Beautiful Shining People, page 5
‘I know lots of people there,’ Neotnia says. ‘I volunteer there.’
‘Really?’
‘Hai. A few days a week. Whenever they need help. They’re short-staffed. The residents outnumber the nurses by a lot. I normally don’t volunteer today, but one of their regulars is away, so I’m helping with the lunch shift.’
‘I think that’s great.’
Her eyes dip a bit, and she nods so subtly I barely catch it.
‘Ah, so will I be volunteering, too?’
‘No, no, no,’ Neotnia’s face brightens. ‘I didn’t bring you to put you to work. There’s someone there who I think would enjoy meeting you. I’ll do my shift, and then, as your reward for bearing with me, I’m taking you to lunch.’
I can’t think of who would enjoy meeting me, but don’t ask. She would have said if she wanted me to know right now.
The crisp air feels good against my skin as we exit the railcar at Higashikurume. Neotnia says the care home is a ten-minute walk, during which we cut through the suburb’s ‘downtown’ passing a FamilyMart and Denny’s. We turn down a side street. Ahead on the corner is a boxy noodle shop and, opposite that, a park with a small shrine. Passing the noodle shop, we come to the rear of a two-storey motel, its back patio in mid-renovation. Through a half-finished fence, I spy a concrete mixer and two-by-fours scattered around the pool’s deck. Fat, noisy hoses run across it. I guess the pool’s heated like the one behind my building, or else they wouldn’t be filling it in late October.
The care home lies across the street. The staffs’ faces perk up when they see Neotnia. I follow her to a central station, where she speaks to a woman who I get the impression is the head nurse. Neotnia touches my arm as she says my name. I smile and try to look as friendly as I can. Neotnia repeats my name, then says, ‘Joe.’ Whatever she’s talking about, the head nurse seems to agree. She says ‘Joe’ a few times, too, then smiles and bows to me, saying, ‘Konnichiwa.’
I return the greeting.
‘This way,’ Neotnia says. I follow her to a small locker room. She removes her cardigan and takes a white apron from the shelf, tying it around her waist. Outside, two large racks are waiting in the hall. Slotted into them are dozens of meal trays.
‘This is Kiyoko,’ Neotnia says of the woman who’s delivered the racks. ‘She volunteers here, too. Her grandmother is a resident.’
Neotnia says something to Kiyoko, who smiles at me. ‘Welcome,’ she says, struggling with the word. She wheels one of the racks down the hall towards someone identically dressed. It’s apparent Neotnia’s the youngest worker here by a long shot. Kiyoko appears to be in her mid-forties, and all the other volunteers and nurses look to be between their late thirties and early fifties.
Neotnia wheels the rack and I follow. Each ward has eight beds. Given no one has their own room, I get the feeling this is a home for people who are nearing the end of their lives and need constant watch.
‘This way. He’s over here.’
The ward we enter has a view of the motel and its pool. The beds contain people older than I’ve ever seen. The youngest must be in their nineties. Some look at me; some don’t even see me though their eyes are open. Neotnia smiles at them all anyway.
The last bed is next to the window and its occupant immediately stands out from the rest. Like the others, he’s thin, his skin wrinkled and blotchy. But unlike everyone else, he’s Caucasian. Neotnia fixes her eyes on him, yet his attention is focused on something outside. Her face lights up as the old man finally turns his head. As soon as he notices her, his face brightens, too.
Neotnia takes an exaggerated bow, then excitedly speaks in Japanese. The old man replies in kind. By their tones, I can tell each seems to know what the other will say. Even with all the IVs, the old man’s hands gesture enthusiastically towards the window. And the way he intones his last word makes me think he’s ended on some punchline, to which Neotnia releases a laugh and gives a slight bow.
‘Now, Joe,’ she switches to English, ‘I have someone I want to introduce, and I need you to take care of him while I work. This is my friend John, and, seeing as you’re both American, I thought you should meet.’
Joe glances as if noticing me for the first time, then pulls his face back in exaggeration. Whatever he says to Neotnia causes her to dip her head and give a shy smile.
‘Now, now, Joe. English from now on.’
Joe gives her a look and then scans me up and down.
Neotnia turns to me. ‘One second…’ and she walks back to the rack and returns with a tray. ‘This is his,’ she says loud enough for him to hear. ‘Don’t let him tell you it’s missing some sugary dessert or talk you into stealing something from a sleeping resident’s tray…’
She pauses and eyes Joe accusingly, who puts his hands up in a ‘Who, me?’ manner, making her laugh.
‘OK, boys,’ she gives a little smile. ‘Take care of each other.’
My eyes follow Neotnia as she returns to the rack for another tray and delivers it to the first bed in the ward. Her interactions with the other residents are as effortless as with Joe. She greets each with a bright smile as she sets their meal before them. And their faces react in equal measure. To some, she’ll bow and share an exchange of words; to others, she’ll fold her hair behind an ear and bend close so she can hear their faint voices. Sometimes—
‘You gonna give me that or what?’
I jump at Joe’s voice.
‘Sorry,’ I say, realising I’m still holding his tray.
His gaze shifts from me to Neotnia delivering a tray at the other end of the ward, and back to me. A small grin crosses his lips.
I set his tray on his table then slide it over his lap. As I adjust the table, a juice carton tips over. I quickly right it before I notice its lid is still sealed.
He looks at me for several moments.
‘Relax, kid. I don’t bite.’ He nods towards the juice. ‘Any way you can open that? Grip isn’t what it used to be.’
I do and retreat a step when it’s done. Neotnia’s now in the ward across the hall, conversing with a female resident who’s rested her hand on her arm.
‘So, how is America these days?’ Joe says, snapping my attention back to him.
‘Good,’ I nod, perhaps a little too theatrically. ‘I’ll be going back soon. I’m just visiting.’
His eyes hold me. ‘No shit, kid. Hey’ – his hand beckons me closer – ‘help an old man out.’ He instructs me to push a button on the side of his bed, and the back raises, allowing him to sit up more readily in front of his meal. He scans the items, then deposits a spoonful of something that has the consistency of mashed potatoes into his mouth, savouring it.
‘I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s good,’ he says without looking at me. ‘When you get to be my age, you’re just happy you can still taste.’
‘So … how long have you been here?’ I say not knowing what to say.
‘You mean here, or Japan?’
‘Japan.’
‘All my life. Was born here,’ he dips the spoon back into the mashed something, swallows, then scoops something else.
‘Really?’
‘Yep.’
‘You’ve never lived in America?’ A gelatine smacks around his tongue as he tries to quickly swallow so he can answer. ‘Sorry, I’ll let you eat.’
‘It’s fine. Trust me, you’re the best entertainment I’ll get all day. Believe it or not, this place isn’t exactly rocking. Now, what’d you ask? Have I ever lived in America? Nope. Been there a few times. Went for a summer when I was in my twenties. But never stayed longer than that.’
I nod. There’s a brief silence. ‘So, why were you born here?’
‘Do you mind?’ he points to the juice carton.
I pick it up and bring it to his mouth. After he takes a sip, I set it back on the tray.
‘That was nice, but I was just gonna ask you to put the straw in it.’
I feel my cheeks flush. ‘Sorry.’
I remove the straw from its paper sleeve and poke it into the juice.
‘Anyhoo,’ Joe continues, scooping more mashed onto his spoon, ‘my pop was probably just over your age in 1945 and fighting at the Battle of Okinawa. My mom was his girlfriend from Iowa. After the war ended, he was stationed here for the reconstruction. Mom came over and married him. They had me.’
‘Your dad must have really liked Japan if he stayed here.’
Joe’s spoon comes to a mid-air stop. ‘Jesus, kid. That much naivety will take years off your life.’ He plants the spoon back in the mash like a flag. ‘Pop despised the Japanese. Fucking hated them.’
‘Oh…’
‘Even when I was five, he’d tell me how the two bombs were morally righteous. How hordes of Japanese beasts mercilessly slaughtered his buddies on the shores of Okinawa. How every time he took the enemy’s hand or head or leg off, he felt he was doing right by God.’ Joe shakes his head. ‘Even after we won, even after the Japanese disbanded their military, Pop thought they were just biding time, planning their revenge…’
Joe plucks the spoon from his mash and brings it to his mouth, sucking it as a thought rolls around his head. Then, as if coming to some conclusion, he plants it again, this time in purple puree.
‘How ridiculous is that? Come on – tell me. I mean, Shidehara was the one who willingly disbanded Japan’s military. America wanted them to keep it to help fend off the Communists in Southeast Asia. But they became pacifists by choice.’ He scoops some purple puree, considering it, then shakes his head. ‘They learned. We didn’t.’
I’m not sure how to reply, so I remain silent.
After another batch of purple puree goes down his throat, Joe glances at me.
‘But yeah,’ he says, almost as if it’s an afterthought, ‘Pop was a racist son of a bitch – just like Truman. “Yellow Jap” this, “Nip” that. “Gook”. For the first part of my life, I thought that’s what Japanese people were actually called.’
I’m suddenly conscious of all the other residents.
‘Relax, kid. The best of us are half deaf, and no one but me and you speak English. Anyway,’ Joe lets out a long breath, ‘then Pop fell in love with a Japanese woman and learned to shut the fuck up real quick. Left Mom real quick, too. Mom died, then he died, and his new wife raised me. She was at Nagasaki, you know?’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t lie to impress people – I’m too old.’
I don’t say anything.
‘I tell ya, kid, it’s crazy how much things change. Even when I was ten, you’d still think Japan was never going to recover. But look at it twenty years later, fifty years later, today. The world changes so much from when you’re little. It becomes almost unrecognisable by the time you reach my age.’
He gives me a long look as if he’s trying to interpret some detail on a painting.
‘What are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?’
‘I’ll be eighteen in a few months.’
‘So, the Chinese and American stations – you probably don’t remember seeing a sky without them? When I was your age, something like that was pure science fiction. Just goes to show what’s possible given enough time – and if your paranoia about your latest enemy is strong enough. But believe it or not, though we like to delude ourselves into thinking we can foretell what’s coming next, there’s not a person alive who can accurately predict what the world will be like by the time you reach my age. There’s just too many unknowns that happen over the course of a life, kid – and each can send the world down an unforeseen path. Maybe we’ll have fancier stuff, or maybe we’ll be back to throwing sticks and rocks. The only guarantee is things will be radically different than they are today.’
I nod.
‘You’re wondering how old I am?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. No point denying it.
‘A little younger than a hundred, a little older than a hundred. It doesn’t really matter once you get past ninety.’
I’m about to reply when a moan rises out of nowhere. It grows into a cry, and I’m startled as it’s followed by a clamorous crash. The contents of a tray have scattered across the floor in the ward opposite. Its owner wails as she violently rocks. It’s as if she’s trying to launch herself from the bed. Suddenly, the head nurse darts into the ward, followed by an orderly. Both attempt to restrain the woman as the nurse shouts in the direction from which she came. Seconds later Neotnia rushes in, handing a small red box to the nurse as the orderly places his palms on the wailing woman’s shoulders and leans hard into her body. Neotnia draws the curtains shut, sealing off the spectacle.
Within a minute, the woman’s wails are again reduced to moans, and, soon enough, to silence. When the curtains open, Neotnia is the first to exit. She carries away a bedpan and returns with towels, wipes the food from the floor, then collects the scattered utensils.
Joe shakes his head. ‘Life breaks us all, eventually.’
I give him a small smile. I don’t know how else to reply.
‘It’s OK, kid. Old folks’ homes make people uncomfortable. You don’t have to be embarrassed.’
‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’m not uncomfortable. My parents are actually doctors, and sometimes they did consults from our house, so I grew up used to seeing people who are … unwell. They also did fieldwork in places where people were really, well, broken, as you say, and they were always honest with me about what they saw.’
‘Oh, yeah? Where’s that?’
‘Angola.’
Joe’s jaw drops a little.
‘The Stung?’
I nod.
Joe looks at me like he’s waiting for me to go on.
‘I know most Americans don’t anymore, due to the keyword bans, but I heard all about the starvation and disease, first-hand and in detail – the disfigurements, too. What it did to them, not just physically, but psychologically.’
But at that, I stop and clear my throat, the past suddenly too near. All of it was caused by the biologics the UAVs released on the Angolan population, and it gave those impacted the name ‘the Stung’. It’s a topic taboo to most Americans, even before the bans, given it was our drones that did the stinging.
‘Your parents were in the north the whole time?’ says Joe.
‘Yeah.’
‘Wow, kid. They really must’ve seen the worst of it. The Americans and Chinese poured so much tech into the hands of their surrogate factions up there, it’s a miracle there were any civilians left to be helped. It’s been over a decade since the s’powers disavowed what happened in their little proxy war, but the north was so scarred they still can’t grow their own crops. Japan’s one of the nations that farm a genetically modified wheat to this day just to help feed them.’
Joe looks at me, but I don’t say anything.
‘You should get your mom and pop to record what they saw, for posterity’s sake. Get them to write it down. Humanity has a convenient habit of forgetting our worst horrors.’
‘Mom doesn’t really talk about it anymore.’
‘Well, your pop then.’
I hesitate for a moment.
‘Only Mom came back.’
Joe’s lips part.
‘That’s rough, kid. I’m sorry.’
I press my own lips together. ‘Well, anyway … my point was I’m not uncomfortable here. I know this place is heaven compared to how some have to live out their last days.’
I immediately feel stupid for saying that last part. But if Joe’s taken offence, he doesn’t show it.
‘Well, let’s hope places such as this stay like heaven, comparatively. But mark my words, kid: this cold war that’s been going on since before you were born? It’s not going to be cold forever – and its effects aren’t going to be limited to far-off places like Africa forever, either. Small Sino-American proxy wars are always within a hair’s breadth of spilling over into global ones. The planet’s gotten too small for two superpowers with radically different worldviews – and they both know it.’
Joe takes a breath and looks down at his tray. It’s as if he’s suddenly worn out. He places the edges of his palms on the table.
‘Hey, do you mind?’
I roll the table away from his bed.
‘I’ll save some food for later.’ Then, adjusting the blanket over himself, he adds, ‘A bit cold in here today.’
‘Is there something I can do?’
‘See the compartment down there? It should have an extra blanket.’
I open the compartment at the foot of his bed and find a thick blue cover. I help spread it across his body.
‘Thanks, kid. It’d take forever for a nurse to come help me with this.’
‘So, how long have you known Neotnia?’ I say once he’s settled, not wanting to return to our previous topic.
He thinks for a moment. ‘About nine months. Ever since she started volunteering. We all adore her. We could use another thirty of her.’
‘She mentioned they’re short-staffed here.’
Joe nods. ‘But it’s not just here. It’s been a problem in Japan since the twenties, at least. People stopped having so many kids. Soon there’ll be more people over the age of sixty than under. That’s what half of the news in Japan is about nowadays: “the elderly crisis”. There’s just not enough young people to care for the old.’
‘What about bots?’
‘We’ve got a couple here to help with the basic stuff – delivering meds, things like that. But beyond that, how can they help? We don’t need them to build a highway in here or give us a tour of the place. I’ve seen construction bots lifting five hundred pounds of cement, no problem, but how could they help one of us get out of bed without breaking our frail bones?’
I nod.
‘Not that it’s just about helping us to the toilet. Neotnia’s helped me to the toilet more times than I can count, but that’s not why she’s a treasure. A lot of us are lonely, and she gives us attention, genuine attention. A robot can’t do that. And kid, let me tell you, that is remarkable – the attention she gives us. Most girls her age would be out in the clubs dancing, not here with us.’
