Genki Kawamura - If Cats Disappeared from the World

I stood up, went over to the closet, and pulled out an old cardboard box. Inside the dust-covered box there was a dark-red photo album. I wanted to show the album to Cabbage.

I turned the pages and explained to Cabbage what was in each photo.

I showed him a photo of the old rocking chair where Mom used to sit with him, rocking back and forth with him on her lap. This is you, Cabbage. This is where you always sat. And this is the ball of yarn you liked so much. You’d play here for hours on end. And here’s the worn-out old tin bucket where you used to curl up and go to sleep. I remember you peering out at Mom. And there’s that old green towel you liked. It was Mom’s favorite, but you adopted it. Then there’s the little toy piano that Mom bought you for Christmas. What a picture. Here you are playing on the toy piano. You were a bit rough with it, but what a performance. And then this one, the Christmas tree. I remember when Mom decorated the tree each year you’d get too excited. You’d tear everything down as soon as Mom got it up, so she always had a really hard time. Oh, and this one. This is you jumping out at the Christmas tree. What a mess. You were really something, Cabbage. But Mom looks happy in all these photos.

We finished one album then started on another. I kept talking to Cabbage. I told him about Lettuce and that rainy day he came to live with us. How when Lettuce died Mom just sort of shut down. She wouldn’t move or go out. Then I told Cabbage about the day she found him , and all the happy days that came after that. And I told him about how Mom got sick. Cabbage sat quietly and listened closely to every word.

Every once in a while I’d ask Cabbage if he remembered any of these things, but he seemed to have forgotten everything. Then suddenly, looking at one photo, his eyes lit up.

It was early in the morning at a beautiful spot on the coast. In the picture I’m wearing a yukata, an informal summer kimono. And Mom and Dad are in the photo too. We’re pushing Mom in a wheelchair, and on her lap sits Cabbage with a grumpy look on his face. Dad and I are laughing, though looking a bit embarrassed. The laughing faces were unusual and caught my eye.

“Who is this?” Cabbage asked with interest. It was the first time Dad had appeared in any of the pictures.

“That’s my father,” I answered him curtly. I didn’t want to talk about my father.

“Where was this picture taken?”

“I think this was taken at the hot springs we visited together.”

There was a date printed on the photo. It was only a week before Mom died.

“Mom was hospitalized and couldn’t move around on her own anymore. Then suddenly she said she wanted to go to a hot spring.”

“Why was that?”

“I think she probably wanted to leave us with a nice memory. She rarely took trips anywhere.”

Cabbage stared intently at the photo.

“Did you remember something?”

“I… I think so. I think I’m starting to feel something.”

It looked like Cabbage might have recovered a fragment of his memory. I wanted to see if I could get him to retrieve a little more so I carried on showing him photos and talking him through them.

The one from four years ago…

Mother’s condition had become hopeless. She was throwing up and in pain every day. She couldn’t sleep. But then one morning she woke up and suddenly called me into her room. She said she wanted to go to a hot spring, somewhere where she could see the ocean.

I was bewildered by this sudden request, and asked her again and again if she was sure she wanted to take the trip. I couldn’t tell whether she really meant it or not. But Mom really wanted to go. She hadn’t made any special requests up to that point, so I was surprised.

I managed to convince the doctor to let her out for just a day or two, but then she revealed her plan.

“I want the whole family to come. You and your father and Cabbage.”

That’s what mattered to her. To have the whole family together.

Despite my mother’s condition, I hadn’t exchanged one word with my father during the whole time she’d been ill. I don’t think I’d even made eye contact with him. Our relationship, or lack thereof, had hardened over the years. Once we’d established that we never spoke, then that was just the way it was, it had gone on so long. So you can imagine I balked at the idea of going on a trip to a hot spring with him, or even talking to him about it. But I knew that this would be my mother’s last trip, so I took a deep breath and decided to see if I could convince my father to come.

“What a stupid idea,” my father replied—which was his response to just about everything. But despite my feelings of disgust and the mental exhaustion that came from trying to communicate with him in any way, I persisted and managed to convince him.

It was the last trip my mother ever took. And also the first time I’d ever traveled any significant distance with her, so I went out of my way to put together an especially nice itinerary. It was a three-hour trip by train to a hot spring on the coast. The beach stretched as far as the eye could see, bathed in soft sunlight. It was an elegant inn with a beautiful view of the coastline. My mother had seen the place in a photo in a magazine—it was somewhere she’d always wanted to go.

The inn was perfect—a traditional old farmhouse built over a hundred years ago, remodeled for use as a hotel. There were only two rooms, and a dazzling view of the ocean from the second floor. There was a pretty rustic outside bathing area and beyond that, the coast spread out into the distance. You could sit and watch the sunset. I was sure Mom would be happy with the choice so I put everything I had into getting a reservation there.

So on the appointed day the whole family set out on our trip, with the doctors and nurses waving us off in front of the hospital. It was the first time in a long while that the whole family, all three of us plus the cat, had gone away together.

In the train we sat facing each other in crowded seats, with my father and me barely speaking. Mom was opposite us, just smiling and watching. We survived the three hours spent together in the same communal space, and then just when we were approaching our limit, the train arrived, the conductor loudly announcing the stop for the hot spring.

I pushed my mother in her wheelchair and, feeling hopeful, we headed for the inn.

But when we got there, disaster struck: my reservation hadn’t gone through, and someone else had taken the room.

I couldn’t believe it. I told them again and again that I had made a booking over the phone. I told them how much this meant to my mother—how it would be her last trip. But they refused to listen to my pleas. The owner expressed her apologies very politely, but wouldn’t budge. I was at a loss, and felt devastated that I hadn’t been able to do something to make my mother happy.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, smiling. But I couldn’t forgive myself. I was so frustrated and disappointed I thought I might cry. Not knowing what to do, I just stood there in stunned silence.

Then my father patted me on the shoulder with one of those large, firm hands of his.

“Well, we can’t have your mother camping out in her condition. I’ll go find something.”

Then Dad ran out the door of the inn. I had never seen him move so fast my whole life. So I ran after him.

Dad raced between the nearby inns, checking whether they had any rooms available. Growing up, I only ever saw my father in his shop, sitting silently and still, repairing clocks. I couldn’t believe he could move at such speed. Even when he came to watch me play sports at school he would always sit absolutely still, like a rock. This was the first time in my life I’d ever seen him run, for any reason.