Joan Is Okay(55)

You write it down. Or you call this number—he recited the number digit by digit—they have advisors. You call that number and someone will help you.

The wife stared blankly at the screen but wasn’t writing anything down. As I was setting the iPad up for the call, testing the video and audio, Earl had told me that this was just a precaution, this was just him preparing for the worst because he was the pessimist in the family, his wife the optimist. You’ll see, he had said.

Earl was now agitated and trying to move his arms from under the thicket of tubes. For the love of God, get over yourself and pick up a pen. I’m trying to tell you something. I just want you to know what to do.

The wife continued to say nothing, but her eyes were shiny, her mouth a flat line.

I said if it was all the same to them, I could write some of this down. I had good recall and legibility.

Someone write something down, Earl said. He didn’t care who.

I found a pen, paper. I had the nurse hold the iPad.

More account names and portfolios. The passwords were mostly numbers, and I knew Earl’s birthday, his height and weight, his vitals, but these numbers weren’t that. They were the birthdays of his wife and kids, followed by their initials and then a bunch of exclamation marks. Earl advised not doing much with one account but selling some in another. The wife nodded and had covered her mouth with her hand. The last account was for their retirement.

We have an advisor there, Earl said. His name is—now don’t laugh, I know you’re about to laugh. Please don’t. I’m tired, I have a tube up my nose. But his name is Earl, an utter coincidence. Don’t run off with him after I’m gone.

The wife did laugh. It was a laugh and then a cry. She said she didn’t think she could do any of this without him. He said that she could.



* * *



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DURING MY WALK BACK from the hospital that day, I was, surprisingly, less tense. I told Earl that I would be there tomorrow, and he said he would see me tomorrow, though he wasn’t a morning person, so if by chance he was asleep or whatnot, he wished to not be disturbed. Lots could happen in the “whatnot” and what would happen to Earl I couldn’t predict. That I couldn’t predict many things, at times not even my own thoughts, still unsettled me. That I had to stay on guard and protect myself from both the tangible and intangible tired me to my core. But for a moment some of this unease receded, and with no one else around me, I slowed my pace, unclenched my jaw. I shook out my hands, my father’s hands, that had been stuffed into my coat pockets and looked around.

The street I was on had a grocery store, a pharmacy, and a convenience store that had remained open after the closure of nonessential business. Along with new guidelines on how to stay safe, there were still posters in its windows for produce, sales, and, on the outside of the convenience store, ads for the state lottery. play now! buy a ticket and try your luck.

Lotteries were unwinnable in real life but never in movies. There’s that children’s movie about a chocolate factory and the search for five golden tickets, tucked away in chocolate bars. So, if the airlines failed to provide my mother with a ticket, we could always look for one like that. My mother with her golden ticket, waving it around to celebrate that finally she could go home. But in real life, no win is ever unconditional. Once she left, I would be here again without a mother, and while I’d managed before and would again, I was more aware now of the exchange.

I hadn’t seen my father die. I had heard and read the report, the death certificate. I had seen, held, the box of ashes. The two Chinese characters of my name were carved into the stone of his tomb, next to my brother’s and under my mother’s. But it was also possible that he could be anywhere and that he could still surprise me with when he would turn up.

The convenience store I’d just passed was empty except for a dark-haired man behind the counter, face half wrapped in a bandanna, wiping his counters down with a terrycloth. Here was an essential business, as it had always been, and I stopped for a moment in front of the glass.

Doctor-daughter, you’re thinking about me again but there’s really no need. Both of us are very busy.

Never too busy for you, Dad.

Then how’s it going, non-busy daughter? Tell me all about it.

Haven’t figured it all out yet.

But you’ve figured out some.

Some, yes, a very small piece.

So, tell me about that.

During my last year of med school, ten years ago, the Massachusetts Powerball hit a record high. The prize money was something so ridiculous that no sane government would let you keep it without taking at least half in taxes. My father was still alive and in China, but it was during that strange year of no contact between us. The morning before the Powerball was to be drawn, I was standing in line at a convenience store with my breakfast muffin and orange juice, waiting impatiently to check out so I could sprint right back to work. I hadn’t been thinking about my father or mother or brother. I hadn’t been thinking about the gulfs within families or the migrations we have to make or the cost of love.

In line ahead of me was an Asian father-daughter pair. As their items were being rung up, the young girl asked her father if they could buy a ticket for the Powerball. A glowing neon sign above the cash register suggested it, and it was a historic lottery with just a two-dollar wager. The father resisted at first, but then gave in. The daughter picked six numbers and then a minute later took the ticket from the cashier with both hands. She probably wouldn’t win, and I imagined her father knew that. But what could be said of this seemingly frivolous act, a small paper gift that makes the girl happy, which then makes her father happy, which then spurs a, perhaps, normally stoic dad to express how much he cares about the daughter in ways that she can’t yet comprehend. After I’d slid my credit card over to pay for my stuff, I overheard the girl ask what if they did win, what would they buy? They were heading toward the exit and I glanced over at them, the daughter still a head shorter than the father, more engrossed with her ticket of unrealistic promise than with her father’s reply. Win? he said. He opened the door for both of them, standing aside to let her go first. But I’ve already won, I’ve made a life here.