by Liz Hsu
I awkwardly took a bite, and she started giggling. I raised an eyebrow at her, but she just leaned over and wiped the tip of my nose with a fingertip before seeming to think better of it and used the napkin she had. Heat rushed through me at her innocent touch, and I felt super self-conscious suddenly stuffing my face.
I took a sip of water from the bottle in the cupholder. “Sorry, I should have offered you some.”
Her laughter chimed through the car again. “I bought Dad and myself one too, so no worries.” She reached down and handed me a thin box. “And I got you this.”
“Thanks.”
I cranked the AC to combat my intensifying nervous sweats before I opened it. I wasn’t used to gifts. My parents had given me a red envelope with cash this morning, and I’d get another one on Lunar New Year, but this? This was different.
Inside the box were advanced jazz piano music sheets. I looked over at her, surprised at her thoughtfulness since I told her I wanted to learn more jazz, and noticed she was grasping the seatbelt in her hands. She didn’t have shorts to pick at tonight.
“I hope you like it,” she blurted out, pulling repeatedly on the seatbelt strap. “The guy at the music store said it was the best for advanced students. He still uses it himself.”
I smiled so wide my jaw hurt. “This is awesome.” I set it down safely in the backseat. “But we should go. I don’t want to be late and I don’t know what the parking situation is.”
Halfway into the hourlong drive, too late to turn around, I coughed and said, “Ray, you still go to church, right?”
“Yes, online mostly. Why?”
Another cough. “Well, there was a little issue. The venue wouldn’t allow guests under eighteen, so we lied and said you were in the band. You only need to do one song, and James remembered you guys talked about choir and, well, he suggested a Cat Stevens cover, ‘Morning Has Broken.’ He sings in choir too; you probably remember since he said he told you”—crap, I was rambling—“I learned that piano set years ago. Everyone loves Cat Stevens—classic. I, um, printed out the lyrics for you to refresh your memory.” How I hoped she couldn’t see how sweaty I was. Gross.
“I will kill you,” she finally said, deadpan after a drawn-out pause.
“I’m sorry. I knew you were excited, and I didn’t want to cancel on you.” She huffed, and I said gently, “I downloaded the Cat Stevens version. We can play it a few times. I’m sure, even during online church, they play it occasionally at services.”
“Okay, but what if I’m terrible?” She sounded worried.
“Don’t worry, James will carry you. He’s a great vocalist. The duet was his idea. He’s a bass-baritone, and I’m sure you’re a mezzo-soprano.”
“Did you just speak Mandarin? Because I’m pretty sure it was a foreign language.” She huffed again and returned to the seatbelt pulling.
Crap. I didn’t want her to be so nervous. Didn’t those articles say anxiety caused lupus flares? “What I said was, you’ll do great.”
“Fine, fine. I know the song, but let’s play it.”
The second time through the song, I said, “Okay, try singing now?”
And she did. Her voice singing gospel sounded angelic. Haunting. She certainly couldn’t be the next The Voice star but her high voice would create an amazing juxtaposition with the bass-baritone of James’s.
After at least six runs of the song, she seemed a little more confident, and when we arrived, she smiled over at me. “I got this.”
“Damn straight!” I laughed as we got out of the car. She hurried to the back seat to help by carrying my acoustic guitar and then sat and whispered with James about their duet as I went back for the keyboard. Miraculously, or maybe not since James liked black T-shirts, they matched in jeans and black shirts.
It took a little while to set everything up. We decided Ray and James would perform third. Enough time to warm up the crowd, but not too far in they’d doubt she was a band member. We’d start with two electric guitar songs, then I’d do a soft acoustic guitar piece after their duet, and then we’d pick the tempo back up and do our signature jazz sound-off with the keyboard. Our last song would be “The First Cut is the Deepest,” another Cat Stevens cover with Ray doing the chorus. We’d tell her during the break. Even Rod Stewart had covered that song, so we felt like we had good taste.
By starting time, my shirt was nearly plastered to my back, and I needed to take some deep breaths. Somehow this was more intimidating than piano concerts. Those were just me, but now I had to depend on others, and I didn’t like that. And Ray. I glanced at her exquisite profile. Crap, I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of her. Yet somehow, I knew once my fingers started moving, the music would flow through me and settle my nerves.
The first two songs flew by, and I nodded to Ray as I moved to the keyboard in the corner. When she returned my nod, I started up. Her voice could use a little training, but it was high and sweet paired with James’s deep bass-baritone. Gospel might have seemed a strange choice, but she looked kind of angelic with her long, almost white-blond hair and delicate features, and the song hadn’t ever fully faded from its billboard stardom.
When they finished to a roaring applause, she blinked as if in surprise and threw me a dazzling smile.
For the rest of the night, she watched from the sidelines, seeming to enjoy it by the smiles and thumbs-up she gave me when I looked her way. When we ended with the full group and “The First Cut is the Deepest,” the crowd begged for an encore. We packed up all smiles. Even though it was late, we were all hyped up when the concert ended and gave our business cards to two people in the audience with venues nearby.
The drive home was a slow release. Ray and I both started yawning and growing quieter toward the end.
“You are so talented, it’s amazing,” Ray said softly before we pulled off the highway. “The piano, the guitar, the electric guitar…”
I felt myself blush, glad it was dark. “I like music. And the piano—I’ve been playing since I was five. That’s twelve years. That song you heard, I have to play it almost every day, hours each day. I should be good. Asian parents, remember? Haven’t you heard of the Asian grading scale?”
She laughed before choking out, “What?”
“A is Average, B is Below Average, C is Can’t Eat Dinner, D is Don’t Come Home, F is Find a New Home,” I recited in a flat voice.
“What?” she repeated.
I gulped, wishing she’d just laughed like I’d hoped for. I’d turned onto her street by then and shimmied into a parking spot, so I turned to look at her. “You’ve never seen those memes?”
I could see her blush even in the dim light. “Charles, we didn’t have a lot of Asians at my last school,” she said, eyes cast downward.
She shifted in her seat like I’d embarrassed her. I sometimes forgot everywhere wasn’t like Ann Arbor or Toronto or the Bay Area, where my cousins lived, with large Asian communities.
“Check this out,” I said as I pulled out my phone and googled “Asian grading scale,” and about twenty different memes like the one I’d mentioned popped up. She leaned over me, her jasmine scent surrounding me again, making my heart beat faster. She was intoxicating. I could barely think beside her. Well, I could think all right, but it wasn’t anything fit for friends.
“It’s not really like that, is it?” She sounded shocked, her stunning eyes wide.
I closed my phone and slipped it back into my pocket with a sigh. “I don’t know. I’ve never gotten a B, but when I didn’t get into advanced math in fourth grade, my mom made me do an extra hour each night and three on the weekend. She made me retake the test, and I got put in advanced math. I think they’d still love me, but they just…” I struggled for the right way to say it. “They want me to be the best me I can be, as cheesy as that sounds—I’m sure it’s in a book or on a coffee mug somewhere.”<
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She laughed, breaking the serious mood. “You’re a pretty good you,” she whispered, placing a hand on my forearm.
I glanced up at those blue eyes, almost indigo in this light, and swore I saw something there. Now my heart raced at an allegro beat. She moved her hand, and the moment passed.
As she moved to open her door, I felt like an idiot. Her last boyfriend looked nothing like me; girls like her didn’t date guys like me.
“I’m going to be pretty busy because my piano competition is coming up in just a week, so I won’t be much fun. But I know it’s hard to be new,” I said quickly, annoyed at myself but unable to resist her. “So if you want to come over and sketch while I practice, don’t be a stranger.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Your piano is actually pretty inspiring, so I might do that.”
She got out of the car but leaned back in, clearly not realizing the distracting view of her cleavage I now had. I was doing my best to ignore her breasts hanging out of her top even as heat rushed through me. How could anyone be that beautiful?
“And big thanks for bringing me tonight,” she said with a half grin, which helped me focus on her face and not her chest. “I really had fun. And happy birthday again.”
“No problem,” I said, then decided to use her joke. “Later, gator.”
She smiled wider as she waved goodbye. As I watched her to make sure she got into the building, I sighed. I didn’t think I’d ever had a crush this bad.
“Ray, how are you feeling today?” Dr. Ezra asked.
I glanced down before answering honestly. “I’m tired,” I said with a sigh, thankful it was just us, no gaggle of medical students today.
He nodded. “That’s one of the most common side effects of lupus. It’s normal to be tired. You also have some mild iron deficiency anemia, which can be a side effect of some of your medications, so we’re going to start you on an iron pill. Are you taking naps?”
I felt myself blush. For the first time since kindergarten—a decade—I’d been feeling the need to nap in the afternoons. “Yes, sir. Just an hour or less, but it seems to help.”
He typed something on the iPad and I cast a quick look at Dad. He gave me a half smile and a small nod. It’d been just over three weeks since I’d decided to stay. I hadn’t gone out and directly said it, but I’d been grateful for this time with my dad. We’d bonded in a way that hadn’t been possible on our busy trips to Sweden. He’d taken me to three Brown Bags, and if I didn’t already think I’d like to be an architect, I was now sure I did. Or maybe a professor, like Dad. They took their subject and papers so seriously, occasionally breaking into arguments about the legitimacy of their sources. And he’d started teaching me to cook Swedish food. It was fun and made me feel proud of my heritage.
“Are you in any pain today?” Dr. Ezra asked.
“No, sir. Not at the moment.” My knees had been swollen a few days ago, but today they were doing better. They’d flared up pretty bad the morning after the concert and I guessed my nerves had caused it, but I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. The Snowblowers were my only friends here, and I didn’t want to lose them.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions about how you’ve been feeling lately. Most doctors use a standardized questionnaire to help us understand how a patient has felt for the last two weeks. You’ve been through a lot, and sometimes that can make you sad. It’s okay to be sad. I want you to answer me honestly. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. For the next few questions, your answer should be: not at all, several days, more than half the days, or nearly every day. I might stop you to clarify.” I nodded. “Recently, have you had little interest or pleasure in doing things that you used to do?”
I felt tears well up. “Nearly every day.” Dr. Ezra stopped and I noticed both he and my dad were looking at me. I sucked in a deep breath and stared down at my hands. “I used to run six or seven days a week. But I haven’t run at all since coming here. I miss it.”
His voice was stern but sympathetic. “Running isn’t the best exercise for people with lupus, Ray. It is very aggravating to the joints. You’re still having an active flare, according to your bloodwork, and inflammation can cause more inflammation. Your joints are pesky and painful, but we don’t want organ trouble again. Some patients do get to the point where they can run again, but now isn’t the time to try. How about power-walking for now?”
I nodded without looking up and he continued his questions.
“Feeling down, depressed, or hopeless?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“And when you feel that way, does anything help?”
“Drawing helps me relax, and”—I blushed and peeked at my dad—“listening to my friend play the piano. It’s so beautiful and reminds me I’m not alone.”
“That’s great, Ray. It’s good to have friends who understand what you’re going through. Next question. Feeling tired or having little energy?”
“Nearly every day.”
He ended the series of questions with, “How difficult have these problems made it for you to do your work, take care of things at home, or get along with other people?”
“I’ve been getting along fine with my friend, Charles. He seems to understand, and the same with my best friend from home, Jeffery. But I had to make my dad take me in and that’s caused him and my mom a lot of stress and legal fees.” I couldn’t look at him when I said it. I knew he’d offered. I knew he’d rearranged his life and home for me, but Mom’s old words didn’t fade easily. I kept wondering when I’d become too much for him and he’d send me back.
Breathing deeply and running my fingers along the exam paper, I continued, “I know my mom was upset about how expensive my hospital stay was. My boyfriend broke up with me because I moved here.” I gulped and swallowed again to stop tears I felt were dangerously close to falling.
“Ray, you are showing some clear signs of clinical depression. We are going to start you on that iron pill today, which will give you more energy. I’m going to talk to Dr. Murray about lowering your steroids because sometimes those can make you sad, too. Your X-ray from yesterday looks really good, so I’m going to clear you for light exercise. Start trying to take a walk a day. Being cooped up inside, especially when you’re used to running every day, is hard. Moving to a new place is challenging too, but I’m glad you have some new friends here. Did you go to the local support group on Sunday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what did you think?”
“It was nice to know I’m not alone. Everyone was really friendly.” It had been scary to hear everyone’s stories, though. I didn’t want osteoporosis or to be on dialysis like so many of the women. I hadn’t liked hearing lupus was the tenth most common cause of death in women aged fifteen to twenty-four, either.
“Good. I’m glad you went. So, we aren’t going to treat you for depression right now, because you have a lot of things going on that might be causing it. We’re going to try to reduce those things, but don’t feel guilty resting or napping if you need to. We have already prepared the paperwork for your school, and even once the school year starts, we’ve asked them to allow you to go to the nurse and take a nap, if needed. If you have any trouble talking to them, let us know and we can help take further steps with the school if they aren’t accommodating. Okay?”
He waited for me to nod, before getting up to wash and dry his hands.
He continued, “We want to work together with them to help you do the best you can do and stay healthy at the same time. We’re going to have you back in two weeks to see if you’re feeling any better, but if any time between now and then you want a referral to a psychiatrist or psychologist, Dr. Murray or I can write you one. Sometimes it’s good to talk it out.” He pulled on a pair of gloves, and said, “Now let’s get started on your physical evaluation.”
And as we started testing and bending all my joints, I was glad I’d worn leggings. This part always made me feel like one of my little sister’s fabric dolls, twisting in someone else’s hands.
We left after Dr. Murray confirmed I didn’t want a psychologist referral. I told her to ask me again in two weeks.
“You can talk to me anytime you want to,” Dad said in Swedish as we wound through the vivid blue hospital corridors. “You know that, right?”
“I do,” I said, tucking some hair behind my ear. “I just feel guilty because you’re already doing so much for me.”
He stopped walking, pulled me to him, and ran a hand through my hair. “Sweetheart, you’re my daughter. I’m doing what any dad would do.” I nodded against his chest and he slowly released me. “All right, let’s take you to Charles’s. I almost felt guilty not telling your mom I was letting you go out to bars to listen to live music, but if he’s making you feel happy, my lips are sealed.”
I quirked a grin at him. He’d let me do things—go to a comedy show, hear live music, make an Instagram account—Mom would have never let me do.
“Thanks, Dad.”
When he dropped me off, Charles seemed happy to see me, but he had a bit of a frantic energy to him. His hair was a little wild, standing in all directions, and it was kind of a turn-on to see it so mussed.
“Nervous?” I asked him as he led me to the living room, just to fill the silence and avoid saying something like, You’re gorgeous when you play music.
He stopped and turned around. His obsidian eyes pinned me in place and made me breathless. “Yes, actually. This is my first international competition. I know it’s just Toronto, but that’s almost worse, because my family is going to be there. You don’t know what my family is like, what they expect of me. ‘A’ is average to them. No, below average. For Caltech, too. Being valedictorian does not guarantee you admission into Caltech. My thirty-six on the ACT won’t either. It is a highly competitive school and you know how long, how hard I’ve been striving to get in there. I need first place. Something to set me apart.”
