Shelter (32 page)

“Oh.” He watches the man buckle his belt again, relieved that he isn't coming on to him. Kyung actually enjoyed their conversation, the relative ease of it. It would have disappointed him if it ended with some sort of awkward proposition in the parking lot.

“Any chance you'd let me bum one of those?” the man asks, pointing at the cigarettes in Kyung's shirt pocket.

“Okay, sure.” He unwraps the pack and hands him one, not certain if he should stay and smoke with him. He never quite learned the etiquette of smokers, having picked up the habit for a brief period in med school and only starting back up today. Despite smoking a full pack in the car, Kyung still doesn't know how to hold the cigarette correctly; it feels like an awkward sixth finger that gets in the way. He studies the man for a second as he takes a drag, and then lights one for himself.

“Jesus, these are awful.”

“You mean the brand?”

“No. Cigarettes in general,” the man says, even though he's smiling. “I quit buying them years ago. Doctor's orders. Only time I have one now is if I meet a friendly stranger on the road. It's kind of a love–hate thing.”

Kyung has never heard anyone describe him as “friendly” before. What little effort he made to meet new friends or keep up with his old ones ended when he began dating Gillian. He was content to live in their little cocoon, and after the baby, she was too. From time to time, they went to a party hosted by one of his colleagues from school, but they usually arrived late and left early, citing Ethan as the excuse on both ends. Marriage made them both lazy this way. It was easier to be with someone predictable than to invest the time in figuring out someone new.

“So what's in L.A.?” the man asks. “You got a job there or something?”

“Yes,” he says. “I'm a doctor.”

“A doctor who smokes—I've never seen that before. What kind of medicine you practice?”

“Radiology.”

The fictions keep spilling from his mouth, an alternate reality in which he undoes the choices of his past and imagines what might have been. It doesn't feel like lying so much as wishing.

“Do you go to L.A. a lot?” Kyung asks.

“I usually head out there about two or three times a year. Seems like a pretty nice city if you don't mind the traffic.”

“Any place you'd recommend for a newcomer?”

“Well”—the man takes a thoughtful drag on his cigarette— “the Getty, if you've never been there before. I'm not much for the art, but the building's something worth seeing. They have these big plazas and gardens, and you can stand outside as long as you want and look out over the whole city.” He takes another drag, blowing plumes of smoke through his nose. “I've only been there that one time, but if you catch it on the right day when the smog isn't too thick, you don't need to see it twice.”

Kyung never would have guessed that this man, who looks like such a particular type, would recommend a museum. “You don't go to bars when you're on the road?”

The man's laugh turns into a phlegmy cough. “That's a young man's game, prowling around town. I'm long past those years now. Me, I'm just happy to get a clean room and a hot breakfast the next morning.”

At thirty-six, Kyung wonders if he's even a young man anymore, if he has the energy or will to do what it takes to live differently. Moving somewhere, finding a job, making some friends—all of it would require him to try. It's been so long since he tried to do anything, but it doesn't make sense to change his geography and not change everything else.

“I know you're probably in a hurry to get going,” the man says, “but you're barely fifteen minutes away from a real good view of Lake Erie.” He crushes what's left of his cigarette under his shoe. “You should head out there and take a drive on the shoreline before leaving town. The sun's coming up soon. It'll probably be the prettiest thing you see from here to California.”

“Thank you,” Kyung says. He means these words sincerely, almost with regret. He's embarrassed by how quickly he formed his first impression, and how wrong he was from the start.

By the time he pulls over at an empty lakeside picnic area, the sun appears whole just above the horizon. Bright pink, purple, and orange swaths of color surround it, the entire scene mirrored in Lake Erie below. The man, whose name Kyung wishes he'd learned, was wrong about the view. It's not the most beautiful thing he'll see on his drive. It's probably the most beautiful thing he's seen, ever. Unlike the pale blue Caribbean beaches he once admired, nothing about this landscape is calm or serene. It looks like the sky is on fire, setting the lake and all the trees ablaze with it. Kyung gets out of his car and sits on top of a splintered wood picnic table, lighting a cigarette as he stares at the violent display of color. The haze he couldn't see through earlier has settled into a whispery fog, floating above the lake like a legion of ghosts. He takes a photo, moving his phone up and down to change the angle and light. The tiny lens doesn't do the scene much justice, but the last of his twenty-odd shots turns out to be decent. Not quite vivid or true, but clear enough to help him remember that he was here one day.

The clock on his phone reads 5:05, which hardly seems right to him. He doesn't know how many hours he's been awake. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? He can barely summon the math to do a simple calculation anymore. It occurs to him that Ethan is probably waking up right now, ready for his breakfast and morning dose of TV. When he opens the bedroom door, only Gillian will be there, and Kyung wonders if he'll understand what this means. He drops his lit cigarette on the grass, sick with the thought of his son. He tried so hard not to think about him during the drive, but the exhaustion is finally chipping away at his resolve. The only thing Ethan had ever done was arrive in this world needing him, and the greatest failure of Kyung's life, the one he felt daily, was not knowing how to respond. The part of him that wanted to be a good father was constantly at odds with the part that didn't have one, leaving him with only two defaults as a parent—correcting Ethan or keeping him at a careful distance. Although his methods often changed from one minute to the next, his intentions were always the same. He wanted his son to turn out so much better than he did.

This person Kyung imagines running off to be—this more open, more willing, more expansive version of himself—this is who he should have been for Ethan all along. Not the stern disciplinarian too quick to correct every perceived step in the wrong direction, or the absentee father so convinced that mere proximity would damage him for good. He gravitated toward one extreme or the other, never finding that comfortable place in between.

Kyung removes the cigarettes from his pocket, throwing the pack in a nearby trash can. Whatever California is to him, whatever promise he thought it held, he knows it's over now. It was over before it even began. He takes one last look at the lake and stretches his arms in the air, preparing himself for the long ride home.

*   *   *

Elinor doesn't recognize him when he pulls into the parking lot. She shields her eyes from his headlights and squints, her expression confused and maybe even a bit frightened. Kyung realizes that his timing couldn't have been worse. It looks like she was locking up for the night. Had he arrived a few minutes later, he could have avoided her altogether. He gets out of his car and shakes his legs, which are tight and stiff from the drive. Elinor picks up her bags as he walks toward her, hooking the handles over her arms protectively.

“Hello,” he calls out.

“Hello?”

“It's me, Mae's son. Kyung.”

She looks visibly relieved to hear his name. “Oh. I'm sorry. I couldn't see who pulled in. For a second there, I thought I'd forgotten a meeting or something.…” The closer he gets, the more the pleasant chattiness in her voice begins to fade. “Kyung, are you all right?”

He knows he looks awful. He doesn't even need a mirror to confirm it. He made it back from Erie in just under ten hours, waylaid by a flat on his return. He should have slept while waiting for the auto club to arrive, but all he wanted to do was get home. It's a miracle he's still upright now. He scratches his itchy, oily head, catching a whiff of his body odor as he lifts his arm. He stops a safe distance away, hoping she won't notice the smell.

“I just drove back from Pennsylvania. I was there—for work.” He feels the need to mention work, if only to assure her there's a reason for his appearance, but the lie doesn't sound convincing enough. “So, is this your studio?”

“Yes, this is it.”

The building is a two-story brick box with a shiny black door and a sign beside it that reads
HAMEL INTERIOR DESIGN
. It's not quite the successful-looking business that Elinor made it out to be at the reception, but it's clearly a real business—not something she's running out of an extra bedroom in her spare time.

“May I?” He gestures at the bags in her arms, aware that it might help to act like a gentleman since he doesn't look like one.

“Yes, thank you. I'd appreciate that.”

She hands him the bags, which are achingly heavy. All three contain thick plastic binders and fabric samples held together by metal rings. He looks at her uncertainly, his shoulders curling forward with the weight.

“They're design folios,” she explains. “Homework for a meeting tomorrow. My car's just over here.”

He deposits the bags in her backseat, catching a glimpse of himself in the passenger window as he shuts the door. The skin under his eyes is discolored and inflamed. It looks like he recently lost a fight.

“I didn't expect to see you here so soon, Kyung. I thought you might need more time.” She smiles at him hesitantly. “It's kind of late to start packing, don't you think?”

He's not sure how to tell her that he has no intention of packing at all.

“And you do know you're eventually going to need a truck, right? You won't make much of a dent taking things in that—that car.”

There's a vaguely distasteful sound in her voice, and he thinks he understands why. The flashy yellow Mustang that looked so slick in the rental lot just looks sad and abused now, streaked with dirt and dead bugs.

“Actually, I wasn't planning to move out today so much as move in.”

“Move in—here?”

“Yes, if you wouldn't mind.”

Elinor seems confused again. Kyung has been alone with his thoughts for too long. It takes him a few moments to realize that she needs more explanation to understand the things he decided in the car.

“You said my mother paid the rent through the end of the year, so I thought I'd make use of the place. I shouldn't be here for more than a month or two.”

“But why? What are you going to
use
it for?”

Her suspiciousness doesn't offend him; he'd distrust someone in his condition too. She probably thinks he'll wreck the apartment and maybe even the studio beneath it.

“My wife and I, we've been having some problems because of all the things that happened this summer, so I need a place to stay until I find one of my own. I thought, maybe since my mother paid through December, I could just crash here.” He immediately regrets his use of the word “crash,” which he worries implies destruction. “I'd like to be close enough to see my son while I look for an apartment in Marlboro.…”

Elinor seems embarrassed for him. “I'm sorry to hear you've been having troubles lately. Your mother wouldn't have wanted that for you. Of course you're welcome to stay for a while. Actually, why don't you come inside for a few minutes? Let me show you around.”

Kyung thinks he might pass out right there in the parking lot. He'd prefer to forgo the escorted tour, but it doesn't feel safe to decline. Marital difficulty seems to be a topic that inspires some sympathy in Elinor, who isn't wearing a wedding ring on her finger. He assumes she'll lead him up the metal staircase to the apartment on the second floor, but she unlocks the door to her studio instead.

“This is where your mother would have worked,” she says, flicking on the lights.

He braces himself for the cold shock of fluorescents, but instead, the room is awash with the amber glow of oversized light bulbs. Dozens of them dangle from simple black cords across the length of the room, their thin orange filaments suspended in midair. Kyung has never been in a design studio before. He doesn't know if they're all supposed to look this way, or if the arrangement is unique to Elinor's. There are four distinct areas that resemble small living rooms, each with a sofa, two armchairs, a coffee table, and stacks of binders similar to the ones he carried to her car. The color schemes are all in the same family of off-white or beige, but subtle differences set one area apart from the next—the pattern of a rug, the style of furniture, the lamps and decorations.

“This would have been Mae's area for meeting clients.”

She sweeps her hand over the space with a flourish, seemingly happy to show it off. He tries to imagine his mother sitting there among the throw pillows, talking with people she didn't know, selling them things they probably didn't need.

“So … what do you think?”

Elinor leans against a sofa, which looks like the one he slept on at the beach house. He takes in his surroundings as appreciatively as he can, trying not to think about the last time he slept.

“You don't have desks?”

“No, not anymore. Actually, most of this setup is new. It was your mother's idea. She said she always liked sitting with me in her house, looking at things together instead of sitting across from each other at a table. It's much more personal and relaxed this way, don't you think? Like chatting about design with a friend instead of someone you're doing business with.”