Mum

Last night, around 11 p.m., I got a call from my mum.

It was morning in Japan, and it seemed she had just woken up.
Her voice sounded tearful and frail as she said, "I feel feverish."

"I want to go home for a bit because I feel feverish," she said.

When I asked, "Maybe you caught a cold?" she replied, "Maybe so."

"I think Takeshi wants to take me home. He's that kind of person," she said.

My younger brother has found a buyer for the house.
He plans to sell it soon.
Once the house is sold, my mother will never be able to return there again.

"But you know," I said, trying to soothe her, "if you're not feeling well, it's better not to go back. Where you are now, they can help you right away if anything happens."

"Yes, you're right. I shouldn't get in his way," she said.

"I got everything ready so he could live just fine in that house before I came here. 

  He'll be all right, no matter what happens now."

　... 

"I've kept everything for you three, so you won't have to worry about anything," she added proudly.
All those things she prepared — they’ll all be thrown away, eventually.

"My head hurts. It's been hurting since morning. I think Takeshi will come to pick me up," she said.

When the Skype connection got weak, her voice suddenly cut off.
I didn’t call her back.

Later, around 1:30 a.m., she called again.
I was still awake, editing my blog, so I answered.

Her voice sounded much brighter; she said she had just eaten breakfast.
She told me a story about an old man she befriended, who got angry at one of the staff, a Vietnamese or something.

"It was hilarious," she said, sounding mischievous.

When I told her, "Try not to fight too much; they're just doing their jobs,"
she snapped,
"That's not it. They're just being lazy. You have to tell them off or they'll never learn,"
talking in a superior tone.
Her voice had regained strength — it seemed that eating had made her feel much better.

Apparently, the old man didn’t get enough food, and when my mother tried to share her own meal with him, she was told not to.
But since the old man didn't get his share, he lost his temper.
The story was a bit confusing, but at least my mother ate her full portion.

"But you know," she said, 

"I didn’t share my food with him.
  If you do that, they get mad at you. 

  You have to eat your own meal, they said.
  So I shamelessly ate everything myself and pretended not to notice."

She repeated the story that I didn't know how to judge three times.

The old man, it seems, lives on the floor above, in a luxury section of the facility, which is for wealthy residents.
Apparently, he was rich but got tricked by his family and sent to the home.
Still, because he's special, even if he gets into fights, it’s fine.

"It was hilarious,"
she said again, in a strong voice full of a sense of superiority.

When she cries and sounds miserable, it breaks my heart.
So when she talks like this — mean and a little unkind — it actually makes me feel relieved.
I end up laughing along with her, sharing that mischievous voice.