I look up at my mom, at a complete loss.
Shaking with quiet sobs, she buries her face in her hands. In a tormented whisper, she says, “I told him to take a nap. I thought he’d feel better tomorrow.”
A doctor enters the room, a tall woman with the regular white lab coat, long braids pulled back in a thick ponytail, and red glasses. In a low voice, she says, “I just wanted to check up on him before my shift ends.” She acknowledges my mom with a compassionate nod. “Mrs. Sun.” To me, she says, “I’m Dr. Robinson,” and shakes my hand in a firm grip.
“I’m Anna, his daughter,” I manage to reply. I realize I forgot to smile, and I do it belatedly, though my lips feel like plastic.
As she examines my dad, scrutinizing his vitals, making sure the IV and medications look right, she explains, “As I already told your mom …”
I feel like I step outside myself as she goes into detail regarding my dad’s condition. I hear her talking. I hear myself asking questions from a distance, like it’s someone else. I see her, my dad, my mom. I feel like I see myself, too, that clueless, ineffectual woman, even though it’s impossible. Quan is somewhere on the other side of the blue curtain. Dr. Robinson uses medical terminology that I’m not familiar with, but I come to understand that my dad suffered significant brain damage because he didn’t receive medical treatment soon enough after his stroke. The doctor doesn’t recommend surgery because of my dad’s age, and there’s little they can do anyway. He might not make it through the week. If he does, half of his body is paralyzed. His cognitive ability may be impaired. With the proper therapies, he might someday be able to talk, sit up on his own, and eat solids.
Does he have an advance directive?
My mom tells her no.
When the doctor leaves, a heavy silence descends upon us. I’m so overwhelmed I don’t know what to think or do. I think my mom feels the same. She must be waiting for Priscilla to come and take charge. We just have to wait until morning.
Fifteen minutes pass while we sit there, wooden and speechless, and finally I say, “Ma, you look tired. You should go home and get some rest.”
“I can’t. What if he …” Her face crumples, and she doesn’t finish her sentence.
“I’ll stay. If something happens, I’ll call you right away. You need to take it easy. You’ll get sick otherwise.” Adrenaline is running through my body, giving me energy that my mom has clearly run out of.
She thinks it over a moment, and I can see that she’s torn. She wants to stay, but today must have been horrible. She doesn’t look like she can take much more, let alone handle an all-nighter.
“Please, Ma. Home isn’t far from here. If you come right when I call, it shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get here.”
She finally nods and gets slowly to her feet. “Okay, this way I can clean the mess at home. People will come to visit, and they need somewhere to stay.”
As she loops her Louis Vuitton purse over her arm, Quan steps around the curtain, and she physically recoils at the sight of him.
“I can drive you home if you need. I’m Quan, Anna’s … friend. Nice to meet you.” He holds his hand out to shake my mom’s, smiling in his disarming way.
It doesn’t work on her like it does on me. She just stares at him with unnaturally wide eyes, like she’s being held up at gunpoint. I know what she’s seeing—his tattoos, his buzzed head, his motorcycle jacket. I know what she’s thinking. And I start sweating uncontrollably.
“Your friend?” she asks me in a stunned voice.
“Yes,” I say. I’m so anxious it feels like cold needles are pricking my lips. “D-do you want a ride? Quan drove me here.”
“No, thank you,” she says with extreme politeness and the world’s fakest smile. “I drove here. I’ll drive home. Good night.” She hurries past Quan, giving me a horrified look over her shoulder, and leaves.
Quan watches her go with an unreadable expression on his face and then looks downward. He seems so alone, so sad, like a dog who’s tied to a tree outside his owner’s house, and I feel awful.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I desperately want to take away the cold reception my mom gave him. He didn’t deserve that, not at all. “I should have—”
“Hey,” he whispers, hugging me and kissing my forehead. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal.”