She’s quiet for a long time, and when she finally speaks, her voice has that husky, quavering quality that means she’s on the verge of tears. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”
I hear so much hurting in her words that my own eyes sting. It doesn’t entirely make sense to me. If our places were reversed, I don’t think I’d feel the same way. I like taking care of people. I like being needed. But Anna’s pain is real.
I can’t brush it aside just because I don’t understand it. I can’t place judgment on it. Pain is pain.
I know what it’s like to hurt and for others not to understand.
“Can you take a weekend off, then? We can go out and see stuff, or we can stay in. Whatever you want. Just as long as we’re together,” I say. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. I haven’t had Anna to myself in ages.
“I can’t,” she says wistfully. “I can’t leave Priscilla and my mom to take up the slack while I go have a vacation. That would be wrong.”
“You guys are going to have to take breaks every now and then. You can’t keep going like this forever, or you’ll get burned out. I’m worried about you.”
“Thank you,” she says.
I take a frustrated breath. “You don’t need to thank me for worrying about you.”
“I know. But it means a lot to me that you do,” she says. “My cousin Faith, the health guru, might come one of these weekends. She’s really good friends with Priscilla, and the two of them would make a party of it, taking care of my dad and gossiping the whole time. I wouldn’t need to be here. But no one can count on Faith. She’s like the wind. She blows in when she blows in. Anyway, I’m tired of talking about me. How are you? How’s your company? I realized the other day that I don’t know anything about it. Priscilla asked if you sell T-shirts out of your trunk, and I couldn’t tell her yes or no.”
I throw my head back into my pillow as I groan inwardly. “No, I don’t sell T-shirts out of my trunk. Here, this is us.” I text her links to our website and one of our social media pages, and when she makes an impressed oooooh sound, I relax somewhat.
“These clothes are adorable,” she says, and then she gasps. “I want that rainbow dress in adult size. And one of those T. rex–in–a–tutu T-shirts.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but I’m pretty sure the biggest size we have for that rainbow dress is youth large.”
“Darn,” she says, but she laughs, too.
“Michael’s in charge of design, but those T. rex–in–a–tutu shirts were my idea. They sell really well, actually. Turns out little kids just love T. rexes.”
“Of course they do. I love T. rexes. It was such a good idea,” she says. I can hear in her voice that she means it, and I want to reach through the phone and kiss her until she’s dizzy. “Quan, there’s an octopus in a tutu!”
“That’s a new addition,” I say, and I can’t stop myself from grinning up at the dark ceiling.
“It looks like the same kind of octopus as in the documentary . . .”
“Yeah, I made sure it was the same kind. Octopus vulgaris.”
She sighs dreamily like I gifted her chocolates and roses and a trip to the opera, and my heart goes mushy. Those words from before fill my mouth, pushing to get out, wanting to be heard, but I hold them back. I can’t say them yet.
“Looks like my company is getting acquired,” I say. “We’ve started contract negotiations.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asks.
“Good. There won’t be too many changes in how we run things, but they’ll help us reach a scale that we couldn’t on our own. I won’t be losing my job or anything.”
“That’s great. Who’s the acquiring company? Have I heard of them?” she asks.
“I think you’ve heard of them. They’re Louis Vuitton.” Tell that to your sister, I think, but I don’t say it.
“What?” Anna squeals. “Just wait until I
tell Priscilla. My mom’s going to flip out.”
“Well, make sure to tell them it’s not final yet. And I don’t get discounts on their purses and stuff.” My sister almost cried when I told her there’d be no discounts on her favorite designer handbags, but I figure it’s good to be up front and set realistic expectations.
“Okay. I’ll make sure they know it’s not a done deal, and tell them not to hope for purse discounts. But I’m happy for you, and really, congratulations,” she says, her words rich and warm and heartfelt. She’s proud of me, proud that I’m hers, and it makes my heart feel like it’s growing too big for my chest. “Are things really busy as you work on making this happen?”
“Thanks. Yeah, work has been nonstop meetings and phone calls and paperwork, but it’s super exciting. I’ve felt bad, though, because things are going well for me, and you’re . . .”