I guess it was this weekend, that I started to notice that I was getting edgy. The wife refers to it as “being feisty” because I find reasons to argue over little things. It’s not like they are real arguments, more like just contradictory comments – never ending comments. Either way, it gets on people’s nerves.
And it first, I don’t know why everything is rubbing me the wrong way. I have a twitch in my eye and jaw, FYI. Then I look at the calendar and see that on Saturday it’s been five years since my mom’s passing.
Now it makes sense.
After my mom passed, I remember reading an essay about how the author was dealing with their grief, and how the week of their parent’s passing, they would find themselves angry, and lashing out. They knew why they were doing it, and even though they tried to stop it, they couldn’t.
I feel like that. I feel I should know better, and not do it, but also, doing it feels correct.
What I was surprised by was forgetting, or a better phrase to use would be, not remembering that my mom’s passing was coming. A little of it was avoiding the anniversary. Another bit was that I actually forgot. I went into October thinking about Fall, leaves, gourds, apple picking, and Halloween. Like you should. This was the first year where October didn’t mean “mom’s death.”
But sub-consciously, I did know. Maybe it wasn’t at the forefront of my mind, but it was rattling around back there. It was always be there, and that’s okay.
I’m in my mid-forties, and I have never been a stylish person. In fact, my “style” has barely evolved beyond what I wore in high school: jeans, tee-shirt, over shirt, All-Stars. When I was working in an office, I held on to a sort of American/Ivy style of khakis, button-down, plaid tie, sports coat, and (depending on my mood) All-Stars. Since my move to stay-at-home-dad I have cannibalized my clothing a put on a mismatch of casual and casual work clothing. What that means is one day could be a tee-shirt, while the next is a button-down, and on another I might put on a sports coat. But I noticed something today, and it’s that I have started putting on running shoes as my go-to footwear now. Also, I have started lounging around the apartment in workout clothes – you know, with elastic waist bands. I think I might be slowly de-evolving into comfy clothes most of the time.
Halloween is coming and we are all looking to figure out what our costume will be this year. My daughter has a very specific idea that she is looking to execute, and I will not be the one to ruin her surprise. That leaves the wife, me and the dog. We really wanted to do a family theme. A long time ago, the kid went as Dee Snider from Twisted Sister, and we were her roadies. We all loved it, but we haven’t worked together on a united costume since. Last year, I pushed very hard for us to be the Beastie Boys from the “Intergalactic” video, but I got no takers. This year, I think we should go as Willie Nelson, but in different periods of his career. Like, the wife would do young Willie, and I would be old Willie, and the dog would be middle of the career Willie. I don’t know if you know this, but having grown up in Texas, we are required to dress up as Willie for at least one Halloween.
I have been thinking a lot about what would make me happy. Is there one thing, that if it occurred, I would be happy from now till the end of my days? I mean, is that even possible?
I have this feeling, a thought in the back of my head, that there isn’t one thing that brings about happiness. Happiness is attained, and also is a choice.
And, an additional $500 a month would get me really damn close to being happy.
I guess what I’m saying is that security also is a form of happiness.
Maybe fulfillment? That can bring about happiness. So.. yeah, sure, I’ll go with that; fulfillment.
You know, about five years ago, I had a phone interview for a prestigious job in San Francisco, which would have had me working for this really important theatre school. But to be honest, I don’t remember the name of the theatre school, so it wasn’t that prestigious. Anyway, I was on the phone with the head of the whole place, someone very important, and we are hitting it off, and I felt like the job is going to be offered to me. Then the head of the place asks me if I could do anything, what would I do – I didn’t miss a beat and said confidently, “I would be in a cabin in the woods, reading books, and writing.”
There was a long pause, and I knew that in this pause was the silent sound of this job slipping away because what I should have said was something along the lines of, “Working at this school,” or “Doing theatre,” or anything relating to the job, and not the truth of what would really make me happy.
Or…
As I try to ret-con this part of my life, maybe I finally admitted out loud what I really want to do with my life to be happy.
(The short story “Heart” by Shuang Xuetao appeared in the October 9th, 2023 issue of The New Yorker.)
Illustration by Sally Deng
If you write a story about a parent/child relationship, and then throw in a dying parent, you pretty much are half way to claiming a small place in my heart. My logically analytical side gets thrown out the window, and I am running on emotions. And let’s be honest, if you’re creating art, you want people to have an emotional reaction – it’s like the whole point. I say this because I can be completely biased when it comes to certain subject matters, which can complicate things when I try to review short stories from an objective place.
Which is why it’s strange for me to say that I didn’t feel an emotional connection to “Heart” by Shuang Xuetao. This is a fine story, well written, engaging, and just odd enough to keep me intrigued with what was happening. And as I was reading this piece, I kept expecting it to “click” into place and tap that raw parent/child emotion in me, but it never came. But I don’t begrudge the story for this, nor am I left feeling that the story “misfired” in its execution. Oddly, I feel this might have been exactly the reaction the story was attempting to create in the reader.
The story mainly takes places on a medical bus that is driving late at night to Beijing. The passengers are an older man dying of heart disease, his son, a driver, and ER doctor who agreed to accompany the father and son. We learn from the narrator, who is the son, that the heart disease that is killing his father skips every other generation, meaning the son is immune from the fate of his father.
The tone of the story is straightforward, logical, and there are no literary flourishes. But the events in this story slightly graze the edge of surrealism – just slightly. It’s enough touches to make the story feel that it’s not completely in reality. But still I had to wonder why these touches were there. What did the father’s daily boxing routine really symbolize? Why was the driver sleeping as he drove the vehicle? Also, what about the doctor’s sleeping? Was this all a dream? And the need for the son to have to use the bathroom? Was there a meaning to the son’s self-described laziness and his recent decision to stop working, while the father worked every day; even when he retired, he went and found a new job to keep working? All of these questions left me feeling uncertain, unsettled, and wondering what I was supposed to make of this?
And then there is a moment in the story where the son wonders what he is supposed to do when his father does pass away. He thinks of all the work that will come with making the arrangements for a funeral; contacting family and people his father worked with, raising money to pay for it all, and cars for the procession. Then the son thinks that once his father is gone, that he will truly be alone and by himself. To that the narrator says, “I guess that’s what freedom looks like nowadays,…” A sobering, and heartbreaking realization, that can also feel overwhelming to the point where one can be left numb, and disconnected.
There isn’t one way to mourn, and that’s what “Heart” reminded me of. I don’t know what all of these pieces in this story amounted to, but I don’t think Shuang Xuetao is wrong for presenting that either, if that was the intention. Maybe not having a feeling right away is still a sort of feeling. Maybe.
