A Quiet Neighbor (37 page)

“Sorry, if I’d known it bothered you, I
wouldn’t have—”

“Honey, I’m kidding.” Cackling, he raises a
hand letting me know he’s okay. “My friend here likes them so I’m fine with
them, too.”

“Your friend visit often? I haven’t seen anyone
come through here—” I bite my lip, ashamed. It’s not like I visit around the
clock; his friend could visit at a different time.

He shakes his head, grimacing. “No, no.” He
waves a feeble hand in my direction. “My friend is that man right there. The
Sarge.”

I smile, wistful. “Oh, Gramps.”

“Yeah. He’s a great listener. Never complains
when I talk his ear off.”

“Yes, Gramps is a wonderful listener.” A
trailing tear escapes the corner of my eye and I brush it away with the back of
my hand. I stand and walk slowly to the side of the man’s bed. I take his
exposed hand in mine and introduce myself. “Hi, I don’t believe we’ve formally
been introduced. I’m Kylie.”

He looks at me and his feeble cheeks twitch.

“You can call me Joe.”

“What’s your story, Joe?”

“How long you got?”

“For you? Forever.”

I watch as his cheeks twitch again. “Great
answer.”

For the next few minutes, I listen to him
rattle on about his wife, the economy, the President, and the drab furniture.
His speech is fragmented, but I get the gist. His thoughts on life are amusing
and I enjoy listening to his qualms, quirks, and humorous anecdotes. There is a
soft hitch in his voice whenever he mentions his loving wife, Betsy. I have a
soft spot for true love, the kind that ages like a fine wine. Like what
Halmoni
and Gramps shared.

My smile fades when Joe’s body starts shaking
with brutal force; his eyelids blink rapidly and a white foam oozes from the
corners of his mouth. Quickly I push the panic button beside his bed, a moment
before the beeping machine takes on a life of its own.

Connie comes running almost immediately, with a
brown stain dripping down the front of her green, ill-fitting scrubs (her
caramel macchiato drink without the caramel, the most likely culprit). Flushed
from the sudden sprint down the hall, Connie pushes past me and checks the litany
of monitors and tubes when two men and two women in matching scrubs surround
the bed. I move out of their way.

Shouting off orders, I watch in horror as one
of the men grabs the two paddles and presses them to Joe’s writhing chest. In
huge, whopping movements, Joe seems to soar into the air and collapse in
defeat. The monitor drones a steady, high-pitched tone. After a few more tries,
the paddles drop to the floor. The room is still. The same drone, constant and
eerie, drills in the background.

Connie calls out the time, “Time of death.
Fifteen forty-two.” In shock, I stand aside; the nurses scurry about with
somber faces, unhooking the tubes and needles from Joe’s limp and silent body.
In minutes, the bags of saline and blood are removed, the urine bag discarded,
the machines unplugged and carted out of the room to be used in another.

Death is ugly. No matter how it comes about,
natural or forced, from illness, age, or untimely accident. And Joe’s death is
no exception. His weathered face hangs lax, lips parted open in a haunting O
that reminds me of that Edvard Munch painting I saw once at the art museum.
Blood cools and congeals beneath necrotic skin.

Connie unlocks the wheels of the steel-framed
bed so she can roll Joe out of the room to make way for another patient. Just
before she covers Joe for the final time, I catch the glint from Joe’s neck.
Reaching out, I grip the side of the bed, sending Connie reeling backward. The
nurses and residents in the room are alarmed.

“Please, give me a moment.” I look up at
Connie. She seems to have spent the most time with Joe and thus would be the
most understanding. I am right.

Hesitating, Connie frowns and cocks her head.
“Are you family? I thought you were—”

“No, I’m not family. But, I’ve gotten to know
him from my visits and we became friends.”

Connie chews on her bottom lip and then sighs.
“I’ll give you ten minutes.”

I thank her and wait patiently for the rest of
the disgruntled staff to file out of the room. When the door clicks closed
behind the last to exit, I immediately grab the gold chain that hangs around
his lifeless neck and shudder.

Resting in my cold fingers is a clunky, gold
class ring with a peridot center hanging on a simple gold chain. My frantic
mind races back to Loral’s lifeless figure, positioned around a garden of
dancing poppies. How peaceful she looked. How it looked as though someone
showed her tenderness in death. Or regret.

In utter disbelief, I turn over the ring
slowly, noting the engraving
MICHAEL
on one
side with a quarterback emblazoned below,
2012
and the scales of criminal
justice on the other side.

Slowly, I pick up the man’s chart. At the top,
printed in clear and legible script is the patient’s name: Neil Joseph Wilcox.

“I’ll be damned.”

As I reach for my cell, Gramps’ rigid fingers
twitch.

Author’s
Note:

In 2011, my husband and I decided to start taking long
walks around our neighborhood. We’d go after work and it was our time to unwind
and just connect and reflect. Sixty to ninety minutes was a long time to
discuss anything and everything.

A few of the topics we hit on were: our goals, outlook
on our future, what we wanted to change or improve on, the reason our day was
stressful, what we should have for dinner, why people are so disrespectful, why
does the City allow the weeds along our sidewalk to overgrow so we can’t use
it, and so on. There was always a never-ending stream of topics to choose from
and we discussed them all.

We also started seeing the same people out and about—we
all are prone to abiding by our rituals—and I couldn’t help but think of a
story, this story. One question kept popping in my head:
How well do we know
our neighbors?

Harper Kim
currently
lives in sunny San Diego, dreaming, writing, and constantly thinking.