Oli remained immobile, his face contorted in agony.
What happened? I asked again. I leaned over and kissed the top of my son’s head, which smelled like yeast and wet dog, and not at all of shampoo. He craned back, flashing the most beatific smile, and returned to bashing the remote.
Oli stretched his arms overhead and let out a monstrous groan that startled Henri, who mimicked his papa and giggled at his own joke. I scooped up my son and kissed both his cheeks, and he squirmed out of my embrace.
At last Oli said, I tried to potty train him.
Oh no.
I wanted it to be a surprise.
Oh no.
I didn’t think it’d be that hard. They said one to three days.
A bolt of annoyance shot through me, obliterating my good intentions. It was so typical of my husband to take on challenges no sane person would ever attempt. He was never more energized, more motivated than after being told something simply could not be done. It’s how he completed a double major in physics and biology at Harvard, while rowing on the novice crew team and serving as backup accompanist with the dance department. It’s how he survived surgery residency and fellowship. It’s how he was named a UCSF Rising Star his first year as an attending. And then it came to me: it was also how I might get him to operate on Boss Mak—by framing his new patient as the pinnacle of his career, one that he alone could crest.
I leaned over and sniffed Henri’s diaper. It smelled clean.
Obviously, I gave up, Oli said, flinging the back of his hand over his eyes, as though to hide his shame.
What happened?
He pooped on the carpet.
Oh no. I scanned the beige rug until I spotted the telltale whitish patch of cleaning fluid beside the coffee table. The blue plastic potty seat we’d ordered weeks ago was pushed up against one wall, next to the Everyone Poops book and Elmo doll.
And then he pooped on the bathroom floor, right by the toilet, to make a point.
Henri!
My son regarded me, all eyelashes and pink cheeks, and then resumed his quest to turn on the television.
And I’m not even getting into all the times he peed.
I went to the sofa and squeezed in next to my husband. He rolled onto his side to make room.
I’m so sorry, I said.
He draped his arm across my chest. I cannot remember ever bombing so miserably at anything.
Frustrated with his inability to decipher the remote control, Henri pressed his face to the TV screen and released a shrill whine.
Oli moaned, Turn it on, please, for the love of god.
I put on Thomas the Tank Engine. Henri was immediately quiet, swaying to the beat of the theme song, ignoring my command to not stand so close to the screen.
When I turned around to raise the topic of Boss Mak, Oli was already snoring. Another of my husband’s salient traits is his ability to fall asleep near instantaneously, regardless of whether he’s in a crowded call room or a five-star hotel.
While Henri drooled in front of the television, messages from Winnie streamed in on my phone.
How is the factory setup? How many bags come off the line each day? What new styles are we expecting? How many shoppers do we need to hire?
The only way to slow her down was to answer her questions one by one. If I put her off, it would lead to escalation, and the last thing I wanted was her calling my home phone, or worse, showing up at my door if she was in town. And no, Detective, I didn’t bother telling her about the disturbing scenes I’d witnessed at the factory. By then I knew there was no point; all she’d do was scoff at my naivete, the same way Kaiser Shih had.
I was studying the season’s most important designer look books, debating Winnie over what the biggest hits would be via text message, when in my peripheral vision, I saw Henri trip over his own feet and topple into the TV stand.
Dropping my phone, I lunged at him and checked for blood as he howled in rage.
I know it hurts, but you’re okay. You’re okay, Cookie.
Still prone on the couch, Oli said groggily, You let him watch cartoons for two whole hours? What were you doing this entire time?
All at once, I saw how dense I’d been to think for even a moment that I could keep this work out of my home; I’d already failed. And so I spun around and took out my anger on Oli.
Who asked you to potty train him? Why the hell did you think that would work?
Confused and groggy, Oli contemplated me. I wanted to do something nice for you.
Henri howled louder to get our attention.
You weren’t helping, I said. You were showing off.
Oli sat up on his elbows. What are you talking about?
Next time you want to help, come home from work at a decent hour and put your son to bed.
He recoiled as though he’d been slapped. I waited for him to fight back—after all, he’d spent the whole weekend with Henri on his own. Instead, he bent over and scooped up his son.
Viens, mon petit, he mumbled into Henri’s hair, t’inquiète.
Together they left the room, leaving me to confront my own ugliness and despair.
Later, Oli and I moved around the bedroom like a couple of roommates who’d only recently met.
Excuse me, he said, reaching across me for his toothbrush.
Do you mind? I asked when I pulled more of the comforter onto my side.
We lay as far apart from each other as possible on the king-size bed. He turned off the bedside lamp, and I knew that despite our residual resentment, there was a good chance he’d fall asleep at once. I could no longer put this off. I had to ask him about the transplant.
Okay, I’m sorry I snapped, I said, aware of how much apologizing I’d been doing lately.
He responded with a grunt.
Thank you for taking care of him while I was gone. You’re a good dad. And even though I meant every word, I felt manipulative, cheap.
He turned to face me. In the dark I could make out his strong, symmetrical eyebrows, his straight high nose.
All right, he said. Apology accepted.
I scooted closer to him, planting my head on the broad plane of his chest. Have you made a decision about Boss Mak?
Actually, yes—after reviewing his test results and scans, I can’t recommend him to the committee.
I launched myself upright using Oli’s chest as a springboard. He yelped in pain. I hadn’t expected such a definitive answer.
I think you should reconsider, I said.
He sat up too. The man has every comorbidity in the book—high blood pressure, prediabetes, heart disease. He’s a terrible candidate. An unrepentant alcoholic. And he’s old.
He’s not that old, I said. He’s the same age as my mom.
Seventy is old.
My head was a tangled skein of emotions. You need to understand, Detective, first and foremost, I had to appease Boss Mak. But at the same time, a part of me genuinely empathized with him. For wasn’t he a father and a husband and a beloved boss? Didn’t he have people who depended on him, just like me, or my mom, whom I hadn’t had the chance to save?
He’ll stop drinking, I said, though I knew it seemed far-fetched. And he’s offered that huge donation.
Oli said, I’ve told you this before. We don’t have enough livers as it is. The vast majority of patients die waiting in line. I can’t in good conscience give a liver to some rich foreigner.
I pointed out that one liver wouldn’t alter supply in a substantial way, and, furthermore, Boss Mak’s donation would be instrumental in providing services for patients who couldn’t afford to pay for them.
He snapped on the lamp and squinted at me. Why do you care so much? You barely know this man.
I forced myself to hold Oli’s gaze. He wants to be treated by the best, and that’s you. He’ll have Development earmark that five-hundred-grand donation solely for your use. You can finally expand the free-housing program like you’ve always wanted.