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.
“Your father was actually pretty fast on his feet back in the old days.”
I remembered what my mother had said as I dashed around, trying to keep up with my father, who despite his compact, muscular frame, ran around the hot-spring resort with surprising grace.
It was high season and all of the inns were full. We ran around trying everywhere, but were turned away time and time again. Some places only one of us would try, others we went to together, pleading with the inn-keepers. We just couldn’t leave Mom without a decent place to stay. We wanted to make this trip special for her. That was the first time—maybe the only time—since becoming an adult that my father’s feelings and my own were in sync.
After scouring the inns lining the beach, running backwards and forwards, we finally found a vacancy. It was dark, and the outside looked a bit shabby. It looked a bit older than the other inns and was a bit rundown. Our first impressions were confirmed when we went inside and the floorboards creaked as we walked up to the front desk.
“It’s a pretty good inn,” Mother said, beaming, as we brought her in. But I felt awful having her stay in a place like this. But as Dad said, it couldn’t be helped—Mom couldn’t exactly camp out in her condition. So lacking any alternative, that’s where we stayed.
The state of the place may not have been great, but the innkeeper was warm and friendly. The meal wasn’t exactly extravagant, but the cook had obviously put his heart into it, and it was delicious. Mom exclaimed over and over again how good it was there, and how good the food was. Seeing her smiling made me feel a bit better.
That night we all slept in one big tatami room, our futons lined up all in a row. It was the first time in ten years that we’d been together like that.
Staring up at the old wooden ceiling, I was reminded of the house we lived in when I was in elementary school. It didn’t have many rooms, and the entire family slept together upstairs in the only bedroom, futons next to one another.
Now, twenty years later, we found ourselves doing the same thing. It was a strange feeling. And it would be the last time we would ever be together like this. With all these thoughts running through my head, I couldn’t sleep. I wonder if Mom and Dad felt the same way. It was quiet, and the only sound I could hear in the small dark room was Cabbage’s breathing, blending in with, but just detectable above, the rhythmic sound of the ocean’s waves.
Finally it began to get lighter outside. It was maybe four or five in the morning. I got up off my futon, and sat in the window seat. I opened the curtain and looked outside. To my surprise, the old inn sat so close to the beach that the sea occupied most of the view that I saw before me. It had already been dark by the time we found the inn, so I hadn’t noticed how close we were.
For a while I sat there and gazed at the ocean, which—wrapped in pale morning light—looked like something from a dream. Then I noticed that my parents were both awake. They both had circles under their eyes. I guess they hadn’t been able to sleep either.
Mother, still wearing her bedtime yukata, looked out the window at the panoramic view of the sea and suggested that we all go for a walk on the beach.
“Let’s take some pictures. I love walking on the beach in the morning.”
Cabbage was still sleeping, so Mom grabbed him and put him on her lap. She adjusted her yukata and was ready to go. Once she was ready in her wheelchair, off we went to the beach. The early morning light was still dim and it was a bit chilly. Mom wanted to go closer to the water, but it was difficult pushing the wheelchair in the wet sand. After a while I couldn’t get it to move at all. Then the sun began to rise, its rays falling on the surface of the ocean creating a sparkling effect. All three of us stopped, captivated by how beautiful the scene was.
“Hurry up! Take a picture!”
Mom’s yells brought me back to myself and I took out the camera and got it ready. Dad and I took turns taking pictures. Meanwhile the innkeeper came out and offered to take a picture of all of us. With the ocean behind her, Mom sat in her wheelchair with the two of us on either side of her. Dad and I crouched so that our heads would be on the same level, and Cabbage, who had finally woken up, made a face, then let out a big yawn from Mom’s lap.
“OK, cheese!”
The owner of the inn snapped the shutter.
“Thank you!” we shouted in unison.
Then the innkeeper said, “One more!” and we lined up again, this time standing.
“OK, smile… Cheesecake!”
The innkeeper’s earnest efforts to get us to smile, and his friendliness—which was just short of overbearing—made us all laugh, and just at that moment, the shutter snapped.
“Did you remember anything?”
I prodded Cabbage again after I finished my story.
“Apologies, old boy. I tried, but I just don’t remember.”
“That’s too bad, Cabbage.”
“I’m really sorry. I just can’t help it. No matter how hard I try I can’t remember anything. Except perhaps one thing…”
“One thing?”
“I was happy. That’s all I remember.”
“You were happy?”
“Yes. That’s what I remember when I look at these photos. Simply that I was happy.”
It seemed odd to me that Cabbage couldn’t remember any of the details of the trip, not the inn, not even Mom herself, but that he could remember he’d been happy. But something in what Cabbage had said made me think, and then finally I realized… Mom didn’t want that trip just for herself. She wanted me and Dad to make up.