2001-02-19
Shinagawa, Tokyo
The hospital room was quiet.
Steve sat in a chair beside the window, staring out at the gray morning sky. He hadn't moved much since the night before.
The room smelled faintly of disinfectant.
Somewhere down the hallway a cart rattled past.
Steve didn't react.
The door opened softly.
His mother stepped inside.
For a moment she simply stood there, looking at him. His shoulders were slumped forward slightly, his hands resting loosely in his lap, his eyes red and swollen.
"Hi, sweetheart," she said gently.
Steve didn't answer.
She crossed the room and pulled a chair beside him.
For a long time neither of them spoke.
Finally she reached over and placed her hand on his arm.
"It's going to be okay," she said quietly. "We're going to get through this."
Steve kept staring out the window.
Outside, people walked along the sidewalk below the hospital as if the world had not changed.
But it had.
Later that afternoon, Steve's mother stood in the hallway speaking quietly with a doctor.
The psychiatrist spoke in a calm, measured voice.
"What your son experienced was extremely traumatic," he said. "The shock, the disorientation, the emotional withdrawal — these are very common reactions."
Steve's mother nodded slowly, trying to absorb the words.
"So this is... normal?" she asked.
The doctor gave a small reassuring smile.
"Yes," he said. "For something like this, it's a very normal response."
He folded his hands gently in front of him.
"The important thing is that he has support. With time and care, people can recover from events like this."
Steve's mother glanced through the open doorway at her son sitting silently in the chair.
She nodded again.
"Thank you," she said softly.
A few days later, they stood together in the terminal at
Narita International Airport.
The airport was busy with the usual rush of travelers, rolling suitcases, and overhead announcements.
Steve moved through it all as if he were underwater.
His mother walked beside him, one hand resting gently against his back.
"You doing okay?" she asked quietly.
Steve wiped his face.
He hadn't really stopped crying since they left the hospital.
"I don't know," he said.
His voice sounded small.
His mother pulled him into a brief hug.
"It's okay," she said. "You don't have to know right now."
They boarded the plane.
Steve took the window seat.
As the plane lifted into the sky, he pressed his forehead lightly against the glass.
Clouds drifted beneath them.
He tried to stop crying, but the tears came anyway.
His mother reached across the armrest and held his hand.
"It's okay, honey," she said softly.
"We're going to get through this."
Steve closed his eyes.
"Your dad is waiting for us when we land," she continued gently. "Everything's going to be okay."
She squeezed his hand.
"We'll find you a place. We'll get you settled again."
Steve didn't answer.
He just stared out the window as the plane carried them across the ocean toward home.