The Switch

Chapter 3

LANCE

My father is sitting in his wheelchair, staring at the spilled khao tom on the floor. The cooked rice hunches like a melting mound of snow - shallots, lemongrass, ginger, and shredded chicken scattered around. A spoon is lying halfway across the room like a victim of a hit-and-run.

I rush towards him, checking if he was okay. He answers he is, except for his favorite shirt that is now doused in broth. I look in the living room and see my older sister, Lot, drinking her third bottle of Mekhong, a freshly lit cigarette clipped between her fingers.

I return to the kitchen and clean up the mess. “Are you hungry, Pa?”

He nods.

When Mom died two years ago, he suffered from a stroke. He couldn’t move half of his body, while the other half was barely functional.

“Alright. Let me feed you, okay?”

My sister’s rice soup has gone cold. I turn the gas stove on, but the fire doesn’t ignite. I try again, but it refuses to click.

“We’re out of gas,” my father explains.

I pour a serving of the porridge into a bowl, taking a seat next to him. I start telling him about my day and the generous tip I received tonight. I tell him about Zander, Ripped Jeans’ backing vocals and rhythm guitarist. These nights he’s all I talk about, and Pa simply listens.

“I think you should ask for his number,” he suggests. Drool leaks out of the corner of his mouth, and I dab it with a napkin.

My older sister Rafaela passes by, heading out with a scowl.

I do not ask my father what happened. Their relationship has always been shaky, but it became worse after Ma passed away. When I was a year old, Pa left us and eloped with a younger woman. My sister, who was only five, raised me as Ma worked three jobs to make ends meet. Dad returned home eight years later.

We finish dinner and I give him a bath. I gently scrub his back with a coarse sponge.

“It will make your sister very happy once I’m dead,” he says.

“That is not true, Pa.”

I move around and wipe his torso. He looks up, embarrassed by me seeing his nakedness. A month after he got a stroke, he shrunk. He prefers it when I’m the one feeding him. Body fat that persisted despite the slow metabolism of aging finally surrendered. These days even the muscles underneath were atrophied, and he was but a mirage of the stocky, muscular man that left his family when they needed him the most.

“I don’t think Lot will only forgive me once I’m dead,” he confesses. Warm liquid drops onto my arm, his chest heaving.

“That is not true, Pa,” I repeat as I look into his eyes that welled with tears. “Things will get better, okay?”

My father has gotten fragile and thin. Old. And whatever pride he had swirled down the drain long ago the moment he lost control of his body. I cannot harbor bitterness towards him anymore. I wipe his eyes and help him into his clothes. I carry him to his bed, his arms coiled tightly around my neck.

I walk back to the living room after tucking him in. My sister is back with two more bottles of gin and another pack of cigarettes. I sit next to her, reaching for the fan and turning it up a notch. It gurgles like a motorboat, but the cool breeze was a worthwhile trade for the noise.

“He wept while I was giving him a bath,” I tell my sister as I open one bottle. “He’s old, Lot.”

“He was being difficult. More than usual.”

She lights a cigarette and takes a long drag, as if the smoke can take all the weariness away. “Buy gas for the stove.”

I nod. “What happened to our budget for the month?”

“I went to a doctor for a check-up.”

My body freezes, the bottle hanging mid-air. “Are you sick?”

She shakes her head, and I release a breath. “I’m pregnant.”

“Oh.”

She nods, picks a bottle again. I grab her wrist. “Drinking is bad for the baby.”

She wiggles her hand away. “I need it. Just tonight.”

“It’s not safe,” I say, taking the alcohol and the pack of cigarettes away.

She cries suddenly, reaches out a hand and caresses my face. “You’ve grown so well. So much better than me.”

I smile and shake my head. “You raised me. Is the guy I saw the other day the father?”

She nods. “He asked me to run away with him.”

I blink. “What did you say?”

“You need to quit university, Lance. You have to take care of Pa.”

I gape at her, not sure if I heard it right. It’s not just education she’s asking me to quit. My dreams, too.

“You’ll go with him?”

She sniffs. “He used to make parasols and paper umbrellas in Chiang Mai. He wants to take me there. Start over. Start our own family.”

She smiles to herself, eyes locked somewhere far away. “He said it’s a craft village named Bor Sang. They produce hand-painted umbrellas, said he’ll open up a shop and let me design all of them. They even make those miniature umbrellas you put on those cocktails. Once I’ve earned enough, I promise I’ll send some money over.”

She turns to look at me then, the hope and happiness I saw a second ago disappearing instantly. “You’ll let me do that, right, Lance?”

I just stare at her, still not knowing what to say. She’s been taking care of me almost all her life. It’s time that she takes care of herself. I was about to answer when she leans forward and kisses my forehead. Then she stands and tells me to sleep.

When I wake up the next day, she’s gone.

I wanted to be an actor. Ever since I starred in a play in Prathom 6 and earned a standing ovation. The applause was deafening and the lights were blinding as I stood on the stage and bowed. When I entered Mathayom 1, I joined the drama club and took part in as many plays as I could. I received awards. I auditioned for many roles and earned money that helped bring food to the table. Just before I graduated from Mathayom 3, I was scouted by a talent agency. They sponsored my education at the Department of Dramatic Arts in Chulalongkorn University. I juggled it with supporting roles in television series. For a while, a future in acting seemed plausible, until Ma passed away and Pa suffered a stroke. I took on part-time jobs to help my sister with our finances, but it was… tough.

I learned I had wings the first time I wore another person’s skin and convinced everyone it was my own. I’m great with what I do. I have potential. I’ve been told these countless times since then. I loved embodying someone else’s identity because more often than not, they were more interesting than my own. But what’s unfortunate in having wings, I learned, is life forbidding you to soar.

It’s Monday, but the Moon Bar is packed yet again.

Ripped Jeans is playing tonight, and the lead singer, Dylan, is back and owning the stage. He’s got the looks, the charm, the classic rocker truisms. But it’s Zander whom I can’t tear my gaze away from.

They’re on their last set, but Dylan excuses himself, telling the audience he’s got a call he can’t miss. I’m not sure if that’s allowed. I’ve been bartending here for over a year, and only Dylan has the audacity to pull stunts like this. It’s unprofessional and unbecoming, but he gets away with it.

But I can’t complain, really. Zander takes the stage, sitting on a stool as he slung Dylan’s guitar over his shoulder. He clears his throat over the mic, sending a wave of static across the room. Some of the audience covers their ears, but my eyes remain glued. His lips tremble for a moment and I silently root for him. He does this a lot before a performance. Clears his throat, licks his lips, fumbles with the guitar tuners with trembling fingers. Then he strums and makes magic.

“For our last performance, I’m singing a new song that we’re still working on, so this is just a result of us messing around during practice. The working title is All The Roads Lead Back To You. Again, written by my great friend here, Finn. Can we give him a hand?”

The audience applauses. The majority of their fans know Finn composed most of the songs, which is one of the band’s strong points. The lyrics are often obscure, but there’s a heavy hint of romance. Of love unrequited; of loving from afar.

In my opinion, and maybe a biased one, Dylan is the perfect performer of a rock/pop-punk music band. He expresses the frustration, the fire, the manic intensity of Finn’s compositions in a grungy, electric way. This contrasts with Zander’s casual, relaxed, sometimes even lovesick performance. Three times now I have witnessed Dylan’s absence and Zander filling the hole. And to be honest, it feels like a different band altogether. They change their vibe and instrumentations altogether, retreating from the jittery guitars and propulsive drums into a feel-good indie-pop with hearty bass and west coast beat.

I prefer the latter.

The performance ends. They thank the crowd, but Dylan doesn’t show up again. I put on my best smile as the orders start pouring in.

Later, Zander sits by the counter and orders a Mua Tai. He’s looking morose again, and I wish we’re close enough for me to ask why.

“You did great tonight,” I say after he downs a drink.

He stares at me for a moment, as if taking time to process what I just said.

“Thanks,” he replies. His phone lights up, and he frowns as he opens it. I walk away as someone orders a classic rum cocktail. When I glance back at Zander, the frown hasn’t eased.

“Let me guess, clingy girlfriend or a pesky ex?” I ask, resting my arms on the counter and leaning forward to meet his eyes. He’s beautiful. Really.

We stare at each other for what felt like a whole song, then he shakes his head. “Neither. It’s my brother.”

“Any trouble?”

“He wants to watch us perform tomorrow.”

“And that’s not a good thing?”

He shrugs, puts his phone on the counter face down. “I don’t know how to act around him sometimes. Most of the time.”

“I have an older sister…” I start, but a patron asks for an ice refill. When I return to Zander, I smile when I see him looking expectant, as if waiting for the rest of my sentence. “I have a sister, sometimes I think we’re close, but most of the time I can’t figure her out at all.”

He nods. I wait for him to say something else, but nothing comes. I serve a few more customers before I see Zander moving away from his seat. I sprint around the bar and take his hand, slipping a piece of paper inside. He looks around with a panicked look, then quickly takes back his hand.

“My number,” I whisper.

He blinks once, twice. “I’ll text you.”

He turns around quickly and walks to the exit, ears burning red. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.