I walk to the dresser that doubles as our medical supply table and examine the chart where we record my dad’s information throughout the day—how much we fed him, when, what meds he was given, did he have a bowel movement, et cetera. The next entry is supposed to be a feeding. That’s the schedule. That’s the pattern.
It wasn’t my decision to give him the feeding tube. I had reservations. But I didn’t speak up when I had the opportunity. I never speak up. So this is our path now. We’re all trapped, just like he’s trapped.
We have to see this through.
Swiping at my eyes with my sleeve, I prepare a fresh syringe for my dad, and when everything is ready, I connect it to his feeding tube. He’s deep asleep, so this time, he doesn’t stop me.
I slowly depress the syringe, pushing life-sustaining nutrients into his body. I care for him, even knowing that my care prolongs his suffering.
I’m sorry, Daddy.
TWENTY-FIVE
Quan
It’s late, and the only light in my bedroom is the glow cast by my phone’s screen as I talk to Anna. This has become a ritual of sorts, catching up with her at the end of the day right before I go to sleep.
“How was today?”
“Long,” she says, and I can hear just how long from the beaten sound of her voice.
“How’d you like that video I sent of the octopus punching fish?” I ask, hoping to distract her.
“Such an asshole,” she says with a soft chuckle. “I got your message while Julian and his mom were visiting today. They wanted to know why I was laughing, and I didn’t know how to explain.”
An uncomfortable sensation crawls up my spine. “Julian . . . that’s your ex?”
“Yeah, that’s him. His mom is friends with mine.”
“How was seeing him after so long?” I ask carefully. I don’t want to act jealous. I want to be fair and calm and rational. But I wouldn’t mind punching him in the face.
“It wasn’t as awkward as I thought it’d be. We just acted like we’re back together.”
My stomach muscles flex like I’ve been punched in the gut. “Are you?”
“No.” She makes an amused sound. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”
“Does he know that?”
She releases a long sigh. “I guess we haven’t had that talk yet.”
“Anna . . .”
“I know. I need to. It’s just hard. It seemed so clear to me that we were over. I never expected that he’d actually want to continue where we left off after he . . . you know.”
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help asking, “After he fucked half of San Francisco?”
She draws in a sharp breath and says, “Yes,” and I regret it instantly.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s true, though,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to talk to him for a while. But it never seems like the right time. Or else I’m exhausted. Sometimes, it’s all I can do to get out of bed. I accidentally took a two-hour shower yesterday. I didn’t mean to. I just . . . lost track of time. At first, my mom was afraid I fell or something. Then she yelled at me for wasting water.” She laughs, but it’s the saddest-sounding laugh I’ve ever heard.
“Why’s it so hard?” I ask.
“My dad is miserable, Quan,” she whispers.
“But you’re helping him be less miserable, right?”