Priscilla glances up from our dad’s feet, arching her eyebrows at me. “You mean he sells T-shirts out of his trunk?”

“I don’t know, actually. He doesn’t talk about his work very much.” I try to sound matter-of-fact about it, but I’m squirming inside. Selling T-shirts from a trunk is a very far drop from investment banking for Goldman Sachs.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know what you guys spend your time doing, and it’s not talking about work,” Priscilla says with a smirk.

“We still haven’t done that,” I reply, perversely happy that my sexual hang-ups—and Quan’s—led to me getting one over on my sister. I squirt shampoo into my hand and carefully work it into our dad’s hair.

“And what did I see in the kitchen?” our mom asks indignantly.

“Skank,” Priscilla says, but she looks envious. “I hope I don’t need to remind you that what you two are doing is just for fun. Don’t go getting attached.”

It’s too late for that, but I keep that to myself.

“Just for fun.” Our mom shakes her head, looking like she can barely understand the concept.

“Oh, come on, Ma,” Priscilla says. “You never dated before Ba?”

Our mom gives a tired sigh. “No, Ba was my first and only.” She reaches past me and touches our dad’s hand, a soft remembering smile on her face, before she focuses on me. “I thought Julian would be your first and only, Anna.”

“I thought so, too, but …” I shrug because I honestly don’t care anymore. I soak a towel in warm water, ring it out, and then use it to get the soap out of our dad’s hair. He likes this, I think. His facial muscles are relaxed, and his breathing is slow and calm. Bath time is the only time he looks this way.

“Are you guys still talking at all?” Priscilla asks.

“He’s been texting recently.” The reminder has my mouth flattening. I have a bunch of texts from him to reply to, but I’ve been putting it off because it’s so exhausting.

“Anna, that’s a good sign,” Priscilla says. “He might be getting ready to settle down.”

That thought had crossed my mind, but unlike Priscilla, it doesn’t make me happy. If Julian is back in the picture, I’ll have to tell someone no, and that is really hard for me.

“Though maybe …” Priscilla looks at me in a considering way. “Maybe you’re not ready to settle down yet.”

Our mom makes this horrified sound, like demons are chasing her. “She’s ready. She’s had enough fun.”

Priscilla doubles over and laughs like our mom’s reaction is hilarious.

“You kids these days. Fun.” Our mom shakes her head like her dignity’s been wounded, and that makes Priscilla laugh harder.

“It’s only fair. If he’s seeing people, I can, too,” I say in my defense, but I feel like I’m being dishonest somehow. That was what Quan was to me in the beginning—an adventure, revenge, a means to an end—but he’s more now.

Our mom’s jaw stiffens, but she nods. “His mom is visiting soon. I’m going to have a talk with her.”

“Ma, no, you don’t need to do that,” I say.

“I agree, Ma. Don’t do it,” Priscilla adds.

Our mom waves our words away. “I know how to say things.”

“Not always,” Priscilla says, holding our mom accountable in a way I could never get away with. “That reminds me, Ba’s birthday is coming up. We should throw him a party. We could put him in his chair and have everyone over. I think he’d like that.” She smiles down at our dad and pets his shin as she speaks to him like he’s a baby: “Wouldn’t you, Ba?”

Our mom nods in approval. “Anna could play his song.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from commenting on how both of them volunteered me for the night’s entertainment without bothering to ask me first. My compliance is and has always been a foregone conclusion with them.

In these modern times, people are told that they have the right to say no anytime they want, for whatever reason they wish. We can let nos rain from our lips like confetti.

But when it comes to my family, that word is not mine. I’m female. I’m youngest. I’m unremarkable. My opinion, my voice, has little to no value, and because of that, my place is to listen. My place is to respect.

I say yes.

And I look happy when I do it. Service with a smile.

“I’ll start organizing it, then,” Priscilla says.

As we finish our dad’s bath, carefully turning him to his side so we can wash his back and change his diaper, she rambles on about who she’ll invite and what we’ll eat, how much fun it’ll be for everyone. Except for me. She knows parties are challenging for me, though clearly she’s not interested in why, and fully expects me to attend and be at my absolute best anyway. I’m not allowed to protest or complain or have an “attitude.” That’s unacceptable.

For the rest of the night, I don’t speak. I keep my anger and frustration and hurt inside where it belongs.

No one notices. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

TWENTY-FOUR

Anna

THE FOLLOWING DAYS PASS IN A SLOW CRAWL, AND YET, WHEN I look back, I’m amazed that an entire week has passed. Time seems to flow at a different speed here. The leathery pads on the tips of my fingers on my left hand have begun to wear away because it’s been so long since I’ve practiced. Quan brought me my violin, but it’s remained in its case, untouched, as I’ve focused on caring for my dad.

That’s all we do here. Our lives revolve around the intricate schedule Priscilla created to ensure he’s getting the best care possible. We rotate him every two hours so he doesn’t get bedsores, surrounding him with pillows and heating pads and rolled-up towels to prop up various limbs. We massage his hands and feet obsessively to prevent painful contracture. We change his diapers immediately so he doesn’t get a rash. We’ve split his meals into nearly a dozen mini-feedings because his throat muscles don’t work correctly and he coughs his food up if he’s given too much at a time. We give him many, many medications. We tried to give him physical therapy, but he just moaned and slept through the exercises so we don’t do that anymore.

Priscilla likes to stretch out on the bed right next to him and show him pictures on her phone. Most of the time, he doesn’t pay attention. On occasion, however, he moans in a meaningful way, and we’re reminded that he’s really here. He’s not a body without a soul. Our work isn’t for nothing.

This morning, it’s just me and my dad, and that’s a little unusual. Technically, we’re all responsible for one shift: my mom has the night shift, from midnight to 8:00 A.M., I have the day, from 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M., and Priscilla has the evening, from 4:00 P.M. to midnight. But this is where everyone congregates. Also, it’s difficult to move him without help, and we must come running if we’re needed. Well, I have to come running. I never call for anyone’s help when I’m caring for him on my own. I don’t feel like I have that privilege.

It’s 11:00 A.M., one of his feeding times, so after changing his diaper, rotating him to his other side, and cranking the top half of his bed up so he’s relatively upright, I exchange my soiled latex gloves for clean ones, lift his feeding tube away from his tummy where we keep it tucked out of the way, and set it on top of a white towel. Then I fill a large plastic syringe with liquid food from a can. It’s thick and brown and has an unpleasant smell—I tasted it once, and it’s decidedly nasty—but it contains all the calories and nutrition that he needs. It’s keeping him alive.