When Mary Zhu had first walked into the intensive care unit of Kaiser Permanente and seen Stanley—as he lay unconscious with his head tilted at that unnatural angle, all of those tubes crawling out from his body and throat—she’d been terrified. Kate and her husband had been there, the white man whose name she could never remember because it was some derivative of a regular one, and the way they’d looked at her made it clear they thought she’d done something wrong by not being present from the start. She could sense the questions they thought they were being so tactful in leaving unsaid: Where had she been? What had she been doing for the past five hours, while her husband had been near death, in and out of emergency surgery?
Mary wasn’t ashamed but felt attacked, unfairly so. And so she didn’t tell them where she’d been, out shopping for disposable adult diapers and a plastic bedsheet because for the first time in his adult life her husband had urinated in bed; that afterward she’d gone to Valley Fair mall to look for sheets on sale at Macy’s so he could have several identical sets, to spare him the embarrassment when his bedding was in the wash. And that it was only after she was already halfway to the house that she realized she had used her own personal credit card for the purchase, out of habit since she typically only bought clothing or cosmetics for herself at Macy’s, and Stanley didn’t pay for those. But since the sheets were really for Stanley, and she had trawled the bargain section to find them at 75 percent off, they should really go on his card, shouldn’t they? And Mary knew that if she got home she’d never find the time or energy to go back and make the switch, so she turned around, executing a jolting U-turn, and went through the extended motions of returning and repurchasing with an elderly Japanese clerk who seemed to know exactly what she was doing and why. And by the time she arrived at the house, staggering through the front door with the bags, Stanley—whom she’d left napping on the couch, who by all accounts and routine should have still been asleep—had disappeared.
She’d searched frantically for some time—running upstairs, calling out his name in the garage, even however improbably unlocking the storage shed in the backyard—before thinking to check her phone, which she’d left charging in the kitchen. And when the news came that Stanley was going to survive, when he opened his yellowed eyes and met her gaze and gave a weak wave of his hand, she’d collapsed on her knees in front of him on the hard hospital floor and thanked the gods that her husband would live. At that moment if you’d asked Mary if she would trade a year of her life so that Stanley could have another week, another seven days to go home and be in peace, she would have made the deal without hesitation.
She’d been convinced that the hospital, with its diseased halls and deceptive sterility, was making Stanley more ill. He complained endlessly about the uncomfortable mattress and the constant noise of machines that made it impossible to sleep, the narrow confines of his shower. In truth he’d been fortunate to have a private room at all; after he was deemed no longer worthy of the ICU, Kaiser had moved him to a lower-level ward, where he was supposed to have shared a space with another patient. Mary had watched as Kate and the registering nurse in charge, an agitated Filipino woman in her fifties, argued, as Kate violently gestured toward her father and occasionally waved what looked to be his insurance cards into the air (where had she found those? Did she have his wallet?).
It all looked terribly inefficient and unofficial, and Mary had been shocked when it appeared to have worked: the administrator eventually walking toward them with an insincere smile, clearing her throat to announce to the two men transporting Stanley that he would be moved to a private room after all, a smaller one down the hall. Mary’s English wasn’t nearly advanced enough to catch most of the words that had been exchanged; she wondered if there had been certain key phrases used, a hint of litigiousness. Either way Mary had been impressed, though when Stanley woke after Kate left, she said nothing about what had transpired. The hospital had found a spare room and moved him while he was asleep, she told him. And left it at that.
Both Kate and Fred visited their father regularly in the hospital, far more now that his life was in immediate danger than ever before, when they might have spent real quality time engaged in the activities he loved, like going to the movies. When Mary knew they were scheduled to come, she tried to make herself scarce—run errands or go back to the house. Fred in particular treated her with a chill; his demeanor had steadily worsened to the point where he was now openly rude. He’d confronted her in front of Stanley—only a few days into his ICU stay, when Stanley had still been intubated and voiceless—about why the office in the house had been such a mess during his surprise visit. “Can I help you find whatever it is you’re looking for?” he’d asked with a smirk. “I was shocked to see everything in such disarray.”
Mary could sense her husband bristling at Fred’s discourteousness, though Stanley had ultimately remained mute, no scratching of indignant messages on white paper, which meant that he, too, was waiting for an answer. She knew she had to be careful. “I was looking for health insurance cards,” she said. “So that your father is not charged extra at the pharmacy.” Fred had appraised her with a bald look that made it clear he thought she was lying, the lack of respect obvious in his eyes.
She’d gone around him then, stroked Stanley’s head gently with her nails. Only one of us can do this, she’d reminded him silently. Run their fingers through his hair, kiss his palms, massage his feet. Only one of us goes to bed with Stanley every night.
Mary had been lying about the office, of course. Though it hadn’t been her who first entered the space but Jeylin and Grace, her two sisters.
Once, all three of them had been married to fools. Grace to Tony Wong, a stir-fry cook at China Garden, the restaurant at which they’d each at one time hostessed, and Jeylin to a real estate developer named Nicky Chen. For a brief period Nicky had been their Big Hope, the one who was going to show them how to get rich in America. Until he ended up being not a developer at all but a low-level construction manager, someone with only minor managerial oversight over three under-the-table employees from Korea, who spent his days completing easy plumbing jobs.
Then there was Ed Yeh, Mary’s first husband. He’d been her age, handsome with a full head of black hair, one of the few Chinese men she’d ever seen who could pull off a beard. When they met, he told her he’d been a television producer back in Beijing, on a national talk show she had vague memories of. One of his duties had been to serve as the celebrity wrangler, and he shared stories of one B-list actress after another, making her giggle with anecdotes of their ridiculous demands.
“I’m not joking!” he would exclaim. “I’m telling you the absolute truth!” And then he’d tickle her, and she would squeal, and they’d lie together in their single room, that terrible low-income apartment Jeylin had managed to sign Mary up for a year in advance of her arrival to the United States, and eat steamed buns on the bed.
Only after they were married did she learn that almost everything Ed claimed to have had been an exaggeration at best—designed to impress her, he’d said, because she was so obviously a woman who deserved the most accomplished of partners. That flattery was expected to sustain her through twelve-hour shifts working at China Garden—sometimes eighteen if she did some massage at night (despite what Stanley’s ex-wife and friends believed, she had never been that sort of masseuse)—while Ed himself pulled five-hour days at the local Chinese paper, cycling down after lunch to the community center for chess and backgammon. Ed had refused to give her children or save for a house; had smacked her with the back of his hand on two occasions (though both times not very hard). But it had been normal, her life: not so different from those around her and certainly not from those of her sisters, who had their own losers to contend with.
Still, she left. Why stay? There was no benefit—social, emotional, or financial. And then she met Stanley, and in a single leap she elevated her status far above her sisters’, despite being the oldest, the one who’d traditionally had the worst outcome: the nastiest husband, the worst complexion, the most demeaning job.
At first, Mary had worried that Jeylin and Grace might resent her random good fortune. Because how else but through some past karma could one explain the series of events that had brought her together with a man who owned his own home, who had a pension, who could afford to take her on vacation to faraway destinations and didn’t force her to work? Whose only real request was that she serve him, delight him in every manner she could imagine, cook foods for him to enjoy, and massage his body each night? Compared to her life before, it was an incredible stroke of luck, one for which there was no real explanation. And a twenty-eight-year age difference was simply an accepted part of that equation, without which the whole thing fell to pieces. Someone with all those attributes, who was actually her age or near? Not possible.
To Mary’s surprise, Jeylin and Grace had been supportive, with relatively few gleams of pettiness. They immediately made her and Stanley regular partners in their mah jong games, a weekly event she’d been kicked out of after her divorce, since odd numbers in mah jong never worked. They cooed over Stanley, inviting the two of them on weekend trips to Yosemite and holiday dinner banquets. When Stanley spoke they listened in rapt silence, shushing their own husbands when they tried to interject, to better hear and absorb his advice on the financial markets. Stanley, after all, was the most successful person any of them knew, at least familially. Who else could they turn to with questions regarding 401(k) plans (scam), index funds (too confusing, stick with his broker at Charles Schwab), and real estate management? Who but the only person they knew who’d already achieved what for most still remained a distant fantasy, to come to the US and build a fortune from nothing?
Jeylin and Grace even joined in on one of Mary and Stanley’s international trips, a cruise through the ports of Spain, though Mary knew it must have been a stretch for both financially. The three sisters split the cost to bring their mother along, flying her in from Beijing. Mary’s mother, while a few years younger than Stanley (a fact Jeylin always enjoyed to mention), was far less physically able, and halfway through the cruise there’d been an agonizing moment of embarrassment when Stanley had refused to push her wheelchair any longer. “I’m too tired to cater to another person,” he said, his mouth set in a tight line. “I’m here to enjoy myself.” He’d especially hated the stairs that greeted them at every museum in Barcelona, which meant the wheelchair had to be manually lifted up and down the steps. “She should just sit outside,” he snapped. “She’s inconveniencing the rest of us.”
Back on the boat, in the privacy of their cabin, Mary had picked a rare fight, insisting that he had made her lose face. “What will my family think, that you can’t even bother to show respect to our own mother? Not in a million years would I treat yours like this!” And immediately understood her mistake, as Stanley’s mother occupied a saintly status in his mind, having passed in his early teens. His face had clouded over, warnings of a portent storm best avoided, and the topic closed.
Her sisters had been understanding even about that, however, which in retrospect Mary should have noted as unusual, especially given their normal inclinations. Grace on her own could be kind, especially to children, but Jeylin was sweet only on the outside, with her red bow mouth and almond-shaped eyes. The next morning Jeylin and Grace had their husbands prepped to split wheelchair duty between themselves, while Stanley marched ahead to take in whatever sights caught his eye, rarely bothering to check back on the group’s progress. When Mary attempted to apologize for his behavior, her sisters waved her off.
“He’s an important man,” Jeylin scolded. “He must care for his health. How can you ask this sort of person to do physical labor? It’s beneath him.”
Jeylin was Stanley’s favorite. “Your sister has such nice skin,” he commented once. “And her eyes are so youthful.” Mary had been upset by the compliment, which she felt had been deliberately suggestive. More than once she’d been struck by the paranoia that both Stanley and Jeylin wished he’d met Jeylin first. But Mary had kept her mouth shut, and the next time Jeylin traveled to China on one of her “beauty holidays,” she’d gone along with her and had her under-eye bags cut away. She had fillers put in, too, some in her forehead and even more in her neck. She’d been shocked by the number of units required for that, and the nurse explained that it was a lot of space, in terms of square centimeters. But it had been worth it, because when she returned, Stanley had been so affectionate, going on about how much he’d missed her presence. He even brought dinner home that night instead of expecting her to cook, making a big show as he served it on matching plates and pawing at her as soon as he finished his own dessert. Murmuring on about how beautiful she was. “You’re the prettiest of all your sisters.”
Two days after Stanley entered the ICU, Jeylin and Grace appeared at the house, Nicky and Tony in tow. Mary had been at work in the kitchen, and after opening the front door, returned to check the progress of her famous double-boiled soup. Although Stanley could not currently eat or drink and Mary was unclear as to when his breathing tube might be removed, she thought it best to have some of his favorite foods on hand, just in case. She stopped stirring when she heard the racket from above—she guessed the two might be in the bedroom closet, riffling through her clothes and shoes. “What’s going on?” she called out. She could see only Nicky and Tony from where she stood; they were watching TV, and ignoring her.
Several minutes later she heard another bang, followed by the distinct sound of a crash. She switched off the burners and ran upstairs to the office to discover the filing cabinet tipped on its side and Jeylin on all fours next to it. Grace stood on a stool nearby, flinging down binders from the highest level of the bookshelf.
“What is this?” Mary shrieked. “Do you know how much I have to do today? How am I going to clean all this before I leave? What if Stanley returns?”
Jeylin sat up and regarded her with condescension. “Stanley isn’t coming back today,” she said. “Though I’m shocked you haven’t realized it already. He may not be coming back at all.”
Mary bristled at the implication that she was in some way less informed. Who among them lived a life like hers? How did they think she’d managed it? “You don’t think I’ve considered the idea? I think about it all the time. I’m only forty-seven. I never imagined I might already be a widow.”
“Good,” Jeylin said. She continued to stare at her with that infuriating expression—a single raised eyebrow, lips parted, a mannerism lifted from a famous Korean soap actress. “So has Stanley told you how you’ll be taken care of? He is providing for you in his will, yes? You have talked about this?”
“Of course. I get the house and half the pension, and plus there are other accounts.”
“What accounts?” Grace interjected. “How much?”
“He said everything would be divided equally. A third to each of his children, a third to me.” Mary folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t feel comfortable discussing the details. You know how private Stanley is about his matters. Our matters.” Then, to soften the bluntness of her words, she slid her eyes toward the staircase. “Someone could come in,” she said. She meant Kate or Fred.
“You worried about Nicky?” Jeylin lowered her voice. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him anything. Same for Tony.” She tilted her head toward Grace, who nodded eagerly. She looked like a lapdog, Mary thought.
“I don’t want to talk about this. I’m far too busy. I barely have enough time to finish the soup before I have to go to the hospital.”
“I have to finish the soup,” Jeylin mimicked. “What’s wrong with you? I thought we promised to never keep anything from each other. Haven’t I always told you everything? When Nicky lost all that money investing in that franchise scam, didn’t I call you first? And what about Grace, when Tony cheated on her with that bartender, the one who wasn’t even Chinese, but Vietnamese, and we found out he bought her that Burberry skirt? And now you want to keep your husband’s secrets? He isn’t even your first husband. He isn’t your true family. You don’t even have children.” Her arm snaked under the cabinet, disappearing almost to her shoulder. She let out a cry of triumph. “I found it! Ha-ha. The manager at China Garden used to tape an extra key on the back of the cabinets just like this.”
“Or maybe,” Grace said, “she’s worried we’ll be a liability, once Stanley dies and she becomes rich.”
Mary gaped. She’d never expect such a statement to come from Grace, the baby of the family.
“Is that it?” Jeylin’s voice lowered even more, to a seductive timbre. “Are you worried your little sisters will take some of your money?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” But inside, Mary’s heart quickened its pace. Because even though she knew Grace had said what she did mostly to hurt her—she was so obvious in that way, no finesse—for once her sibling had inadvertently struck close to the truth. Stanley had money, serious money, amounts Mary theoretically knew existed but until recently had never thought possibly within her reach. And now the events of the past month had forced a voice to the question that until then had only lain in the very back of her unconscious mind:
What would life be like with Stanley gone and his money still here?
The idea was so intoxicating, so attractive, that she knew to give it oxygen would be to allow it to grow to dangerous levels. And so she’d quickly stashed it away, back in its dark corner, where it remained dormant. But not dead.
Stanley had let slip the number exactly once, his net worth. He normally refused to divulge details on anything financial—he was so mistrustful in that way, even with his own wife!—but there’d been that one time, at Charles Schwab. He’d taken Mary there before, and each instance she’d waited in the lobby. But for some reason, on this occasion, he motioned for her to join inside.
The advisor, an elegant white woman named Patricia, had worked with Stanley for decades. They sat in her office on the other side of the desk, Stanley in the chair closest to Patricia, since he was the actual client. Just a few minutes into their small talk, she remarked, “You know, your ex-wife was in here just the other day.”
“Oh?” Stanley was always attentive when it came to news of Linda, though he tried to hide it. “How is she?”
Patricia assessed Mary with a cunning look before she slid her gaze back to Stanley. “She’s doing great. You know how capable she is.”
“What’s she invested in?”
“Now, you know I can’t divulge that sort of information.”
Stanley took the bait. “Well, how’s she doing, overall?”
Patricia made him wait while she opened a pouch of sugar and tapped its contents into her coffee. “Very well, in my opinion. Someone her age, we usually don’t advise that they have so much of their portfolio in the stock market. We like to see more diversification—CDs, bonds, good old cash. You know the rule. Take one hundred, subtract your age, and that’s what percent of your portfolio should still be in equities, roughly. But Linda’s one of the very few clients I have who’s the exception. She has one of the greatest natural talents for portfolio management I’ve ever seen.”
“Ah.” Stanley coughed. “I’m so happy for her. Happy for all of us, that we can live so well. Of course, I’m not doing so poorly myself.”
“Oh yes. You’re doing a fine job.”
“I’m the sort of man who likes to make his own decisions.” He stretched his arms over his head.
“I completely understand. It’s your life, your money. Just remember that I’m here for guidance should you need anything. And keep in mind what I said about the market and retirement. As we both know, you like to get a little daring yourself.” She winked, the crow’s-feet prominent around each eye. This woman might be rich, Mary thought, but even at her age wealth couldn’t make up for a lack of injectables.
Though she’d said they should stay for as long as they wanted, offering to fetch them more coffee and tea, it was obvious Patricia wanted to return to her daily schedule. They passed her next appointment on the way out, another Asian couple near Stanley’s age, the woman primly dressed in one of those St. John suits Mary occasionally imagined herself wearing one day. As soon as Stanley shut the car door, she could see the red beginning to web its way across his face. He sat in the seat facing directly forward, not yet turning on the ignition. “Who does she think she is?” he seethed. “Talking like I don’t know anything. I know what I’m doing, more than that old bitch.”
“She probably meant to insult you.” Mary had been perversely cheered by Stanley’s bad mood; she hadn’t liked how the advisor felt she could just bring up Linda in front of her, as if she weren’t even there. “Maybe Linda put her up to it, planted the idea in her head.”
“Linda wouldn’t do that. She’s very discreet.” At this Mary had been ready to finally snap; she’d had quite enough of Stanley’s refusal to ever utter anything negative about his ex—as if Linda had been such a saint!—but then he went on. “Patricia doesn’t know how much I have now, what I’ve done with real estate. You see, I’ve done some flipping, made a lot—” He stopped.
Mary was quiet. She was used to Stanley starting conversations like this, dangling the prospect of tantalizing information in the air, only to snatch it away.
This time, however, he continued. “My net worth is almost seven million now. Seven million! And growing fast. Never in my lifetime did I believe I’d have so much. Shirley Chang always says money just brings problems, but that hasn’t happened to me.” His voice softened. “It’s only brought me happiness. Someone like you. You know that I’ll take care of you, right? I’ve been meaning to tell you that when I pass—though I’m sure that is decades from now—you’ll be in my will, as long as we’re still married. Fred will have a third, Kate another, and you the last.” He turned toward her. “What do you think?”
Mary had thought it wonderful, of course. More than wonderful. Seven million. And growing. Even a third of that was an unimaginable fortune: it meant that were something to happen to Stanley she could keep the house and have enough left over so that she didn’t have to work again for the rest of her life.
She took his hand, placing it between both of hers. She knew what he wanted to hear. “My life is only worth living with you in it.” It was the truth, anyway. Stanley was so strong, so capable; infallible, especially when compared to her own flimsy existence. He kissed her hair.
In the days after the conversation, Mary had the feeling that Stanley regretted his outburst. She felt him studying her, watching for some undefined action. So she meticulously maintained her normal routine, taking care not to startle him. Which was easy, as nothing had really changed, except for the fact that she now knew of the money, which she wished she could have told him meant more to her at that point than the money itself. Because just the knowledge of it enveloped Mary with a warm security, a constant glimmering reminder of how lucky she was to have married a man of means who loved her.
Mary didn’t want to tell Jeylin and Grace any of this, because she didn’t know what they would do with the knowledge. The problem was she didn’t know how not to tell them either, so in the end she compromised.
“He has millions.”
“Millions,” Jeylin repeated. The envy that seeped from her voice was surprisingly delicious. “How many? That makes a difference, you understand. If it’s not just one.”
“What does it matter to you?” As if Jeylin had ever seen even a million dollars, much less more!
“I want to make sure you are taken care of, big sister. Do you think I want it for myself? I can manage my own affairs, thank you. But it would be nice if there was some extra, to use for our mother. She’s getting older, like your husband. She could move to California, since there’s better medical care here. The air in China is getting worse every day.”
“If Stanley says I’m taken care of, then I am. He trusts me. He even took me to meet his advisor at Charles Schwab.”
“Schwab?” Grace piped up. “I saw that one.”
“Leave it alone!” Suddenly Mary wanted everyone gone. The conversation was spiraling out of control; she was afraid of what might follow next, the extraction of promises that upon Stanley’s death she’d take in their mother, dooming herself to decades more of familial obligation right as the intoxicating rays of financial freedom were beginning to shine through. “Leave everything alone! This is none of anyone’s business!”
“Don’t you at least want to take a look?” Jeylin asked. “You used to complain that Stanley never let you into his office. This is your chance. Who knows if it’ll come again? You’re right; Stanley may very well recover with all that special medicine you’ve been preparing. But either way, don’t you want to know?”
Grace already had a binder open. “It says $14,000 for the balance here,” she chattered, trailing a nail down the page. “For Schwab. And then another $4,000 at Chase.” Mary snatched the binder before she could stop herself.
“Guess we know how you truly feel now,” Jeylin crowed.
Mary barely heard her. After she went through each of the statements, she climbed up on the stool and took down another binder. Then another. She was three hours late to the hospital that afternoon, which she told Stanley was the fault of the internet repair technician. He was half out of his mind on drugs anyway, he didn’t care, and in fact he returned to sleep shortly after lifting his head to register her arrival. She sat in the hard plastic–backed chair next to the bed until nearly midnight. The nurse on call, the black one she suspected secretly hated her, asked at one point if she wanted to move to the couch. “Much more comfortable,” she commented pointedly.
Mary ignored her. Long after her lower back had begun to cramp in protest, she remained still, posture erect.
Afterward, a mental line was crossed for her, one that, once stepped over, could be revisited at will. The lawyer had been Jeylin’s idea—some cheap hack Nicky knew from his so-called construction work, who he claimed could quickly draw up documents for a reduced fee.
Even though the lawyer was white, with a perfect American accent, the first time they met even Mary could tell he was unsuccessful. He had a shaped beard and looked as if he only wore suits when forced to for show; he did his work, however, and rustled together a will that stated Stanley would leave a set amount to Mary of $1.5 million, as well as the house (worth another million), with any remainder to be split between Kate and Fred. Mary figured it a good gamble, since so far her research had led her to believe there was going to be considerably less to his estate than the promised seven million. Of course, there was always the chance there was more—there were all sorts of ways to hide cash, and Stanley had made it clear that when it came to the topic, he was worlds above her in education—but Mary wasn’t willing to bet her future on it.
It was funny, about the money. She’d always viewed Stanley’s finances differently than her own. While with her personal means she was exceedingly careful, begrudging every expense, when it came to Stanley’s she was relentless in her encouragement to spend. His wealth sprung like water from the tap, supplied by a limitless source many degrees of separation away, one where she never saw the bill. When it came time for Stanley to buy a new car, she nudged him toward the most expensive models, endorsing every option he expressed interest in. When they traveled on vacation to China—one of those $99 package holidays during which the tour operators forced lengthy shopping visits—she strolled him past the cheap tchotchkes and shoddy silk garments to the displays of Grade A jadeite (and netted a bracelet for herself out of it too). When they dined out, she always ordered a special drink from the menu, usually plum tea or wine or, once in a while, even a cocktail. The depletion of funds never concerned her. She never thought, I am spending my future money.
Until Stanley had gone ahead and released a number in the air, made a promise, become sick. Then it became a reality, and she felt its loss as keenly as one of her own treasured possessions. Mary mourned her one third of seven million and growing. It was her right to recover as much of it as she could. So she wanted the will. She wanted it signed and witnessed. And as soon as that was done, she was sure she could return to her normal existence, fully inhabiting her authentic self as a devoted wife. Which would be a relief.
The lawyer wasn’t allowed in. When he arrived Kaiser said he wasn’t on the list of approved visitors, and Stanley—either out of confusion or deliberate obstinacy—refused to add him, though the man still collected his $400 fee.
“Call me when he’s out,” he drawled, and proceeded to provide a phone number which he never answered. Afterward, Jeylin chided her for writing him a check in the first place. “You only pay for results,” she said in a superior tone. “That’s how these things work.”
But by then it didn’t matter. Because Stanley was coming home.
The days after Stanley’s release were filled with a sort of euphoria. His condition improved markedly—within a day he was able to sit propped against pillows and was demanding to watch their favorite TV show, a Chinese drama set in the Qin Dynasty. Mary made him special egg drop soup, soft foods like the lamb dumplings he liked so much (she adapted them to have less meat and more cabbage), and allowed a small piece of dark chocolate with dinner. The palliative care team who set up Stanley’s medical equipment were friendly. They helped him in the shower and monitored his vitals.
“We’re always happy to see situations like this, where there’s an energetic spouse who cares,” one of the nurses, a Filipino-Chinese named Paolo who spoke Mandarin and who’d visited twice so far, said to her. He murmured quietly to avoid waking Stanley, who was lightly dozing, and bent over and delicately wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Stanley’s arm. “People often think that having their kids nearby is enough.” He grimaced. “It rarely is.”
To be fair, Kate had visited regularly since Stanley’s return. Mary had followed nervously the first time she went barreling upstairs—it still irked her that Stanley’s children felt entitled to charge through the house as if it were their own, never asking anyone’s permission before entering a room—but Kate had given the office a cursory glance and didn’t mention if she noticed anything out of place, just straightened a few papers and located a laptop charger. Still, Mary had been relieved when she left. She had tried to re-create the setting as it was earlier, but she knew she must have missed a few details.
Kate spent most of her time in the kitchen or by Stanley’s bed, watching TV with him. Mary had been surprised by the sheer number of hours she was able to dedicate, though she’d gathered in snippets that there was a new nanny at her house, and there was also talk of Kate’s husband occasionally taking the children overnight. That was confusing. Where did he take them? And why didn’t she go too? But Kate was tight-lipped and Stanley incoherent on the topic whenever pressed.
Stanley was out of sorts a lot lately, a recent development. His waking hours now seemed to flit between a normal lucidity and a cloudy dream state, though Mary knew that if his attentions were truly required, he could still rouse a focused response. She’d made the monumental error of underestimating his faculties earlier, the first time she broached the topic of his will.
Stanley had been flat on his back as usual, and she’d sat in a chair by the bed, massaging his feet. His hands tapped gently at his side, and from his throat a weak purring sound occasionally rasped, in pleasure from the sensation.
“Stanley,” she said.
“Hmm?” He craned his neck.
His benign expression bolstered her. “Remember when you told me what you were going to do with your will? The seven million, split three ways?”
“Hmm.” His fingers continued to tap. Then after a pause: “After we went to Schwab.”
“After the Schwab visit, yes! Exactly. And the seven million.” She emphasized the last part. “Stanley, where is that money? I know some of it is the house. But the rest, where is it? Where are the accounts?”
He fell still. She thought it was another break, a brief hiatus for air, until a hand rose and pointed at her. “You’ve been poking through my business,” it said.
“No!” She was horrified. “Of course not! Stanley, I just want to understand, so that in case something were to happen, I can help with the details. . . .”
“I don’t need your help.” His voice was like sandpaper. She rushed to find his water bottle and raised the straw to his lips.
“Of course not, you’re so good at these things. I would never think I know more than you. I just wanted to understand for my own information, and of course Fred and Kate have been asking. . . .”
“Stay out of my business,” he said with venom.
Mary had wanted to flee then, far away to the relative safety of the other side of the house, but she’d feared stopping the massage. So she remained at the foot of the bed, kneading his legs and feet. After a few minutes his fingers resumed their tapping, and it was only when they once again stopped that she dared cease the activity in her own aching limbs and peer at his face.
He was awake, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were milky, and he wore the death face, the one where his mouth hung ajar and loose skin pooled around his mouth. Mary knew he was alive, though. Heard the breathing, in and out. Steady.
The interaction terrified her. She already knew he had a nasty temper—they’d fought often enough in the past, and there’d even been screaming rows once or twice, which always ended in her tears and his stony silence. But he’d never before spoken to her in that tenor, which his children referenced and she’d previously always dismissed (killing a bird? It was too outlandish to be true). It was a voice that stated unequivocally that a conversation was over, not to be discussed further, that hinted at a barely controlled violence. Normally it would have been enough to dissuade Mary from ever approaching the topic again, to definitively demonstrate that her questions had been a one-off, an innocuous mistake to be quickly forgotten. But this was the most money she would ever see in her life, she knew that much, and each move counted. Every mark in her favor meant the potential of yet another comfort to enjoy the rest of her years—a better car, a new dining room set; two yearly holidays, instead of one.
And time was important.
Stanley, she understood now, was going to die, no matter how many herbal concoctions she made. Each meal she had to try harder to find foods he was willing to eat—she’d given up on the green juices and fresh fruit and had returned to his old favorites, cream puffs and chocolate pudding pie. And still he would push the plate delicately aside, shaking his head. He only had bowel movements every few days, and he no longer attempted to shuffle to the guest bathroom, instead opting for the sitting toilet next to his bed. The last time he’d used it, Kate had been over, arranging his medicine. She’d discreetly turned her face away, and then as soon as her father had grunted his satisfaction, she called to Mary to clean him up.
“And I think we should toss out the . . . feces as soon as possible,” she said. “For sanitary purposes.”
It had taken all of Mary’s resolve not to slap her hard across the cheek.
A few days passed before she attempted a second salvo, this time aided by a magenta lace silk robe Stanley had gifted her at the beginning of their courtship. He had told her it reminded him of some movie with a Vegas showgirl, but Mary always felt whorish when she wore it, so once they were married she’d hidden it in the back of the guest closet. When she retrieved it, she’d had to spend a precious hour ironing out wrinkles; as she pressed the fabric, she rehearsed the conversation, testing various lines.
She waited until after dinner, when there was little chance Kate might still stop by with food but not so late that Stanley had ingested his final dose of painkillers and become sedated for the night. Then, she donned the robe and climbed in bed next to him. His form was hot, and she knew he registered her appearance. “Stanley,” she whispered. After a few seconds, he took her hand.
“Stanley, I’m so worried about you.” She threw her arm over him; she could reach almost all the way around at this point, as if she were the man, spooning the woman. She freed her hand and began to stroke his legs, starting at the knees, going higher.
Eventually he asked, “What are you worried about?”
“I worry that you’re going to go away,” she said. “And that I’ll be alone. And I don’t think I can live without you. I don’t know what every day will look like.” She buried her head into his back and was surprised to feel the sting of real tears. Her hands kept stroking. “I don’t want to be without you.”
His hand moved back to hers, which had been softly petting what remained soft. He stilled her, and for a moment she froze. Then he turned and faced her. “You’ll never be alone,” he said slowly. “Even when I’m gone, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
“But what am I going to do? I haven’t worked in so many years, I’m afraid of starting over. . . . I won’t know what to do with myself.”
“You needn’t worry.” He caressed her hair. “I have worked out a plan that will bring you joy and purpose. I keep meaning to tell you, but each time it slips out of my head. And to think, you were the inspiration.” And then he explained about the foundation, which she had vague memories of nodding her support for earlier, even though she didn’t know what a foundation was. “It’s to aid those less fortunate than us,” he said. “To give young people a chance for education.”
“You’re so thoughtful.” She nuzzled his neck, which felt cool compared to the rest of his body. “You care so much about other people. But Stanley . . .” She paused, as if the thought had just materialized. “How much is left after the foundation? After that, and the house. What is left?”
“The house is paid off. I wrote the check yesterday.”
Finally, a bright light. Mary offered a mental thanks to Shirley Chang, whom she had never liked due to how brassy and superior she acted but who’d turned out to be her savior nonetheless, bulldozing in the week before and making a big scene about how Stanley had to take care of his poor, poor wife. Mary didn’t particularly care for how much she’d said poor, but what did it matter when the house no longer had a mortgage?
“That’s wonderful. You’re so capable. But what about other than the house? The rest of the accounts?”
“Well.” He’d begun to lightly knead at her palm with his thumb; in response, she tenderly swept back one of the few remaining loose strands from his forehead. “After paying off the mortgage and a little for the foundation—” His voice dissolved to dry air. He motioned for the water. He drank haltingly, and then continued.
“After that—that’s almost all of it.”
The words landed with a hallucinatory dullness, and like a bad dream, she first tried to negotiate her way out. “How can that be? It must be the amount you want for the foundation. Are you sure it isn’t too much?”
He shook his head. “I’m not even sure there’s enough for the foundation. But I want to do it for you. And me. For our names to live on.”
“But the seven million?” she whispered.
And he gave a little shake of the shoulders: no. Then he pet her wrist and touched her breasts, fondly, without sexual desire. And she let him, because she had no choice, because her husband was dying, dying but still a liar, a liar who’d promised her an amount beyond her wildest fantasies and made it real, before taking it all away. Such was his power and her powerlessness, where everything she had was itself taken from someone else and for which each crumb she had to be thankful.
That’s when Mary finally felt the anger, the resentment she had seen in the eyes of Stanley’s ex-wife and children. The impact as it landed, sinking deep in her bones. The mess he was leaving! The promise of the house and money to live out the rest of her life, not to mention what he might have pledged to the rest of his family, all in shambles. And Stanley knew it, had known this entire time yet done nothing, and now still here, quite literally on his deathbed, he chose to be a coward and curl away from her disappointed face and indulge in the elixir of sleep. She understood now that Stanley meant to sap her goodwill little by little until he died, safe in and comforted by her eternal presence by his side. Leaving her to settle and tally up the humiliations only once he was already gone.
Even from their earliest moments together, Mary had known that her love for Stanley would never be pure. The differences between them were too vast, and their collective baggage too heavy, to have the sort of relationship she’d dreamed of as a young woman, the kind she’d hoped for with Ed. Yet there had been a cleanliness to her beliefs, that she would do her best to love Stanley in the manner he desired most, and in turn he would take care of her in the ways he best knew how. She would be his wife, and he her husband, just as he had been a husband before, and a father, and a son. Until now, she hadn’t understood that he had no interest in any of those roles—that for Stanley, there was only himself.
At that moment Mary felt closer than she’d ever been to Kate and Linda and Fred, yet she knew at the same time that they were as far away as they ever could be. And that it would stay that way now, because their interests were so opposed.
* * *
The next morning, Mary called Jeylin and Grace. She humbled herself with a mea culpa straightaway, divulging the mortifying details of her betrayal so thoroughly that it was quickly clear to all parties there was no more left to tell. As a result, they were almost gracious. They came over that evening after Stanley was asleep, coordinating their arrival without their husbands, and sat on both sides of her on the couch in the living room, the plaid one she’d always secretly hated. It took mere minutes for her to break down and cry.
“What’s important now is that you make sure you really have the house,” Jeylin said, not bothering to mask the triumph in her voice. “Are you sure it’s actually paid off? Because now you know you can’t trust what he says. And what about Stanley’s children? Maybe they will fight for the house, once they know he has nothing more.”
Mary nodded. “I saw the statement. Stanley’s friend, Shirley Chang, she said she would make sure it goes to me. She’s the one who helped with the mortgage.”
“Then we figure out what you do next,” Jeylin said. “The house—can you pay for it alone? Do you know about property tax, all those costs? Otherwise you’ll have to sell it, move somewhere smaller. An apartment. Many women in your situation do this.”
“Remember Fang Wu, our old manager at China Garden?” Grace chimed in. “He is part owner now. I’m sure he would hire you back.”
“I don’t know. What would I do? Hostess again, or serve food? Stanley used to go there; his friends would see me. . . .”
“Is that so bad?” Jeylin cut in sharply. “Nine years ago you were there. What have you done since that makes you think you are too good?”
Slept each night in a million-dollar house that would soon be hers; gone on six cruises, three trips to China, and two to Europe. Stood next to Stanley as he paid $5,000 for a jade amulet in Beijing, $7,000 for a rug in Istanbul, and another $10,000 for a custom-designed furniture suite in Guangzhou. Gone to dinner with multimillionaires who lived in the most expensive cities in one of the most expensive states of the richest country in the world. Played mah jong with them, laughing with their wives as their husbands secretly eyed her. Had the wealthiest of them all, Shirley Chang, who lived in a vast mansion filled with golden objects, call her a friend.
Her sisters meant well, Mary decided. But they no longer played on the same level; she had evolved past them. She knew now the truth that at first had been so frightening, that success in America was less about what you earned than your particular luck on the day you decided to take it for yourself.
She would manage things on her own.
Stanley had to have something left over, after the house. The documents upstairs seemed to indicate as much—Stanley had been like a squirrel, hoarding morsels of cash and treasure in many different pockets. There had to be accounts left over, safety deposit boxes. Money he had stashed for a rainy day. After he was gone, why shouldn’t it all be hers?
The morning Mary launched her charm offensive, Stanley responded to her homemade custard bun by slowly eating two bites and then, a few hours later, defecating his pants. They’d started to use diapers overnight, because she could no longer stand waking up to the sound of his electronic bell—navigating downstairs numb with sleep, helping him squat, all while the ding ding ding continued incessantly—but during the day, she had still been assisting him with the toilet. He’d generally been able to hold his bowel movements until she arrived, though he never waited more than a few minutes. Mary didn’t like diapers—one of the many benefits of childlessness was never having performed all the degrading tasks, the casual intimacy of changing someone’s shit daily over a period of years. So she left Stanley in his regular underwear, except on the days the palliative care nurses were due to visit.
A system that worked until the day he pooped himself.
The smell was overwhelming. The putrid odor assaulted her as soon as she walked into the kitchen, and she’d had to drop the special vegetarian rolls she was preparing to bring to temple later to rush and clean both Stanley and the sheets. She propped an arm under his torso, lifting him slowly from the mattress; even though Stanley was lighter every day, he still weighed more than her, and Mary struggled to keep his rear away from her clothes, as she could see the stain spreading on the back of his soft pajama pants. Eventually she got him upright and motioned for him to grip his walker, a request he refused.
“Stanley,” she hissed. “You need to hold on! I can’t wipe well enough otherwise.” He didn’t respond but eventually put his hands on the walker for support while she cleaned up. His pants had been beyond repair—she’d tied them in a plastic grocery bag and thrown them in the garbage—but she’d gone and soaked the sheets in the sink, before returning to soap Stanley and make sure he was clean, moisturizing him in the same manner she imagined you would a little baby. He’d been temperamental during the ordeal, impatiently asking when she’d be finished, but she had tenderly ministered to him as she bit back the urge to cry.
Then, five hours later, it happened again. And twice more the next day.
Stanley was going to die very soon, Mary saw. If not in a week, then several. And now she realized it was too late for him to sign anything else over or fix his past financial mistakes, too late for her to strategize a path to keep the house without working for the next thirty years. That is, if she lived that long, because she was convinced the exhaustion of managing Stanley was aging her exponentially. She had always known that he might deteriorate to this, but she thought the American healthcare system, with its seeming panacea of medications and Medicare, would adjust accordingly. But when she asked the nurses when they would begin daily visits, she was met with frigid silence.
“It’s up to his doctors to determine that,” Paolo, the one who had complimented her earlier, said eventually. “But usually people in pain like this, they want their spouses involved as much as possible. Someone that they love and trust.” And given her a long look, as if reassessing everything he’d previously thought.
So when Deborah, Stanley’s sister, called to announce her imminent arrival, Mary was flooded with relief and thankfulness. It was the afternoon, and she’d been running on five hours’ sleep from the night before as she ran emergency loads of laundry and attempted to fix the TV (Stanley still wanted his programs on all the time, in the background). Deborah had always been friendly with her and vocal in her opinions on Stanley’s children, whom she found to be weak and rude. And so Mary had sobbed upon hearing that familiar sympathetic voice, crying out all her fright and frustrations: Stanley’s health and her fatigue; the will; what would happen to her, after it was all over.
“It will be okay.” Deborah’s voice poured through the phone like a smooth tonic. “I’ll talk to Stanley. Believe me, everyone thinks these things. I’m thinking them all the time. About my own husband and definitely his mother. And they aren’t even sick!”
And that had made her laugh so much that in a moment of weakness Mary confided to Deborah her deepest, ugliest truth: that she had brought Stanley home so he could die in peace, but that now she wished for nothing more than to move him out, away to a nursing home. Which she knew was a possibility, because she’d studied the hospice materials carefully, painstakingly translating every unfamiliar word, and she also knew that by moving Stanley she might be able to preserve more capital in the house, because she herself wouldn’t want to buy a home in which someone had died. Because she might have to sell the house, she said, to make ends meet when Stanley was gone. And Deborah had murmured some more and told her not to feel bad, it was perfectly understandable, she was being so brave. And Mary had fallen asleep that night for the first time in weeks with calm in her heart.
And then that fucking double-talking witch had gone and called Shirley Chang, and the two had conspired and called Stanley’s children, and all the times Mary had sat next to Shirley at dinner, the volumes of Chinese DVD sets she’d searched for and tracked down for her, the massage therapy she’d provided her wrinkly old back on that one cruise to Mexico when she’d had spasms—all of that meant nothing. Because Deborah and Shirley were of one world and Mary another, and she understood then that even if she had it all, everything that had been promised, she would still never be one of them.
Still, she almost succeeded. The hospice care worker had already been at the house, literally handing over the paperwork to begin the move, which they called transitions. Cindy Ziegler, a white woman in her fifties with orange lipstick on her teeth, who, unlike Paolo, had been wholly understanding, assuring Mary that a nursing home was the choice many loving but ultimately struggling families opted for.
“We had someone move his wife into one of our properties just this Tuesday,” Cindy said. “The doctors said only weeks left, but the husband couldn’t take it anymore. Been married for more than forty years, that one.”
Mary had bristled when she heard the part about forty years. Cindy had seemingly sussed her out as a second wife as soon as she’d arrived, inquiring if she and Stanley had been married long; when she answered nine years, Cindy had nodded satisfactorily to herself, as if confirming a theory. “Probably married to the first a long time, huh?” she said. “At this age, I’d guess maybe around thirty years? And then he met you and got to have some real fun. Sorry if I sound flippant, just like to inject some levity into these situations. Most families appreciate it.”
Mary had just laughed, ha-ha, I’m not so good at English and don’t understand. Inside, she had fumed. As if her years with Stanley and Linda’s had been the same. As if Linda could have ever served nine years of this tenure—cooking, cleaning, massaging, flattering, pleasing without end. Didn’t anyone ever think of that? The variable difficulty of time spent in a marriage? But she’d kept silent and smiled, and Cindy dimpled back in understanding response, her expression saying that she sympathized with it all. That she understood that Mary, too, was deserving of relief.
Mary had been that close, dreaming of the respite to come, when Fred heaved open the door with Deborah and her husband and her ancient mother-in-law close behind. And then the shouting had begun.