My father's illness continued in much the same state for over a week. During that time I wrote a long letter to my brother in Kyushu. My mother was made to write one to my sister. In my heart, I thought this would probably be the last word to the two of them concerning my father's health. So in both letters I wrote that if the worst should come to pass, I would send a telegram and they were to come at once.
My brother was tied to a busy post. My sister was with child. Therefore, before my father's danger pressed close before their eyes, we could not freely summon them. And yet, it would be painful to have them go to the trouble of arranging to come, only to arrive too late. Regarding the timing of sending the telegram, I felt a responsibility known to no one else.
"Once it comes to such a clear matter, I cannot say myself. But please understand at least this: that we do not know when the danger may come."
The doctor we had fetched from the town with the station said this to me. I consulted with my mother, and through that doctor's good offices, arranged for a nurse from the town hospital. Father made a strange face at the white-clad woman who came to his pillowside and greeted him.
Father had long been aware that he was stricken with a fatal disease. And yet, he did not notice the death itself that was drawing near before his eyes.
"When I'm cured, I'll go to Tokyo again for a visit. A man never knows when he'll die, after all. Whatever you want to do, you'd best do it while you're alive."
Mother, having no choice, humored him: "Then do take me along with you when that time comes."
At times he would grow exceedingly forlorn.
"If I should die, please take good care of your mother for me."
I held a certain memory of these words, "if I should die." The evening of the day I graduated, Sensei had repeated them to his wife again and again, when he was leaving Tokyo. I recalled Sensei's face, smiling as he spoke, and his wife's manner of stopping her ears as if she would not hear such an ill-omened thing. Back then, that "if I should die" was a simple supposition. What I now heard was a fact that might come to pass at any moment. I could not learn from Sensei's wife her attitude toward him. But with my lips at least, I had to distract my father somehow.
"You must not speak such faint-hearted words. Weren't you just saying that when you're cured you'll go to Tokyo for a visit, with Mother? When you go next time you'll surely be surprised—it's changed so. Why, even just the new tram lines have increased enormously. Once the trams run, naturally the townscape changes too, and on top of that there's the city redevelopment; when Tokyo is in a ferment, you might say there's not a quarter-hour's peace day or night."
Having no choice, I chattered on even about things I needn't have mentioned. Father, looking satisfied enough, listened.
With a sick man in the house, naturally there came and went many visitors. Relatives from nearby called to inquire in turn at the rate of about one every two days. Among them were some comparatively distant, with whom we had been ordinarily estranged. "I was worried, but at this rate he'll be all right. He speaks freely, and why, his face hasn't thinned a bit," some would say, and go home. The household, which at the time of my return had been quiet to the point of stillness, began gradually to bustle with such comings and goings.
Amid all this, my father's illness, unmoving in its place, only shifted ever further in an unwelcome direction. I took counsel with my mother and my uncle, and at last sent telegrams to my brother and sister. From my brother came word at once that he would come. From my sister's husband, too, came notice that he would set out. My sister, having miscarried the last time she was with child, her husband had said beforehand that this time they meant to take every precaution so it would not become a habit; he might come himself in her stead.
