Write this down, said Earl, the man who was sick, to his wife. The kids each have a college account with Janus Henderson. He spelled Janus Henderson out for her, enunciating each letter. To log in to those accounts, they’ll first send my phone a code. You enter that code and then answer the questions. He gave her the answers to those questions and the passwords to input right after.
Earl, the wife said, I’m not writing anything down, I refuse. Come on, talk to me about something else.
You write it down. Or you call this number—he recited the number digit by digit—they have advisors. You call that number and someone will help you.
The wife stared blankly at the screen but wasn’t writing anything down. As I was setting the iPad up for the call, testing the video and audio, Earl had told me that this was just a precaution, this was just him preparing for the worst because he was the pessimist in the family, his wife the optimist. You’ll see, he had said.
Earl was now agitated and trying to move his arms from under the thicket of tubes. For the love of God, get over yourself and pick up a pen. I’m trying to tell you something. I just want you to know what to do.
The wife continued to say nothing, but her eyes were shiny, her mouth a flat line.
I said if it was all the same to them, I could write some of this down. I had good recall and legibility.
Someone write something down, Earl said. He didn’t care who.
I found a pen, paper. I had the nurse hold the iPad.
More account names and portfolios. The passwords were mostly numbers, and I knew Earl’s birthday, his height and weight, his vitals, but these numbers weren’t that. They were the birthdays of his wife and kids, followed by their initials and then a bunch of exclamation marks. Earl advised not doing much with one account but selling some in another. The wife nodded and had covered her mouth with her hand. The last account was for their retirement.
We have an advisor there, Earl said. His name is—now don’t laugh, I know you’re about to laugh. Please don’t. I’m tired, I have a tube up my nose. But his name is Earl, an utter coincidence. Don’t run off with him after I’m gone.
The wife did laugh. It was a laugh and then a cry. She said she didn’t think she could do any of this without him. He said that she could.
* * *
—
DURING MY WALK BACK from the hospital that day, I was, surprisingly, less tense. I told Earl that I would be there tomorrow, and he said he would see me tomorrow, though he wasn’t a morning person, so if by chance he was asleep or whatnot, he wished to not be disturbed. Lots could happen in the “whatnot” and what would happen to Earl I couldn’t predict. That I couldn’t predict many things, at times not even my own thoughts, still unsettled me. That I had to stay on guard and protect myself from both the tangible and intangible tired me to my core. But for a moment some of this unease receded, and with no one else around me, I slowed my pace, unclenched my jaw. I shook out my hands, my father’s hands, that had been stuffed into my coat pockets and looked around.
The street I was on had a grocery store, a pharmacy, and a convenience store that had remained open after the closure of nonessential business. Along with new guidelines on how to stay safe, there were still posters in its windows for produce, sales, and, on the outside of the convenience store, ads for the state lottery. play now! buy a ticket and try your luck.
Lotteries were unwinnable in real life but never in movies. There’s that children’s movie about a chocolate factory and the search for five golden tickets, tucked away in chocolate bars. So, if the airlines failed to provide my mother with a ticket, we could always look for one like that. My mother with her golden ticket, waving it around to celebrate that finally she could go home. But in real life, no win is ever unconditional. Once she left, I would be here again without a mother, and while I’d managed before and would again, I was more aware now of the exchange.
I hadn’t seen my father die. I had heard and read the report, the death certificate. I had seen, held, the box of ashes. The two Chinese characters of my name were carved into the stone of his tomb, next to my brother’s and under my mother’s. But it was also possible that he could be anywhere and that he could still surprise me with when he would turn up.
The convenience store I’d just passed was empty except for a dark-haired man behind the counter, face half wrapped in a bandanna, wiping his counters down with a terrycloth. Here was an essential business, as it had always been, and I stopped for a moment in front of the glass.