母の記憶の中にいる息子になる

On the Tuesday after the May Golden Week holidays, I took two train transfers from Tokyo and headed to the third floor of an apartment complex. It was an old building without an elevator, and a thin layer of moss clung to the concrete of the exterior stairs. In a planter on the landing, petunias bloomed, seemingly planted by someone. I stood before the door, steadying my breath. The key was a spare I'd been entrusted with by the client's daughter—let's call her Keiko. When I opened it, I smelled incense. Not the kind from a Buddhist altar, but mosquito coils. Even though it was only May, 87-year-old Tome Shimada burned mosquito coils regardless of the season, because opening the windows would let bugs in.

"Oh, Masao. You came."

Tome looked at my face and called her son's name. Masao had passed away from a stroke three years prior. I knew that. Tome, however, did not.

"Yes, I'm here," I said, taking off my shoes.

Keiko, the client, first contacted me last autumn. Over the phone, she calmly explained the situation: her mother, Tome, was transitioning from early to mid-stage dementia. Although she had received certification for long-term care, she steadfastly refused to enter a facility, insisting, "I'll die here," and wouldn't hear of it. On the other hand, Keiko had her own family in Kyushu, making weekly visits physically impossible. While caregivers did come, the person Tome truly waited for was not a caregiver. It was her son, Masao.

"My mother doesn't remember that my brother died. Every week, she calls asking, 'Isn't Masao coming?' And each time, I've told her, 'It seems he's busy.'"

Keiko's voice trembled slightly.

"But I've reached my limit. Both with continuing to lie, and with leaving my mother alone."

I had received these kinds of requests many times: work that involved becoming a surrogate for deceased family members. At Family Romance, requests for regular visits as part of our elderly companionship service were increasing year by year. Visiting elderly people living alone as "family." Accompanying them shopping. Listening to their stories. How difficult these seemingly simple acts were. Keiko used the word "lie," but I always find myself wondering: Is it truly a lie?

Before the first visit, I had a detailed discussion with Keiko. Masao's favorite sayings, preferred foods, and distinctive way of walking. Keiko sent me many old photographs. Masao was a little shorter than me, with a round face, and his eyes would narrow when he smiled. Our physiques were not similar. But Tome's eyesight had deteriorated considerably, and she seemed to recognize people more by their voice and mannerisms than by their physical outlines. Keiko said:

"My brother always opened the refrigerator first when he went to Mother's house. He'd check the expiration dates. Then he'd say, 'Mom, you bought too much yogurt again.'"

During my first visit, I opened the refrigerator first. Sure enough, there were five yogurts lined up. "Mom, you bought too much yogurt again," I said. Tome laughed, "But they were cheap!" Seeing her laugh like that, I became convinced. This person could make it through an entire week, just on the fact that "Masao came."

Let me tell you about the socks. On my third visit, Tome said, "Masao, here are your socks," and pulled out a pair of men's socks from the dresser. They were likely left behind by the real Masao during his last visit to his childhood home. I took them, saying, "Oh, I was looking for these." To this day, those socks are still in my bag. I bring them each time, only to return them to the dresser on my way out, so that the next time Tome finds them, she can say again, "Here are your socks."

Tome's dementia is gradually progressing. In the beginning, even after I left, she would apparently call Keiko to say, "Masao came today." Recently, the days when she forgets to make calls at all have increased. But whenever I visit, she always calls me "Masao." Strangely, this particular capacity—her ability to recognize me as Masao—has not yet been lost.

One day, Tome suddenly said:

"Masao, when you were little, you fell in the park and scraped your knee, didn't you? Mother didn't have a bandage then, so I tied it with a handkerchief. Do you remember?"

I didn't remember. Of course not; it wasn't my memory, after all. But I replied, "Yes, I remember." Then Tome happily began to elaborate on the details: "That handkerchief had a floral pattern, you know." There was strength in her voice. There was light in her eyes.

Whose memory is it, I wonder? The "time spent with Masao" within Tome still undoubtedly exists, even now that Masao has passed away. By my presence, that memory is reawakened, and breathes life once more. I am not Masao. Yet, by my presence, the Masao within Tome's memory still lives. If the feeling is real, then it *is* real—I had never felt those words I always tell myself so profoundly as I did at that moment.

With the arrival of May, the trees around the apartment complex all at once deepened their green. Tome disliked opening the windows, but when I'd say, "The breeze feels nice," she would reluctantly permit it. Since she would open the window with the mosquito coils still burning, the smoke would drift outside.

That day, I put out kusamochi (mugwort rice cakes) that I had bought at the supermarket. Tome said, "Masao used to like kusamochi." It was just as Keiko had told me. We ate kusamochi together while watching a TV variety show. Tome remarked about a celebrity on screen, "This person was on before, wasn't she?" but it was likely a different person. I replied, "That's right."

I believe this accumulation of time is the essence of watchful companionship. There are no special events, no dramatic turns. Just sitting beside them, sharing tea, saying, "I'll come again," before departing. It is said that there are now over seven million elderly people living alone in Japan: people who want to enter a facility but can't, those who can but don't want to, those whose families live far away, and those who have no family at all. Each of them needs the reassurance that "someone will come." Requests for elderly companionship at Family Romance have clearly increased in recent years. Honestly, we are unable to keep up with the sheer scale of this demand.

After visiting Tome weekly for over half a year, a particular emotion has grown within me. It is a feeling of unworthiness.

Tome believes I am Masao. She rejoices every time I come, feels a pang of loneliness every time I leave, and looks forward to the kusamochi I bring. But I am not Masao. I do not possess the decades of love Masao poured into her. What I possess is professional skill, the determination to continue this work, and—what should I call it?—something akin to reverence for Tome.

I submit a report to Keiko once a month: Tome's physical condition, her meals, and any changes in her demeanor. Keiko always says, "Thank you," but her voice always carries a faint undertone of guilt—her inability to visit herself, her inability to tell her mother the truth, her having hired a substitute. I told Keiko:

"The very act of entrusting me with this request is, in itself, an expression of love for your mother."

I meant it sincerely. Yet, I also know it won't erase Keiko-san's guilt. Truthfully, it would be better if services like this didn't exist. A world where sons are alive and can visit their mothers on their own is, without a doubt, preferable. But that's not the reality. And so, I am here.

As I prepare to leave, Tome-san always comes out to the entryway. Slowly, because her knees are bad. As I'm putting on my shoes, she says from behind me, "Masao, do come again." Each time, her voice becomes a little higher. A soft, pleading voice, like a child speaking to a parent. Can you imagine the weight of "Do come again" when spoken by someone who has lived eighty-seven years, directed at a stranger she believes to be her son?

I reply, "Yes, I'll come again." I turn and wave. As I descend the stairs, I think. Will Tome-san still think I'm Masao-san next week? Will the day come when she forgets even me? When that day comes, who should I be when I visit that room?

The May wind sweeps through the stairwell of the housing complex. The petunias on the landing sway. I touch the socks in my bag and head towards the station. Next Tuesday, I will be here again. As long as Tome-san calls me "Masao," I will continue to accept that name. Whether it is real or not is no longer for me to decide. Tome-san's smile decides.