What do I know about caring for anyone? I’ve never babysat or even kept a pet (other than Rock, who, despite his undeniable charisma, isn’t actually alive). I’m woefully unprepared for what lies ahead.
“You can take some time off from the symphony, right? You’re not a key player, so they should be able to fill your chair pretty easily,” Priscilla says, her tone all business. Her dismissive words sting, but I’m used to this. It’s tough love, meant to help me overcome my extreme sensitivity and be realistic about myself. “As for your record deal, I’m sure you can push that out. They should be understanding.”
“Yes,” I reply unsteadily. She doesn’t know that the symphony filled my chair months ago or that I’ve already pushed out my recording deadline because I just can’t play anymore. If I did it once, however, I can probably do it again, so I say, “I can make the time.”
Priscilla gives me a proud smile, and even though I’m emotionally overwhelmed, her approval fills me with warmth. “I have a ton of vacation time saved up, and if it comes down to it, I’ll just quit. We’re in this together, Mui mui. In the meantime, try to get some sleep if you can. I took a nap in Dad’s car earlier, and that was pretty nice. Just remember to open all the windows.”
She hands me the keys to our dad’s Mercedes and continues down the hall, her eyes focused like she’s on a mission, and I suppose she is. She’s trying, very valiantly, to save our dad’s life. That’s what you do when you love someone. You fight, no matter the cost. You fight even when it’s hopeless.
Right?
I wander down the hall, waving at my cousins seated on the benches, take the elevator to the ground floor, go through the lobby, where I wave at yet more cousins and second cousins and my cousins’ cousins who aren’t even related to me, and exit the building. The car is parked under a tree on the far side of the parking lot, its windshield matted with tree sap and white squirts of bird poop. I make a note to get it a car wash one of these days. My dad loves this car even though it’s older than I am—a tan 1980s convertible that he never lets anyone take the top down on.
The passenger seat is already reclined all the way back, so I get in on that side and roll the windows down—they’re manual, so I don’t have to start the engine. Shutting my eyes, I enjoy the feel of sunlight dancing on my face and will myself to fall asleep.
No matter how hard I try to clear my mind, however, my head keeps buzzing. Disjointed snapshots flicker behind my eyes. The doctor recommending hospice and pain medication to make my dad comfortable in his last days. My cousin, an exercise and health food professional, saying we should only give him natural products like marijuana extracts because when he gets better, we don’t want him to be addicted to painkillers. My mom repeating that same sentence over and over, seeking forgiveness from everyone around her because she can’t forgive herself. Priscilla, filled with determination to do the right thing. And my dad, moaning and flailing, trapped in his bed, trapped in his own body.
While I was watching him last night, he began thrashing about. His movements continued for several heart-stopping minutes, and when the nurse finally came after I paged her, she checked his vitals and inspected him only to determine he had to relieve himself. She kindly explained to him that he couldn’t get up to use the toilet and encouraged him to go in his bed, but he fought and he fought. He fought until his body finally won, and then he cried like he was broken, turning his face into his pillow.
I want a reprieve from these thoughts so badly that I consider turning music on, but the radio’s been broken since forever, just like the air-conditioning, and the same tape has been stuck in the cassette player for decades—Teresa Cheung’s Greatest Hits. When I was a kid, I asked my dad why he didn’t get it fixed, and he said why waste money on repairs when it was playing exactly what he wanted to listen to.
If I listen to that tape right now, it’ll destroy me, so I resort to the distraction provided by my phone. I’m pleasantly surprised to see messages from Quan:
Accidentally stepped on a snail while running today and I thought of you
Not because you’re slow and slimy
(you’re not)
It reminded me of octopuses
Anyway, I know there’s a lot going on, but I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you
His messages make me smile for the first time today, but before I reply to him, I need to text Jennifer first.
My dad is in the hospital, so I won’t be able to make it to therapy anytime soon, I tell her. It’s a relief—I can’t say I enjoy therapy—but I also recognize that canceling our sessions might not be the healthiest thing for me, especially now.
She responds right away, leading me to think she’s put someone’s therapy session on hold just for me. I’m so sorry to hear this. I’m here if you need me, and please check in when you can so I know you’re okay.
Thank you. I’ll try, I say, and she “likes” the message so I know she’s seen it.
As I’m switching back to Quan’s message screen, I get a new text message, but it’s not from him or Jennifer. It’s from Julian.
Hey, my mom heard about your dad and told me. Is it okay if we come visit tomorrow?
My heart jerks and starts thumping painfully. I don’t want to see Julian, and I definitely don’t want to deal with his mom. I’m barely keeping it together as it is.
Thank you, but can you tell your mom that tomorrow’s not a good time? My dad’s going to have a procedure done soon, and we’re looking into moving him home. If she really wants to visit, a couple weeks later is better, I say.
That’s great that he’s coming home! I’ll tell my mom, he says.
Yes, we’re all very relieved, I reply.
Dots dance on the screen, stop, like he deleted what he typed, and start dancing again. A minute later, I get a new text from him. I’ve missed you, Anna.
I roll my eyes. Sure he has.
I mean it, he insists.