The Heart Principle

by Helen Hoang

  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.

  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.

  I can’t bring myself to say I’ve missed him as well (that would be a lie), so I reply, Thanks. As soon as the message is marked as read, I grimace. That wasn’t the nicest response I could have given, but I just don’t have the energy to be what he wants right now.

  Let’s talk more, okay? I’m here for you, he says.

  I exit the text window without replying and put my phone on the center console. I don’t want him to be here for me.

  Someone else is much better at it than he is.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Quan

  Anna’s parents’ house is smack in the middle of Palo Alto, not too far from my mom’s place in EPA (East Palo Alto), fifteen minutes tops, but it’s a world away from the place where I grew up. The front yards are well lit and don’t double as junkyards. There are no c
hain-link fences. The landscaping is immaculately manicured. Everyone has solar panels. As for the homes themselves, each one could grace the cover of Better Homes and Gardens magazine, especially Anna’s parents’. There’s a two-story main house up front and a separate guest house in back. They’re Mediterranean style with cream stucco and orange tiled roofs, very California.

  The driveway is empty, but I pull up next to the curb. The driveway doesn’t feel like it’s for me.

  Just parked outside, I tell Anna in a text message.

  It’s stupid, but I’m nervous. It’s been forever since I last saw her (two whole weeks), and I have this irrational worry that things between us have changed for the worse during that time, even though we’ve been texting and talking.

  I don’t get a reply from her, and I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as I debate walking up to the front door and ringing the doorbell. That might wake someone up, though. They’ve broken her dad’s care into eight-hour shifts so there’s always someone watching him throughout the day, but that means there’s always someone sleeping, too.

  Before I can text her again, the front door opens and Anna races out in bare feet. Her hair’s up in a messy ponytail and she’s wearing the ugliest sweat suit, but she’s the best thing I’ve seen in a long time.

  I get out of my car just in time for her to crash into my arms, and I hold her close and breathe her in.

  “Hey,” I say in a gruff voice.

  Instead of speaking, she hugs me tighter.

  “Is everything okay? Your dad’s okay?” I ask.

  “He’s the same,” she murmurs without opening her eyes.

  “Are you—”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “It’s just really, really, really nice to have you here.”

  That makes me smile. “I would have come earlier.”

  “I know. Things were just so hectic and—”

  “You don’t have to explain. I get it,” I reassure her.

  She sighs, and I feel her tensed-up muscles relax.

  “Are you hungry? I told my mom about you and your family, and she gave me three boxes of food for you, not exaggerating,” I say.

  She straightens and looks at my car curiously. “From her restaurant?”

  “Yeah, spring rolls and noodle soup and stuff.” I open the trunk so she can see all the plastic soup cartons and foam containers, and her jaw drops.

  “I don’t know if we have enough room in our fridge . . .”

  I rub my neck as my skin flushes. “It freezes really well. I can bring some home with me, too.” But I’d have to try to eat it on my own, because sure as hell, I can’t tell my mom Anna didn’t take it all.

  “Let’s, uh, bring it in and see if it fits,” she says dazedly, and we pick up the boxes and cart them inside.

  The entryway of her parents’ house is the showstopper kind. There’s a long marble hallway lined with paintings and a grandfather clock. To the side, there’s a sitting room with a grand fireplace, exposed wooden ceiling beams, elegant furniture, and the most expensive-looking drapes I’ve ever seen. They look like they’re made of gold, but I’m pretty sure it’s just silk—really nice silk. A ways down, I can see a formal dining room with an antique dining table that seats ten and a crystal chandelier.

  This place is nothing like my mom’s house, where aesthetics take a back seat to utility and cost but the food is always good. The only thing that’s familiar to me here is the rug by the front door with all the shoes lined up in neat rows. I think my mom owns that same pair of orange plastic sandals, actually.

  I toe my shoes off and follow Anna down the hall, feeling the coldness of the marble seeping through my socks to the soles of my feet. I make a discovery that should have been obvious, but wasn’t, because I never walked on so much marble without shoes before now: Marble is hard. Anna is going to get plantar fasciitis walking on this shit all day.

  At the end of the hall, she veers left and enters a humongous kitchen / great room area with a twenty-foot-tall ceiling and more of those gold drapes. Anna sets her box of food on one of the granite islands (there are two) and opens one of the Sub-Zero refrigerators (there are also two) with custom wood paneling to match the cabinetry.

  As we’re shuffling stuff around, trying to make room for all my mom’s food, a third person joins us.

  “Hey, can you get the heat packs from the microwave for—” It’s a woman, older than Anna, more compact, a little shorter, but clearly related to her. They part their hair in exactly the same place, too.

  I smile and wipe my hand on my jeans in case there’s fish sauce on it or something before holding it out toward her. “Hey, I’m Quan. Nice to meet you.”

  For a split second, she stares at me just like their mom did a week ago—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, amazed in a horrified way—but then she sees the boxes of food. She can probably smell it, too. There’s fried chicken, and fried chicken smells fucking delicious. My mom’s is the absolute best, too, with crispy salty skin that crunches on your teeth and then melts on your tongue. She recovers, and a grateful smile warms her face as she shakes my hand.

  “I’m Priscilla, Anna’s sister. This is so nice of you. Thank you.” Everything about her, from her posture, to the direct way she makes eye contact, to the confident sound of her voice, tells me she’s in charge of this place. If I need to work on impressing someone, it’s her.

  “Don’t mention it. My mom likes to feed people,” I say.

  Anna scratches her head as she frowns at the inside of the fridge, looking slightly panicked. “You might have to take a box back with you, Quan. I don’t think we have room for all of this—”

  “What?” Priscilla interjects. “We have room. There’s also the extra fridge in the garage and that big freezer.”

  “Oh right. I forgot,” Anna says, and her voice sounds so different that the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It’s high-pitched and hesitant, extremely soft. Not herself. “Should I put most of this out there, then?”

  “No,” Priscilla decides. “Put as much as you can in here. I think Mom will like it.”

  “Okay,” Anna says in that same unnaturally young voice, smiling like the idea of refrigerating things is really exciting.

  I glance back and forth between the sisters to see if Priscilla notices Anna’s dramatic change. She doesn’t seem to.

  “You should freeze some of the wontons. There are a lot. The chicken is best if you eat it today with noodles,” I suggest, acting like my girlfriend didn’t just age back twenty years. “Did you eat yet? I can show you how to put it all together.”

  Priscilla’s face brightens with something that looks like glee. “I would love some—” She stiffens and glances over her shoulder toward a part of the house I haven’t seen, like she’s heard something no one else detected. “I worry when he coughs like that after we feed him. We have to space things out more.” She grabs a bundle of fabric from the microwave, slams it shut, and races away.

  “She has superhuman hearing now, like moms do. My dad is basically her baby,” Anna says, and her voice and demeanor are completely returned to normal. She’s the Anna I know again as she takes cartons out of the boxes and lines them up on the table with geometrical precision.

  I give her a questioning look, and her expression turns confused.

  “What? Do I have something on my face?” she asks, touching her cheek.

  “No, I was just—did you . . .” I’m not sure what I’d achieve by pointing things out—she’s got enough on her plate—so I ask, “Should we heat up something for your sister and bring it in to her? Also, should I say hi to your dad?”

  Anna shakes her head. “We don’t eat in there. That would be wrong, you know? Because he can’t. But if we get a bowl ready for her, she’ll come out and eat it real fast. That’s why we have that baby monitor.” She points to a small screen on one of t
he counters. The volume is off, but a grainy video feed shows Priscilla hovering over their dad, adjusting his pillows and things while he sleeps.

  “I guess I shouldn’t say hi while he’s sleeping.”

  “Yeah, when he’s awake is better,” she agrees. “But don’t be offended when he doesn’t respond. I’m not sure he’s aware of what’s happening most of the time. I’ve tried talking to him, showing him movies on YouTube, playing music. Nothing reaches him. Nothing that I do, anyway.” She lifts a shoulder and touches the bent corner of a foam container.

  For a long moment, she seems lost in her thoughts, but she eventually blinks out of it, focuses on me, and smiles. “Let’s eat. I’m hungry, and this smells so good.”

  I show her how to reheat things for maximal deliciousness. My mom gave me specific instructions: broil the fried chicken in the oven for five minutes so it stays crispy, reboil soup broth in a pot over the gas range, and microwave the egg noodles, wontons, and barbecue pork. When everything is hot, I put it together, fried chicken on top, and sprinkle chives and pickled jalapeños over each bowl. Anna runs to get her sister, and the three of us seat ourselves on the leather barstools at the outer granite island and eat while the baby monitor crackles, the volume now turned up to the max.

  “This might be the best wonton noodle soup I’ve ever had,” Priscilla says as she somehow, astonishingly, empties her entire bowl. Even her chicken bones are picked clean.

  “Thanks. I’ll tell my mom you said so,” I say. “She loves to cook and is constantly working on improving her recipes. You should see when she tries out a new restaurant. She orders one of everything and analyzes each bite.”

  “An artist, then, like Anna,” Priscilla says, elbowing Anna in the side teasingly.

  “I guess you could say that, but she doesn’t make anything fancy. If my mom’s cooking was music, it would be . . . folk music or, I don’t know, country music. Not like the stuff Anna plays. I could be wrong, though. I’ve never heard Anna play. I just assumed it was classical music.”