The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient #3)(53)

“Though maybe …” Priscilla looks at me in a considering way. “Maybe you’re not ready to settle down yet.”

Our mom makes this horrified sound, like demons are chasing her. “She’s ready. She’s had enough fun.”

Priscilla doubles over and laughs like our mom’s reaction is hilarious.

“You kids these days. Fun.” Our mom shakes her head like her dignity’s been wounded, and that makes Priscilla laugh harder.

“It’s only fair. If he’s seeing people, I can, too,” I say in my defense, but I feel like I’m being dishonest somehow. That was what Quan was to me in the beginning—an adventure, revenge, a means to an end—but he’s more now.

Our mom’s jaw stiffens, but she nods. “His mom is visiting soon. I’m going to have a talk with her.”

“Ma, no, you don’t need to do that,” I say.

“I agree, Ma. Don’t do it,” Priscilla adds.

Our mom waves our words away. “I know how to say things.”

“Not always,” Priscilla says, holding our mom accountable in a way I could never get away with. “That reminds me, Ba’s birthday is coming up. We should throw him a party. We could put him in his chair and have everyone over. I think he’d like that.” She smiles down at our dad and pets his shin as she speaks to him like he’s a baby: “Wouldn’t you, Ba?”

Our mom nods in approval. “Anna could play his song.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from commenting on how both of them volunteered me for the night’s entertainment without bothering to ask me first. My compliance is and has always been a foregone conclusion with them.

In these modern times, people are told that they have the right to say no anytime they want, for whatever reason they wish. We can let nos rain from our lips like confetti.

But when it comes to my family, that word is not mine. I’m female. I’m youngest. I’m unremarkable. My opinion, my voice, has little to no value, and because of that, my place is to listen. My place is to respect.

I say yes.

And I look happy when I do it. Service with a smile.

“I’ll start organizing it, then,” Priscilla says.

As we finish our dad’s bath, carefully turning him to his side so we can wash his back and change his diaper, she rambles on about who she’ll invite and what we’ll eat, how much fun it’ll be for everyone. Except for me. She knows parties are challenging for me, though clearly she’s not interested in why, and fully expects me to attend and be at my absolute best anyway. I’m not allowed to protest or complain or have an “attitude.” That’s unacceptable.

For the rest of the night, I don’t speak. I keep my anger and frustration and hurt inside where it belongs.

No one notices. That’s how it’s supposed to be.





TWENTY-FOUR





Anna

THE FOLLOWING DAYS PASS IN A SLOW CRAWL, AND YET, WHEN I look back, I’m amazed that an entire week has passed. Time seems to flow at a different speed here. The leathery pads on the tips of my fingers on my left hand have begun to wear away because it’s been so long since I’ve practiced. Quan brought me my violin, but it’s remained in its case, untouched, as I’ve focused on caring for my dad.

That’s all we do here. Our lives revolve around the intricate schedule Priscilla created to ensure he’s getting the best care possible. We rotate him every two hours so he doesn’t get bedsores, surrounding him with pillows and heating pads and rolled-up towels to prop up various limbs. We massage his hands and feet obsessively to prevent painful contracture. We change his diapers immediately so he doesn’t get a rash. We’ve split his meals into nearly a dozen mini-feedings because his throat muscles don’t work correctly and he coughs his food up if he’s given too much at a time. We give him many, many medications. We tried to give him physical therapy, but he just moaned and slept through the exercises so we don’t do that anymore.

Priscilla likes to stretch out on the bed right next to him and show him pictures on her phone. Most of the time, he doesn’t pay attention. On occasion, however, he moans in a meaningful way, and we’re reminded that he’s really here. He’s not a body without a soul. Our work isn’t for nothing.

This morning, it’s just me and my dad, and that’s a little unusual. Technically, we’re all responsible for one shift: my mom has the night shift, from midnight to 8:00 A.M., I have the day, from 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M., and Priscilla has the evening, from 4:00 P.M. to midnight. But this is where everyone congregates. Also, it’s difficult to move him without help, and we must come running if we’re needed. Well, I have to come running. I never call for anyone’s help when I’m caring for him on my own. I don’t feel like I have that privilege.

It’s 11:00 A.M., one of his feeding times, so after changing his diaper, rotating him to his other side, and cranking the top half of his bed up so he’s relatively upright, I exchange my soiled latex gloves for clean ones, lift his feeding tube away from his tummy where we keep it tucked out of the way, and set it on top of a white towel. Then I fill a large plastic syringe with liquid food from a can. It’s thick and brown and has an unpleasant smell—I tasted it once, and it’s decidedly nasty—but it contains all the calories and nutrition that he needs. It’s keeping him alive.