to have?
The doctor stopped, and his smile finally vanished. Instead, he frowned at us.
If the surgery is successful, your daughter would need to be in hospital and
closely monitored for at least six months. If she were able to be released to your
care, she would still require regular medical checks. She would also permanently
need a tube inserted into her skull to drain the fluid and relieve pressure on her
brain. This would be complicated because of the heart; even after surgery, it would
be unable to provide enough pressure to drain the fluid in the cranium, so your
daughter would need mechanical aid - a pump, essentially.
Aside from these significant physical problems, there would likely be a
constellation of minor physical defects, such as the talipes we have already detected.
These might limit movement, speech or the ability to perform even simple tasks,
such as feeding herself, later in life.
We cannot make any precise predictions about your daughters mental faculties.
They will almost certainly be below average, but how severely depends on several
factors. At the moment, the development of the brain appears to be mildly restricted;
but as fluid continues to accumulate in the skull, the pressure on the brain will
increase.
These are the facts at the moment. We can only offer advice. Really, the question
about quality of life is something which you need to resolve yourself.
Another doctor continued. He spoke with a European accent, maybe French or
Swiss.
We have to repeat: the corrective surgery required is, actually, two incredibly
risky procedures. The chances of your daughter surviving either of these operations
are significantly less than fifty percent. Furthermore, even if the operation on her
heart is successful, your daughter will almost certainly need a heart transplant before
she is sixteen years old.
If she survives until she is sixteen. The words were unspoken; but this time,
without the confusion of the smiles, the meaning was clearer.
The two men excused themselves shortly afterwards. We were left with the female
doctor. She sat with us quietly for a few minutes. Then she produced a leaflet and
form.
I am involved in a research project at this hospital. Your daughter has a very rare
condition which we do not fully understand, as there are few opportunities to study
it. If you would consent, we would like to perform a microarray analysis of the
amniotic fluid sample; we hope that this will provide more data which can be used
in our research.
We signed the consent form. The doctor started to excuse herself. At the door, she
paused.
Please stay in this room for as long as you need to. A nurse will check in on you,
and you can speak to her when youre ready to leave. If you do decide to continue
with the pregnancy, Id like you to know that this hospital will provide as much
support and expertise as possible. Youre very fortunate to have your consultant at
New Cross as well; there are not many consultants who would have detected the
anomalies and referred you to us so quickly.
We nodded, and murmured our gratitude, and were left alone in the small room.
Ten days later, we went to see the consultant at New Cross. We talked about
possible causes - environmental, hereditary, our lifestyles. Everything came under
scrutiny, even the cat. In the end, we were told that it was impossible to determine
any single cause.
This is a very rare abnormality. The recorded rate is greater than one in twentytwo thousand.
You have both had chromosomal studies carried out, and they show that you
have a normal make up. The problem with chromosome 8 was not inherited.
The only concrete link research has provided with environmental factors is
exposure to high levels of radiation - and I mean levels comparable to those around
Chernobyl after the disaster there. Your visit to Japan would not have had this effect,
even if you had gone anywhere near the site itself, as the levels of radiation released
at Fukushima were significantly lower.
To be clear, you are in no way to blame for the problem that occurred and
neither could you have done anything or, alternatively, not done something, that
would have made any difference. You should not reproach yourselves in any way at
all.
He spoke with authority and certainty. But I understood my sister a little better,
then. When she was diagnosed with MS, she searched for anything she had done
which would have meant that she somehow deserved the condition. We found that
we couldnt accept that there was nothing we could have done to stop this from
happening. It couldnt be random chance.
We would come back on Sunday 11th March, two days later, to end the limitless
possibilities before they had even been born.
It would be one year since the Touhoku earthquake and tsunami, and exactly
three months since my sister had come to the end of her own path.
In the Willow Room, Pek Wan slept. It was six oclock in the evening, and the
setting sun streamed into the room through the cracks in the blinds. It had been a
beautiful spring day, with clear blue skies.
Pek Wan had eaten some food at the gentle insistence of the nurses. Later, she
threw it back up again. Morphine seemed to make her simultaneously hungry, tired
and nauseous. She could have been sleeping peacefully, but she occasionally made a
small sound - a sob, a moan - that said that her sleep was anything but tranquil.
In another room, somewhere in the hospital, Mariko had been placed in a small
wicker baby basket. She was dressed in pink - a knitted hat and booties - and covered
with a pink swaddle blanket. Her tiny hands and ears and eyes were perfectly
formed, her nose just a snub, her limbs long and slender. Her mouth was parted, as
if she was about to cry. Maybe she wanted to howl at life, or at the people who had
done this to her.
A month passed. Pek Wan went to London to stay with her sister for a fortnight. In
the grey city, two cats - Captain and the Bagpuss - sat amongst the notebooks and
photos and remains of a life that was over. The phone rang occasionally. A date for
the funeral service was arranged. Post continued to arrive, statements and bills
marked as urgent. Green leaves started to appear on trees, and the grey city became
less grey. Classes continued. The bed was mostly unused; tangled sheets, tear
stained pillows, sleep coming in fits and starts, broken by dreams and screams and
sudden terror.
The world kept spinning. To the casual observer, it might have seemed as if life
was continuing. It wasnt life, though. Just existence.
On April 18th, two people, a man and a woman, stood outside the chapel at the
Bushbury Crematorium. It was a cold morning, but they waited patiently, quietly,
only speaking occasionally. Eventually, a hearse arrived, and a chaplain with a kind,
weathered face and white robes emerged from the passenger side. He greeted the
couple, and ushered them into the warmth of the reception outside the chapel. He
offered cups of tea, and took some time to speak with them.
Its a brisk day, isnt it? I heard that we might have some snow this weekend. Its
hard to believe that its April.
Did you have any trouble getting here? Im sorry, Im running a little late. I got
stuck behind a tractor this morning. Its a problem with living in the country, isnt
it?
Can I check the pronunciation of the name? Its Mariko Miyamoto, is that right?
Its a nice name - Japanese, isnt it?
I think were just about ready to start. Its a non-denominational service. I just
need to ask: would you like to carry the coffin to the hearse yourself? Yes? OK. Well,
if you could step into the chapel, then...
In the chapel, a psalm was read. Mariko was consigned to gods care. An organ
played mournful, insistent chords. It was a short service, although the two people
who made up the congregation could not have said how long it lasted.
When the small procession emerged from the chapel, it had become even colder.
Sullen grey clouds hung overhead, looking close enough to touch. A chill wind, a
tang of ice.
The small coffin was placed in the hearse. The chaplain offered a lift to the couple.
Its not far, but going in my car will keep you out of the cold.
The chaplain drove a small red car. The back seat was cluttered with maps and
books. When he turned on the ignition, the radio started playing loudly. He turned it
off hurriedly.
Im sorry, I was listening to the news on my way in this morning. He seemed
flustered and genuinely embarrassed.
Dont worry about it, murmured the woman. She even smiled a little.
In the childrens cemetery, a new grave had been dug. The coffin was brought
there, and ceremoniously lowered into the ground. The chaplain said his final
words, then asked the couple to throw the first handfuls of soil into the grave. He
had to repeat his request. The man shook his head as if to clear it. Somehow, the
mournful, piercing voice of the organ was still ringing in his ears, blocking and
distorting all other sounds.
Both the man and the woman threw a handful of soil onto the wooden lid of the
coffin; the dirt clattered hollowly, eerily loud. As if in response, a few flakes of snow
drifted down. The chaplain looked up, and glowered back at the clouds.
As the snow fell, the couple felt the cold seeping into their bones. The tiny flakes
of snow did not stick, but melted away almost instantly. They melted, and insistently,
gently, soaked their burden of misery into everything they touched. As the snow fell,
after their daughter was buried, the couple left the cemetery bowed down with guilt,
and pain, and indelible shame.
i know places
june 2012 - december 2012
Haruki Murakamis books played an important part in my sisters life. They always
seemed to be there, in some form.
They inspired her to read and dust off her rusty Japanese when she was in college.
They started her on a path that took her to Chandler, Carver, Hemingway, Fitzgerald,
Salinger, Mrquez, Puig, Beckett, Borges, Akutagawa, Cervantes, Dostoyevsky,
Bulgakov, Auster, Proulx, Capote: her encounters with poets and writers were
endless, taking her to worlds she had never imagined.
A theatrical adaptation of some of Murakamis short stories, The Elephant
Vanishes, took her out of herself as she struggled with MS, and gave her a magical,
transformative night in London.
His stories were the first translations she attempted. She would be hunched over
her laptop for hours, surrounded by notes and dictionaries as she laboured to find
the exact word, the right phrase.
Those translations in turn led her to the Shizuoka International Translation
Competition. In 2008, she was a highly commended runner-up. They also led her to
her own writing, and showed her that yes, there were stories she could tell.
She saw echoes of Murakamis novels everywhere she went. Krakw was The End
of the World. Some of her ideas for photography projects came from his writing.
The people at the animal shelter in Japan were given new titles: The Colonel,
Johnnie Walker. They drove around Kansai in a van, looking for stray cats.
Ive fallen into another Murakami novel, she would say. It was one way she
connected her life, and made sense of it.
Her favourite book was The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. This is one of Murakamis
longest works, and perhaps the most ambitious. It is set in 1980s Japan, but the
atrocities committed during the second world war thread through the modern
world. It examines life during the economic bubble, and how society replaced
values, authenticity and sincerity with glib wit and a quotable soundbite. It follows
the disappearance of a cat, and a wife, and the struggle to regain a past that may
never have existed. It examines the stories we tell ourselves, and how the past is
edited for our convenience and comfort, but cannot be escaped. It talks about life,
and fate, and love, and death, and how all these things are out of our control: we
can only humbly accept what we are given. But if we fight and struggle to hold on to
what we love and cherish, we may gain something we never expected.
Mostly, though, she said, its about turning thirty and giving up smoking.
Time passed. Days bled into each other. Every day brought the same thoughts, and
merged into a swampy, congealed morass. Half-finished conversations, half-hearted
plans. Sleepless nights and waking dreams in the day. Conversations with family,
always following the same circular path.
Yes, were fine, but how about you? Are you OK? Are you keeping busy? Thats
good. Yes, were keeping busy too. What else can we do? Im sure shed want us to
carry on. Were fine. Anyway, how are you doing?
Saying it didnt make it true. Before long, the response - Im fine - became frayed,
threadbare, worn out. Sometimes it was snapped out impatiently, angrily. No one
was fine. Everything was not OK. And there was no way they could have been. Even
thinking that things might be fine was a sin. How could anyone think of moving
towards the future, when the past had been ripped up so completely?
The Wind-up Bird Chronicle has many characters, a cast of people who are
brilliant, beautiful, fascinating, enigmatic, sinister - or some combination of all of
those things. None of the characters could be described as ordinary, except
perhaps the protagonist, Toru Okada. But really, only he describes himself as
perfectly normal. The people who encounter him all see something special, an
indefinable something in him, that catches their attention.
One character is Lieutenant Mamiya. A bald old gentleman of exceptional height,
who wore gold-rimmed glasses. He had the tanned, healthy look of a man who has
done his share of manual labour, without an ounce of excess flesh. Three deep
wrinkles marked the corner of each eye with perfect symmetry, as if he were on the
verge of squinting because he found the light harsh. It was difficult to tell his age,
though he couldnt have been less than seventy. I imagined he must have been a
strapping fellow in his prime. This was obvious from his erect carriage and efficient
movements. His demeanour and speech showed the utmost respectfulness, but
rather than elaborate formality, gave an impression of unadorned precision. The
lieutenant appeared to be a man accustomed to making his own decisions and
taking responsibility for them. He wore an unremarkable light-grey suit, a white
shirt, and a grey and black striped tie. The no-nonsense suit appeared to be made of
a material that was a bit too thick for a hot and humid June morning, but the
lieutenant was unmarked by a drop of sweat. He had a prosthetic left hand, on
which he wore a thin glove of the same colour as the suit. Encased in this grey glove,
the artificial hand looked especially cold and inorganic when compared with the
tanned and hairy right hand, from which dangled a cloth-wrapped bundle, knotted
at the top.39
This is a man who is solidly real. He has earned a state of peace and serenity, and
he moves with calm grace through the world. His battles have been fought. His
observation of formalities feels natural and unforced. He belongs to a different age,
and his manners and speech mark him as an anachronism in the modern world. His
effortless courtesy is an intrinsic part of who he is.
Appearances are deceptive, though; a book shouldnt be judged by its cover. A
book, or a song, or a film, and certainly a person, should only be judged with utmost
care, if at all. Even if you think you know everything there is to know, they still retain
the capacity to grow, and change, and teach you something new.
Lieutenant Mamiyas serenity is not what it seems to be. He is, in truth, a hollow
man, a walking shell who is waiting to disappear. He tells his story to Toru Okada.
At home, I was surprised to find a letter for me - a thick one. I knew who had sent
it without having to look at the return address. The only person who wrote to me in
such a fine hand with an old-fashioned writing brush was Lieutenant Mamiya.
39
H. Murakami (translated and adapted by J. Rubin), The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, The Harvill Press,
London, Panther paperback edition 1999, p130
His letter opened with profuse apologies for his having allowed so much time to
elapse since his last letter. He expressed himself with such extreme politeness that I
almost felt I was the one who ought to apologise.40
The old family house that my fathers fathers father built stands in a small village.
On one side, other houses cluster close together; it is possible to touch the
neighbouring house without leaning too far out of the window. On the other side,
rice fields and small vegetable plots divide the land. A tiny road runs before the
gates; across the road, an irrigation canal flows, shallow and slow in the winter, deep
and swift when the rice is growing.
New roads bring more traffic every year, but going into the village still means
navigating the old, narrow paths, barely wider than alleys. Outside the house, there
is a telephone pole which bears a scar. Marisa had hit it with her van when she was
bringing her fathers furniture from the apartment in Takarazuka.
Around the village, new convenience stores, leisure centres and supermarkets
have been built. The world is implacably laying siege, creeping closer and closer. Life
inside the village has not changed all that much, though. The rhythm of seasons and
harvests remain its heartbeat. There is the old market, where the villagers can trade
the rice and fruit and vegetables from their farms. There is the school with its
crumbling walls, where children still wear the same style of uniform as their parents
and grandparents did. There is the temple, with rows of family graves, as old as
generations, older than the village itself. That is where Marisas aunts would hurry
on their bicycles, each time some new quake shook their world, to pray for their
family.
Earlier in the year, in April of 2012, Marisas best friend talked disbelievingly. We
were sitting in the beer garden of a pub in Salisbury. Theres just no convention for
whats happened. What are we supposed to do? I go into the university, and I can
see people looking at me and wondering. Is he still upset? Shouldnt he be getting
over it by now? Well, Im not over it. I dont know when I will be, or if I ever will
be. I dont have anything to measure this by.
40
ibid, p538
The village in Japan has seen everything. The seasons pass, bringing growth, and
harvests, and decay, and winter dreaming, and rebirth, in an endless cycle. The
people have learned hard lessons. There are formalities and traditions, codes and
ceremonies, for every occasion in life. It might seem oppressive at times, but there is
a reason for every tradition. This is how life is tamed; this is how tragedy is overcome
in the village.
Lieutenant Mamiya writes about his strange and terrible experiences in the war on
the Chinese mainland. He encounters despicable people, witnesses atrocities and
self-serving greed and cruelty beyond belief. He also meets Corporal Honda.
Corporal Honda is a strange man, not at all what you might imagine of a soldier in
the Imperial Japanese Army. There was something about him that moved people
deeply...he was a gentle, quiet soul who looked as if he would be no help at all in a
fight.41 A man of few words, but neither gloomy nor aloof, he is in fact a very
capable soldier, and trusted by his comrades and superiors. When he speaks, it is
often with more certainty than others can manage, as if strange senses give him
knowledge that ordinary people cannot access.
On a dangerous mission into hostile territory, he says this to Lieutenant Mamiya:
Of the four of us here, you will live the longest - for longer than you yourself would
imagine. You will die in Japan.42
Corporal Hondas words sustain Lieutenant Mamiya. In situations he should not
have survived, the words pull him on. Eventually, though, the words - the prophecy become a curse.
After the war, he is a prisoner, and is sent to Siberia. He spends years in Soviet
internment camps. Through it all, he feels that he should have died, but becomes
hopelessly aware that he cannot die.
I came back to Japan, having lost my hand and twelve precious years. By the time
I arrived in Hiroshima, my parents and my sister were long since dead. They had put
my little sister to work in a factory, which was where she was when the bomb fell.
41
ibid, p132/3, 137
42
ibid, p149
My father was on his way to see her at the time, and he, too, lost his life. The shock
sent my mother to her deathbed; she finally passed away in 1947. As I told you
earlier, the girl to whom I had been secretly engaged was now married to another
man, and she had given birth to two children. In the cemetery, I found my own
grave. There was nothing left for me. I felt truly empty, and knew that I should not
have come back there. I can hardly remember what my life has been like since
then...I simply performed the mundane tasks that were handed to me, one after
another. I never had a single real friend, no human ties with the students in my
charge. I never loved anyone. I no longer knew what it meant to love another
person.43
The house in the village came alive. There were visits from neighbours and family.
Photos were passed around, memories and stories exchanged. Late nights in the
sultry summer heat, lingering over drinks.
She had a rough time when she came to Japan. I suppose you all did. Still, it was
difficult for her. She had a year before primary school, and her Japanese was
nowhere near the level it should have been. Her writing was terrible!
She learned quickly, though.
She did. My father - ojii-chan - was friends with the principal at the kindergarten.
They arranged extra support for her. The principal really looked out for her. He was
a good man. His name was Takeuchi san. And he hired another teacher for the
school - or was she a nurse? - mostly because she could speak some English. She
helped Marisa a lot. After a year, her writing was good - she even won a prize for her
calligraphy.
Then she went to primary school?
It was tough for her there. She didnt fit in, really. She was always different to her
classmates, and I dont think they really knew what to make of her. And Marisa...even
then, she could be so stubborn! Shed always do things her own way.
She got bullied quite a bit, she told me. You know, obaa-chan would sometimes
let her stay home. Theyd watch Touyama no Kin-san and eat oranges.
43
ibid, p170/1
I didnt find that out till years later! I didnt really know how rough she was
having it, I think. Well, you know, I was busy, leaving the house before seven,
coming home after eleven oclock, working most weekends.
It was difficult. Not for me, I was too young. She had it tough. But she became
tough. She told me that one day, she was alone in the classroom, on cleaning duty.
Everyone else was out, doing sports or club activities. Theyd left everything in the
classroom. You know how Japanese girls love their stationery?
Sure, white and pink manga characters, charms and amulets hanging off
everything, fruit-scented erasers and dozens of pens of all colours ... very cute. She
was never really into all that.
She was more of a tomboy.
Right, right. Always running off and exploring, or playing by the river, or trying to
catch bugs and fish.
She always got in trouble for having dirty clothes.
She had fun doing her own thing. The same when we moved to Britain, and she
was volunteering at the equestrian centre. She was independent so quickly! Like she
always knew where she was going...
Sensing danger ahead, the conversation is turned from that path. Anyway, on that
day, she gathered all the stationery and pencil cases of the girls who were the
meanest to her. And she flushed them down the toilet.
A gale of laughter shook the room. She must have gotten into so much trouble!
I dont think she did. Everyone knew it was her, but they couldnt prove it. She
just gave them what she called her Paddington Bear stare and didnt say anything.
Thats her! Thats Marisa!
All the stories that were told worked some kind of magic. The house came alive.
Everywhere we looked, we could see her ghost. This room, that tree, those steps.
Everything had a memory that could be brought to life, and she was there: laughing,
dancing, singing, crying, living. We worked hard to keep her with us.
It couldnt be done forever, though. Time marched on, and the real world waited
impatiently.
In a way, it was Japan that killed her.

We were standing on the mountain high above the last place she had lived. The
place she had died. The sun slanted through the trees. Leaves rustled, and the wind
passed through a small stand of bamboo. They knocked against each other gently.
Somewhere, hidden, a bird let out a call. Maybe it was a wind-up bird. It was the
place Marisa had chosen to scatter Skeeters ashes.
It was incredibly peaceful.
She did her best, but she didnt fit in here. She wasnt Japanese. She shouldnt
have come here; I shouldnt have let her come here. She came for me, I know. But
she shouldnt have.
The words are spoken softly, certainly. My father wasnt being self-pitying; he was
saying what he believed, without conceit. I couldnt find any words to answer him.
His eyes, which are all too often vague and unfocused now, as if he is looking
beyond this world, sharpened. He spoke urgently.
I know youre thinking of trying to come here with Pek Wan. Dont. Come and
visit as much as you can, but dont bring her to live here. Dont try and live here
yourself. You dont belong here. Im OK, Ill be OK here. So dont come to Japan.
Theres no place for you here.
Ive lost Marisa to Japan. I dont want to lose you, as well.
In 1938, Lieutenant Mamiya and Corporal Honda are part of a team sent into
Soviet controlled Outer Mongolia. After completing their mission, which is so
shrouded in secrecy that even Lieutenant Mamiya can only speculate on their
objective, they are ambushed by a patrol. One man, the sentry, is killed in the
ambush. Corporal Honda somehow escapes capture. A Russian officer arrives to
interrogate the prisoners.
The leader of the Japanese group, Yamamoto, is tortured and dies an agonizing
and gruesome death. When he comes to Lieutenant Mamiya, the Russian officer
offers him a choice: jump into a well, or be shot in the head. Lieutenant Mamiya
jumps. By chance, he survives the fall. The Mongolian soldiers urinate on him, then
leave him to his fate.
It is a dry well, with a sandy bottom, but the fall has broken his leg. He probably
has other injuries he cant identify in the near perfect darkness. He has no way of
climbing the walls. He has no water, or food. In contrast to the surface, it is icy cold
at the bottom of the well. He remembers Corporal Hondas words, though. He
cannot die here. He will return to Japan.
How much time went by after that I do not know. But at one point something
happened that I would never have imagined. The light of the sun shot down from
the opening of the well like some kind of a revelation. In that instant, I could see
everything around me. The well was filled with brilliant light. A flood of light. The
brightness was almost stifling: I could hardly breathe. The darkness and cold were
swept away in a moment, and warm, gentle sunlight enveloped my naked body.
Even the pain I was feeling seemed to be blessed by the light of the sun, which now
warmly illuminated the white bones of the small animal beside me. These bones,
which could have been an omen of my own impending fate, seemed in the sunlight
more like a comforting companion. I could see the stone walls that encircled me. As
long as I remained in the light, I was able to forget about my fear and pain and
despair. I sat in the dazzling light in blank amazement. Then the light disappeared as
suddenly as it had come. Deep darkness enveloped everything once again. The
whole interval had been extremely short. In terms of the clock, it must have lasted
ten or, at most, fifteen seconds. No doubt, because of the angles involved, this was
all the sun could manage to shine straight down to the bottom of the hole in any
single day. The flood of sunlight was gone before I could begin to comprehend its
meaning.44
Night fell, and the temperature plummeted. I could hardly sleep. My body craved
sleep, but the cold pricked my skin like a thousand tiny thorns. I felt as if my lifes
core were stiffening and dying bit by bit. Above me, I could see stars frozen in the
sky. Terrifying numbers of stars. I stared up at them, watching as they slowly crept
along. Their movement helped me ascertain that time was continuing to flow. I slept
for a short while, awoke with the cold and pain, slept a little more, then woke again.
44
ibid, p165
Eventually, morning came. From the round mouth of the well, the sharp
pinpoints of starlight gradually began to fade. Still, even after dawn broke, the stars
did not completely disappear. Faint almost to the point of imperceptibility, they
continued to linger[...]
A very long time went by, it seems. At some point I drifted into sleep. By the time
I sensed the presence of something and awoke, the light was already there. I realized
that I was being enveloped once again by that overwhelming light. Without thinking,
I spread open both my hands and received the sun in my palms. It was far stronger
than it had been the first time. And it lasted far longer. At least it felt that way to me.
In the light, tears poured out of me. I felt as if all the fluids of my body might turn
into tears and come streaming from my eyes, that my body itself might melt away. If
it could have happened in the bliss of this marvellous light, even death would have
been no threat. Indeed, I felt I wanted to die. I experienced a wonderful sense of
oneness, an overwhelming sense of unity. Yes, that was it: the true meaning of life
resided in that light that lasted for however many seconds it was, and I felt I ought to
die right then and there.45
The light passes. I was a dried-up carcass, the cast-off shell of an insect. But then,
once again, into the empty room of my mind, returned the prophecy of Corporal
Honda: I would not die on the continent. Now, after the light had come and gone, I
found myself able to believe his prophecy. I could believe it now because, in a place
where I should have died, and at a time when I should have died, I had been unable
to die. It was not that I would not die: I could not die. Do you understand what Im
saying, Mr Okada? Whatever heavenly grace I may have enjoyed until that moment
was lost forever.46
He does not die. On the third morning, Corporal Honda arrives at the well. He
manages to make a rope from his clothes, and somehow pulls the practically
unconscious Lieutenant Mamiya out of the well. They return to Japanese occupied
territory, leaving the well far behind.
45
ibid, p166
46
ibid, p167
Back to England again. Life pressed in, insistent. Bills needed to be paid. The
abandoned strands of life which had been left blowing in the wind had to be
regathered. Pek Wan and I returned to work, and looked in vain for the effortless
rhythm we had once had.
It was impossible. The past was meaningless, ashes which had been swept away.
Nothing we had done amounted to much at all: unable to protect Marisa, unable to
protect Mariko, unable to protect each other; unable to save ourselves. If we had
arrived at this point despite our efforts, then nothing had been worthwhile. We
looked at the dreams we had once shared and did not recognize them. They were
meaningless and hopelessly nave, and belonged to innocent children. They had not
survived the convulsions of the real world. We burned them without regret,
wondering how we could ever have been so stupid.
We moved back into the stream of life. We talked, we even laughed, but there was
no connection between what we said and what we were thinking. We skirted
gingerly over eggshell-thin ice, aware that the wrong word would send us tumbling
into an abyss.
Life flowed around us. We did not move through life. Our actions and words were
graceless and almost involuntary, spastic motions with no purpose. We tried to
rejoin the dance, but we jerked like marionettes, the macabre and desperate spasms
of puppets that were waiting for their last string to be cut.
Looking up, I was transfixed by the stars. I realised I was in a well. How had I
come to be here? It didnt matter. I looked at the innumerable stars in the small
patch of sky I could see. Far above, on the surface, a breeze blew and birds sang.
People were dancing and laughing together. Maybe others had found themselves in
their own wells, and were looking at their own stars. It didnt matter. All that
mattered were the stars I could see.
The stars were sending their light from the vanished past. They sent their
memories like daggers and arrows, bullets and shells. Everything, no matter how
trivial, took on new and terrible meaning. Every word, every gesture, was there to be
analyzed; and every word not spoken, every gesture not made, every road not taken,
was endlessly re-examined. The past was a tangled forest, full of tortured
justifications and self-interest that led away from the only true path. Sins of
commission and omission.
Afar and above the dark and endless sky,
the Milky Way runs
towards the place I come from.47
The more I stared, the more clearly I could see. There was a pattern. There had
been chances missed, opportunities to make a different world. How could I have
been so stupid, so blind, so selfish, so ignorant and heedless? Here. I should have
done this. Here. Why did I say that? Here. How could I have stood back and let that
happen? It was clear: everything I had done, everything I hadnt done, had led us to
where we were, inevitably.
With each new connection I saw, the well started to fill. It was not with clear
water. It was thick, slimy, cloying mud. It gave off a rancid stench that made me gag
at first. I became accustomed to it quickly. People can get used to anything. Soon I
didnt notice the odour; it was only what I deserved. I stared at the stars intently,
feverishly, as the well gradually filled. Eventually, the sticky, toxic ooze reached my
mouth, my nose. I choked, and coughed, then breathed it in. It filled my lungs, and
entered my blood. I never stopped looking, unblinking, at the stars, until my eyes
were covered. My ears were stopped. Now, it didnt matter what people said or did. I
couldnt see them or hear them.
This was shame; this was guilt. This was where I belonged: buried in a well,
reliving my mistakes and stupidity forever, in a frozen instant. With my eyes in
darkness, I could finally see clearly. Everything was over. It hadnt been inevitable,
but I had made it so. I had failed in all the most important ways. My sister, the
person I had known for more than thirty three years, was gone. She had always
saved me, but I had failed her.
And it was clear that our consultant at the hospital had been wrong. Mariko had
not been taken by chance. It was my fault. How could I possibly have deserved to
47
Yasuhiro Nakasone, address to United Nations apologising for World War II, October 1985
have her in my life when I had allowed Marisa to be condemned to her fate? It was
my punishment, and I had dragged Pek Wan down a path to a place she should not
have been.
There were moments when, like Lieutenant Mamiya, I found the sun streaming
directly into my well. It brought forgotten scents and sounds: green things growing,
carefree and genuine laughter, music.
There was the school where I found a job in the summer break. I worked and
lived with fresh-faced college students. We provided classes for groups of children
from all over the world. The energy and vibrancy and optimism was like a jolt of
electricity.
When the school finished, we said goodbye. Some of the people I had met spoke
to me.
It was great meeting you. We have to stay in touch! Lets try and do this again
next year!
I blinked owlishly, confused. I could barely bring myself to meet their eyes.
Everyone could see the mark of shame and guilt, like a scarlet letter on my forehead.
I knew they saw it. I was of no use to anyone, a hopeless case best forgotten and
ignored. How could they bring themselves to talk to me without scorn and
revulsion, or, at best, pitying disbelief?
I smiled glassily. I did not belong in their world. I waited for them to realize that,
and take away their breezy optimism.
There was Marisas best friend. We met occasionally, tentatively. We wanted to
share our memories, talk to someone who understood that, despite superficial
appearances, the world had tragically and irrevocably changed. Somehow, as in the
Japanese village, we found that we could summon her ghost. We nursed the
flickering, fragile sparks of her memory and her spirit breathed in the stories we
shared, and briefly took form again.
This was sometime after rag week, I think. Marisa shaved her head. Well, actually
I shaved her head. I used a pair of surgical scissors and a bic razor. She said it felt
weird when I finished, feeling the breeze on her scalp. She dressed in an outfit
made of bin bags for rag week. She looked quite weird, to be honest. Like an alien,
with her shaved head, visiting earth and trying to imitate human fashion. I thought
she was brilliant.
Anyway. We were having a celebration. I cant remember what it was for, but I
remember her hair had started to grow back. It was this soft fuzz. I couldnt stop
rubbing her head. She got a bit annoyed, but I said it was for good luck. So everyone
started doing it - when they had a test, a date, a match, whenever. She was our little
Buddha.
We finished the night late, and we all climbed into taxis and went back to the
halls. It wasnt until later that we realised she wasnt in any of the cars. Shed passed
out in the toilets. Theyd locked up the restaurant by the time she woke up, so she
ended up climbing out of one of the tiny windows in the toilet. That set off the
alarm, and she panicked a bit. She started walking back to our halls - but she walked
the wrong way, and ended up going towards town. She made it back to the halls in
the morning, when I was really getting worried.
She didnt seem that bothered. She didnt let anyone rub her head for luck again,
though. She said we clearly didnt respect Buddha, because wed let our charm be
locked in a toilet.
When the stories finished, when it was time to go our separate ways, the light we
summoned gradually faded. For all my intensity, I found that I couldnt bring back
her spirit on my own.
My best friend told me about a book. It had been written by someone we had
known in university. He had lost his brother in the tsunami of 2004.
I met a friend I hadnt seen in years. She told me about losing her mother that
autumn.
The words I read and heard moved me in ways I had nearly forgotten. I found
myself crying for my friends in a way that I couldnt cry for my sister. The honesty of
their words as they expressed their sadness and loss, and their struggle to make
sense of it, shone with painful clarity.
I tried offering comfort to my friends. My words seemed stilted and ungainly. Who
would want to hear these words from me? I had nothing of value to offer.
I retreated back to my well in shame and confusion, feeling like a fraud.
I visited some of the places she had written about, the places we had walked
together, the places she had loved. The Cholera Pit, Bantock Park, the Barley Mow her territory, and Skeeters. I planned to visit Cornwall, and Krakw, and London,
and Hokkaido, and see what she had seen, and walk with her ghost. I knew places,
but when I got there, I always felt as if I was just too late, as if Id just missed her.
Some sense of her would be there, lingering, and vanish as I arrived.
Through the heavy August night, the headlight beams wind along a lonely
narrow road, following the contours of the hills to flicker and vanish, and
reappear once again. The lights are unreliable guides.
Trees press close to the sides of the road, colonnades that arch their branches
overhead, clasping and entwining and forming a stifling tunnel that hems us in. I
squint into the gloom. A delicate mist crawls across the road, adding to the
uncertainty ahead. Beside me, in the passenger seat, Pek Wan drifts in a light and
uneasy sleep. She is tired. We havent stopped moving in weeks.
We have been chasing the ghosts of fleeting moments. We make frantic, frenetic
leaps, desperate to catch something real and true. Each time we land, the vision we
saw shimmering with such promise fades and cracks. The golden moments we
chase are illusions: mirages, phantoms, salvation stillborn.
I am tired, too. But we cannot stop.
Bright lights appear in the mirror, quickly growing larger, until, dazzled, they are
all I can see. The darkness of the road ahead becomes more complete. I press my
foot down harder, until the car is careening recklessly down the narrow road.
Branches scrape and claw at the windows and Pek Wan wakes with a stifled cry.
With each curve of the road, the pursuing lights grow smaller. Even after they
dwindle and shrink, and finally wink out, and do not reappear again, I keep my
foot firmly pressed down.
We cannot stop.
It has been a long night. Pek Wan and I huddled awkwardly together, shivering
under a thin blanket, skimming across sleep as the car was rocked and shaken by a
furious wind. The steady boom of the waves reverberated through the night,
punctuating our dreams.
Before morning, the sea and wind are subdued. We stir and stretch, and emerge
to see where we have arrived. The delicate wash of the first light shows we had
stopped precariously close to a crumbling cliff. We stand on the edge of the world
and look down as the beach gradually appears below us. The sand seems pure and
unspoiled, from this distance.
We have come as far as we can. We look for a way down to the shore.
I take one more picture, then stand for a moment, lost in thought, head bowed
as if in prayer. The sky, brightening pink as the world hovered between night and
day, has become the colour of unyielding rock. The grey sea reflects the heavens
sullenly, and has resumed its endless, compulsive assault on the land with
relentless monotony. For a moment, it had seemed we had finally caught the vision
we had been chasing; but as I tried to close my hands on it, it evaporated and
vanished. The ghost, if it was ever here, has gone.
There are no answers here.
I look up as Pek Wan draws near. Her face is pale and drawn; she looks like a
ghost herself. Her small, cold hand clutches mine.
Where should we go next? I ask, not expecting an answer.
I finally think I understand how you felt a little better, now. When you were
diagnosed with MS, the physical symptoms were just a part of what you were going
through. MS took away your balance, and destroyed everything. You couldnt trust
anything, not even your mind, your feelings, your self. You tried to explain, but I
couldnt really understand. You were alone, alienated and isolated. The scars were
growing. You could feel yourself losing pieces of yourself, locked away and
inaccessible. The paths from the past lost their meaning, the paths to the future
narrowed, became faint, then disappeared completely. You lost your way.
You carried on, though. Even though what you went through was overwhelming,
you still managed to accept it, and rise above it, and shine brighter than ever, never
admitting how much it was costing you.
Im nowhere near as strong as you, but I understand your strength better now. I
feel I can measure it, and see what you really achieved. But that just leaves me with
guilt. I didnt know how strong you were until you were gone. Maybe I could help
you more, now that I understand more.
But its too late. Itll always be too late.
At work, arguments flared up with managers. I couldnt stand things which hadnt
bothered me before, and the closer I looked, the more things bothered me. I was
manic. And I couldnt understand why other people didnt seem to take everything
as seriously as I did. Did they think everything was a game? A joke?
I quit my job.
Anger was an almost unnoticed constant. After I quit, Pek Wan asked me to attend
counselling.
I think you need to talk to someone. Ive got my family. But I think you need to
talk to someone outside your family. Maybe even I cant help you right now.
At the sessions, I learned some things. Anger was part of my life in a way I hadnt
realized. It was like a thunder storm stalking across the landscape, looking for
somewhere it could earth itself. Managers, colleagues, students; my parents; the
animal shelter and the woman who ran it; Japan; neurologists and the NHS; the
gods, fate, life; my friends; and all the people who were carrying on, living their
lives, in Japan and Britain, as if nothing had happened. In the end, though, the anger
had only one place to go.
Depression is anger, directed inwards, I heard. I nodded, and repeated it to
myself. It didnt mean much to me, but the counsellor seemed so earnest.
You mustnt blame yourself for what happened, said the occupational therapist.
You did the best you could with the information you had. The words brought an
echo from some distant place. Was that my sisters voice I heard? I couldnt tell. The
shame muffled everything.
I cant go on like this forever.

I was speaking from far away. Some part of me looked at myself, and wondered
distantly what I was doing. Another part of me shrugged, uncaring. Still another
voice - how many fragments had I splintered into? - protested weakly: This isnt
right. This is selfish.
I cant keep on feeling like this, being useless, not being able to get things done,
fucking everything up before Ive even started. Its not right. And Im holding you
back. Im dragging you down. Im a burden youre carrying. I wouldnt blame you if
you left me now. I cant stand what Im doing to you. If I feel like this next year, if
things dont change, we should separate. Youll be better off without me.
But I love you. I need you. Pek Wan tried to sound measured and reasonable,
but her voice shook.
Sometimes love is not enough, I quoted, my mind far away.
I understood something else my sister had never been able to explain to me. Love
can be painful, a weight that smothers you. If you dont feel worthy of love, it is
unbearable.
Those words are written on the grave.
In Memory of
JOSHUA MIYAMOTO
11th December, 2007
MARIKO MIYAMOTO
11th March, 2012
Dont make me sad, dont make me cry
Sometimes love is not enough
And the road gets tough
I dont know why
We had finally finished something. We looked at the stone for a long time. It was
cold in the cemetery at Bushbury, and drizzling. More than a year had passed since
the phone call from my mother. It was just a few days until Christmas.
Holding hands, we went home. Without much hope, we waited to see what the
new year would bring.
Beneath the hard, frozen earth, seeds that had been planted started to stir. A
familiar, much-loved voice was growing louder, struggling to be heard.
Earthbeat
In 2001, Geoff Blewitt published a paper which recognised a seasonal cycle that
involved our world changing shape in the course of a year. The extraordinary result
revealed by the study is that, rather like a beating heart, the Earth changes
systematically and repeatedly, with each Earthbeat taking 12 months. During the
course of a single beat the northern hemisphere contracts, reaching a peak in
February and March, at the same time as the southern hemisphere expands. This is
followed by expansion of the northern hemisphere, in August and September, while
the southern hemisphere goes into contraction.48
When it comes to rebuilding, there are no fictional saviours. But there are
extraordinary people. Ken Matsumoto is one such person. His metal shop in
Ishinomaki City again buzzes with life. On a recent day, workers were busy grinding
smooth the welds on a smokestack theyve built for a new garbage incinerator.
But there are reminders of the wall of water and mud that tore through here a
year ago. Matsumoto points out the dark water line on the wall just above his head.
And then he points to one of his workers.
He lost his house and his entire family in the tsunami, Matsumoto says. His
wife, his kids, even his parents. But he still comes in to work every day.
Around a quarter of Matsumotos 96 employees lost their homes. But he says they
all came back, some even before there was electricity or food. First they fixed the
machines in the shop, and then they used those machines to fix other machines so
that other companies could reopen. All without any help from the government.
Matsumoto, whos 59, saw it as his responsibility to his workers, and his
community.49
48
B. McGuire, Waking the Giant, OU Press, Oxford, 2012, p110
49
http://www.theworld.org/2012/03/rebuilding-japan-after-tsunami/, viewed 28th July 2013
me and my charms
february 2013
My friend stood on the street in Richmond, shivering, breath pluming out. We had
spent an hour or so sitting by the river. It was getting late, but I didnt want to go. It
had been a good day, meeting friends, rushing around, eating too much, laughing at
everything and nothing. I didnt want it to end yet.
She started clicking her fingers to some beat that had come into her head, then
began to sway. Before I knew it, she was dancing along to a song only she could
hear. The group of lads smoking outside the pub started looking her way. One of
them whistled appreciatively.
She gradually came to a stop, then glared at me, accusing. She was flushed, eyes
sparkling.
Come on, Im dancing for you! Why dont you dance with me?
I mumbled some response about being too British, and too sober. She looked
disappointed. But not for long.
I believe in you. You cant fool me - Ive seen flashes of the ghetto in you. Ill get
you dancing one day! She grinned at my disbelief, then gave me a hug. It was really
good to see you. Good luck tonight. Make sure you text me in the morning to let me
know you havent been raped or anything.
I snorted. As if. Hey, take care of yourself. It was great to see you too - really,
thanks for everything.
Maybe one day youll stop thanking me for doing stuff I want to do anyway, you
idiot.
Walking from Richmond to Euston in a fairly direct way takes about 3 hours,
according to google maps. I dont plan to go the direct way, though; Ill just walk
along the river until I get to Waterloo Bridge, then see if I have enough time to go to
Camden and Holloway before my train. I want to go to the places you wrote about;
Ive been meaning to do this for more than half a year.
It turns out Richmond has a dirt track along the river bank, instead of a paved
path; I thought all traces of nature had disappeared from London centuries ago. I
stumble along, mud oozing into my shoes, concentrating on my footing in the
uncertain light. I use my phone as a torch when the light vanishes completely.
Walking with a vague purpose, but only really having to follow the river. Listening to
some music, but mostly thinking about people: the people Ive met that day, the
people I want to meet again, the people Ill never meet again. And struggling along
the path by the dark river, something changes: I finally lose myself, and realise how
small and insignificant I am, and how lucky I am to have met so many people who
mean so much to me.
I emerge from a copse which hugs the bank. Across the river, a small church is lit
up. The faint noise of cars carries across the water, but they seem far away. There are
no lights on my side of the bank, but there is a bench. A field or park stretches away
behind it; its too dark to see. I sit down and light a cigarette.
Nice, isnt it?
Yeah. It doesnt feel like London at all.
What are you doing?
Looking for you. I thought I might find you here.
Well, Im not here, really. But you have found me. You just needed to look; not in
the right place, but in the right way.
I look at the empty space beside me. Your voice is here, its real, alive, laced with
wry humour. I wonder if Ive gone mad. Its a peaceful thought, though; it doesnt
really matter.
Im really sorry, Marisa. All the things that I should have done, and could have
done. I could have saved you, but I didnt even know that I needed to. I wasnt there
when you needed me. If I could go back and change all the stupid, selfish,
unthinking things I did, and all the things I didnt do, then you might still be here.
The words burst out of me. I cant stop them.
Stop it, Jim. Just let it go. Look at you. Youre sitting there, covered in mud,
shivering, talking to me; well, talking to yourself, maybe. Do you really think you can
control everything in this world? Do you think you can control anything? Look at the
stars, the river, the trees; you cant stop the earth from shaking, you cant keep one
star from going out. Think of all the people who are going about their lives all
around you; you probably wont ever affect any of them, and theyll never even know
you exist. Do you understand? Youre my brother, and I love you. But youre not
Superman, and youre not god. You cant protect me from the world. You cant
protect yourself from the world.
I stop, and become still. Your words bite, and I feel something like poison
draining out of the wound. The shame and guilt is stubborn, though, soaked into my
bones.
I should have been the one to go to Japan. I should never have let you leave your
life here...
Let me? LET me? Who the fuck do you think youre talking to? I make my own
decisions, you know, and Im fucking proud of the decisions I made. Id do it again,
because its what I thought was right. Dont you dare try and take my choices away
from me. Life is what happened, and I did the best I could with it, and Im fucking
proud of that.
I shrink from your anger, and the last of my suffocating guilt melts away, leaving
only the scars of shame. I remember what your best friend told me in Salisbury,
nearly a year ago. I didnt always agree with the choices Marisa made, but I always
respected them. Id do anything to change this ending, but I think its important that
we respect her decision. I didnt understand his words then, but I start to now.
Yeah, hes usually right about stuff. You should listen to what he says.
I start to cry. It feels like Ive never cried before. Great racking sobs, heaves that
gradually subside into hiccups, and the tears dont stop streaming down my face. But
the tears flow cleanly at last. Im not crying out of self-loathing now. Im crying for
you, and your friends. Im crying for our parents. Im crying for everyone, even the
people who never met you, because they have no idea that the world lost something
so precious when you died.
Better?
Yeah, I think so.
Wipe the snot from your face, then. Jeez, Hollywood really is a myth isnt it? No
one cries like they do in the films.
I cry very cinematically, thank you very much.
We start to laugh softly, the sound whispering through the trees and across the
river.
Sorry if I was a bit harsh. You really can be stubborn sometimes though.
I know, I know. Im an idiot. And I needed that.
Youre not an idiot. Just slow. I hear the affectionate smile in your voice. Come
on, we better get moving. Theres still a long way to go, you know.
This is Hammersmith, I think.
I look up at the suspension bridge apprehensively. The bank is solid here,
concrete, with lights from the streets illuminating the way. The city has crept up
around us, and the beat of human life is more insistent, drowning out the sounds of
the river and the wind. The stars are invisible now, lost in the lights of the city.
Dont worry, Im still here. You answer a question I havent asked. Ive missed
that: not to have to put everything into words, even to myself. Fancy leaving the
river for a bit? We can go through the town, see if we can find you a coffee or
something.
I nod, and we climb the stairs to the bridge. Everything seems too bright. I flinch
as a car whisks past, start as a girl staggering by lets out a sudden shriek of laughter. I
feel as if weve stepped back into the real world; but youre still with me, even
amidst the noise and confusion.
I come out of the shop, hands wrapped around the coffee cup. I take a sip. Its
bitter. Better to just hold it for a while. Its past two oclock, and sharply cold. The
taste of ice in the air and coffee on my tongue suddenly takes me back to Krakw, all
those years ago.
That was a good time, wasnt it?
God, I was so young. And nave. I thought that good intentions would be enough
to make the world fair.
You were doing the best you could. Dont be too hard on the guy you were back
then. I really liked him, you know.
Hm. You always forgive people for things you wouldnt let yourself get away
with.
I know. Im too hard on myself. I see that now. Thats my arrogance and idiocy,
you know.
Well, as long as you admit it yourself...
Hah! I thought youd tell me that I was always perfect.
You always tried your best, and your best was always incredible. I never
understood why you couldnt take more pride in the things you achieved.
Understand it more now?
Yeah, a bit.
We walk along Talgarth Road, past Barons Court and West Kensington. The streets
are crowded, groups of people stand outside clubs and bars. Everyone seems to be
laughing, talking, shouting; and everyone seems to be immune to the cold, shirts
unbuttoned, skirts riding high on bare legs. Its always strange to see people who are
wrecked when youre sober.
I wonder if Ill ever rejoin these people, and be able to live in the world as
completely as they seem to.
You will. Hey, remember when you came clubbing with me and my best friend
when we were still at uni?
That was a good night. Although that McDonalds breakfast is still the most
disgusting thing Ive ever eaten.
And you had a spot the size of a saucer on your nose.
I didnt even realise until I got home. I thought people were checking me out,
but they were just staring at that thing.
And it didnt matter one bit. It was a great night.
I cant go back now though.
You will. You just need to lose yourself in life again. Then maybe youll be able to
dance with your friend in the street.
Maybe I will. All it takes is to feel the rhythm, and perform each step as well as you
can. Before you know it, youre dancing. Suddenly, it doesnt seem impossible to
imagine.
Itll be tough, but I know youll get there. Youve got to put everything into every
step, all your energy. Thats the only trick there is to it, really. Remember Haruki:
you gotta dance.
Energy doesnt die, it only transforms. All the steps youve taken echo and ripple
through the world. You changed peoples lives. The melody you dance to lingers, in
your work, in your writing, your photography, the things you made, and most of all
in your friends and the people who remember you. Who knows where that energy
will go, what it will change next?
If I made even one persons life better, thats something. Maybe that person will
change the stars.
We walk on, down Finborough Road, until we come back to the river. Its quiet
again, the lights from the buildings shimmering in the water.
Arent you angry at all? You said it was life, but we all let you down in some way.
Life let you down. If things had been different, if I had known what to do. I think I
can understand what you went through better, now; and everything I tried to do to
help was pathetically inadequate.
We lean on a stone wall. The boats tied to the jetty below rock almost
imperceptibly. On either side of us, there are statues - gargoyles? - endlessly looking
at the far bank. I wonder what they are dreaming about. Do they wish they are on
the other side? Whats on the other side thats so special? They will probably never
get there, but I suppose its nice to look and dream sometimes. We join them in their
vigil.
If, if, if. For such a small word, it causes a lot of trouble. Yeah, I was angry
sometimes. Yeah, I sometimes wished that life could be a bit easier. But you didnt
let me down, not really. My friends never let me down. They did more for me than
theyll ever know. They were my charms that kept me safe, and protected me, and
made me better than I was. If I hadnt had them, I couldnt have done half the things
I did. You can say if endlessly, but what if changing the past makes it worse? Im so
grateful for the good things that I had in my life, the things I was able to do. I
wouldnt change anything - not if it meant losing one friend, or not meeting one
person I loved.
Are you angry with me? Disappointed in me?
The question hangs in my mind. Its ridiculous. How could I ever be disappointed
in you?
I wish I had been there for you and Pek Wan. Im so sorry I caused all this trouble
and sadness for so many people. I did what I did because I thought I was going to be
letting people down; and then I did let people down, because I did what I did.
Let people down? What are you talking about? This isnt your fault. You did your
best, when it seemed that everything was against you. Where is the failure? Not with
you.
You see? Its easy to endlessly look for someone or something to blame, but Ive
stopped doing that now. I dont even blame myself anymore. I did my best.
Sometimes that wont be enough to get you to where you want to go. But, your best
is always good enough, as my future husband number two used to say.
Thom Yorke?
You laugh. Thats the guy.
We continue walking along the river. Were on the north bank, now; I started on
the south in Richmond. We pass bridges - Battersea Bridge, Albert Bridge, Chelsea,
Vauxhall and Lambeth. There are small parks, and statues, and areas for families and
friends and lovers to sit. Theyre all empty now, though.
We can take any of those bridges, and walk on whichever side we choose. I
suppose Im in a better position than the gargoyles on the river bank. If I want to
spend my time looking down the road Ive travelled, I can, but the whole world is
before me, possibilities branching into the distance. I can still look back when I need
to; but if I climb to higher ground, Ill have a different perspective on the path we
walked. Even if going back is impossible, it doesnt mean the path weve walked is
lost.
The well is not a place to be afraid of, now. I wont suffocate there, and I can
return without fear. Its a place I can talk with you. Its our world, the world you and
I created, and it will never be lost to me. Nothing is lost forever.
We walk through Parliament Square, past Westminster. Policemen look at me
impassively. In the distance, a roar goes up, shouts and screams of people living
their lives in the best way they can, with all the energy they can muster.
Youre getting pretty tired now arent you? Lets see...its three thirty. Why dont
we find a cafe somewhere. There should be some open in Piccadilly, or Leicester
Square.
The twenty-four hour cafes are full of people, though, the tables overflowing.
There is shouting, and laughter, and everything seems good-natured; but there is a
thread of desperation and hostility running underneath which warns us away. This
isnt the place for us.
We find a deserted Subway instead. The man behind the counter is immaculate.
His uniform is crisp; its been freshly ironed. His hair is perfectly oiled, with not a
single strand out of place.
He looks at us; at me. I look down at my battered trainers and mud streaked
jeans. Probably my face is stained by tears and dirt. Maybe there are leaves and twigs
in my hair. Possibly I have a spot the size of a saucer growing on my nose.
I shrug apologetically, and ask for a coffee.
Im sorry sir, the coffee machines are broken. We cant offer any hot drinks
tonight.
How about some hot water?
I do apologise, sir, but the kettle is also not working.
His punctiliousness reminds me of Lieutenant Mamiya, and I wonder briefly what
story he is living.
I give up on getting some warmth, and buy a coke. By the way, I say, is there a
power socket I can use to charge my phone?
Im terribly sorry, all of the sockets are in use at the moment. Im not permitted
to unplug any of the machines.
I nod understandingly, and thank him for his trouble. He gives me a ghost of a
smile, and watches as I take a seat. All the tables are empty.
I look up from the notebook Im scribbling in. Its difficult to connect the images
in my head to the words on the page, but its still easier than it has been in a long
time.
A group of people have come into the quiet shop.
Whaddaya mean, theres no fucking hot drinks? Get it fucking sorted mate! This
place is a fucking disgrace!
The man behind the counter answers quietly. I cant hear what he says, but Im
sure he is perfectly, impeccably polite.
Well, give us some food. Were fucking starving! Youve got food, right?
The group eventually sit down at some tables near mine, still seething as they
devour their subways. One of them looks at me and leans close.
Fucking shit-hole, this place, innit? Service is crap as well. He speaks loudly, bits
of bread flying from his mouth.
I look at him blankly, then smile and nod.
You dont even fucking speak English, do you?
I shrug, then smile and nod.
Fucking Chinky immigrant fuck. He goes back to his friends. They start talking
about the music at the club they had been to, and who had pulled the skankiest girl.
Nicely played, you tell me. I glance at the man behind the counter. He gives me
another smile, more than a ghost this time.
I look at the words Ive written. I did my best, but it wasnt nearly enough. Ill do
my best to forgive the guy I used to be - theres no point blaming him, really - but I
have to admit the mistakes I made and get stronger if I ever want anything like selfrespect again.
Hm. That seems fair enough. So are you doing your best now?
Im trying my best. Doesnt seem like anything at all, really.
So?
So, I think I can do better.

Yep, you can. So do it. Dont say it, just do it.
A memory: you looking at me, smiling, a challenge in your eyes, daring me to
jump as we stand on the roof. We were only children. Then, you told me that I was
Superman, and that I could fly if I only believed strongly enough. I imagine you have
the same look in your eyes now. Complete belief and faith in me, and a touch of
impatience that I dont feel the same.
Just do it. Take one step, the best you can. Then another. And another. Dont look
down. Youll be dancing before you know it.
I nod. I always agree with you, it just takes me a long time to catch up to you. Its
becoming harder and harder to take the first step. Youve always waited, though.
Euston Station is a surprisingly sociable place at four thirty in the morning.
Groups of people cluster around the huge hall, chatting quietly with whoever is
nearby. Some people sit alone, resting their tired heads in their hands. Others read
books, or listen to music or stare into space, lost in thought.
Like Subway, though, there is a distinct lack of power sockets. I finally find the
only one, over the turnstile to the toilets. I settle down beside it and plug in my
phone. Just two percent left. The charge seems weak. Five minutes later, the battery
shows three percent.
Oh well. It has got me to where I need to go. I still have more than three hours
until the train, but I dont feel like walking any further. Camden and Holloway can
wait for another day; theres no need to try and do everything at once anymore.
I think about what I want to write. Im tired, but I feel a rising sense of purpose as
well. Ive been thinking about the story I want to tell for more than a year, and Im
finally getting an idea of how to start.
Thats good. Remember you gave me that notebook when I was in hospital?
Thats how I started to take my first steps as well.
I remember. I want to carry on with what you wrote. But, you know, I think its
going to be really difficult to write about everything - mama and papa and you and
everything you did and thought...
You laugh. Everything I thought? Even I cant remember that now! No, youve got
to write what you remember. You can only tell your own story.
But I want to write about you. I want to tell your story.
Listen, Jim. My story is your story, and your story is mine. Thats what your
friends have been telling you, isnt it? Every time you love someone, or someone
loves you, or you make a connection, you become part of their story, and they
become part of yours. Thats how we carry on. We dont dance by ourselves. So write
what you remember and what you felt.
But when you finish writing about me, youd better carry on writing your own
story. Youve got people who are waiting for you to start dancing, you know. You
cant keep them waiting forever - thatd just be rude.
Thats true. Im no use to anyone if I sit like a gargoyle in the middle of the road,
staring into my own world. People would trip over me.
Excuse me, is that a power socket?
A young Indian guy is standing over me, holding a phone.
Are you charging your phone? Would you mind charging mine? It ran out about
an hour ago, and I need to make a call, really. But I forgot my charger. Its been a
long night.
Sure. I glance at my phone. Up to thirteen percent now. It doesnt seem to
work very quickly though.
Ive got time, dont worry about that.
Im not that worried, I want to say. Just letting you know.
He slides down the wall and sits next to me. He tells me about his night. Hes
been to a party, a networking event of some kind. It was supposed to last until the
early hours of the morning, but had fizzled out by one oclock. He didnt want to
phone his roommate to ask him to pick him up - his roommate works shifts and
would be fast asleep - but he has no way of getting home and nowhere to go until
the morning. He lives in Nottingham. He works as a model.
A model? Really? He doesnt seem that good looking. I thought all male models
are supposed to be really, really good looking. I dont say that either, though. Im
not much of a judge, anyway.
Yah, sure, thats what this party I have been telling you of was all about. Beautiful
people, making connections, lining up work. Here, Ill show you.
He opens his phone and shows me some pictures. Sure enough, there he is,
surrounded by beautiful young men and women. Everyone is smiling. Their smiles
look genuine and practiced at the same time. Professionally authentic.
Was it a good party? Did you manage to make some connections?
Yah, for sure. Look, Ive got twenty new friend requests, and many phone
numbers and emails. I might have some work next month, thanks to the people I am
meeting tonight.
Sounds good.
Yah, absolutely. Its hard work, of course, but its what we are having to do to get
on, right?
I suppose so. Connecting is hard work.
Later, he tells me about how glad he is that he met me.
Honestly, I find these English people very difficult to be understanding. Ive
asked so many people tonight if they can be helping me, but no one has. They
mostly ignore me. English people are always acting so polite, but I dont think they
are really being polite. Not about anything important.
Hm. Im noncommittal.
Really, its so nice to be sitting and talking to someone without feeling Im
trespassing. Where are you from, anyway?
Wolverhampton. Ive lived there for a while now.
No, I mean, where are you from originally? Youre not English, right?
My fathers from Japan, but Ive lived here since I was six. I think I am British
now, really.
Ah, Japan! A wonderful country. Ive never been, but everyone knows that they
are having real manners there. A very friendly people. Hardworking, too. See, I knew
you werent English!
But I am British, I want to say. Im comfortable here, and I think I fit in without
being too conspicuous. I like the people here.
He carries on talking, and I dont have the chance to say anything. Eventually, as
the station continues to come to life, we are moved on by the attendants. He thanks
me again, and asks me to send him a friend request. I tell him I dont have an
account, and he seems surprised.
Have I just missed the chance to connect with someone? It does seem like very
hard work, sometimes.
I sit in the train, waiting for it to leave. Its quarter to nine now. I send a text to my
friend in Richmond. Not been raped, I reassure her. Glad to hear it, she replies.
Have a safe trip home!
I lean my head against the cool window. The thoughts are swimming lazily in my
head, now, nocturnal fish that sleep through the day. The sunlight is bright; the
future is dawning, irresistible.
By the way...this book you want to write...
Even under the light of the sun, youre still here. Youll always be here, a better
voice in my head, waiting and watching, willing me on.
Youve got some unfortunate tendencies, you know. You romanticise and
sentimentalise stuff far too much for my taste. To be blunt: youre a drama queen.
Just to let you know, dont make it too gloopy, or try to make me into some kind of
saint, or Ill kick your arse.
Ill do my best, but Im not making any promises. You might end up being a
Disney princess.
You dick, youd better fucking not!
I close my eyes and smile as the train starts to move. The grey city is waiting. Pek
Wan will be home soon. I cant wait to see her, and tell her again that I love her. The
train lurches into motion; the tracks lead straight home - straight to her. I finally
know where I am going.
I will miss my sister forever.
Acknowledgements
I want to write a book about Marisa. I think its a story worth telling. That was the
thought that made me write. In the end, though, it is not a book about Marisa, but
my sister. It is not about a daughter, or friend, or colleague, or lover. I cant write any
of those books, and it should be clear that this is only one, incomplete way of telling
Marisas story.
This book wouldnt and couldnt have been written without the help of a lot of
amazing and generous people; or, if it had been, it might have been unleavened by
any kind of lightness.
To all of Marisas friends that I met, in Britain and Japan: thank you so much for
sharing your memories, and your sorrow. I wish that Marisa could know just how
much she meant to her friends; everyone she met wishes the same.
Thank you to James Brazier and Andrew Hibbert, who took the time to read the draft
and offer their encouragement, and constructive and insightful criticism.
Thank you to all the people who gave me so much time and patience and kindness;
in particular, no thanks are enough for James Brazier, Ruth Sharman, Gabriela
Palmero and Paul Sheehan.
For everything Ive mentioned, and for so much more, thank you to my wife, Pek
Wan. I dont want to imagine what life would be like without you.
Finally, thank you to Simon Stephenson, who lost a brother, and wrote a book.
This has been produced as a free publication on the Scribd website. If you
would like to purchase a print copy, please follow this link: http://
www.lulu.com/shop/james-miyamoto/marisa-the-scars-that-remain/
paperback/product-21884191.html.
Proceeds will go to the MS Society, the BVA, and to Marisas niece, Emi
Miyamoto.

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Marisa

the scars that remain

Copyright James Miyamoto 2014

Illustration Copyright Jihyun Park 2014

The song is over. But the melody

Thank you for the music.

motion picture soundtrack

The Touhoku Earthquake

http://www.livescience.com/30226-japan-tectonics-explosive-geology-ring-of-fire-110314.html, viewed 27th

http://www.webcitation.org/mainframe.php, viewed 27th July 2013

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/14/world/asia/14seismic.html?_r=0, viewed 27th July 2013

http://www.npa.go.jp/archive/keibi/biki/higaijokyo_e.pdf, viewed 27th July 2013

http://www.psr.org/environment-and-health/environmental-health-policy-institute/responses/costs-andconsequences-of-fukushima.html, viewed 28th July 2013

the loneliness of a middle distance runner

break the chain

S. Amor & H. van Noort, Multiple Sclerosis, OUP, Gosport, 2012, p3

impossible to provide anyone with MS with a reliable prediction of what to expect

some of the effects of demyelination, and neurological faculties can be restored to

Time for breakfast, right? Lets go get you fed then.

Really!? says her sister-in-law, impressed.

miserable and grumpy! I know I should be more understanding; Id probably be just

a place called home

Im sorry, but I cant do this anymore. I cant go today.

a place called home

Thirty today, I saw

Before the break light could die

Men at Thirty, Donald Justice

a place called home

My Japanese grandmother was standing in the background of a few of the

11th December 2007

In the morning, a U.F.O. lands in Kushiro.34

You're going to Okinawa, right?

dog days are over

Maybe so. We didnt imagine it in this room, though.

I know youll ace the exams!

Anthropogenic Climate Change

B. McGuire, Waking the Giant, OU Press, Oxford, 2012, p261/2

Are you sitting down? she asked. Its about Marisa.

Hello? Is that Mr Miyamoto? Im phoning from New Cross Hospital. Is it OK to

ventricular septal defect, abnormal lobation of lung. Bilateral ventriculomegaly.

ibid, p132/3, 137

In a way, it was Japan that killed her.

I cant go on like this forever.

B. McGuire, Waking the Giant, OU Press, Oxford, 2012, p110

http://www.theworld.org/2012/03/rebuilding-japan-after-tsunami/, viewed 28th July 2013

So, I think I can do better.

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