Priscilla and my mom grow frantic with worry. Because modern medicine isn’t helping, they have an acupuncturist come to the house and treat him. They push herbal remedies into his feeding tube, put CBD oil under his tongue. They even pay a naturopathic doctor to give him vitamin C intravenously. It’s obscenely expensive, but it doesn’t work. Nothing works.
If anything, his moaning gets more vigorous.
I want to tell them to stop, that he’s moaning because he doesn’t want to live this way, and all their ministrations are torturing him. But I don’t. I know it won’t do any good. I’m not here to talk. I’m here to watch over my dad, to make sure he’s never alone in his room, to see to his needs.
The sound of his moans gets to me, though, the constant reminder of why he’s moaning, and it’s not like I can put headphones on and ignore him. If he coughs or chokes, I need to know. I have no choice but to endure it. When my shift is over each day, I sit in the kitchen, close enough that I can hear if Priscilla needs my help, but far enough that his moans are muted.
It’s not a true break. I know I’ll be called upon at any moment, but at least I’m not directly absorbing his emotional pain into myself. Also, it doesn’t smell like soiled diapers and Salonpas pain-relieving patches here.
I’m catching up on the hundreds of unread text messages on my phone—Rose performed on live Canadian TV and just signed a contract with Sony, the twelve-year-old prodigy is going to be in a Netflix movie, Suzie’s violin cover of a popular rap song was chosen as the theme song for a new medical drama （ironic because she hates both rap music and medical dramas）， Quan spoke with the head of acquisitions at LVMH and it was “rad,” Jennifer is checking up on me, saying she’s worried about me—when my cousin Faith walks into the kitchen with a duffel bag and a rolled-up yoga mat in her arms. Her hair is frazzled like it always is, and she’s wearing her regular uniform of leggings and a baggy shirt over a fancy workout bra that crisscrosses in the back like a spiderweb, the kind that I can’t wear because I get lost in the straps.
“Hey, Anna,” she says, smiling at me in her sweet way. She likes everyone, genuinely cares about everyone. “How are you? How’s your mom? Where’s Priscilla?”
“Is that Faith?” Priscilla calls out from the other side of the house.
Instead of answering with words—I’m literally too tired to speak—I push a smile onto my lips and point toward my dad’s room.
Faith has only taken a few steps when Priscilla barrels into the room and gives her a big hug, saying, “You’re here. I can’t believe you didn’t even text me ahead of time.”
“My schedule opened up, so I drove here straight from Sacramento. You’re looking good, Prissy,” Faith says as they separate, using Priscilla’s nickname that I hate. I’m not sure if it’s because of the negative meaning of the word or the fact that I’m not allowed to use it.
“No, I’m not looking good, but I love you for lying. I’ve gained five pounds since I’ve been here. There’s nothing to do but watch Dad and eat, and her booty call gave us tons of food.” Priscilla waves toward me with that last part, and it takes me a few seconds before I understand she means Quan.
I shake my head, trying to remember how to form words so I can correct her, but it takes me too long.
“Your booty call, Anna?” Faith asks in shock. “What about that super cute boyfriend you had?”
“They’re in an ‘open relationship,’ ” Priscilla answers for me, putting finger quotes around the words open relationship.
Faith’s mouth hangs open.
“You should see the new guy.” Priscilla waggles her eyebrows sug gestively. “He’s covered in tattoos. Our mom thinks he’s a drug dealer.”
Faith’s surprised expression gradually transforms into a sly grin. “Good for you, Anna.”
That irks me enough that I finally find my voice to say, “He’s not a drug dealer. He’s in the apparel business.”
“He sells T-shirts out of his trunk,” Priscilla says in a mock whisper.
“He doesn’t,” I say, irritated that she discounted Quan so easily—even though I did the same thing in the beginning. “His company is called MLA, and they’re getting purchased by Louis Vuitton.”
“Seriously?” Priscilla asks. In the next instant, she’s pulling out her phone, typing “MLA clothing” into her search engine, and scrolling through the website. “This is him?”