The Heart Principle

by Helen Hoang

  Holding her as she falls apart, I let go. I fall with her.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Anna

  Early Monday morning, Quan and I sit in his car outside my parents’ house. It’s 7:56 a.m. A good daughter, a good person, would run inside and take over for her mom, give her those extra four minutes.

  Me, I want my four minutes.

  My weekend away should have given me the energy to tackle this. Indeed, I slept through most of my vacation—most of Saturday and then half of Sunday as well—and when I was awake, my time with Quan was easy and relaxed.

  Yesterday, we went to the pancake house by my apartment for brunch, and we took selfies with mountains of fancy pancakes in the foreground. After that, I showed him my favorite places in the city—a café with the best espresso, an art gallery where they don’t mind if you eat your lunch on the benches and admire the work, a park that presents different modern sculptures every month. Everything was within walking distance of the Davies Symphony Hall, my world is small after all, but Quan never mentioned it. He never asked me about my music. I’m grateful for that. When we got home, I promptly fell asleep on the couch and didn’t wake up until late evening. I was starving but still exhausted, so Quan ran out for takeout and we watched the documentary My Octopus Teacher as we ate. Then we cuddled, which led to kissing, which led to touching, which led to my bedroom and another night of the most glorious sex.

  But even after all that, I don’t feel well rested or restored. There’s a knot in my stomach and dread in my heart.

  I do not want to go into that house.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Quan asks.

  I put a smile on without thinking. “Yeah.” That might be the truth, so it’s not quite a lie. It feels like one, though, and I correct myself, saying, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  He considers me for a moment before saying, “I’m worried this isn’t good for you. Is there any way you guys can get help? You’re clearly not hurting for money, so—”

  “It has to be me. It has to be family,” I say firmly.

  “I mean, yeah. I get it. But you’re not doing well. Anna, I think you were only awake for eight hours the entire weekend.”

  Wincing, I say, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t a cool thing for me to do when we were supposed to be spending time together.”

  He releases a frustrated sigh. “I’m not complaining. I’m worried.”

  I slump back in my seat and stare out the window at the house. “There’s nothing we can do about it. It’s hard for everyone, and I need to tough it out just like everybody else.”

  He begins to reply, but the time on the clock changes to 8:00 a.m. Gathering my things from the floor by my feet, I say, “I have to go. Text me when you get to work?”

  “Yeah, I’ll text you,” he says in a resigned voice.

  I lean across the center console and kiss him on the cheek. I should make it fast and run into the house, but I linger. I press my forehead against his temple for a moment. “I’m going to miss you.”

  Somehow, I find the motivation to pull away, leave the car, and cross the dew-moistened lawn. With one last wave at him, I let myself into the house.

  As I shut the front door, the weight of this place descends on my shoulders. There’s sunlight pouring in through the many windows, but it feels dark. I take my shoes off and walk down the cold marble hallway toward the kitchen, where I toss my things on one of the island stools before heading to my dad’s room.

  The smell reaches my nose before I’ve even reached the door, and I cough to clear my sinuses. It doesn’t help. As soon as I take another breath, the scent coats my nasal passage and throat. When I walk inside the room, my mom’s back is to me as she busily changes my dad’s diaper. He’s on his side with his back to me, too—and other parts of him that I never imagined I’d see when I was younger.

  “Hi, Ma, Ba,” I say, bright and chipper like I’m overjoyed to be here, like I’ve been taught.

  “Come help me turn him,” my mom says instead of hello.

  I head to the other side of the bed and smile when I see my dad’s eyes are open. He’s not moaning. That has to be a good sign. I lightly touch his arm. “Hi, Daddy.”

  His body sways as my mom wipes him down on the other side, and he squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces. He’s not in physical pain. My mom is efficient, but she’s gentle. But I understand what’s going on.

  He hates this.

  And so it resumes. I help change his diaper even though I know the process brings him shame. When we’re done, my mom leaves, and I feed him even though I know he doesn’t want to eat. I realize we’re the same, the two of us. Neither of us can speak. Our lives are both dictated by other people.

  * * *

  —

  The next week, Priscilla announces that she has to fly back to New York City for two weeks. She leaves a day later.

  Then it’s just me and my mom.

  And my dad, of course.

  All of us are trapped in this enormous echoing house. We’re together, but each of us is painfully alone.

  The days grow impossibly long and gray, and I settle into a sort of numbness as I go through the motions. Gradually, the mistakes start happening.

  My musician’s hands, usually steady, begin to drop things. A syringe full of liquid food. A pail of warm water during bath time. A jar of moisturizing cream. My spatial awareness decreases abysmally, and my body starts to look like a bruised peach as I run into more and more things. My ability to focus disappears. I forget things. I zone out midsentence. I walk straight into closed doors.

  Caring for my dad becomes even more stressful as I worry that I’m either forgetting to give him his meds or accidentally giving him twice the proper dose. I make a point of writing everything down, but what if I wrote something down and then forgot to actually do it? I arrange the syringes and measuring cups at the beginning of the day in such a way that I can tell if I’ve given a feeding or dose of meds. My mom hates it because it looks cluttered, but she tolerates it for me.

  Text messages and phone calls from Quan make my days bearable. Photos of Rose’s cat help, too. She’s recently given it a horrible haircut that makes it look like a stegosaurus, and its hate-filled stares photograph well. She and Suzie check in on me from time to time, asking how I am. They care about me and offer kind platitudes like Awww, so sad to hear things are so tough or I wish there was something I could do to help, but I know they don’t understand what I’m going through. No one does, not even Quan or my mom or Priscilla.

  This is difficult for me because of a failing unique to myself, and yes, I believe it’s a failing. I want to be the kind of person who finds meaning in caring for those who need it. That kind of person is good. They are heroes who have all my respect.

  I’m just not that kind of person.

  My dad’s suffering wears on me in a way I can’t explain. His pain, the way he’s trapped in his bed, trapped in his life, when it’s not what he wants. Knowing that this could potentially go on for years. Knowing that everything I do only makes it worse. Knowing that it’s hopeless.

  Near the end of the two weeks, my mind works almost nonstop trying to figure out how I can escape from this. I can’t use my career as an excuse to leave. I’d just play in hellish circles. Maybe if I had a small accident and broke a leg? No, I could still manage while I was in a wheelchair. It would just make things more difficult. I’d need to break both my hands, and I can’t bring myself to do that. If I didn’t heal correctly, I’d never play again, and what if that inconceivable day came when music spoke to me again? What would I do then? Would my life even be worth living?

  What I would really like is a lobotomy. I don’t want to feel anymore. I would give up all the joy in my life so that I didn’t have to feel the way I do right now. I’d do it in a heartbeat if I could be certain that I’d still be able to fulfill
my obligations afterward. That’s all that matters now, seeing this through.

  As it is, I live for the hours when I sleep. Eight precious hours before I have to do it all over again. But I often wake up in the middle of the night and cry as I fist my hands and stare up at the ceiling, silently screaming, I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t want this.

  Guests come to visit, including Julian and his mom, and I smile at them like I’m supposed to. My mom loves to entertain visitors in my dad’s room while I work in the background. She praises me then, tells her friends how I’ve put my career on hold to care for my dad, how self-sacrificing I am, what a great daughter I am.

  Normally, I’d drink in her approval like manna from heaven, but I can’t in this circumstance. If they only knew . . .

  What they see is not who I am. It’s the mask that they love, the mask that’s suffocating me.

  Julian’s mom is the most impressed of anyone, and when he begins messaging me more and more, I believe it’s her doing. She wants me for a daughter-in-law—she pulls me aside during a visit and tells me so herself. I smile and tell her that would be a dream come true. What else could I say?

  A cynical voice in my head suggests that perhaps what she wants most of all is for me to care for herself and her husband this same way someday. The thought fills me with cold terror. I don’t think I would survive doing this again.

  At the end of Julian’s latest visit, he lingers behind in my dad’s room with me as my mom leads his mom and a small group of friends from their church out.

  I’m turning my dad to his other side, propping pillows around him to keep him comfortable, when Julian says, “You’re really good at this. I was surprised to see it.”

  “Thanks,” I manage to say, keeping my voice light as I flash a quick smile at him. It’s a compliment. I should act flattered. But that’s not how I feel.

  I feel like screaming.

  When my dad looks properly situated, I go to check the spreadsheet to see if I’ve recorded everything. Then I count the syringes and measuring cups, trying to confirm that I haven’t forgotten anything or given double doses.

  As I’m forcing my scattered brain to do the math, Julian approaches me from behind. He runs his hands down my arms and leans down to kiss my nape. Goose bumps stand up on my skin. But they’re not the good kind. I don’t want this. I don’t like this. Not from him.

  But I don’t move away from him. I don’t say anything.

  What can I say?

  All I’ve said since I’ve returned to this house is yes and yes and yes and yes and yes.

  “Can you get away one of these weekends?” he asks. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been together, just the two of us.”

  Holding still and measuring my words very carefully, lest I upset him, I say, “I’d feel bad leaving my dad’s care to just my mom and Priscilla.”

  “Priscilla left him to you and your mom,” he reminds me.

  “She didn’t have a choice. There was important stuff she had to do. She’s not on vacation.” I’m the one who had a vacation, with Quan, and I owe it to Priscilla to stick around when she needs me.

  “When can we be together, then?” he asks. His breath is hot and humid on my neck, and I fight the urge to cringe away from him.

  “When my dad gets better,” I say, even though I know he’s never going to get better. He was never going to get better.

  Julian steps away from me, and there’s a harsh undercurrent in his voice when he asks, “Are you mad at me? Because I opened up our relationship?”

  I turn around, shaking my head. “I’m not mad at you.” It’s the truth. I’m not mad. Anymore. And I moved on. But I don’t know how to tell him that. He’ll be angry. His mom will be angry. That will make my mom angry, which will make Priscilla angry, and they’ll start pressuring me, pushing me, making me feel worse and worse and smaller and smaller, all because they believe they know what’s best for me better than I do. I can’t deal with that. Not right now.

  Please, not now.

  I’ve fallen into darkness, and I don’t see a way out. But I’m fighting. I’m trying. I’m trying as hard as I can to do what’s right, to be what people need. I don’t have anything more to give. I wish I did.

  “I learned something while we were apart,” he says.

  “What did you learn?” I ask dutifully.

  “I met a lot of women. I admit I had a lot of sex. Some was amazing—I mean really amazing,” he says, smiling in a reminiscing way. I hate him for that smile. “Some wasn’t so amazing. But I don’t regret any of it. Because it helped me to see that it was just sex. None of those women were like you, Anna.”

  He tucks my hair behind my ear for me, and the sensation of someone else touching my hair sends discomfort through my nerves. I ignore it, as I’m supposed to.

  “I want someone in my life who’ll be there for me no matter what, even if I’m sick and bedridden. You always see things my way. You put me first. You don’t push me to do things I don’t want. Being with you is easy. Do you know how special that is? I want us to be together again, just us. No more exploring. I know what I want,” he says.

  I make myself smile. It feels twitchy and wrong, but he doesn’t seem to notice it’s not my best work. He smooths his hands over my hair, like I’m his favorite pet, and I tense my muscles and bear it as his words make me combust inside with silent rage.

  When we were together, I didn’t always see things his way. I pretended to. I put him first, even above myself, and after being with someone who truly cares about me, I see how wrong that was. I never fought for myself, and that suited him just fine because he got everything he wanted out of our relationship. From the looks of things, he wants more of that.

  There was a time when I thought this was what I wanted. But I don’t. I don’t want this at all.

  And I don’t know how to say it. I can’t be the one to end this. My family would be so upset with me.

  But if he ends it . . .

  “I saw someone,” I say with a suddenly dry mouth. “While you and I were apart.”

  He stiffens abruptly and blinks at me like he doesn’t believe it. “You did?”

  I wet my lips, nervous now. But an open relationship works two ways. It wouldn’t have been fair to expect me to sit at home while he had sex with every woman he saw. Even so, I try to minimize my wrongdoing by saying, “One person.”

  “Do I know him?” he asks, sneering ever so slightly.

  “No.”

  That seems to appease him somewhat. “Did you guys . . . Was it good? Did you like it?” There’s a mocking edge to his voice as he asks his questions, and I get the distinct impression that he believes it’s impossible for me to “like it.”

  I lift my chin, and though my voice isn’t loud, I still say, “I did.”

  His expression darkens for a heart-stopping moment before it clears. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “You did.”

  “Well, I hope he had fun while he could. It’s over for him now,” he says, grabbing my arms and pulling me against his body. “I’m the one you love.”

  He tries to kiss me, but I turn away so his lips land on my cheek.

  “My dad is right there,” I say.

  “He’d be happy for us,” Julian says.

  As he’s trying to kiss me again, my mom pokes her head in the door. “Your mom says it’s time to go soon,” she says, and her expression is carefully blank, even though she must have seen what she was interrupting.

  He grins at her like they’re sharing an inside secret and kisses my temple before stepping away from me. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Okay,” I breathe.

  He leaves the room and follows my mom down the hall, and I stand there, frozen in place. If my mom hadn’t come at just the right time, I probably would have
let him kiss me. I might even have kissed him back. Not because I want to, but because I feel like I have to—in order to make everyone happy.

  Everyone but me.

  My dad starts moaning, his regular E-flat moans, and my heart sinks. My everything sinks. I check the time. Not medicine time. I go to his side and touch his forehead. Cool to the touch. No fever. I check his body positioning to see if anything is off. There’s nothing obvious.

  “What’s wrong, Daddy?” I ask.

  He doesn’t open his eyes to acknowledge me, but his brow furrows and his moans continue. There’s nothing I can do other than hold his hand, so that’s what I do. His hand remains limp. He doesn’t hold me back. He never does.

  In a way, he’s been gone since he had his stroke. He’s still alive, but I lost him months ago. Perhaps I’ve been mourning all this time without realizing it.

  Can you hurt without knowing it?

  When he falls asleep and stops moaning, the tension in my body eases, but I still hear those E-flats in my head. They repeat on an endless loop.

  My mom enters the room quietly, checks the spreadsheet to see if I’ve kept on track, and sits on the sofa next to the bed. “Everyone just left.” When I don’t say anything, she adds, “They said good things about you.”

  I don’t have energy for this, but I force myself to smile like I mean it and say, “That’s nice of them.”

  “Especially Chen Ayi,” my mom says, referring to Julian’s mom. “From what I saw a little bit ago, it’s obvious you two are back together again. I’m relieved. That other . . .” She shakes her head and wrinkles her nose.

  “Quan’s been really good to me,” I say, feeling like I need to defend him.

  “Of course he’s good to you. He knows how lucky he’d be to have you. Look at you. Look at him. But Julian is good to you, too,” she says.

  I don’t understand why Quan would be lucky to have me. I’m a mess. My life is a mess. I haven’t even been able to tell him that I love him.