Watch Us Rise(52)

It was the “perfectly happy” that got me. I couldn’t stop myself.

“But, Grandma, you wanted to be a teacher, right?”

My mom glares at me. Not tonight, she mouths in my direction. That’s the main issue with me and my mom. It’s never the right time with her. She is always the cool and calm one, the woman who lets everyone tell her how to feel and never raises her voice for anything, so sometimes I feel like I need to be that voice for her—whether she likes it or not.

“Well, of course, but I taught your mother and your aunt, and that was enough for me. You know, you young girls, you think you can do everything, but you can’t. Something is always sacrificed. Something has to give, and usually it’s the marriage that suffers.”

“But not everyone wants to get married,” I say, completely ignoring the fact that I’ve imagined my fairy-tale wedding with James about a billion times, and they all feature me in a massive white dress walking down an aisle littered with rose petals. So weird. “I have a lot of friends who don’t want to get married. They want a career—they want a job—that’s where they want the focus to be.”

“And that’s what they’ll get, believe me. You focus on a career, you get a career. But don’t expect to get both. Young women today have no time to care about their homes, their families. All they care about is getting to the top—whatever that means, and then the rest of their lives just fall apart.” She makes a side-eye at my mom.

At this comment, my mom sits back. I know it has been an ongoing argument between them, since my grandma has always given her a hard time about sending us to daycare and preschool rather than staying home and being a good homemaker (whatever that means), the way she did.

“Grandma, sorry, but nobody thinks like that anymore. I mean, the system of gender norms was created so we would think that women are the ones who are more biologically capable of taking care of kids and the home, but that’s just not true at all.” I’m on a roll. “My friends and I aren’t in the world just to get the guy and keep the house and have the kids. That’s super dated, Grandma. And we’re finding ways to break down the myth of the gender role in general and the ways people think about women and the kinds of jobs women are capable of.” I take a gulp of my wine and wince when it goes down strong.

My grandma’s eyebrows couldn’t go much higher on her face, but I notice my mom smiling and giving me the go-ahead to be myself.





I’ve been hanging with Nadine all day. We went to the movies, and on our way to get our nails done, I got a text from Mom that I needed to come home. Now. As soon as I walk into my house, I feel the grief hanging in the air, clinging to the chandelier, touching every doorknob, sitting on every chair. Dorothy, Dad’s in-home hospice nurse, is here. This past week, she’s been here every day.

Hospice.

The first time I heard that word was in a family meeting with Dad’s doctor. The doctor talked with Jason and me about what to expect in the coming months. He said as Dad’s cancer progressed Dad would go to hospice or have a nurse come during the day and help keep him comfortable. Dad was adamant that he wanted to die at home, not in a facility with strangers. I couldn’t handle the conversation. Couldn’t just sit and casually talk about where my dad would die, that my dad would die. I walked out. Stood outside and let New York City’s noise invade my mind. Sirens, dogs barking, honking horns, languages from around the world swirling around me. Sometimes all the hustle in New York is overwhelming, but sometimes it calms me. Gives me something else to focus on other than my own hectic world.

“Where is everyone?” I ask Dorothy.

“Jason is sleeping,” she tells me.

“Sleeping?” It’s only four o’clock in the afternoon.

“He, well, your dad talked with him about what’s happening, and he cried himself to sleep.”

Mom must hear my voice because she comes out of the room and rushes over to me. Her eyes are red and puffy. She looks at me, says, “It’s time to say goodbye, Jasmine. He probably won’t make it through the night. He’s been—”

“Don’t tell me,” I say. “Don’t.”

Mom reaches out to hug me, but I don’t let her. I’m afraid that if anyone touches me right now I will start crying and won’t be able to stop. Ever. I walk to her bedroom, sit on the bed next to Dad, and lay my head on his chest. He tries to hold me, but his weak arms can barely squeeze me. His breathing is loud and slow and sounds like the building up of a tea kettle’s whistle just before it blows, except he never blows out a full breath. His breath struggles to get out, struggles to stay in, like something is playing tug-of-war in his lungs. I listen to his breathing and tell myself, Hold on to this, you will want to remember this one day. I’ve been doing this ever since Dad was diagnosed. I stare at him, trying to remember the way he tilts his head to the side when he’s trying to remember something, the way he rubs his head when he’s frustrated and trying to hold in his anger. I’ve been listening to his laugh. How it is never quiet, never a chuckle, always coming from a deep well of joy. A booming laugh that vibrates a room. I try to remember all of Dad so I can tell my future children about him. They will want to know about their grandpa, and I will want to tell them. I wish he could be on this earth forever, or at least till he’s eighty or ninety, at least till he’s old enough to sneak candy to his grandchildren like my grandpa did to me. Dad will not be here to tease me by telling my kids how I acted when I was their age. He won’t give his grandchildren scavenger hunt challenges, sending them around the city.