I sat there for a while before I finally convinced myself to pick up the phone. Willson had done me a huge favor, and I hadn't figured out how to repay him, but I couldn't leave without expressing my gratitude.
"Hello, Willson, it's me. Are you busy? If you are, I'll call back later." I heard some complicated sounds in the background on the other end, and instinctively tried to hang up.
"Li Hao?! No, I'm not busy! What is it?"
"Oh, I wanted to say thank you."
"Thank me? No, I'm the one who should be thanking you. You have no idea how happy I was to receive your call."
This world is truly strange. Back then, I would always struggle with the thought of calling him, afraid he might be unavailable or even cause him trouble. If his response was gentle, my anxiety would subside; if there was even a hint of impatience, I would quickly hang up, filled with dread, wondering if the call had caused him any distress. I believe every self-proclaimed "third party" who has been struck by love can relate to this anxious feeling. But now, I call him with a calm and collected heart, and I can hear his excitement through the phone line. Relationships between men and women in love always seem like a seesaw; balance is an ideal that can never be achieved.
Just then, my phone rang, as if to join the commotion. I saw it was a call from home, so I told Willson, "Hold the line and wait for me, I need to take this call." It was my brother. After a few words, my head went blank, and I couldn't hear the rest. Only a few words tangled together, unable to form a complete sentence: Dad, stomach cancer, late stage…
I booked my flight as quickly as possible, handed over my work to my colleagues, and most importantly, transferred all my savings to two separate bank cards, just in case one card became demagnetized and the other became a backup. I knew very well that when illness strikes, the most effective treatment is only one thing: money.
While doing all this, I was as calm as if I were arranging a business negotiation. I couldn't afford to be flustered at such a moment. I am the daughter my father is proud of, so I can only do things that will keep him proud.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty-Five
I don't know why, but I didn't feel sad at all along the way. I was just thinking about whether I could get in touch with any connections to help my dad find out more details about his condition or arrange for him to be transferred to another hospital, and also how long the money I had would last.
So when I got off the plane and saw my sister-in-law waiting for me in the autumn wind with red and swollen eyes, I couldn't help but feel guilty. But after thinking about it carefully, I really couldn't bring myself to be sad. My dad isn't incurable yet, so why should I be sad? I should focus on finding the best treatment plan.
But when I pushed open the ward door, I learned why my sister-in-law was sad. My father, who is 1.73 meters tall, was so thin that he was skin and bones. He was lying on the white hospital bed, and his cheeks were sunken into the shape of bones. His hair had been shaved off because of chemotherapy, and he looked very strange. His complexion was a grayish-yellow color that I had never seen before, but his eyes were still bright.
I took a deep breath and actually managed to call out "Dad" with a smile, without even the slightest tremor in my voice. My sister-in-law glanced at me, her expression quite complicated. I ignored her, walked over, and took Dad's hand. It was warm, and I felt a little relieved.
"My sister's back too? Good, good, good." Dad said "good" three times in a row, grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard, but only for a moment, then he didn't have the strength to hold it any tighter.
Seeing a large bag of milky white stuff on the IV stand by the bed, I turned to look at my sister-in-law. She explained, "After Dad had a total gastrectomy, he relies on this IV fluid for a lot of nutrition."
"Oh, you're on an IV drip? You're quite corrupt, aren't you? When you joined the Party, you insisted that your class status was just a low-level employee. Even landlords in the past could only eat a couple of bowls of lotus seed soup when they were sick, but you, a low-level employee, are on an IV drip for the slightest illness." I said indignantly.
"Get out of here. You can't stand seeing poor people eat their fill." My dad yelled at me to get out while holding my hands tightly. I quickly looked out the window; the leaves of the plane trees were all yellow.
Half an hour later, Mom brought the soup to the hospital. As soon as she saw me in the corridor, she shrugged and burst into tears. I quickly hugged her back, gently patting her. Suddenly, I noticed how thin and small she looked, and couldn't help but mutter a complaint: "Everyone says my short stature is inherited from you, but you always claim to be 1.62 meters tall, stubbornly insisting it's my grandfather's genes. Now you're almost half a head shorter than me!" My sister-in-law, her eyes red, ran off to the side, laughing and hugging my waist. Just as I was about to react, Mom's hand landed squarely on my head with a sharp, unerring slap.
When my brother arrived at the hospital, we went to see the attending physician. According to that legendary, highly skilled doctor, no metastasis was found during the surgery, but diffuse tumors were found in the fundus of his stomach. To be on the safe side, a total gastrectomy was performed, and he has just completed his first round of chemotherapy. Now, the key is to observe the patient's postoperative recovery and resistance to chemotherapy. If everything goes well, the five-year survival rate is 80%.
I listened to every single word, every single one, so carefully and distinctly, afraid that missing even one word would affect my father's lifespan. When I finally heard the 80% survival rate, I let out a long sigh of relief—that made things much easier. For me, a chance of more than 50% was a 100% victory.
Then, in fact, when I actually faced chemotherapy, I began to understand what it meant to feel powerless. My father had severe reactions to chemotherapy; he vomited everything he ate, and every time he started chemotherapy, he would have a high fever, even his finger joints turned black. To make matters worse, he had undergone a total gastrectomy, which imposed many dietary restrictions, and he lost three pounds in just ten days. For a normal person, losing three pounds might not be a big deal, but for my father, who was already just skin and bones, those three pounds were terrifying. And, most importantly, my father began to show strong resistance to chemotherapy and suicidal thoughts. His third chemotherapy session was approaching, but no matter how much I tried to persuade him, he kept insisting on being discharged from the hospital.
Because of the many things happening at work, I started to get anxious. If I couldn't smooth things over here, I wouldn't be able to work with peace of mind. Regardless of my sense of responsibility to the company, at the very least, if I didn't work, there would be no money to support my father's enormous hospitalization and treatment costs. That day, I sat by his bedside, deeply analyzing with him the logical cause and effect: if he didn't undergo chemotherapy, he wouldn't survive; if he didn't survive, my mother would inevitably remarry; and if she remarried, my brother and I would become a burden. Who knew that the old man, listless and with his eyes closed, listened for a long time, finally gritting his teeth and uttering, "Then I'll distribute the money from my little stash to you two siblings these next few days, so your mother won't use it to support gigolos later!"
"Bang!" I couldn't sit still and bumped into the bed frame.
Someone knocked on the door. I stood up and opened it, and before I could react, Willson walked in carrying a large bag with the "Dongfanghong" logo on it.
"Uncle, hello!" He went straight to his father's bedside and bowed respectfully. His father had probably never been treated like this in his life, and was momentarily stunned. After a moment, he quickly sat up and said, "Hello, hello, you are..."
“I am Li Hao’s… good friend.” Willson answered respectfully, still standing. In my memory, he had never been so humble before, no matter what kind of client he was dealing with. I was surprised and a little reluctant to let him go. I quickly handed him a chair: “Sit down and let’s talk.”
To my surprise, Willson didn't even glance at the chair I offered, remaining standing with his head slightly forward. He only glanced at my left wrist, and I instinctively pulled my scarred hand away. My dad also said, "Don't stand while talking, sit down, sit down." Only then did Willson nod to my dad and lean forward slightly to sit down.
I suddenly noticed that Dad seemed quite energetic when he spoke those few words. Before, when he was dividing the money among us, his voice was only slightly louder than usual, but now, after just two sentences, he could be heard clearly by people three meters away! Hey, that's strange. I looked at Dad suspiciously and found that he was staring intently at Willson, who remained respectful, returning Dad's gaze with a very calm look. After about ten seconds, Dad suddenly nodded, "Very good, very good." Willson smiled slightly and nodded his thanks to Dad.
I was completely baffled and had no idea what these two were up to.
"Why are you here?" I couldn't hold back any longer and asked Willson.
“I heard you call that day. I’ve been wanting to come for a while, and since I had a project to discuss here, I thought I’d take the opportunity to come over.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and whispered, "Luckily, I didn't come here specifically for this."
Part Two, Chapter Thirty-Six
I was too complacent. When my mother arrived, her expression of wanting to swallow Willson whole gave me a sense of impending doom.
"You must have work to do, right? Then I won't bother you, go ahead and do your work." I quickly tried to pull Willson away.
"No rush!" Mom and Dad said in unison.
Willson, who was almost at the door, immediately stopped obediently. "Yes, Uncle and Aunt."
"No, he's the general manager, he has a lot on his plate, don't bother him!" I said, noticing my mom secretly wiping the drool from the corner of her mouth.
My parents exchanged a knowing glance, and my mother cleared her throat: "How about this, Mr. Lin, right?"
“You can just call me Ying Shuo,” Willson said politely, and I shuddered.
"Ah, Ying... Ying Shuo, right? If you're busy, go ahead and do your thing. But I wonder if you'd be free to come to my humble abode for dinner tonight?"
I quickly grabbed the bottled water from the bedside table and gulped down a large mouthful to calm myself. I never knew that such a nonsensical chatter could be so startling.
I glanced worriedly in Willson's direction, but he seemed completely oblivious, simply nodding and saying, "Okay, I'll be there on time. But I don't know if I'll be of any trouble? My uncle is still in the hospital, this..." Wait, he's actually being polite?! But that's highly unlikely. Knowing my dad's in the hospital, why did he even say "okay"?!
I went along with it, saying, "Exactly! Look, my dad's in the hospital too, it's a complete mess..."
"No way!" Mom and Dad once again demonstrated the powerful influence of their thirty years of marriage, saying in unison. However, Mom's expression of her desire was even more blatant: "Your uncle can't eat much these days, and the hospital provides him with nutritious meals. It's rare for you to come all this way, how can you not have a meal at home! Not coming to eat is disrespecting us."
I finally managed to get Willson out of the ward, and despite the late autumn weather, I was sweating profusely from the stress.