Shelter (17 page)

“I haven't seen your son in a while. He's getting so big,” Molly says. “I bet he'll want a little brother or sister soon.”

She adds this wistfully, making no attempt to conceal what his parents have speculated about for years—that Molly and the reverend can't have children of their own. Kyung assumes they're right. People like the Sungs are all about God and family. They don't wait to get pregnant. For them, there's no good or bad time. He wonders what Molly would say if he told her he doesn't want a second child, that there are days when having one seems like the hardest thing he'll ever do.

“Ethan hasn't said anything about siblings yet. A dog, maybe.”

Molly begins to laugh, but quickly cups a hand over her mouth. “I'm so sorry.”

“For laughing?”

“Now's not the time for it.”

“Better to laugh than cry, right?”

He's playing a part for her, badly, and the awkwardness of his attempt makes him overheat. He can feel the beads of sweat collecting above his lip, suspended in stubble that he wishes he'd shaved.

“Some of the ladies have offered to stop by and bring you food, or help around the house. Your wife shouldn't have to take care of so many people on her own.”

She doesn't, he thinks. That's what's so odd about the people from his parents' church, especially the ones his own age. Most of them grew up in the States or came here from Korea when they were young. But the way they behave around each other—it's as if they never left. The women are all subservient to their husbands and fathers and in-laws, which always seems so sad to him. Everywhere he looks, a woman is serving a plate of food to someone else. The daughters-in-law are the easiest to spot, the way they seem so eager to please. Kyung has been attracted to Korean girls before, but he never wanted to marry one, not even Molly. He didn't want to subject someone he loved, or even vaguely liked, to the life of a foot servant like his mother. A few times a year, Gillian plays the part to keep his parents content, but a Korean wife would never be able to pick and choose when to be Korean.

The reverend returns from the kitchen and threads his arm around Molly's thin waist. “Would you like my wife to make you a plate?”

He shakes his head. The reverend seems to understand, just as Molly does, that Kyung finds her attractive. On the rare occasions when they see each other, the reverend always inserts himself into their conversations, laying his hands on her in a gentle, chaste way that signals his ownership. Molly appears unfazed by it, but Kyung can't stand to look at the mismatch of them. Despite the plainness of their clothes and the diamond-crusted crucifixes they wear—a pendant for her and a lapel pin for him—he still remembers the person she used to be. Sometimes he daydreams about converting her back to her former state, if only for an afternoon.

“I promise we won't stay long,” the reverend says. “We just wanted to give everyone a chance to see your parents and get something to eat. Then we'll be out of the way.”

“And the ladies and I will leave your house exactly as we found it.”

Every female in the church, young and old alike, is referred to as one of “the ladies.” Mae talks about them often, how the ladies are hosting a flower show, or the ladies are having a prayer meeting. Kyung has never seen a group of women spend so much time together and yet know so little about each other. He doesn't like the idea of the ladies cleaning up his house, but there's no use trying to resist.

“Excuse me.” He glances over at Ethan, who seems perfectly happy where he is. “I need to get some air.”

“Are you sure I can't make you a plate?” Molly asks.

The reverend is about to encourage Kyung to stay and eat, but he seems to think better of it. “Let him go, Molly. We've bothered him long enough.”

In the backyard, Kyung drags a folding lawn chair under a tall window, hopeful that no one will notice him sitting outside. He leans his head against the hot metal frame and looks for the sun, which is almost hidden behind the house. The angle of it in the sky suggests that it's only five or six, leaving so many hours before he can climb into bed and not be obligated to anyone. A gust of wind sweeps through the trees, scattering dead leaves and dried-out blossoms through the grass. He can't remember the last time he raked or weeded, and it shows. The layer of mulch covering the flower beds is thin in some places and completely bare in others. Weeds are sprouting their green and yellow heads through every crevice, choking out the perennials that should be blooming by now.

Gillian rounds the corner, carrying a plate piled high with food. “I've been looking for you. I figured you were hiding somewhere.” She sits cross-legged on a shady patch of grass and kicks off her sandals, revealing the undersides of her feet, which are gray with dirt. “You ran away before I could ask how it went at the house. Was your mom okay there?”

He doesn't consider telling her about the slap, not for a second. She'd never let Mae near Ethan again. “She was all business, actually. She just wanted to clean up and figure out what to send the insurance company.”

“If that's what she wants to do right now, I guess you should probably let her.” She offers him a dumpling from her plate, which he declines.

“The hospital called while you were gone. They're releasing Marina this week. You remember what we agreed to, right?” She leans her face toward his, searching for a reaction, but he's too tired to have the same argument twice.

“Yes, I remember.”

The wind picks up again, pushing the clothesline around in a creaky circle. Two car doors slam shut in front of the house, one after another, but Kyung can't tell if the occupants are coming or going.

“You want to sit in this chair?” he asks.

“No, I'm fine here.”

She stretches her legs out on the dandelion-covered grass, a shady patch where they once planned to build a deck. Gillian had never lived anywhere with a deck before, and he liked the thought of sitting outside with her after dinner, staring at the sun disappearing just beyond the green wall of trees. It was the ideal, idyllic image of what their marriage was going to be, but that image seems so dusty now, like an old photograph that neither of them has looked at in a while.

“So, Kyung”—she hesitates—“that thing with Lentz and the sandwiches today—that was really disturbing.”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to—”

“There's a lot we haven't been talking about. We probably should at some point.”

“Like what?”

“Like how you're feeling about all of this.”

Kyung shrugs, staring at the field of wildflowers and grass. He hasn't set foot in the backyard since the day Mae turned up, which seems like another lifetime ago.

“I'm fine.”

“You know that's not really an answer, don't you? ‘Good,' ‘fine,' ‘okay'—they're just words, not feelings. I'm asking you how you
feel.
”

Gillian's response seems practiced, as if she's been waiting to have this conversation for a while. This isn't the way they usually talk to each other, and he resents the expectation of change at a time when everything has already changed enough. Kyung has no idea what he's feeling because it's never the same from one minute to the next. He's angry with his parents and sad for them. He hopes they'll get through this for their sake and worries for himself that they won't. He knows Mae deserves his pity now more than ever, but he's tired of handicapping her, giving her so many excuses for being a bad mother. Everything he feels seems so contrary or conflicting, it all cancels each other out.

“You're not licensed yet, Gillian.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don't want to be treated like your patient.”

Another set of car doors slams shut, but this time, Kyung distinctly hears voices approaching his house, not leaving it.

“That's not what I'm trying to do. I'm just worried. And I'm sorry to say this, but I think I have a right to wonder what you're not telling me.” She shoos a mosquito hovering too close to her face. “Besides, it's not such a hard question.”

“If it's so easy, then you answer it. How do
you
feel right now?”

Gillian puts her plate on the ground, pausing as she hugs her knees to her chest. “I feel guilty, Kyung.”

“What do you have to feel guilty about?”

“It's actually been kind of nice having your dad around. It's almost as if we have a nanny now, the way he's always looking out for Ethan. You know they finished the bike this afternoon while you and your mom were cleaning? And I've gotten so much reading done since he's been here.” She stretches out her hand, showing off freshly polished nails, done up in a glittery shade of peach. “This probably sounds stupid, but how long has it been since I had time to give myself a manicure? Or didn't have to worry about bouncing a check?” She shakes her head. “I don't know. All this time we've been together, you had me thinking your dad was such a terrible person, and I'm not saying he wasn't when you were little, but I wonder if he's trying to make up for it in some way.”

He's glad, for her sake, that Jin's presence hasn't been the nightmare he assumed it would be. But he bristles at the thought of what Gillian might be saying, that Jin is a better father and provider than he is.

“You have no idea how we used to live. There's nothing he can do to make up for that.”

Gillian picks up a dumpling, pinching the greasy ball between her fingertips. He watches it slide down the curve of her throat in two labored swallows. She's deciding whether or not to continue the conversation. He can tell by the way she chews much longer and slower than she needs to.

“I think you have to let people change, Kyung. I think your father probably regrets the way he was with you. Maybe that's why he's being so sweet to Ethan now.”

“People can't change that much.”

“Some people can.”

He rips out a clump of grass and chucks it toward the field. “You're only saying that because you didn't know what he was like before. All you see is this nice old man who wants to spend time with his grandson, but he's still the same person he used to be. Both of them are.”

“You don't necessarily know that.”

“They're my parents. I know them better than anyone. Haven't you even noticed the way they're just sitting in there, shaking hands and making conversation as if nothing happened to them?”

“Maybe being around their friends makes them feel better.”

He rips out another clump and aims for the clothesline, but comes up short. “This is what they do, Gillian. What they've always done. They're good at putting on a show for people, but it doesn't mean they're different inside.”

“Your dad, though, he's been so helpful these past few days. Isn't it possible that this experience changed him? I mean, it's not unusual for victims of trauma to—”

“Stop saying things like that,” he shouts. “Stop talking like you know anything about them.”

A car pulls up to the house with its radio blaring. Gillian turns toward the noise, keeping her face angled away from him after the song ends. He worries that he's ruining her, ruining the part of her that wants so badly to have faith in people, but this isn't a subject they can afford to disagree about. He needs her on his side.

“When I was six, my parents got into an argument about something. I'm not sure how it started anymore—it never took much back then—but he went after her with a belt right before we had to leave for an open house at school. So there I was, sitting between them while they're talking to my teachers, and my dad's asking all these questions about my grades, while my mom's sitting perfectly straight, her hair and makeup just right even though her back was covered with gashes. And I remember thinking, even before I really knew the meaning of the word, that my family was just so fucked, and I'd never be able to explain that, because who would believe me? We were all too good at pretending to be normal, like the world would end if anyone realized who we actually were inside—”

He stops when he notices the look on Gillian's face. She's devastated—by him, or for him, or maybe both. He can't remember where he left off, or what more he planned to say. All he knows is that he made a mistake. The story implicates him too.

“Is that what you do with Ethan and me?” she asks.

Gillian knows him better than anyone; she's loved him better than anyone. But even she can't see who he really is. Kyung's face reddens; his palms and armpits go damp. Every part of his body begins to betray him, sending signals he can't hide. The only answer that she wants and deserves to hear is no. The word is right there, a single syllable on the tip of his tongue. All he has to do is say it, but the coupling between his mouth and brain suddenly seems disconnected. He pries his legs off the plastic straps of the chair, crossing and uncrossing them again as time slowly runs out. The longer he doesn't respond, the less truthful he'll sound when he does, but something inside him feels broken now, worn out with overuse. Gillian waits for him to deny it until she can't wait anymore. Then she dusts herself off and walks toward the house, taking in the silence like the reply that it is.

 

FIVE

Marina's release from the hospital brings the math into sharp focus. Kyung's three-bedroom house is too small to accommodate five adults and one child. There's nowhere to put her except on the living room couch, where she sits and sleeps in plain, uncomfortable sight. Although Gillian won't admit it, he thinks she regrets taking her in. Marina's presence isn't good for the boy; it isn't good for anyone. One look at her is an instant, unwanted reminder of the attack, so they all scramble to leave the house in the morning, to be somewhere she isn't. Jin takes Ethan to the park or zoo, while Kyung and Mae return to her house to clean. Gillian offers to divide her time between them, but neither pair is eager for her company, so she goes to the library or coffee shop, unaware of the slight and grateful for the time to read.