Marcus lifts the lid off the dish and in true Chinese etiquette, begins serving us. “Well, if it makes you feel better, this pupu platter is probably going to make me poo poo later, for real.”
“Marcus!” Mei-ling shrieks. Then she starts fussing at him in her native language that none of us, not even Marcus, understands.
“You. Are. Gross,” Clara tells him while I try to bite back my roars of heavy chuckles.
“Just don’t use my bathroom,” Neena insists as she practices with her chopsticks. “You clogged it last time. We had to hire a plumber.”
“Oh yeah,” Marcus mumbles as he looks off to the side as if remembering.
“Real classy, dude,” I interject, but he simply grins.
Marcus continues to serve the food as he speaks to Neena. “I think your mother actually cooked that night. Must’ve been food poisoning. Sent me straight to the shitter.”
“Language, Marcus. And it was not my cooking,” Clara defends. “And are we seriously talking about Marcus taking a dump right now? I mean . . . right now at the dinner table?”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Marcus looks at Clara thoughtfully before turning back to Neena. “We’re discussing poo poo, while eating pupu, kid.”
What is it about gross stuff that makes kids laugh? Neena’s face lights up as she laughs as hard as Marcus. There’s not a single person in this room that isn’t touched by her smile. It’s captivating. And I know, without a doubt, we’d all do anything to see it. Even if that means talking about poop when we’re about to eat. As I watch her, my heart tightens, and I feel Clara’s hand rest on my leg and squeeze as she watches Neena thoughtfully. I place mine on hers as our eyes meet. It’s one of those moments, and I know I’ll never forget. I wish I could freeze it, or somehow box it; trap it so we never lose it. Here we are, with our friends, and our daughter. Our daughter is sick, weakening before our very eyes, and she’s laughing. How many of these moments do we have left? How many more might we get? I’d give anything to see that smile forever. That thought chokes me. And angers me. I’ve missed a lifetime of these moments . . . her lifetime of moments. It’s not fair. And suddenly, I’m fuming. I’m angry I was denied this. Seeing my little girl every day. Watching her play, so carefree, without a single fear in the world. It’s not fucking fair. I’m not ever going to be ready to say good-bye to my child. Why didn’t Clara tell me? Why didn’t she try harder to find me? I know she emailed . . . but is that really trying? She robbed me of precious time.
I scoot away slightly. I can’t touch her right now. Her hand slips off my thigh, and I refuse to look at her. I already know how she looks. Confused. A moment ago I was relishing her body against mine as we laughed. We were a unit. Now, I can’t even look at her. I plaster a smile on and try to focus on the moment. This moment. With my daughter who is smiling. One of the few I have left.
After an incredible meal consisting of the pupu platter, Chinese dumplings, and snacking on Tuckahoe pie, we’re stuffed. Clara and I decide to do the dishes while Marcus, Mei-ling, and Neena plop on the couch and digest for a bit.
Clara is washing a pot as I stack the last of the plates by the sink. “I think Marcus used every dish in the house.”
I snort. That’s the only thing I can do. Only it comes out like a growl.
She slams her hand down on the faucet, shutting off the water. “What is it, Paul?”
“What’s what?” I play dumb.
“This,” she motions a soapy hand at me. “You went from hot to cold in a matter of seconds with me. What is it?”
“Nothing,” I answer, gritting my teeth. I want to lash out at her, but I know I shouldn’t. It won’t change what happened and it won’t change what is happening. I missed the first twelve years of Neena’s life. And now she’s dying. Those are the facts. Yelling at Clara, no matter how angry I am with her, won’t change that.
“Fine.” She flips the faucet back on and starts scrubbing the pot again. Under her breath, she mumbles, “Ruin a great night with your little head trip.”
I lose it. My heart thunders as my rage pumps through me. I hit the faucet, causing her to jump. When she twists her head and sees me, she narrows her eyes, glowering at me, but doesn’t back away.
“Ruin a great night?” I snort with disdain and derision. “How many good nights with her have you gotten?”
“What?” she questions, appearing angry and confused.
“Twelve years,” I answer for her, stepping closer. She doesn’t back away because . . . well . . . it’s Clara. She backs down to no one. “Twelve years you saw her grow, laugh, and play, and twelve years of fucking hugs, Clara. Of laughter and pure and sweet smiles. You got all of that. And what do I get?” I ask her, my voice cracking slightly with pain and emotion.
Clara’s enraged expression ebbs in to what almost looks like shame.
“You denied me that. You denied me what little time she has had.”
Her expression morphs back to raw anger.