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Authors: Banana Yoshimoto
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sense that you can take your family for granted, that’s why I feel so comfortable with you. You see your family members for what they are, and you look at me in an ordinary way, without wishing that I was somehow different,” Nakajima said, his tone very level. “That’s what I like about you. I’m extremely, almost pathologically sensitive to violence, and I pick up on it immediately when something violent is happening. Most people are constantly perpetrating little acts of violence on others, even when they don’t mean to. You almost never do that, Chihiro.”
“How about you?” I asked.
“I’ve never been able to discuss this before,” Nakajima said, “but honestly, I felt oppressed the whole time until my mother died, because of the way she was always fretting over me—no one else mattered. She became so focused on me that ultimately my father got fed up and left. It really weighed down on me, but at the same time certain things had happened to keep us apart for a long time, and during that whole period I’d yearned to see her so badly. But then when we were finally reunited, when she was actually there, in person, her love completely overwhelmed me.… Like, if I was going out for a while, she couldn’t rest easy unless she’d checked to see when I’d be coming home, and if I was even a minute late she would be waiting up, crying, you know? That’s the kind of woman she was.
“And to make matters even worse, she died before we’d had time to live together as long as most mothers and sons do, and so I felt even more confused. I have these two different images of her etched into my memory: one as this idealized mother, and the other as a sort of pressure weighing down on me—obsessive, feminine love.
“The ideal side of her, though—that part of her was so extraordinary, it just blew me away, and I felt so small beside her, and I know that if it hadn’t been for her I wouldn’t even be here today. I’m so grateful to her that if she were still alive, I could spend my whole life trying to pay her back and it would never be enough.
“There was one time in particular when things got really terrible. There was a period when we were like a couple in love, lost in our own maze with no way out. We were both going regularly to the hospital then, and we were in such bad shape that our doctor suggested we go and spend some time in a small house that belonged to some relatives of ours. It was a run-down shack way out in the country with nothing around it, and we did stay there for a while, living a quiet life. It was cool in the summer, but in the winter it got incredibly cold, we were always freezing, but the scenery was gorgeous, you could always see the lake, and it was lonely, and beautiful.
“And now those friends of mine, the people I’ve been talking about, they live there now, and I want to go see them, I’ve been trying, but whenever I think about it—just look at me, you can see how it makes me sweat. I’ve thought about going any number of times these past few years, but every time I end up making all sorts of excuses to myself, and in the end I decide not to go. No matter how hard I try, I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is that makes me break out in a sweat like this—my memories of my mother, or the memories I share with my friends.”
“If it brings back such painful memories, maybe you don’t need to go,” I said. “Why don’t you just wait until it starts to feel right? Don’t force it. Go when you’re ready.”
Nakajima looked miserable when I said this.
“If I do that, I won’t ever get to see them. I’ll never see my friends again.”
“When’s the last time you met?” I asked.
“I haven’t been out since before my mother died, she and I visited together … it’s been about ten years, I guess. Maybe longer. Though occasionally I call,” Nakajima said.
“You really want to see them?”
“I really do, more than anything else in the
“How about you?” I asked.
“I’ve never been able to discuss this before,” Nakajima said, “but honestly, I felt oppressed the whole time until my mother died, because of the way she was always fretting over me—no one else mattered. She became so focused on me that ultimately my father got fed up and left. It really weighed down on me, but at the same time certain things had happened to keep us apart for a long time, and during that whole period I’d yearned to see her so badly. But then when we were finally reunited, when she was actually there, in person, her love completely overwhelmed me.… Like, if I was going out for a while, she couldn’t rest easy unless she’d checked to see when I’d be coming home, and if I was even a minute late she would be waiting up, crying, you know? That’s the kind of woman she was.
“And to make matters even worse, she died before we’d had time to live together as long as most mothers and sons do, and so I felt even more confused. I have these two different images of her etched into my memory: one as this idealized mother, and the other as a sort of pressure weighing down on me—obsessive, feminine love.
“The ideal side of her, though—that part of her was so extraordinary, it just blew me away, and I felt so small beside her, and I know that if it hadn’t been for her I wouldn’t even be here today. I’m so grateful to her that if she were still alive, I could spend my whole life trying to pay her back and it would never be enough.
“There was one time in particular when things got really terrible. There was a period when we were like a couple in love, lost in our own maze with no way out. We were both going regularly to the hospital then, and we were in such bad shape that our doctor suggested we go and spend some time in a small house that belonged to some relatives of ours. It was a run-down shack way out in the country with nothing around it, and we did stay there for a while, living a quiet life. It was cool in the summer, but in the winter it got incredibly cold, we were always freezing, but the scenery was gorgeous, you could always see the lake, and it was lonely, and beautiful.
“And now those friends of mine, the people I’ve been talking about, they live there now, and I want to go see them, I’ve been trying, but whenever I think about it—just look at me, you can see how it makes me sweat. I’ve thought about going any number of times these past few years, but every time I end up making all sorts of excuses to myself, and in the end I decide not to go. No matter how hard I try, I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is that makes me break out in a sweat like this—my memories of my mother, or the memories I share with my friends.”
“If it brings back such painful memories, maybe you don’t need to go,” I said. “Why don’t you just wait until it starts to feel right? Don’t force it. Go when you’re ready.”
Nakajima looked miserable when I said this.
“If I do that, I won’t ever get to see them. I’ll never see my friends again.”
“When’s the last time you met?” I asked.
“I haven’t been out since before my mother died, she and I visited together … it’s been about ten years, I guess. Maybe longer. Though occasionally I call,” Nakajima said.
“You really want to see them?”
“I really do, more than anything else in the
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