The Heart Principle

by Helen Hoang

  No one can figure out why he’s doing it, but the doctor tells us not to worry. He’s not in pain—of the physical kind. Priscilla, ever skeptical of expertise that isn’t her own, becomes fixated on the idea that he’s constipated and insists on giving him milk of magnesia. It turns out my dad is extremely sensitive to milk of magnesia, and we go through an entire bag of diapers—and a lot of gagging and nausea, on my part, which makes Priscilla glare at me—before his body settles down.

  He moans the entire time. And continues afterward.

  E-flat, E-flat, E-flat, E-flat, E-flat.

  Priscilla and my mom grow frantic with worry. Because modern medicine isn’t helping, they have an acupuncturist come to the house and treat him. They push herbal remedies into his feeding tube, put CBD oil under his tongue. They even pay a naturopathic doctor to give him vitamin C intravenously. It’s obscenely expensive, but it doesn’t work. Nothing works.

  If anything, his moaning gets more vigorous.

  I want to tell them to stop, that he’s moaning because he doesn’t want to live this way, and all their ministrations are torturing him. But I don’t. I know it won’t do any good. I’m not here to talk. I’m here to watch over my dad, to make sure he’s never alone in his room, to see to his needs.

  The sound of his moans gets to me, though, the constant reminder of why he’s moaning, and it’s not like I can put headphones on and ignore him. If he coughs or chokes, I need to know. I have no choice but to endure it. When my shift is over each day, I sit in the kitchen, close enough that I can hear if Priscilla needs my help, but far enough that his moans are muted.

  It’s not a true break. I know I’ll be called upon at any moment, but at least I’m not directly absorbing his emotional pain into myself. Also, it doesn’t smell like soiled diapers and Salonpas pain-relieving patches here.

  I’m catching up on the hundreds of unread text messages on my phone—Rose performed on live Canadian TV and just signed a contract with Sony, the twelve-year-old prodigy is going to be in a Netflix movie, Suzie’s violin cover of a popular rap song was chosen as the theme song for a new medical drama (ironic because she hates both rap music and medical dramas), Quan spoke with the head of acquisitions at LVMH and it was “rad,” Jennifer is checking up on me, saying she’s worried about me—when my cousin Faith walks into the kitchen with a duffel bag and a rolled-up yoga mat in her arms. Her hair is frazzled like it always is, and she’s wearing her regular uniform of leggings and a baggy shirt over a fancy workout bra that crisscrosses in the back like a spiderweb, the kind that I can’t wear because I get lost in the straps.

  “Hey, Anna,” she says, smiling at me in her sweet way. She likes everyone, genuinely cares about everyone. “How are you? How’s your mom? Where’s Priscilla?”

  “Is that Faith?” Priscilla calls out from the other side of the house.

  Instead of answering with words—I’m literally too tired to speak—I push a smile onto my lips and point toward my dad’s room.

  Faith has only taken a few steps when Priscilla barrels into the room and gives her a big hug, saying, “You’re here. I can’t believe you didn’t even text me ahead of time.”

  “My schedule opened up, so I drove here straight from Sacramento. You’re looking good, Prissy,” Faith says as they separate, using Priscilla’s nickname that I hate. I’m not sure if it’s because of the negative meaning of the word or the fact that I’m not allowed to use it.

  “No, I’m not looking good, but I love you for lying. I’ve gained five pounds since I’ve been here. There’s nothing to do but watch Dad and eat, and her booty call gave us tons of food.” Priscilla waves toward me with that last part, and it takes me a few seconds before I understand she means Quan.

  I shake my head, trying to remember how to form words so I can correct her, but it takes me too long.

  “Your booty call, Anna?” Faith asks in shock. “What about that super cute boyfriend you had?”

  “They’re in an ‘open relationship,’ ” Priscilla answers for me, putting finger quotes around the words open relationship.

  Faith’s mouth hangs open.

  “You should see the new guy.” Priscilla waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “He’s covered in tattoos. Our mom thinks he’s a drug dealer.”

  Faith’s surprised expression gradually transforms into a sly grin. “Good for you, Anna.”

  That irks me enough that I finally find my voice to say, “He’s not a drug dealer. He’s in the apparel business.”

  “He sells T-shirts out of his trunk,” Priscilla says in a mock whisper.

  “He doesn’t,” I say, irritated that she discounted Quan so easily—even though I did the same thing in the beginning. “His company is called MLA, and they’re getting purchased by Louis Vuitton.”

  “Seriously?” Priscilla asks. In the next instant, she’s pulling out her phone, typing “MLA clothing” into her search engine, and scrolling through the website. “This is him?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and my annoyance is completely overshadowed by nervous anticipation now. She’s going to be impressed. She has to be impressed.

  Please be impressed.

  All she says is, “Interesting.” She clicks through different pages on the website, evaluating, judging. “Has he signed a contract with Louis Vuitton?” she asks in a neutral tone.

  “He said they’re in negotiations. It’s not a done deal yet.”

  “I thought so.” Coolly putting her phone away, she says, “Just so you know, these things rarely go through. In case he’s not aware, tell him not to get his hopes up. Nice website, though.”

  I slump back into my chair, disappointed and inexplicably angry. Why does she have to put everyone in their place like this? Why can’t she just be happy for him? For me?

  “How long are you staying?” Priscilla asks Faith.

  “I don’t have anything until Monday, so I thought I’d stay over the weekend to play with you and then leave early Monday morning, like five a.m.,” Faith says with a twinkling smile.

  “You don’t want to leave Sunday night like a normal person?” Priscilla asks.

  Faith shrugs. “You know how I am with sleep. I thought I’d do night shifts, too, so your mom can take a couple days off?”

  “Oh my God, you’re an angel. I’m going to kiss you,” Priscilla says as she leans close with her lips puckered.

  Laughing and batting Priscilla away, Faith says, “No kisses needed.” Her expression softens when she looks at me, though a smile still plays at the corners of her lips. “You should take the weekend off and go see your fashionista boyfriend.”

  “You should go when you have the chance, Anna. I have to fly back to New York in a couple weeks to do some stuff, and you and Mom are going to have to watch Dad by yourselves,” Priscilla says.

  It’s what I’ve wanted, a chance to leave this house, but now that it’s here, I feel bad jumping at the opportunity. I shouldn’t want to leave. I should want to stay. A good daughter would stay.

  And what’s this about Priscilla leaving for New York? She never mentioned this before. The thought of caring for our dad during all my waking hours by myself fills me with dread. The moaning . . . I’ll have to listen to it for sixteen hours straight, only to sleep, wake up, and listen to it for another sixteen hours.

  “How long will you be gone?” I ask.

  “Just a week or two. Some stuff came up in the office, and they need me to sort it out,” Priscilla says in an offhand manner. “I’ll come back as soon as I can, but, yeah, you should really take the weekend off while you can. Don’t worry, I’ll be back before Dad’s party.”

  My face goes cold as the blood drains from it. A week or two. I honestly don’t know if I can handle that. I’m trying as hard as I can, but I’m not holding it together well. As it is, I’ve been crying as I get out of bed each morning, knowing what
I have to look forward to, what I’m going to do, what our dad wants.

  “Okay,” I say. When I remember, I smile at Faith and say, “Thank you. Really. It’s so nice of you to—”

  “Of course,” she says before I can finish, squeezing my hand. “I’ve been meaning to come. It just hasn’t worked out until now. You know how it is.”

  I don’t know how it is, but my head bobs in a circular kind of nod anyway. What I do know is that she has absolutely no obligation to be here, not like Priscilla and me. She’s only my dad’s niece. We’re his daughters. He raised us, fed us, loved us. Caring for him now is something we must do.

  Even if it breaks us.

  Gratefulness overwhelms me, and tears swim in my eyes as Faith and my sister leave the kitchen, headed for my dad’s room. It’s been so long since I’ve been free that I don’t even know what I’ll do with the time she’s giving me.

  Practice violin in circles and circles?

  No.

  I type out a message to Quan: My cousin came. She’s HERE. Do you have this weekend free?

  He replies instantly, I did, but not anymore! Can I come get you tonight? Like right now?

  Yes, please, I say.

  Heading out. See you soon.

  I hug my phone to my chest for a moment, wishing it didn’t take so long for him to get here. Then I head up to my room. My plan is to hurry through a shower, pack my things, and make my bed before meeting Quan outside, but when I get into the shower, I lose track of time.

  This has been my only sanctuary since I’ve been here. When I’m in the shower, no one can yell “Anna, come help me pull Dad up” or “Anna, go get me the bag of diapers from the garage” or “Anna, take the trash out for me” or “Anna, watch Dad while I go to the store” and expect me to drop what I’m doing, stop my thoughts mid-thought, and jump to their bidding with a happy smile. I’m showering. I can’t hear them. They have to wait until I get out.

  Even after my hair is washed and all of me is soaped and clean, I linger, resting my forehead against the tile on the wall. I might be crying. It’s difficult to tell if it’s water or tears running down my face, but I feel it in my chest and my throat. I feel it in my heart.

  I shouldn’t be so glad to go. But I am. Even worse, I never want to come back. I want to run and keep running.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Anna

  I wake up feeling achy and disoriented, much like I’ve been sick and my fever just broke. My mind is slow to catch up, but I recognize my surroundings. I’m safe, in my bed, in my apartment, and that’s such a luxury.

  My head throbs dully when I sit up, and looking down, I see I’m wearing street clothes—a sweater dress and leggings. I get my phone from the nightstand to check the time and am confused to see it’s past five p.m. Didn’t I leave my parents’ house later than this? How did time go backward? I have a zillion unread messages on my phone, but when I scroll through them I start to feel nauseated so I quit.

  I fumble my way out of bed, and because I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, I change out of my street clothes and into my pajamas. I pull on my ugly fuzzy bathrobe, too, glorying in the softness, and plod out of my bedroom. The light is on in my living room, so I head there to investigate, instead of going to the bathroom like I planned.

  And Quan is sitting on my couch, frowning over his laptop screen as his fingers fly over the keypad, efficiently typing away. The sight is unexpected but entirely welcome. I love how comfortable he seems in my space, barefoot and wearing a faded T-shirt and loose sweatpants.

  He glances my way, and a wide smile brightens his face and makes him beautiful. “You’re up.”

  “Hey.” I scratch behind my ear and ask, “What day is it?”

  Laughter spills from him. “It’s Saturday. You slept for”—he checks the time on his phone—“seventeen hours straight.”

  “That explains why I feel like roadkill,” I say, trying to keep my tone light even though I feel a sense of loss. This is my vacation. And I just slept half of it away.

  Quan sets his computer aside and comes to my side, running his hands up and down my arms. “Want anything? Hungry?”

  “I might be hungry. I really need to brush my teeth, though. Be right back.” I cover my mouth self-consciously and hurry to the bathroom, where I go through the long process of brushing, seven seconds for each tooth, seven seconds for each corresponding part of my gumline to stimulate blood flow so I don’t lose all my teeth before I’m fifty, meticulous flossing, mouthwash with fluoride. It takes forever, but this is how I live with the periodontal disease brought on by all my tooth tapping.

  When I’m done, I return to the living room. Quan isn’t there, but I hear him puttering around in the kitchen. Peeking around the corner, I find him poaching eggs at the stove. On the counter next to him, there are two packages of ramen noodles and two empty soup bowls.

  “You’re making me ramen?” I ask.

  He looks at me over his shoulder. “It’s the only thing you have. I thought about ordering delivery, but I figured you’d be starving and this is fast. Want something else?”

  I swallow past the ache in my throat. “No, this is perfect.”

  He smiles and turns back to his work, scooping the eggs into the bowls, emptying the packets of soup powder into the pot of boiling water, and then putting the noodles in to cook.

  Not long after, we’re sitting across from each other at my tiny table, our knees pressed together, my feet on top of his because I’m cold and he’s warm. Steam curls up from the noodles, and the poached egg looks yummy. The white part is firm, but I can tell the yolk will be runny. I lower my chopsticks to the bowl but hesitate before touching anything. I don’t want to ruin it just yet.

  “Something wrong?” Quan asks, a spoonful of ramen halfway to his mouth.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m just . . . happy.”

  He tilts his head, aiming a confused smile at me.

  I try to smile in return, but my lips don’t want to comply. I don’t know how to explain how wonderful it feels to be cared for, even in this small way, after all this time tending my dad, how dark it’s been, how lonely I’ve felt, even though I’ve been surrounded by family, the people who love me most.

  Even as I think that, I find myself wondering, Do they really love me, though? Can they, when they don’t know who I truly am?

  That’s part of why I’m so exhausted, I realize. I’ve been masking nonstop for months, for my dad, but also for my mom and Priscilla. I don’t usually notice because I see them for a few hours, a day or two max, and then I get to leave and recover.

  It’s like pricking yourself with a needle. Do it once, and you’re okay. You can ignore that it even happened. Prick yourself repeatedly without giving yourself time to heal, and soon you’re injured and bleeding.

  That’s me. I’m injured and bleeding. But no one can see. Because it’s inside where I hurt.

  Be that as it may, is it fair to recognize my own pain in the face of my dad’s suffering? Self-loathing washes over me, and I ridicule myself, here in the privacy of my mind. It doesn’t make me feel better. It’s not supposed to.

  We finish the noodles and clean up, and then I curl up with Quan on the couch. He browses through the documentaries for something I haven’t seen, but it turns out I’ve watched them all. If it’s narrated by David Attenborough, I’ve watched it at least five times. In the end, we find ourselves sifting through B-rated (or below) science fiction films.

  As I’m reading the descriptions for Llamageddon and Sand Sharks out loud, and laughing with a mixture of awe and horror, Quan gets his phone out and takes selfies of us.

  “I realized I don’t have any pictures of us together,” he says.

  “We haven’t taken any before now,” I say, surprised that it took us so long.

  He smiles at me, and there’s warmth an
d understanding there. “We were too busy.” He flips through the pictures until he comes to a horrible one where I look like I’m snorting. “Now, this one has phone wallpaper potential.”

  “Absolutely not.” I snatch the phone from him and quickly delete the picture, even going so far as to delete it from his deleted pictures folder so it’s truly gone forever.

  “Oh, come on,” he protests even while he laughs.

  I snap a picture as I kiss his cheek, and there it is. The best of the bunch. His smile is wide, completely unselfconscious, and contentment radiates from him. As for me, there’s something soft in my eyes as I kiss him, something that I can’t put a name to. It’s something good, though. Best of all, my ugly bathrobe isn’t visible in the photo. I send the picture to myself, and then I nosily thumb through the pictures in his photo library.

  “That’s Michael,” he says when I get to a picture of him and another guy. This must have been taken after kendo practice because they’re both in matching sweaty black uniforms and gear. Quan’s got his arm thrown over the other guy’s shoulder, and their heads are wrapped in white bandanas, their helmets tucked under their arms.

  “Michael . . . as in Michael Larsen, the ML of MLA?” I ask.

  Quan grins. “That’s him.”

  The next picture shows Quan surrounded by a pack of little kids in full kendo armor. The next is a snapshot of two little kids as they spar. Another sparring photo of kids. Another. Another. Little kids in kendo uniforms, grinning. A selfie of Quan and a little boy who’s missing one of his front teeth. Another selfie with another little kid in glasses. Quan and kids in T. rex T-shirts in front of the kendo studio. Quan getting hog-piled. Quan with kids crawling all over him. He’s trying to look aggrieved, but he’s smiling too hard for it to be believable.

  “You like kids,” I observe.

  His expression immediately grows serious, but he nods. “I do.” After the briefest hesitation, he asks, “Do you?”

  I shrug. “They’re okay. I’m not good with them like you clearly are.” I flip through more pictures, and I find one of kids striking poses in trendy MLA outfits that include T. rex shirts, plaid skirts and shorts, and newsboy hats for everyone. “Was this for a company photoshoot?”