That’s part of why I’m so exhausted, I realize. I’ve been masking nonstop for months, for my dad, but also for my mom and Priscilla. I don’t usually notice because I see them for a few hours, a day or two max, and then I get to leave and recover.
It’s like pricking yourself with a needle. Do it once, and you’re okay. You can ignore that it even happened. Prick yourself repeatedly without giving yourself time to heal, and soon you’re injured and bleeding.
That’s me. I’m injured and bleeding. But no one can see. Because it’s inside where I hurt.
Be that as it may, is it fair to recognize my own pain in the face of my dad’s suffering? Self-loathing washes over me, and I ridicule myself, here in the privacy of my mind. It doesn’t make me feel better. It’s not supposed to.
We finish the noodles and clean up, and then I curl up with Quan on the couch. He browses through the documentaries for something I haven’t seen, but it turns out I’ve watched them all. If it’s narrated by David Attenborough, I’ve watched it at least five times. In the end, we find ourselves sifting through B-rated (or below) science fiction films.
As I’m reading the descriptions for Llamageddon and Sand Sharks out loud, and laughing with a mixture of awe and horror, Quan gets his phone out and takes selfies of us.
“I realized I don’t have any pictures of us together,” he says.
“We haven’t taken any before now,” I say, surprised that it took us so long.
He smiles at me, and there’s warmth an
d understanding there. “We were too busy.” He flips through the pictures until he comes to a horrible one where I look like I’m snorting. “Now, this one has phone wallpaper potential.”
“Absolutely not.” I snatch the phone from him and quickly delete the picture, even going so far as to delete it from his deleted pictures folder so it’s truly gone forever.
“Oh, come on,” he protests even while he laughs.
I snap a picture as I kiss his cheek, and there it is. The best of the bunch. His smile is wide, completely unselfconscious, and contentment radiates from him. As for me, there’s something soft in my eyes as I kiss him, something that I can’t put a name to. It’s something good, though. Best of all, my ugly bathrobe isn’t visible in the photo. I send the picture to myself, and then I nosily thumb through the pictures in his photo library.
“That’s Michael,” he says when I get to a picture of him and another guy. This must have been taken after kendo practice because they’re both in matching sweaty black uniforms and gear. Quan’s got his arm thrown over the other guy’s shoulder, and their heads are wrapped in white bandanas, their helmets tucked under their arms.
“Michael . . . as in Michael Larsen, the ML of MLA?” I ask.
Quan grins. “That’s him.”
The next picture shows Quan surrounded by a pack of little kids in full kendo armor. The next is a snapshot of two little kids as they spar. Another sparring photo of kids. Another. Another. Little kids in kendo uniforms, grinning. A selfie of Quan and a little boy who’s missing one of his front teeth. Another selfie with another little kid in glasses. Quan and kids in T. rex T-shirts in front of the kendo studio. Quan getting hog-piled. Quan with kids crawling all over him. He’s trying to look aggrieved, but he’s smiling too hard for it to be believable.
“You like kids,” I observe.
His expression immediately grows serious, but he nods. “I do.” After the briefest hesitation, he asks, “Do you?”
I shrug. “They’re okay. I’m not good with them like you clearly are.” I flip through more pictures, and I find one of kids striking poses in trendy MLA outfits that include T. rex shirts, plaid skirts and shorts, and newsboy hats for everyone. “Was this for a company photoshoot?”
“Yeah, I had my kendo kids model for us. It was so much fun,” Quan says, and he smiles at the picture like a proud parent.
“That’s not the kind of thing that I’d generally think of as ‘fun,’?” I say with a laugh. “Isn’t it like herding cats, getting kids to listen to you?”
“Nah, I mean, I don’t bark orders at them and expect them to obey. We were just goofing around together, and the photographer snuck in some shots.”
“You’re going to be a good dad someday,” I say with absolute certainty.
I expect him to laugh or be modest about it or say something like I hope so. Instead, he stiffens, and he’s distant from me even before he gets off the couch and walks over to the balcony. I can’t fathom why he looks so lost as he stares down at the street below.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I approach him slowly, my heart skipping with unease.
He tucks his hands into his pockets and hangs his head. For the longest time, he says nothing, and I can hardly breathe as I wait. It has to be me, what I said. It’s always me. And like always, I don’t understand why.
Without lifting his head, he asks, “Do you want kids someday?” His voice is oddly gruff, vulnerable, and it sends shivers over my skin.
“I honestly don’t know. I haven’t thought about it a lot,” I reply.
He takes a long inhalation, exhales. “I can’t. Have kids, I mean.”