HEAL YOU | JENLISA

TWENTY-THREE

JENNIE

* * *

AS PRISCILLA SCRUBS OUR DAD’S FEET WITH A SOAPY WASH cloth, I shave the shady-looking mustache and beard from his face with an electric razor. I’m not good at this. I keep worrying he’ll breathe in his shavings, so I wipe his mouth repeatedly. I can tell he doesn’t like it. He keeps grimacing and trying to turn away from me, and it feels like I’m torturing him.

“Are you sure we need to do this?” I ask.

“Yes,” Priscilla says in the brusque, annoyed tone that she often uses with me. “Stop being a baby and get it done. He hates it because you take too long.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” I whisper as I shave the last bit of hair from his upper lip and then wipe it away.

Our mom enters the room, her favorite cup in hand, steam rising from the hot tea, and sits on the sofa close to our dad’s bed.

“What happened to Jihyong?” she asks.

Before I can answer, Priscilla does—in Korean, so I have no idea what she’s saying. Judging by our mom’s face as she absorbs the information and the tone of her voice as she replies, she doesn’t like what she heard.

“It’s an open relationship, Ma. People are doing it these days,” Priscilla says, switching to English for my benefit.

“Jihyong wanted this? An … open relationship?” our mom asks in disbelief.

I nod and quietly finish shaving our dad’s chin.

“And what does this Lisa do for work?” she asks.

“She started an apparel company with her cousin.”

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

“I don’t know, actually. She doesn’t talk about her 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 Lisa’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 Pa?”

Our mom gives a tired sigh. “No, Pa 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 Jihyong would be your first and only, Jennie.”

“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.

“Jennie, 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 Jihyong 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 Lisa was to me in the beginning—an adventure, revenge, a means to an end—but she’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, Pa’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, Pa?”

Our mom nods in approval. “Jennie 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.