The Heart Principle

by Helen Hoang

  That thought had crossed my mind, but unlike Priscilla, it doesn’t make me happy. If Julian is back in the picture, I’ll have to tell someone no, and that is really hard for me.

  “Though maybe . . .” Priscilla looks at me in a considering way. “Maybe you’re not ready to settle down yet.”

  Our mom makes this horrified sound, like demons are chasing her. “She’s ready. She’s had enough fun.”

  Priscilla doubles over and laughs like our mom’s reaction is hilarious.

  “You kids these days. Fun.” Our mom shakes her head like her dignity’s been wounded, and that makes Priscilla laugh harder.

  “It’s only fair. If he’s seeing people, I can, too,” I say in my defense, but I feel like I’m being dishonest somehow. That was what Quan was to me in the beginning—an adventure, revenge, a means to an end—but he’s more now.

  Our mom’s jaw stiffens, but she nods. “His mom is visiting soon. I’m going to have a talk with her.”

  “Ma, no, you don’t need to do that,” I say.

  “I agree, Ma. Don’t do it,” Priscilla adds.

  Our mom waves our words away. “I know how to say things.”

  “Not always,” Priscilla says, holding our mom accountable in a way I could never get away with. “That reminds me, Ba’s birthday is coming up. We should throw him a party. We could put him in his chair and have everyone over. I think he’d like that.” She smiles down at our dad and pets his shin as she speaks to him like he’s a baby: “Wouldn’t you, Ba?”

  Our mom nods in approval. “Anna could play his song.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from commenting on how both of them volunteered me for the night’s entertainment without bothering to ask me first. My compliance is and has always been a foregone conclusion with them.

  In these modern times, people are told that they have the right to say no anytime they want, for whatever reason they wish. We can let nos rain from our lips like confetti.

  But when it comes to my family, that word is not mine. I’m female. I’m youngest. I’m unremarkable. My opinion, my voice, has little to no value, and because of that, my place is to listen. My place is to respect.

  I say yes.

  And I look happy when I do it. Service with a smile.

  “I’ll start organizing it, then,” Priscilla says.

  As we finish our dad’s bath, carefully turning him to his side so we can wash his back and change his diaper, she rambles on about who she’ll invite and what we’ll eat, how much fun it’ll be for everyone. Except for me. She knows parties are challenging for me, though clearly she’s not interested in why, and fully expects me to attend and be at my absolute best anyway. I’m not allowed to protest or complain or have an “attitude.” That’s unacceptable.

  For the rest of the night, I don’t speak. I keep my anger and frustration and hurt inside where it belongs.

  No one notices. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Anna

  The following days pass in a slow crawl, and yet, when I look back, I’m amazed that an entire week has passed. Time seems to flow at a different speed here. The leathery pads on the tips of my fingers on my left hand have begun to wear away because it’s been so long since I’ve practiced. Quan brought me my violin, but it’s remained in its case, untouched, as I’ve focused on caring for my dad.

  That’s all we do here. Our lives revolve around the intricate schedule Priscilla created to ensure he’s getting the best care possible. We rotate him every two hours so he doesn’t get bedsores, surrounding him with pillows and heating pads and rolled-up towels to prop up various limbs. We massage his hands and feet obsessively to prevent painful contracture. We change his diapers immediately so he doesn’t get a rash. We’ve split his meals into nearly a dozen mini-feedings because his throat muscles don’t work correctly and he coughs his food up if he’s given too much at a time. We give him many, many medications. We tried to give him physical therapy, but he just moaned and slept through the exercises so we don’t do that anymore.

  Priscilla likes to stretch out on the bed right next to him and show him pictures on her phone. Most of the time, he doesn’t pay attention. On occasion, however, he moans in a meaningful way, and we’re reminded that he’s really here. He’s not a body without a soul. Our work isn’t for nothing.

  This morning, it’s just me and my dad, and that’s a little unusual. Technically, we’re all responsible for one shift: my mom has the night shift, from midnight to 8:00 a.m., I have the day, from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., and Priscilla has the evening, from 4:00 p.m. to midnight. But this is where everyone congregates. Also, it’s difficult to move him without help, and we must come running if we’re needed. Well, I have to come running. I never call for anyone’s help when I’m caring for him on my own. I don’t feel like I have that privilege.

  It’s 11:00 a.m., one of his feeding times, so after changing his diaper, rotating him to his other side, and cranking the top half of his bed up so he’s relatively upright, I exchange my soiled latex gloves for clean ones, lift his feeding tube away from his tummy where we keep it tucked out of the way, and set it on top of a white towel. Then I fill a large plastic syringe with liquid food from a can. It’s thick and brown and has an unpleasant smell—I tasted it once, and it’s decidedly nasty—but it contains all the calories and nutrition that he needs. It’s keeping him alive.

  I uncap his feeding tube and am about to insert the syringe when he grabs my wrist with surprising strength. When I look at his face, I find him staring straight at me. His eyes are focused and clear, aware.

  “Hi, Ba,” I say, a smile bursting over my face. He hasn’t interacted with me at all before now.

  He moans low in his throat. Is that hello?

  I can’t help but feel excited. He’s been here all this time, but I’ve missed him so much. “I’m feeding you, but when I’m done, we can look at pictures if you want.”

  I try to insert the syringe into his feeding tube again, but he tightens his hold on my wrist and shakes his head.

  “What is it, Daddy?” I ask.

  Grimacing, he lets go of my wrist and motions with his hand. No one here knows sign language, but that hand signal, shaking his fingers from side to side, is universal.

  Stop. No more.

  “But it’s been hours since you last ate,” I say, still not fully comprehending what he’s communicating.

  He squeezes his eyes shut and makes that hand motion again.

  Stop. No more.

  “If you’re not hungry now, I’ll feed you later, okay?”

  He turns his face away from me, but I see the moisture tracking slowly down his cheek. My dad is crying.

  One last time, he motions with his hand: Stop. No more.

  I don’t know what to do, so I quickly put everything away, tuck his feeding tube back under his hospital gown, and run to the adjoining bathroom, where I sit on the tile and hug my knees to my chest.

  My breath comes in short pants. The light is so bright it’s making me dizzy. I’m still wearing latex gloves, so I peel them off and toss them into the trash bin. My skin has absorbed the sharp chemical scent of the gloves, and even though they aren’t close to my face, the smell is nauseating me, filling my mouth with saliva. I tuck my hands behind my knees to smother the scent, and I rock back and forth and tap my teeth together, trying to return to a tolerable state of being.

  Stop. No more.

  Dear God, what are we doing?

  He doesn’t want this.

  He wants us to stop.

  But if we stop, that means . . .

  No, I can’t do that.

  Even if I could, my family would never allow it. Worse, they’d condemn me. They’d exile me.

  I can’t lose my family. They’re all I have.

  It’
s too much. I can’t stand my thoughts. So I start counting in my head. I get to sixty, and I start back at one. Over and over until I don’t need to rock anymore, until my jaw is tired, until I’m numb.

  Finally, I find the strength to push myself to my feet and open the door. My face is hot, and there’s loudness in my ears. I feel like something enormous has happened, like the entire world has shifted on its axis. But my dad’s room looks just like it did before. He’s sleeping just like usual. He looks exactly the same. Old. Frail. Tired, even in rest.

  I walk to the dresser that doubles as our medical supply table and examine the chart where we record my dad’s information throughout the day—how much we fed him, when, what meds he was given, did he have a bowel movement, et cetera. The next entry is supposed to be a feeding. That’s the schedule. That’s the pattern.

  It wasn’t my decision to give him the feeding tube. I had reservations. But I didn’t speak up when I had the opportunity. I never speak up. So this is our path now. We’re all trapped, just like he’s trapped.

  We have to see this through.

  Swiping at my eyes with my sleeve, I prepare a fresh syringe for my dad, and when everything is ready, I connect it to his feeding tube. He’s deep asleep, so this time, he doesn’t stop me.

  I slowly depress the syringe, pushing life-sustaining nutrients into his body. I care for him, even knowing that my care prolongs his suffering.

  I’m sorry, Daddy.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Quan

  It’s late, and the only light in my bedroom is the glow cast by my phone’s screen as I talk to Anna. This has become a ritual of sorts, catching up with her at the end of the day right before I go to sleep.

  “How was today?”

  “Long,” she says, and I can hear just how long from the beaten sound of her voice.

  “How’d you like that video I sent of the octopus punching fish?” I ask, hoping to distract her.

  “Such an asshole,” she says with a soft chuckle. “I got your message while Julian and his mom were visiting today. They wanted to know why I was laughing, and I didn’t know how to explain.”

  An uncomfortable sensation crawls up my spine. “Julian . . . that’s your ex?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. His mom is friends with mine.”

  “How was seeing him after so long?” I ask carefully. I don’t want to act jealous. I want to be fair and calm and rational. But I wouldn’t mind punching him in the face.

  “It wasn’t as awkward as I thought it’d be. We just acted like we’re back together.”

  My stomach muscles flex like I’ve been punched in the gut. “Are you?”

  “No.” She makes an amused sound. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”

  “Does he know that?”

  She releases a long sigh. “I guess we haven’t had that talk yet.”

  “Anna . . .”

  “I know. I need to. It’s just hard. It seemed so clear to me that we were over. I never expected that he’d actually want to continue where we left off after he . . . you know.”

  I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help asking, “After he fucked half of San Francisco?”

  She draws in a sharp breath and says, “Yes,” and I regret it instantly.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s true, though,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to talk to him for a while. But it never seems like the right time. Or else I’m exhausted. Sometimes, it’s all I can do to get out of bed. I accidentally took a two-hour shower yesterday. I didn’t mean to. I just . . . lost track of time. At first, my mom was afraid I fell or something. Then she yelled at me for wasting water.” She laughs, but it’s the saddest-sounding laugh I’ve ever heard.

  “Why’s it so hard?” I ask.

  “My dad is miserable, Quan,” she whispers.

  “But you’re helping him be less miserable, right?”

  She’s quiet for a long time, and when she finally speaks, her voice has that husky, quavering quality that means she’s on the verge of tears. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”

  I hear so much hurting in her words that my own eyes sting. It doesn’t entirely make sense to me. If our places were reversed, I don’t think I’d feel the same way. I like taking care of people. I like being needed. But Anna’s pain is real.

  I can’t brush it aside just because I don’t understand it. I can’t place judgment on it. Pain is pain.

  I know what it’s like to hurt and for others not to understand.

  “Can you take a weekend off, then? We can go out and see stuff, or we can stay in. Whatever you want. Just as long as we’re together,” I say. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. I haven’t had Anna to myself in ages.

  “I can’t,” she says wistfully. “I can’t leave Priscilla and my mom to take up the slack while I go have a vacation. That would be wrong.”

  “You guys are going to have to take breaks every now and then. You can’t keep going like this forever, or you’ll get burned out. I’m worried about you.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I take a frustrated breath. “You don’t need to thank me for worrying about you.”

  “I know. But it means a lot to me that you do,” she says. “My cousin Faith, the health guru, might come one of these weekends. She’s really good friends with Priscilla, and the two of them would make a party of it, taking care of my dad and gossiping the whole time. I wouldn’t need to be here. But no one can count on Faith. She’s like the wind. She blows in when she blows in. Anyway, I’m tired of talking about me. How are you? How’s your company? I realized the other day that I don’t know anything about it. Priscilla asked if you sell T-shirts out of your trunk, and I couldn’t tell her yes or no.”

  I throw my head back into my pillow as I groan inwardly. “No, I don’t sell T-shirts out of my trunk. Here, this is us.” I text her links to our website and one of our social media pages, and when she makes an impressed oooooh sound, I relax somewhat.

  “These clothes are adorable,” she says, and then she gasps. “I want that rainbow dress in adult size. And one of those T. rex–in–a–tutu T-shirts.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m pretty sure the biggest size we have for that rainbow dress is youth large.”

  “Darn,” she says, but she laughs, too.

  “Michael’s in charge of design, but those T. rex–in–a–tutu shirts were my idea. They sell really well, actually. Turns out little kids just love T. rexes.”

  “Of course they do. I love T. rexes. It was such a good idea,” she says. I can hear in her voice that she means it, and I want to reach through the phone and kiss her until she’s dizzy. “Quan, there’s an octopus in a tutu!”

  “That’s a new addition,” I say, and I can’t stop myself from grinning up at the dark ceiling.

  “It looks like the same kind of octopus as in the documentary . . .”

  “Yeah, I made sure it was the same kind. Octopus vulgaris.”

  She sighs dreamily like I gifted her chocolates and roses and a trip to the opera, and my heart goes mushy. Those words from before fill my mouth, pushing to get out, wanting to be heard, but I hold them back. I can’t say them yet.

  “Looks like my company is getting acquired,” I say. “We’ve started contract negotiations.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asks.

  “Good. There won’t be too many changes in how we run things, but they’ll help us reach a scale that we couldn’t on our own. I won’t be losing my job or anything.”

  “That’s great. Who’s the acquiring company? Have I heard of them?” she asks.

  “I think you’ve heard of them. They’re Louis Vuitton.” Tell that to your sister, I think, but I don’t say it.

  “What?” Anna squeals. “Just wait until I
tell Priscilla. My mom’s going to flip out.”

  “Well, make sure to tell them it’s not final yet. And I don’t get discounts on their purses and stuff.” My sister almost cried when I told her there’d be no discounts on her favorite designer handbags, but I figure it’s good to be up front and set realistic expectations.

  “Okay. I’ll make sure they know it’s not a done deal, and tell them not to hope for purse discounts. But I’m happy for you, and really, congratulations,” she says, her words rich and warm and heartfelt. She’s proud of me, proud that I’m hers, and it makes my heart feel like it’s growing too big for my chest. “Are things really busy as you work on making this happen?”

  “Thanks. Yeah, work has been nonstop meetings and phone calls and paperwork, but it’s super exciting. I’ve felt bad, though, because things are going well for me, and you’re . . .”

  “Don’t feel bad. I don’t want other people to go through what I am. I like knowing that things are going well for someone,” she says.

  “I wish things were better for you.”

  “I know you do.”

  We continue talking for a few more minutes, though we don’t say much. Mostly, we’re listening to the sound of the other’s voice, drawing comfort from it.

  We eventually say our good nights, and I stare up into the darkness for a long while before I fall asleep. I can’t stop thinking about the fact that her ex isn’t technically her ex. They’d need to break up first for that to happen. I know she’d never cheat on me. I trust her. But somehow, my girlfriend has two boyfriends, and I’m not okay with that.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Anna

  Weeks pass. Week after week after week, until it’s been two months since my dad landed in the hospital. He starts moaning at some point, a slow, rhythmic moan that goes on for hours. It’s always the same. I must have inherited my perfect pitch from him, because his moans never vary from a perfect E-flat.