A Quiet Neighbor (8 page)

Here in the hospital, the patients suffer in
plain sight from intangible ailments that commit their crimes—slowly,
sadistically—with impunity. There is no perpetrator to lock up, no one to pay
retribution for each death. This grayness defies my sense of order and affects
me more deeply than the case files piling on my desk.

The simple fact of the matter is this: the
hospital makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know how to act among the dying. I’d
rather work among the dead.

After three years, my visits have become short
and dutiful. With my busy schedule and discomfort around hospital smells, sounds,
and sights, I can only handle a few minutes a day. The longer Gramps is in the
hospital, the harder it is to make the time to visit. It isn’t like Gramps is
awake and aware of my presence anyway; at least I hope not.

No longer is there anyone to judge or
criticize. No longer is there anyone to confide in and weep with.

My hand drifts aimlessly to clutch the lotus
pendant that hangs dutifully from my neck like a protective shield. A simple
symbol—in Buddhism, the lotus flower represents fortune, purity, enlightenment,
and faith—the pendant is the only object left tying me to my beloved
Halmoni
.
Every time I need guidance, reassurance, or a belief to keep me grounded and
safe, I find myself touching the pendant, and with it, I feel
Halmoni’s
warm presence.

Unlike my mother,
Halmoni
was a strong
and loving woman who loved deeply and cared for and protected her own above all
else. She showed her pride in an unspoken way that fostered respect and
admiration.

Shaking myself out of the debilitating
memories, I take a few minutes to fluff Gramps’ pillow, comb his scraggily
white hair, and straighten his blanket. I again think of the pile of work
sitting on my desk, illuminated by the lamp I probably forgot to turn off. The
curved, brass desk lamp I received from
Halmoni
. The one that used to
sit on Gramps’ desk at home, the house I’ll always think of as home.

I think of Gramps—leaned back in his beat-brown
reclining chair, with his reading glasses on, taking in the newspaper by the
light of that lamp—and smile.

Looking at him now, face ashen against the
harsh light of the fluorescent bulbs, my heart aches for the man he once was,
the hero, the man
Halmoni
knew and grew to love. Forcing back a tear, I
sit still and hold his limp, spotted hand, remembering the man I also grew to
admire and love.

It was because of the Korean War that they met.
Halmoni
and Gramps always told me the story like it was some sort of
sordid fairytale.

The summer heat was stifling. Thick humidity conjured
the angry mosquitoes in droves, attacking flesh as Picasso attacked a naked
canvas, with fervor. The small country town of Pusan was clamoring with life.
Women were busy outside tending to chores: washing laundry out on wooden
platforms, kneeling and hunched, most with a child strapped to their bent back,
making
kimchi
, bean paste, or washing vegetables in various plastic tubs
and clay pots, and all while keeping their many kids in line. The men were out
to work, some away serving their time with the Republic of Korea (ROK) army,
and others drowning their sorrows and stress in rice wine at the many street
markets that spotted the town. The children were either clinging to their
mothers at home or dutifully attending class, donned in their starched black
and white uniforms and bluntly chopped black hair, each looking exactly like
the other down to their knee-high socks and spit-shined shoes.

It was like any other day, with the fully loaded
buses and trains clogging the already smoggy air, the miles of endless farmland
to be tilled, and the ever diligent poop-collector scouring the land with his
high-pitched call, shovel, and bucket strapped to his back. What changed to tip
the scale from the general humdrum of country life to sheer panic and public
outcry, no one quite knows. It could be the dictator or self-proclaimed “God of
North Korea” decided—like any narcissistic and arrogant ruler does from time to
time—that his soldiers were ready to take over a nice chunk of land; in this
case, the rest of the peninsula.

For my maternal grandfather, Won Bae Kim, the
start of the Korean War didn’t deter him, but invigorated him. He felt a sudden
surge of purpose and pride. As a young man of twenty-one and newly married, his
idealistic views quickly vanished as the war made headway and left behind a
devastated nation. What once was considered home became alien. He felt stripped
of all the comforts that Pusan once provided him. Lost to the blood that
forever stained his hands and the emptiness that damaged his heart, there was
little to lift his spirits. The courage he once had evaporated and the
heaviness he felt was for the family he left behind, for a woman he made his
wife just a couple months before and a child she carried in her growing belly
that he might never know:
Halmoni
and my mother, Min Ah.

The land he once called home was gone. Sorrow
lay in the wake of dust. And hope diminished in the fire and smoke with the
cries of pain and death. So much death, regret, and uncertainty; there wasn’t
much room for hope, for dreams of a future.

Exhausted from a day that bore no end, Won Bae
sat, haunted by the blood that stained his hands, brooding over a black and
white photo of his beautiful wife exuding the glow of innocent desire and
nervous excitement.

In the photo,
Halmoni
was dressed in a
simple cotton dress that billowed out front from her growing belly. Her dark
hair was still cut short from school and framed her small, round face
elegantly. Her dark eyes widened in surprise and the hesitant smile that played
on her lips brought about an ache to his heart. The gold lotus necklace Won Bae
gave her earlier that day was displayed adoringly around her neck. The necklace
was to offer her a promise of safety, protection, and love.

It seemed so long ago to him; that special day,
her innocent face glowing from his gift, her touch, her smell, the simple words
he so recklessly delivered and promised. The necklace was an heirloom passed
down from his father’s mother, and signified his promise for family, health,
and fortune.

The photo, wrinkled from the many times he
pulled it out from his blood-stained pocket, shook in his trembling hands. He
stared so deeply and longingly, he didn’t realize he was being watched. His
silent cry for help was what Sergeant Whimplestein heard when he exited the
General’s tent.

Gramps knelt beside him and offered a cigarette,
a symbol of kinship that only men of war could understand. The picture Won Bae
forced into Gramps’ hands was an honest exchange between soldier to soldier. In
that moment, Gramps had promised to look after and take care of Won Bae’s
family. No words were needed in the silent exchange. No comment could be made
or conditions written. The meaning was clear and the request granted. There was
something about Won Bae that spoke to Gramps and made their connection
effortless. An innate kinship developed and from then on their fates were tied.

When Won Bae died in late October—not during battle,
but while trying to stop his brother, who was part of the ROK Police, from
killing civilians on the assumption they were sympathetic to the communist
party—Gramps took it upon himself to find the man’s wife and newborn child. He
felt a growing need to protect them and honor the silent wishes of his fellow soldier.
What he didn’t expect was to fall in love with
Halmoni
and to take on
the role of husband and father.

And just as easily as he took
Halmoni
and my mother in, he took me in.

Before heading out, I finally begin talking to Gramps
about the mindboggling case that has been keeping me up at night.

“Sorry Gramps. The reason I haven’t come to
visit you for a few days is the case I’m working on. I know it’s not an excuse,
but I couldn’t face you. I felt guilty. I know I shouldn’t,
but…well…Gramps…he’s back.”

Chapter
Three:

Wednesday,
December 28, 2011

2:32
P.M.

Loral Holmes:

Light hail plinks on the muddy ground, leaving
brown smears across my once stark white running shoes. Hail is the closest
thing to snow you ever see in the mild climate of San Carlos. The air smells of
dust, the rain unable to wash away the remnants of summer. Smoke from a nearby
fireplace taints my lungs as I gulp in the cold air. I shiver from the biting
wind, drawing the flaps of my black windbreaker in closer to my chest. With my
head bent to protect my face from the brunt of Mother Nature’s attack, I continue
down Golfcrest.

Running harder now, houses pass in a cloak of
fog and rain, until I hear a crunch and feel a sharp pain radiate along the
inside of my right knee. The pain brings me sharply back to reality and holds
me in place. I must have landed wrong. The scatter of marble sized hail should
have warned me.

I manage to limp toward a mature oak tree just
off the beaten path. Leaning against the trunk, the dense canopy provides ample
shelter from the brunt of the mild storm. Rubbing out the pain, I kneel
forward. Bits of hail skim the branches and shatter into tiny pieces on the
cracked pavement. Gasping for breath, I suck in the cool midday air and close
my eyes. I curse my bad luck and wait for the pain to subside.

The splashing of puddles startles me.

“Loral, what happened? Are you okay?”

Mike runs toward me, with water splashing at
his feet, the length of his arm covering his head in a futile attempt for
protection. I should’ve known he’d be here, waiting in the wings to save the
day. It would have been a tad creepy if I weren’t desperate for help.

Wincing, he kneels down before me, taking over
the nursing duties so I can rest. Worry creases his brow as he gingerly rubs my
knee in soothing strokes. He doesn’t seem to notice the hail and rain. The hail
abates as water droplets tinker off the bill of his Padres baseball cap. I seem
to be his only concern and focus. The attention makes me nervous and
uncomfortable.

“Mike? I thought you and your family left for
Big Bear. I saw the car pull out early this morning. What are you still doing
here?”

Avoiding my question he says, “Here, let’s get
you inside where it’s warm.”

About to argue, the pain shoots through me and
the need for warmth takes precedence. Leaning against his broad shoulders, Mike
guides me inside.

The warmth surrounds me like a thick blanket,
the heat wrapping my drenched body in loving hugs. Water pools at my feet and I
immediately think about his mother. Vivien would be mortified if she saw me
standing there, dripping wet and destroying her spotless home.

Mike must have felt me stiffen under his grasp,
because he pulls away to look at me. As if reading my thoughts, he says, “Don’t
worry, my parents are out.”

I relax. Sinking in to the crevice of his
shoulder, I bite back the desire to sigh. Mike is a symbol of comfort, nostalgia,
and reliability from which I fight hard to distance myself. It isn’t fair to
either of us to get too attached. Too needy. Too close. What I secretly want is
for my stepfather to be what Mike is to me: someone to lean on. Am I just using
Mike to fulfill a need? Probably. But I am starving and Mike is like a warm
loaf of bread, golden and all too inviting.

Mike leads me past the front door, piano foyer,
and into the kitchen where I sit on one of the polished-oak chairs with its
handmade pillow seats tied to each of the four sculpted legs. The house is
immaculate, beautiful, and suspiciously quiet. The room smells like potpourri
and the impressive grandfather clock standing against the wall separating the
kitchen from the living room gongs the time. It is three o’clock.

Gently Mike kneels and places an ice bag
directly on the inside of my knee, which is already pink and swelling.
Momentarily the pain increases before the internal heat succumbs to the cool
numbness of the ice pack.

“You need to be more careful,” Mike says
soothingly. “Running alone is dangerous, and—”

“Mike, cut the lecture. I’m not a kid. Besides,
I just landed wrong.” Exasperated, all I want to do is to go home and immerse
myself in a hot bubble bath.

Scanning the quiet rooms, my spine tingles. The
house is too quiet and still. The kitchen is spotless and normally there would
be bread or muffins baking in the oven and a bowl of fresh fruit adorning the
table. Today the oven stands cold and unused and the tabletops remain bare.

“Mike? Where did your parents go?”

“Huh?” Bashfully, he looks up at me. He tosses
his Padres baseball cap carelessly on the counter, where it will stay until the
maid retrieves it. His blue eyes twinkle under his matted brown hair. “Oh,
they’re probably out on the slopes right now.”

“They went to Big Bear without you?” My voice
heightens in panic.

He shrugs. “Not like I’m a little kid. Besides,
I told them I already made plans to go on a snowboarding trip with Rick and
Steve. They didn’t argue. They’re trying hard to stand back while I grow up,
you know, because I’m going off to college next year.”

It is strange that I am worried about being
alone with Mike. It isn’t like I feel threatened, more like vulnerable,
intimate. “Oh, I didn’t know you guys were planning to go snowboarding. So the
guys are going to pick you up soon?” I ask, hopeful.

Racking his fingers through his hair, he leans
uncomfortably against the round oak table and grins. “Not exactly.” He glances
down at the black and white tiled floor and blushes. “I fibbed. I was actually
hoping to spend Winter Break with you.”

Stifling a sigh, I calmly say, “Mike, I think
you should—”

“Wait. Hold that thought.” Quickly he disappears
up the cascading flight of carpeted stairs, taking them two at a time. I sit,
squirming in my seat as the condensation from the ice bag trickles haphazardly
down my leg. I focus desperately on the cold, trying not to think about Mike’s
intentions for missing his family’s yearly ski trip.

Drawers are opening and closing upstairs. I can
hear his footsteps thumping around the room above the kitchen, his room.
Finally, the thumping stops. For a moment all is quiet except for the ticking
of clocks around the house. The tinny, mechanical
tick-tick-tick
of the
clock that hangs in the kitchen. The low, ponderous
tock! tock! tock!
of
the grandfather clock down the hall.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Ti-ock.

Running down the stairs, Mike holds onto a
small object in his right hand. He pants from the brief exertion; his bright
blue eyes glisten wide, almost childlike. I smile. He looks happy. Stopping an
inch away from me, he reveals the object. Coiled in his palm is a gold chain
with a gaudy gold ring. A large peridot stone gleams in the center.

I gawk. “Your class ring? Why…why are you
holding it out like that?”

“I want you to wear it.”

“Why?”

He frowns. “You’re my girlfriend. I want you to
wear it. Isn’t that what girlfriends want to do?”

I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes
out. What can I say? That I’m not normal. That I don’t want to wear a token around
my neck like a dog collar. That I’m not girlfriend material.

“Please…I know my mom’s been giving you a hard
time but she’ll like you once she gets to know you better. That’s just how she
is. Kind of overprotective and stuff. And I know we haven’t talked much about
the future…it’s just that I was waiting to see which schools you got in to and
where you were thinking about going. My parents want me to go to UCLA, but I don’t
really have to…they’ll understand…eventually.”

“Mike, stop kidding yourself. You have to go to
UCLA. That’s all you’ve been talking about and you’ll make a great lawyer.”

“Yeah? You think?” His face brightens like a
kid seeing Disneyland for the first time. I feel horrible, knowing I will
someday be the cause of wiping that smile off his boyish face.

“I know it.” I force a smile.

“Good, because…well, I can’t ask you to follow
me, but…I guess I am asking. You don’t have to say anything right now. I’m just
asking you to think about it. You see, I’ve thought about it a lot. I can take
care of you. We can get a tiny apartment off campus and you can write, run,
look for a job, take a class, any class. You can do anything you want. You just
have to be with me and I’ll take care of you. You know I’ll take care of you,
right?”

“Yes, I know.” I feign a smile. How can I tell
him no? How can I tell him that his big heart and deep pockets aren’t enough to
keep me? That I don’t want to end up like his mother, or for that matter, my
mother. That being some kind of Stepford Wife is no way to live. But toying him
around for a few years just to leave him one day is no better, because I know
I’ll leave him. I know I’ll break his heart. How can I tell him that I already
plan to leave him when the school year ends, leave everyone, and run away? How?

At that moment, I can’t tell him. I know it is
selfish, but I want to wait. Let him enjoy his childish dreams and idealist
views a little longer. I convince myself it is the least I can do. So I nod,
grab the class ring and gold chain, and clip it around my neck. At least I can
do this much, play the part of the love-stricken girlfriend, until it is time
to part ways. In my own twisted way I do love him, of course I love him, which is
exactly the reason why I have to leave him.

Neil Wilcox:

3:30
P.M.

Motionless, I stare out into my once pristine
garden. What prompted me to stand here, I do not know. The hail pounds the
ground with sharp condemning force, crusting the landscape with dime-sized icy
pebbles. No smoker, yapping dog, or children screaming today. All are locked in
the safety of their homes, behind closed doors and dark windows. Every
television and computer in the neighboring units will surely be on, the sinks
full of dirty dishes, laundry running, and phones in use. Utility bills will be
higher this month. Mothers and fathers will be more irritable.

The neighbors are squirreled away. You can’t
see them, but you can still hear them through the common walls. One neighbor is
watching war movies hooked up to a booming surround sound entertainment system,
which periodically shakes the walls and rattles the windows. Another has a kid
who is practicing Farashaka on his trombone in watery, nauseous warbles and
short, fart-like staccato.

Next thing I know, I am sitting alone in the
dark, unaware that the temperature is well below fifty degrees, festering in
only my sweat-stained undershirt and boxers.

Porcelain vases filled with shriveled flowers
and stagnant stale water are placed haphazardly around the living room and
kitchen. Frames are flipped around so only the cardboard backs can be seen. Dirty
plates, utensils, and cups are stockpiled in and around the stainless sink
while dead stagnant air surrounds me. Mold spores and sourness penetrate the
carpet and walls. Wearing week-old boxers probably doesn’t help.

I used to look at myself in the mirror; I don’t
do that anymore. Sometime during the past few months, my mound of dusty brown
hair turned a stringy gray. My hazel eyes are fogged in a creamy daze under
puffy red-rimmed lids and droop despairingly against my weathered face. The
little pot belly I once proudly sported is now shriveled flat like a deflated
balloon.
Oh yeah, I look good.

On the table are sympathy cards half-opened and
half-sealed in their colorful envelopes filled with half-hearted words of
condolence. Burial service pamphlets with their witty words and flashy pictures
of gleaming caskets priced above a grand each are tossed on the ground.
Scattered newspaper clippings of the unfortunate event that transpired on the
night of Halloween are intermingled with bills and used wads of soggy tissue.

Most of the clippings are tiny, one paragraph
articles positioned between stories that reported on acid-laced candy and
teenagers running amuck. A meager attempt at chronicling the importance of my
wife. The articles are distant, unemotional, and flat. The journalists seemed
to spend all their time and research crafting the prose of adjacent
Halloween-themed articles, informing readers how much candy was sold, how many
homes got egged, how many pumpkins were smashed, how many bags of flaming dog
poop were left on unsuspecting doorsteps.

In none of those articles that briefly
mentioned Elizabeth’s death, did they depict the type of woman she was. And in
my mind, jamming her obituary next to an article discussing flaming dog poop
was tactless. Heartless.
God dammit!
They did not do her justice.

Elizabeth was a loving wife who paid her taxes
long before the April 15
^th
deadline. She also went to work as a
dental hygienist every day, meaning that she cleaned people’s dirty unkempt
teeth, possibly saving hundreds (if not thousands) from years of liquid meals
and gruel. On top of being employed and not being a drain on the economy, she
walked daily, recycled, didn’t smoke or drink—except for the occasional glass
of red wine before bed—never got so much as a speeding ticket. And on the day
of her death she got a total of three measly paragraphs divided between three
different newspapers. Is that fair?