I put a smile on without thinking. “Yeah.” That might be the truth, so it’s not quite a lie. It feels like one, though, and I correct myself, saying, “Maybe. I don’t know.”
He considers me for a moment before saying, “I’m worried this isn’t good for you. Is there any way you guys can get help? You’re clearly not hurting for money, so—”
“It has to be me. It has to be family,” I say firmly.
“I mean, yeah. I get it. But you’re not doing well. Anna, I think you were only awake for eight hours the entire weekend.”
Wincing, I say, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t a cool thing for me to do when we were supposed to be spending time together.”
He releases a frustrated sigh. “I’m not complaining. I’m worried.”
I slump back in my seat and stare out the window at the house. “There’s nothing we can do about it. It’s hard for everyone, and I need to tough it out just like everybody else.”
He begins to reply, but the time on the clock changes to 8:00 a.m. Gathering my things from the floor by my feet, I say, “I have to go. Text me when you get to work?”
“Yeah, I’ll text you,” he says in a resigned voice.
I lean across the center console and kiss him on the cheek. I should make it fast and run into the house, but I linger. I press my forehead against his temple for a moment. “I’m going to miss you.”
Somehow, I find the motivation to pull away, leave the car, and cross the dew-moistened lawn. With one last wave at him, I let myself into the house.
As I shut the front door, the weight of this place descends on my shoulders. There’s sunlight pouring in through the many windows, but it feels dark. I take my shoes off and walk down the cold marble hallway toward the kitchen, where I toss my things on one of the island stools before heading to my dad’s room.
The smell reaches my nose before I’ve even reached the door, and I cough to clear my sinuses. It doesn’t help. As soon as I take another breath, the scent coats my nasal passage and throat. When I walk inside the room, my mom’s back is to me as she busily changes my dad’s diaper. He’s on his side with his back to me, too—and other parts of him that I never imagined I’d see when I was younger.
“Hi, Ma, Ba,” I say, bright and chipper like I’m overjoyed to be here, like I’ve been taught.
“Come help me turn him,” my mom says instead of hello.
I head to the other side of the bed and smile when I see my dad’s eyes are open. He’s not moaning. That has to be a good sign. I lightly touch his arm. “Hi, Daddy.”
His body sways as my mom wipes him down on the other side, and he squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces. He’s not in physical pain. My mom is efficient, but she’s gentle. But I understand what’s going on.
He hates this.
And so it resumes. I help change his diaper even though I know the process brings him shame. When we’re done, my mom leaves, and I feed him even though I know he doesn’t want to eat. I realize we’re the same, the two of us. Neither of us can speak. Our lives are both dictated by other people.
* * *
—
The next week, Priscilla announces that she has to fly back to New York City for two weeks. She leaves a day later.
Then it’s just me and my mom.
And my dad, of course.
All of us are trapped in this enormous echoing house. We’re together, but each of us is painfully alone.
The days grow impossibly long and gray, and I settle into a sort of numbness as I go through the motions. Gradually, the mistakes start happening.
My musician’s hands, usually steady, begin to drop things. A syringe full of liquid food. A pail of warm water during bath time. A jar of moisturizing cream. My spatial awareness decreases abysmally, and my body starts to look like a bruised peach as I run into more and more things. My ability to focus disappears. I forget things. I zone out midsentence. I walk straight into closed doors.
Caring for my dad becomes even more stressful as I worry that I’m either forgetting to give him his meds or accidentally giving him twice the proper dose. I make a point of writing everything down, but what if I wrote something down and then forgot to actually do it? I arrange the syringes and measuring cups at the beginning of the day in such a way that I can tell if I’ve given a feeding or dose of meds. My mom hates it because it looks cluttered, but she tolerates it for me.
Text messages and phone calls from Quan make my days bearable. Photos of Rose’s cat help, too. She’s recently given it a horrible haircut that makes it look like a stegosaurus, and its hate-filled stares photograph well. She and Suzie check in on me from time to time, asking how I am. They care about me and offer kind platitudes like Awww, so sad to hear things are so tough or I wish there was something I could do to help, but I know they don’t understand what I’m going through. No one does, not even Quan or my mom or Priscilla.
This is difficult for me because of a failing unique to myself, and yes, I believe it’s a failing. I want to be the kind of person who finds meaning in caring for those who need it. That kind of person is good. They are heroes who have all my respect.