I throw my head back and stare up at the ceiling, all sexy thoughts banished from my mind. Is there anything I can do?
Not really, but thank you for asking, she says, and her next message is a red heart.
It’s super pathetic of me, but I fucking love getting hearts from Anna.
Because I’m crazy about her, I send her a heart of my own, followed by Do you want me to come see you?
It’s probably better if you don’t for now, she replies.
Okay. Just let me know, I say.
I will. Thank you. I have to go, she texts, and I know that’s the last that I’ll hear from her in a while.
It doesn’t feel right to me that she’s going through hard times and I can’t be there with her, but I get it. This is a family time, and I’m not part of her family. Based on the way her mom looked at me, I have a long road ahead of me if I want to be accepted by the people in her life. I’ve always had a take-it-or-leave-it attitude when it comes to people, meaning if they don’t like what they see, they can fuck off. But this is Anna’s mom. I have to make an effort and figure this out, even if it’s uncomfortable and frustrating and goes against who I am.
Anna cares, so I care.
In good news, I have an inbox full of emails relating to the possible acquisition by LVMH and a meeting today with all the lawyers. I’ve been trying to keep my head cool, but things are getting real. My gut tells me this is going to happen. It’ll be the culmination of years of hard work and the start of a new phase of my partnership with Michael. We’re going to take over the world together. And I’m going to make a shitload of money in the process.
That won’t hurt when it comes to Anna’s mom. If I’m rich enough, I know that woman will respect me. It won’t matter what I look like or where I went to school or how I sound when I talk or what’s left of my body.
I’m going to be good enough for her daughter.
TWENTY-ONE
Anna
As we all knew would happen, Priscilla takes charge as soon as she arrives at the hospital. She arranges for second opinions and third opinions on our dad’s condition. She scrutinizes all the records she can get her hands on, she gets copies of his brain scans, she dogs the nurses and doctors with so many questions and directions that I feel sorry for them. They look positively harassed, and her lack of confidence in their competence must be hard for them to swallow. They don’t understand that this is just her way, it’s not personal, but she’s already put one of the nurses in tears. To make up for it, I try to be as nice to everyone as humanly possible. I am kind, I am sweet, I am considerate, I buy the hospital staff pastries.
I appreciate you. Please don’t hate my family. Please care about my dad.
Priscilla sends word out through the family grapevine that our dad is possibly on his deathbed, and it works like a homing signal, summoning everyone near and far to come. Within the next few days, the hospital is inundated with a conspicuously large number of Asians. We’re packed into my dad’s room. We’ve moved into the visiting room on my dad’s floor and stocked it with beverages and seafood-flavored snacks. We’re occupying all the chairs in the lobby. There’s a long bench in the hallway by the elevators, and we’ve claimed that for ourselves, too. I’m bracing myself for the moment when the hospital administrators ask us to dial it down. I honestly don’t know how we’ll do that. My dad is the oldest in the Sun clan, the patriarch, and everyone wants to pay their respects and say their good-byes.
The problem—that’s not the right word, but I can’t think of a better one—is that every time we believe it’s the end, he miraculously pulls through. We cry, we say good-bye, we let him go. And then he opens his eyes the next day, not rec
overed, not remotely improved, but definitely still here, still alive. We rejoice and cry happy tears. But as time stretches on, something new happens; he appears to have an episode of some kind or his heart rate fluctuates dangerously, the doctor says he won’t make it through the night, and everyone rushes back to his room. We cry, we say good-bye, we let him go. And then he opens his eyes the next day again, and we rejoice again. This happens three times before his condition seems to stabilize. It’s an emotional roller coaster unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
Tonight, the elders (that means my mom and all four of my dad’s siblings and their respective spouses), Priscilla, and I are in the visiting room with the door shut. It smells like the eggrolls that my cousin brought back after lunch, and the air is stale, overwarm. There aren’t enough chairs, so as the youngest and least important, I’m standing with my back against the wall, hugging my arms to my chest and trying to blend in with the wallpaper. I’m so tired that I’ve been seeing double, but I do my best to focus. This is important.
I watch as Priscilla explains the situation and guides the discussion. Her Cantonese is excellent (I’ve been told) for someone born and raised in the States, but she still has to use English when things get technical. Words like paralyzed and feeding tube and hospice care stand out, and my aunts and uncles look stricken as they absorb the news. In an unusual physical display of affection, Aunt Linda rubs my mom’s back as she cries into her palms. She’s repeating the same sentence over and over, and even though it’s not English, I can guess what she’s saying: I thought he was sleeping.
There’s some back-and-forth, but it’s not heated. Everyone is sad and exhausted, not angry. However, when it looks like a consensus has been reached, Priscilla leaves the room without telling me anything. I have to race after her to find out.
Behind her in the hall, I ask, “What did everyone decide?”
Her no-nonsense, barracuda-in-the-boardroom stride halts as she turns around. “There wasn’t much of a choice. Everyone’s on the same page. We’re not putting Dad in hospice. They’ll just kill him with morphine. And he has to get the feeding tube.”
“They think that’s what Dad wants?” I ask hesitantly.
“He’ll die otherwise,” Priscilla states. “Do you want to be responsible for killing him?”
I shake my head quickly and regret that I said anything.
Priscilla sighs, looking more tired and stressed than I’ve ever seen her. “I need to go fill out the paperwork to get the procedure done and then look into transitioning Dad home, where we can take better care of him and help him get stronger.”
I nod dazedly, but I’m terrified. Priscilla seems to think our dad can get better, but based on what I’ve seen and heard from the doctors, I think it’s unlikely he’s going to get stronger or regain any quality of life. I’m just one opinion, though, and I’m youngest so I don’t count.
But she said “we.” That means her and me, taking care of our bedridden dad, seeing to literally all his needs.