The Language Inside (44 page)

well, that’s good
I say

breathing again

relaxing my shoulders

Dad says radiation will start just after Thanksgiving

that it will be five times a week for seven weeks

and that after those seven weeks

she’ll start taking tamoxifen

and her body will need to adjust

nothing unusual
Dad says

I raise my eyebrows

but I hold my tongue—

this whole year has been nothing but

               unusual

how does this happen to someone who runs?
I say

and wears sunscreen

and doesn’t eat much meat?

it’s not fair

cancer is never fair
he says

but lots of women are survivors, Em

he says Mom will be fine but may be tired

from the radiation

and she’ll need lots of help

emotional and physical—

YiaYia’s help

Toby’s help

Dad’s help

when he can be there

and especially

my help

she counts on you, Em
he says

too much, I think

but don’t say

I pause on some bumped-up concrete where

a tree root has cracked open the sidewalk

like a wound

how is she today?
I say

but we have to move down the sidewalk

when a leaf blower starts

okay, kind of deflated

resigned, maybe
he says

we both know

she’s going crazy

without her running

then Dad says
I’m sorry, Em

but it looks like you and Toby

should just finish the school year here

even if I have to go back to Japan sooner

which, you know, I probably will

maybe in winter

I take a deep breath

and stare across

a long sloping yard

dotted with Canada geese

and I’m thinking

what if
I
went back with Dad . . . 

but then I think of Zena’s poem

of her daughter

swimming off with her sister

and how if I went back with Dad

wouldn’t that be like

abandoning Mom?

I tell Dad
don’t worry

I’ll help Mom get back on her feet

he says
thanks, Em

I know you will

we walk back to the house

but before checking in with Mom

I tell him I need to go for a run

I put on some sweats

and dash back outside

to get my head in order

so I don’t blurt

the wrong words to Mom

I don’t even stretch

just start running

and right away I’m aware

I don’t have enough layers

for this frigid New England air

I launch into a sprint

bolt down my usual route

then keep going straight

where I’d usually loop right

pushing, pumping, straining

as if I want

               to feel a muscle tear

when I slow my pace finally

I try to list what this all really means

               1. my mother still needs treatment

               2. Dad won’t be with us much

               3. I’m staying in Massachusetts for a full school year

               4. I won’t get back to Japan until way after
the one-year anniversary of the quake

as I reach mile three

I’m relieved the list is only

four points long

that I can start to mull or stress

as YiaYia might say

on just those four points

my body finally warms

and I even have to walk

awhile to cool down

when I reach YiaYia’s

at dusk

my mother’s in an armchair

with a lap desk and her computer

which she closes when I sit

down on the edge of the bed

cancer sucks
I say

sure does
she says

but I’m not alone, Em

about 12% of women in this country

will get breast cancer

and this is all standard treatment

precautionary, okay?

I nod, encouraged to see

that glint of determination

returning

then she says

I love that I can always count on you, Em

and though it’s meant as praise

it feels like a weight

transferred

strapped

to my back

Mom gazes out the window

to tree limbs bathed in streetlight

and sighs

I wish we were in Japan
she says

I miss my running routes, my students . . . 

I can get enough America when I’m in Japan

but I can’t get enough Japan when I’m here

and this year, of all times, to have to leave . . . 

I want to agree

add my own rant to hers

but instead I say

yeah, but we’ll get back home soon enough

and you’ll run those same routes

probably faster

she looks away

purses her lips

and I know she’s fighting tears

and I need to change the subject