The Heart Principle

by Helen Hoang

  After tightening the bow, I apply rosin. There’s no need. I won’t be playing tonight. But that’s part of the ritual. It has to be done.

  Then I walk from my childhood bedroom, down the hall, to the top of the staircase. Gripping my violin tightly by its neck, steeling my heart, I prepare to throw it down the stairs with as much strength as I can muster. It’s a hardy instrument, and I can’t just dent it. It must be injured to the point where it’s unplayable. That’s the entire point of this.

  I count to three in my head, throw it, and watch as it sails through the air. There’s a moment when I think it’ll bounce down the stairs and land on the ground without a dent and I’ll have to throw it again and again, maybe jump on it a few times like it’s a trampoline before it sustains suitable damage. But my violin does the unexpected upon contact with the marble floor.

  It shatters into tiny pieces.

  Gasping, I drop my bow, run down the stairs, and frantically sweep up the fragments with my fingers. The neck broke clear in half, and the body of the violin is nothing but splintered bits of wood. It no longer resembles an instrument. One of the strings snapped. The others lie limp and lifeless on the marble at the base of the stairs along with the pegs and bridge and unidentifiable debris.

  There is no way I can fix this.

  This violin will never sing again.

  Uncontrollable sobs spill from my mouth. I can’t stop them. I can’t silence them. The hurting inside me will be heard now. It won’t stay quiet.

  “Anna, Priscilla says you should—”

  I look up to see Faith taking in the scene with her mouth hanging open. I don’t try to tell her the lie that I prepared in advance, that I “accidentally” dropped it.

  My violin is dead. I killed it with my own hands.

  I took a beautiful innocent thing, and I murdered it. Because I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

  I’ve destroyed everything good in my life.

  Because I can’t say no.

  Because I’m still trying to be something I’m not.

  “I’ll be right back,” Faith says before hurrying out.

  I’m almost hysterical with tears and trying to piece my violin together like a 3D puzzle when Faith returns with Priscilla in tow.

  “Oh my God,” Priscilla says as she considers the carnage. She considers me for a tense moment before she seems to lose some sort of internal battle and continues in a resigned voice. “Stop doing that. You’re not going to fix it, and you’ll just give yourself splinters. And relax, okay? It’s not the end of the world. Mom wanted to get you a new one anyway. I’ve been talking to a bunch of dealers.”

  “You were going to get me a new violin?” I ask, letting the violin shards fall from my fingers to the floor.

  “Yeah, I think I’ve found the right one. We’re negotiating the price right now,” she says.

  I know I’m supposed to be grateful that she’s not ignoring me anymore. I’m supposed to say thank you for the violin.

  But it feels like someone lit a fuse inside me. I’m burning, about to explode.

  I can’t stop myself from asking, “You were going to buy it without asking me what I thought?”

  “Mom wanted it to be a surprise. Plus, she didn’t want you involved. She knew you’d get your heart set on the most expensive one, and that’s not how you get a good deal. Don’t worry, I tried out the one I like, and it fits me fine. It’ll be comfortable for you, and you know I have good taste,” Priscilla says, like I’m upset over nothing and I need to see reason.

  But matching a violin to a violinist is a tricky task. Not only does it need to have the right fit and weight, but the unique voice of the instrument needs to resonate with the musician’s ear. No one can hear that but me.

  Most important, I didn’t want a new violin. I liked my old one, the one that’s nothing but scraps now. If everything had gone according to plan, they’d have replaced my old one and expected me to play it regardless of my wishes on the matter.

  And I would have. With a smile on my face, no less.

  Because I can’t say no.

  Priscilla rubs her forehead tiredly. “What are we going to do now? You can’t perform tonight with that.”

  “Do you still have your old violin from high school?” Faith asks her helpfully.

  Priscilla’s eyes widen, and she grins like the sun just came out. “I do. It’s on the shelf in my closet. You’re an angel. Thank you.” She smooches Faith directly on the lips and bounds up the stairs.

  Laughing and smearing an arm over her mouth, Faith runs to get a plastic container from the kitchen and then crouches down next to me to help me with the mess. “The timing is perfect, isn’t it? Priscilla told me about the violin they’re getting you. It’s Italian and very old. That’s all I’ll say.”

  I look down at the violin pieces on the ground, too overwhelmed to put my thoughts together. Everything is wrong. Everything. I tap my teeth over and over, trying to get back to normal, but it doesn’t help. This wild hurting inside me won’t go away.

  This day, this interminable day. Why isn’t it over yet? I need it to be over now.

  Right now.

  Right. Now.

  RIGHT. NOW.

  Priscilla hurries down the stairs with a violin case in tow and holds it out toward me like it’s a prize. “There. Tune it up and come on out. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  I clench the remnants of my violin in my hands until the jagged ends pierce my skin and bite out the words, “I can’t play.”

  Priscilla heaves an annoyed sigh and looks heavenward. “Yes, you can.”

  “I can’t play,” I repeat.

  “You’re so frustrating,” Priscilla says through her teeth. “You need to do it for Dad. It’s his birthday.”

  “What’s going on in here?” my mom asks before she appears on the opposite end of the hall and walks toward us, followed by Julian and a handful of curious relatives.

  “She’s refusing to play. She dropped her violin, so I gave her my old one. And she still won’t do it,” Priscilla explains.

  “I can’t play,” I repeat again. “I told you why, but you won’t—”

  “You want to know how to deal with your anxiety? You tune your violin, you take it out to the stage, and you play your song one note at a time until you’re done. That’s it. You just do it,” she says. She even smiles, like it’s funny that I don’t understand something so obvious. After extracting her old violin from its dusty case, she holds it out for me to take. “Go out there and do it, Anna.”

  This is the end for me. I don’t wage any internal battles against myself. It’s not as simple as she says. Not for me. And she won’t even try to understand. She just wants me to do what she says, like I always do.

  “No.” I say it firmly and deliberately despite how strange it feels on my tongue.

  For the span of a heartbeat, two, she looks at me like what just happened defies comprehension. Then she hisses, “You’re being a spoiled little—”

  “I’m not doing it,” I say in a raised voice so she has to listen to me.

  Priscilla visibly recoils at my public show of disrespect, and my mom utters a sharp, disapproving, “Anna.”

  “You see what I’m dealing with?” Priscilla cries.

  “You won’t play for Ba?” my mom asks, looking bewildered at the idea. “You need to play his song for him. This might be your last chance.” Her expression collapses with pain, and tears shine in her eyes.

  I shouldn’t be able to hurt more than I do, but I feel like I absorb her pain into myself and add it to my own. It’s unbearable. I can’t contain it all. I feel myself breaking open as I say, “My last chance was months ago. He’s not listening now. He doesn’t want any of this. We’re torturing him because we can’t let him go.”

  “Don’t say ‘we.’ Yo
u don’t have that problem. You’re tired of taking care of him. You told me you want him to die,” Priscilla says, pointing a finger at me as that sneer from before twists her face.

  My mom gasps and covers her mouth as she stares at me in horror. All the people standing in the room stare at me the same way. Shame and humiliation swamp me.

  “I’ve been trying as hard as I can, but it’s not enough,” I say in a choked voice. “I can’t keep going on like this. I’m tired, and my mind is sick. I need help. Can we please get help so we don’t have to do this alone anymore? Why does it have to be just us?”

  “You know what?” Priscilla says. “Since you’re so ‘sick and tired,’ why don’t you pack up and leave? You haven’t been doing anything anyway, and I’ve been cleaning up after you nonstop. You’ll make everything easier for me if you go back to your apartment and sit on your ass there.”

  Her words feel like the worst kind of treachery, and wild hurting tears through me. I told her that I’m sick and I need help, and she threw my words in my face. There’s no recognition of what I’ve done or how hard I’ve struggled to be here for everyone, including her. It’s nothing to her.

  Why have I been tormenting myself like this, then?

  I shove the remains of my violin in the plastic container and run up the stairs to my room to pack my things. I have to get out of here.

  “Hey, are you, uh, okay?” Julian asks from the doorway.

  “I’m fine.” I don’t mean for it to happen, but my words come out as a shout.

  He looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me. He’s never seen this side of me before. No one has, not since I learned to mask. But now my mask is just as shattered as my violin is. I messed up. I talked back. I said no. People know about the awful thing that I told Priscilla.

  You want him to die.

  I’m no good anymore.

  I can’t be loved anymore.

  Working as fast as I can, swiping at the tears streaming continuously down my face, I shove my clothes, clean and dirty, into my bag. Then I move to the bathroom and get my toiletries. As I’m forcing shut the zipper on my bag, there’s a jingling sound as Julian pulls the keys out of his pocket.

  “I’ll take you back to your place,” he says.

  The thought of being trapped in a car with him for an hour right now is intolerable. There’s no way I can deal with that. “I need to be alone. Thank you, but no,” I say with what remains of my control.

  And there’s that word again. I feel like I have nothing good left in my life, but at least now I can say no.

  He looks at me like I’m being ridiculous. “Anna, we live five minutes apart from each other, and we’re getting married. I can’t let you leave here without me.”

  “I don’t want you to take me.” The words come out forcefully, but slightly slurred. I’m losing the ability to talk as I crash from all this overstimulation, I can feel it. “And I don’t want to marry you. You didn’t even ask me, and you announced it to my entire family.”

  “I asked. You knew what I meant,” he says, as if it was so obvious.

  “No, it wasn’t entirely clear. And I don’t want to be with you anymore. I’m breaking up with you, Julian.”

  He flinches back in shock. “What the heck? That’s totally an overreaction. Be reasonable, Anna.”

  There’s a lot I want to tell him, things like how to propose to someone so they know it’s happening or not to have your mom ask for you or to double-check with your partner before you make an engagement announcement. But I’m running out of energy and my tongue doesn’t want to move.

  In the end, all I can do is look him straight in the eyes and say, “No.”

  Throwing my bag’s strap over my shoulder, I go. Everyone’s returned to the party, so I make it out the front door without incident. From there, I walk to the nearest park, and I order a ride home to San Francisco.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Quan

  I break every speed limit as I ride away from Anna. I don’t care if I get in an accident. Maybe part of me even wants it to happen.

  I’ve lost everything. My job, my girlfriend, my fucking manhood, it’s all gone, and I don’t know how to deal with the wreckage that’s left over. The wreckage that is me.

  Five years ago, nothing could have shaken my confidence this way. I walked my own path with swagger, covering myself with tattoos, giving the world the middle finger. But success seduced me. People seduced me. And since then, I’ve been fighting to be the man they think I am without even realizing it.

  That fight is over now. I don’t have anything to offer anymore. No fame, no fortune, no future. When I raced to see Anna, what I needed was reassurance that those things don’t matter, that me, the person I am, is enough.

  That didn’t happen.

  When I reach the city, I head straight for the liquor store. My plan is to buy ten bottles of booze, hole up in my apartment for days, and drink until my brain sloshes around in my skull. But when I’m stuck at a red light, I catch sight of my gym. Through the windows, I can see a bunch of people on the treadmills—an old guy, a hot chick, some rich ladies in neon-colored yoga outfits, and a ripped dude who looks like Rambo. They’re running, sweating, completely lost in their physical suffering. The light turns green right as I notice the empty treadmill by the wall, and I make a split-second decision and pull over.

  Inside, I put on the spare workout clothes that I keep in the locker that I rent from the gym and claim that last treadmill. The trainers—cool guys, I know them all because I’ve been going here for a long time—try to chat and shoot the shit, but when I crank up the speed on my machine and start running, they get the idea and leave me alone. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to listen to music. I don’t want to watch the TV. I only want to run.

  So that’s what I do. For hours.

  When I catch myself thinking about Anna and my job, I run harder, like I can escape everything if I’m fast enough. That works for a while, but I can’t run full-out forever. Eventually, my strength fades, and I slow down enough that thoughts creep back to me. The events of the day replay in my head. Learning that the LVMH deal won’t go through unless I step down. Seeing Anna smile as that guy announced their engagement, seeing him kiss her.

  Tears threaten to spill down my face, and I swipe at my eyes like sweat is stinging them and max out the speed on the machine again. I run and I run and I run. Until I can’t anymore. And then I drag myself home, sleep, eat, and repeat the same cycle on Saturday.

  Sunday morning, my body is sore. But not sore enough. I need a longer, more grueling run, something that’ll push me to my limits and truly clear my mind.

  As I load up on granola and high-calorie healthy shit and ice my knee, I watch YouTube videos of people running the Grand Canyon in a day. Apparently, this is called a “rim to rim to rim” or R2R2R run because you go from one rim to another and then back, for a total of more than forty miles. Everything that I see cautions runners that this is not for the faint of heart, lots of planning is needed, you might die, blah blah blah. I’m not exactly mentally stable right now, so this seems like the best idea I’ve ever had. Impulsively, I book myself a ticket on the next flight to Phoenix, Arizona, arrange a car rental, nab a room at the hotel close to the South Rim due to a last-minute cancellation, and go to the airport, planning my route and water logistics on the way there.

  After all, what do I have to lose?

  Not a single fucking thing.

  When I arrive in Arizona a couple of hours later, I go shopping for all the stuff that I’ll need, like a hydration pack, lightweight layers of clothes, trail food and energy packs, sunblock and lip balm, a hat, a headlamp, et cetera, and then I make the long drive to Grand Canyon Village, check into my hotel room, and head to bed early.

  My alarm gets me up at two a.m., and I’m at the trailhead by three a.m. It’s still dark out, I
know I’m being foolish, I know I should have prepared more, but I don’t hesitate before venturing onward.

  I only want to run.

  And I’m determined to set a new record.

  * * *

  —

  The view that emerges as the sky brightens is dazzling. Majestic cliffs plummet sharply to the earth in shades of sunrise, greater than time, greater than man. I feel minuscule in the best of ways. My problems seem insignificant; my pain, trivial.

  Elevation drops steadily while I descend through billions of years of rock into the depths of the canyon, and I make it to the halfway point in a little less than three hours feeling good and strong and invigorated. I’ve never breathed air this fresh or felt this connected to nature. My knee hardly aches. This is exactly what I needed.

  But as I begin the trek back, things change. The air gets hotter, heavier. My knee protests. There aren’t any more water-refill stations, so I cut back and conserve. It’s okay at first, but as the sun beats down on me mile after mile, thirst gets to me. My energy ebbs. I start to feel light-headed. If I’m going to continue, I have to drink my water.

  It’s warm after being carried on my back all day and the nozzle from my water pack tastes like sweat, but it’s exactly what my body needs. I try to drink it slowly, but no matter how much I take in, it’s not enough. I empty my water pack right as the trail steepens.

  I’ve made really good time so far, though. If I can keep up the pace for this last stretch, the hardest stretch, there’s still a chance I can set a record. I need to set that record. I need to show everyone what I’m made of. That dude with the diamond cuff links, Anna, that asshole Julian who thinks he’s marrying her, her family, my family. Most of all, me. I need to show myself I can do this. I need to win.

  All I’ve got at this point is me. I have to be enough.

  So I push myself to go faster.

  The trail steepens even further. According to the research I did before coming out here, I’m now fighting an elevation of five thousand feet. It sounds intimidating, but I’ve done interval training. I know I can do this.