Oli looked up at the ceiling and seemed to consider my arguments. I reminded him that, yes, Boss Mak could easily find another hospital to take his money, but what would they invest it in? Cutting-edge research that would benefit only the tiny percentage who received transplants? Another overpaid endowed chair? Fancy artwork and light fixtures?
He shook his head, exasperated. The stuff that does the most good—housing assistance, nutrition assistance—is always the least sexy and therefore the least funded.
Exactly! I said.
All right, he said. I’ll think about it. I’ll see what I can do.
He turned out the light and pulled me into his arms. In the dark I clung to him, riding the ebb and flow of his breath. Within seconds he was fast asleep.
Was I surprised by Oli’s willingness to skirt medical guidelines? First off, Detective, I’m not sure that’s how I’d characterize his actions. These judgments about whom to treat are complicated and nuanced. I’m no expert, so I can’t give you details about how Oli and the committee eventually decided to accept Boss Mak as a patient. You’ve spoken to Oli—didn’t you ask him yourself? Oh, right, of course, medical confidentiality. Then, I suppose, we’ll never know for sure.
Besides, why does any of this matter when the transplant’s never going to happen? Ah, I see, you still suspect Oli knows more than he claims. But I can assure you he told you the truth. How could he have known about Boss Mak’s criminal activities when he knew nothing about his own wife’s? Yes, I do mean absolutely nothing. As you’ve already observed, my marriage around this time was, well, strained. When Oli and I weren’t fretting over Henri, we essentially led separate lives. Quite frankly, it’s a miracle we’re still together, and I thank the universe for that every day.
Listen, my husband is highly ethical, the most moral person I know after my mom. But he’s no mindless follower of the rules. It would be a mistake to conflate the two. It takes courage and creativity to live a principled life.
You know that ethical dilemma about the trolley barreling down the railway tracks? No? Okay, so there’s a runaway trolley heading straight for five people, who are tied up and unable to move, and you’re standing some distance away in the train yard, next to a lever that can divert the trolley to another set of tracks, but then you notice there’s a single person on those other tracks. What do you do?
You probably won’t be surprised to know that most people would do nothing—that is, they’d let the trolley kill those five people—and then tell themselves, later, that the situation was out of their control. Only the truly brave and good take action and divert the trolley. They kill one to save four. That’s Oli. He never opts for the easy way out. He chooses action. He takes a stand.
One last thing: I don’t know if you’ve been informed that Oli was just promoted to chief of surgery. We received the news last week. Why would Stanford promote someone they didn’t trust or believe in one hundred percent? Clearly, they agree Oli had zero knowledge of Boss Mak’s background. Hopefully, in this new role, he’ll be able to direct more funding to the free-housing program, even without Boss Mak’s donation. What more can I say? He’s a good man. We’re all so desperately proud of him.
15
It’s true, Detective, about a month after my trip to Dongguan, I flew to Boston, with Henri in tow, to see my dad. I already know your next question, and the answer is no, absolutely not. I did not mention one word about what I’d gotten myself into with Winnie—not to my dad, nor my brother, nor my sister-in-law.
I know this is hard for you to believe, but Asian families are different from white families. We don’t talk the way you all do. I mean, we talk, of course we talk, but not about our fears, our pain, our deepest, darkest secrets.
When I was little, I envied the kids whose parents served us wine coolers at parties and offered to drive us home. You know, the if-you’re-going-to-drink-I’d-rather-you-do-it-with-us type. My parents were the opposite: If you’re going to drink, don’t. And if you persist, don’t you dare let me find out. I remember Carla telling me freshman year that over winter break her mom had taken her to the doctor to get birth control pills, and being filled with sheer wonder.
Did I wish my parents were more like theirs? More American, so to speak? Of course I did. Who wouldn’t? It’s something I thought about the entire time I was home, as I vetted and hired six new shoppers to keep up with our growing inventory and worried the more we expanded, the greater our chances of being felled—all while insisting to my family that everything was fine, just fine, better than fine.
I’d come home because my dad had finally agreed to put the house on the market and move into a condo in Chicago, not far from where my brother and sister-in-law lived. He needed help packing, and, given that it had been over a year since I’d last seen him, I could not say no. My first night there, once Dad and I had wrestled Henri into bed, we retreated to the back porch with cold bottles of beer. It was the end of August and scorching hot. Above our heads the ceiling fan churned, and I lifted my face to the breeze.
Dad started in with, Have you taken him to a specialist?
My cheeks burned. I pressed the bottle to my skin. Please, Dad, not now.
Okay, no need to get worked up, he said.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I reached down and silenced it. I’d asked Winnie to please only text if it was urgent, but already, in the five hours I’d been home, Dad had commented on my copious phone use.
He took a swig of beer and ran his thumb over the label. Anyway, like I told Mom, Henri doesn’t have to be a genius. It’s more important that he’s a good person. Honest, kind.
Really? You said that? Can I get it in writing? I asked. I didn’t have to remind my dad that my grades were the only thing he’d harped on when I was growing up.
It was his turn to bristle. That’s because you were good at school. We were encouraging your natural gifts.
And look at what all those A’s and A-pluses got me, I said.
What’s that supposed to mean?
I pointed out that being a corporate lawyer was the kind of job one tolerated, endured.
He scowled. I never wanted you to worry about money. At least your law degree got you that.
I gazed into the amber depths of my beer bottle. You don’t have to hate your job to make money.
Sure, and you don’t have to love it either. It’s called work.
All at once, Detective, the bushel of lies I’d lugged everywhere for the past seven months bore down upon my shoulders, threatening to crush me. In my desperation, I forgot who I was and how I was raised. I blurted, I can’t do this anymore.
I lifted my gaze, both terrified and brimming with hope.
Dad’s eyes grew big. He reared back his head and inhaled sharply before he managed to seize control and flatten his features once again. He asked mildly, What do you mean?
Already he’d retreated beyond some invisible barrier, like a dog behind a wireless fence.
And what had I expected? This had always been our way.
Oh, nothing. Henri’s at such a difficult age is all.
Dad’s entire face relaxed. He won’t be two forever.
Thank god for that.
We drained our bottles. The moment passed.
And I’m so glad I restrained myself in time because now, from where I sit today, confessing everything to you, I see what I couldn’t as a child: to share one’s secrets is to force others to bear your burden; to stay silent is to spare them.
I realize I haven’t said too much about my brother, Gabe, but perhaps it’d be helpful for you to know a little about him, to understand my upbringing and how I became the emotionally thwarted person who spent nearly a year under Winnie’s spell.