But if I said those things, I’d be lying.
Once the funeral is over, an intangible thread breaks in my mind, and I mentally collapse. I’ve learned since then that this is called autistic burnout. I can’t remember the weeks immediately following the funeral at all. It’s like I never lived them. The earliest post-funeral days that I can recall are from months later, and they involve me staring blankly into space or watching the same documentaries over and over while basically fusing my body to my couch. I don’t do anything productive. I can’t reason my way through any semi-complicated tasks, like getting the mail or paying bills or even checking my bank account balance online. I only manage not to get kicked out of my apartment through the miracle of autopay. Emotionally, I’m highly unstable. I switch between intense melancholy, rage （at Priscilla）， and then exhaustion from the aforementioned melancholy and rage. I cry … a lot.
Rose and Suzie message me, but I rarely answer. I don’t have the energy. It matters to me that they care about me. I appreciate them. But I have to go through this alone and find my way back to them later.
Similarly, Jennifer checks up on me, but I don’t have energy to answer her either. Therapy can’t help me when I’m like this.
FORTY
Quan
AFTER A FEW MONTHS, I MOVE IN WITH ANNA. I’VE BASICALLY been living there anyway, so it doesn’t make sense to keep a place of my own. Because I can and want to, I take over the rent. She covers the utilities. It works out for both of us.
She’s not well, I can tell, but we’re slowly getting through this. I think I see her recovering bit by bit. When I come home after work, she’s always happy to see me. She asks me about my day and listens as I tell her goofy stuff that no one else cares about, like the seagull I saw during my lunch-hour run who stole a dude’s lunch right out of his hands or the mourning dove who tries to sit on her babies in the nest right outside my office window even though they’re almost as big as she is.
I check up on Anna every day while I’m gone, sending her text messages filled with hearts or funny memes with octopuses and other creatures. When we’re together, I hold and cuddle her a lot, because I sense she needs to feel loved. We don’t have a lot of sex, though. It’s kind of hard to have sexy thoughts when your girlfriend can barely keep her eyes open past eight P.M. and regularly wakes up in the middle of the night crying. I just take care of that kind of stuff in the shower. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t prefer jerking off in the shower to having sex with the woman I love, but I’m happy to wait until she’s ready.
FORTY-ONE
Anna
IT TAKES ME A LONG TIME TO GET TO THE POINT WHERE I FEEL mentally strong enough to practice music. Months and months. But then I obsess over getting a new violin. I won’t touch Priscilla’s old instrument. I’d rather do any number of horrible things to myself.
Naturally, this is when my mom decides to drop by my apartment. I’m stunned when I hear her voice through the intercom one afternoon. “Anna, it’s me.”
I’m even more stunned when I buzz her in, and moments later, I open my door and see her standing there in white slacks, a cream-colored silk blouse, and an Hermès scarf artfully wrapped around her neck. She looks casual but stylish, but she’s aged since my dad passed away. The new lines by her eyes make me sad. Priscilla must have returned to New York by now. That means she’s been living in that giant house all by herself. She must be lonely.
“Hi, Ma. Uh, come in. Sorry it’s so messy.” If I’d known she was coming, I would have straightened things up more. As it is, I only had time to sweep my dirty dishes off the coffee table and stick them in the sink and haphazardly straighten the pillows and blankets on my couch. My bed’s not made. The laundry is overflowing. My bathroom is a disaster. I pray for her not to go into my kitchen.
She perches herself gingerly on my armchair and looks around, spending extra time on the pair of men’s running shoes in the corner next to an open duffel bag stuffed with clean workout clothes. There’s a small pile of business management books on the end table next to her, and she scans the titles with interest. “Your Quan moved in with you?”
I sit on the couch and look down at my knees. “Yeah.”
“You’re happy with him?” she asks, and the way she says it, I feel like she honestly wants to know.
I can’t help the soft smile that curves over my lips. “Yeah.” Without him, I’m not sure I’d be holding it together right now. As it is, I miss him the entire time he’s gone for work. When he messages me during the day, it makes me nauseatingly happy.