Shelter (6 page)

“I need a few minutes with my mother now.” He glances at Jin. “I'd like to talk to her in private.”

Mae grabs the sleeve of the reverend's jacket. She shakes her head no.

“What's wrong? Why don't you want to talk to me?” Kyung's voice rises, injured like a child's. “Why won't you even look at me?”

Reverend Sung pries loose her fingers, knitting them neatly between his. “As you can imagine—actually, as none of us could ever really imagine—this was a very traumatic experience for your mother, for both of your parents. You have to understand how upsetting it might be, talking about the details of what happened with you. These aren't the kinds of things you'd ever want to say in front of your own child.”

Kyung looks to Mae for some confirmation of this, but sees nothing. No sadness, no anger, no pain. All of those emotions have come and gone already. What's left is a pale shell, ready to crack with the slightest hint of pressure. It's strange—the sight of another man holding his mother's hand, speaking on her behalf. But the reverend's interpretation makes sense. If someone had done this to Gillian, Kyung can't imagine trying to explain the details to Ethan, whether he was four years old or forty.

“Your father has some things that he'd like to discuss with you. Maybe the three of us should go outside and let Mae rest?”

Jin drops his eyes to the floor. Kyung wonders what he has to say for himself, what sorry excuses he'll come up with.

He leans over to kiss his mother's forehead. “You'll let me know if you need anything?”

She shrinks into her bed, stiff to his touch, and it occurs to Kyung that maybe she's not over it, the way he spoke to her in the field. He wants to apologize for his reaction, to explain why he didn't understand, but not in front of the reverend or Jin.

The three of them walk into the corridor, waiting for Mae's door to float closed on its hinges. Kyung stares at the shiny bald patch on his father's head. There's a cut running diagonally across it, and a thick wad of gauze taped over another cut on his brow line. He's wearing his glasses now, unaware of how crookedly they rest on his nose, which is swollen and bookended by black eyes.

“Don't bother her about what happened,” Jin says. “She's not right in the mind.”

“I'm not going to bother her. I just want to talk.”

“No.” Jin grabs his forearm, his grip still firm. “Never. Never talk to her about what happened. She won't survive that. It's better if we all let her forget.”

Kyung pulls his arm away. “How could she possibly forget? She's going to need months—years of counseling to deal with this.”

“I've offered to counsel Mae, every week if she'd like,” Reverend Sung says. “For as long as she'd like.”

“No, not your kind of counseling. The kind with a doctor, a therapist. God isn't what she needs right now.”

The reverend and his father glance at each other uncomfortably, but the truth seems obvious to Kyung.

“God didn't help her when those men broke into the house and did what they did to her. God didn't help you either when they were beating you up. What do you think he's going to do now?”

“It's only natural…,” the reverend begins.

“No,” Kyung snaps. “Nothing about this is natural. You can hold hands and pray and do whatever it is that you people do, but don't tell me that forgetting is what's best for her, that God is going to help her forget. She will
never
forget—do you understand that? She needs a doctor, a psychiatrist.” And then, because Jin looks so stricken by his outburst, he throws him a jagged bone. “You too. You need to see a psychiatrist. Again.”

An orderly passes, studying the three of them carefully. Kyung realizes he's been talking much louder than he should. He turns around and sees everyone in the waiting room staring at him. The woman at the front desk is craning over it, frowning at the commotion.

“I'm sorry for upsetting you,” the reverend says. “I know how stressful this must be.”

The fact that he's apologizing only upsets Kyung more. He's the one causing a scene; he's the one who should be sorry. Now he's just embarrassed. He came here to be helpful, which is hardly what he's done.

“It's almost a quarter after nine.” Reverend Sung taps the face of his watch. “I have to go lead services now. We'll all say a special prayer for you and Mae.” He shakes hands with Jin and glances at Kyung, the expression on his face still quiet and kind. When he heads toward the exit, the entire population of the waiting room files out behind him, the sheep following their shepherd.

“You should have been more polite to him,” Jin says. “His family's done a lot for us.”

“All he ever does is ask for money.”

“You know what I mean.”

The reverend inherited the congregation of First Presbyterian from his father, who'd recently moved back to Korea after his retirement. Kyung preferred the elder Reverend Sung, a serious, bookish man who could silence any room by simply entering it. He was the only person Kyung could think to call after he'd threatened to kill Jin. When the reverend arrived at the house, he took Jin by the arm and made him kneel on the floor beside him. They stayed that way for over an hour—eyes closed, hands clasped together, praying in Korean while Mae and Kyung looked on. Jin cried the entire time, but Kyung wondered if it was all just for show, if he'd later be punished for bringing an outsider in. He stood off to the side, studying the candelabra on the mantel, the statues on the ledge, wondering which would make for a heavier weapon, which would crack open a human skull when he finally had to make good on his promise. No one was more surprised than he was when the hitting actually stopped, a change that Kyung always attributed to the elder Sung's intervention.

“How did all those people in the waiting room find out what happened?”

“I called the reverend last night.”

“But if you're so worried about putting this behind her, then why did you tell anyone? Now everybody at your church is going to know.”

Jin shakes his head. “There are different kinds of forgetting.”

Kyung wonders if his father still has a concussion, if he thinks he's making sense when he really isn't. He looks him over, stopping when he notices a small gold crucifix that someone—the reverend, probably—pinned to his sling.

“Stop staring at me,” Jin says.

“I'm not staring.”

But he is. Kyung turns and scans a nearby bulletin board. The only poster he can see clearly is for a needle-exchange program.
IF YOU SHARE YOUR DRUGS, DON'T SHARE YOUR BLOOD
, it warns in bright gold letters. The other posters are too small or far away to read, so he watches a pair of nurses walk through the corridor, wheeling equipment that rattles and scrapes across the floor.

“I'm fine, by the way. Thank you for asking.” Sarcasm doesn't sound right coming from Jin's mouth. When his words hit the air, they turn into acid.

“I can see that already.”

What Kyung actually sees is his father looking old for the first time in his life. Gone are the expensive clothes—the precisely ironed dress shirts and hundred-dollar ties—against the backdrop of his enormous house and office. With the fluorescent lights bearing down on him, turning his skin a bluish shade of gray, Jin appears to have aged a decade overnight. Looking at him now, no one would ever guess what he used to be capable of.

“Not once,” Jin says, shaking his head.

“What are you talking about?”

“Not once did I think you'd save us.”

“Save you? How could I save you when I didn't even know what was happening?”

“That's the point.”

There's a familiar thread of insult woven into all of this, but Kyung refuses to have the same argument again. He's not a good son; he knows this already. But he's the best possible version of the son they raised him to be. Present, but not adoring. Helpful, but not generous. Obligated and nothing more.

“Where's your doctor? The Indian one? I want to talk to him.”

“He came by earlier this morning before his shift ended.”

Kyung is upset with himself for arriving late and frustrated that everyone else forgot him. He lowers his voice to a sharp whisper. “The next time Mom talks to a doctor or a policeman or anyone else, I want to be here. Do you understand? I want you to call me immediately.”

“So now you actually want me to call.”

“I should be here when they question her.”

“You never wanted to be around us before.”

“Things are different now.”

“This,”
Jin almost shouts, “this is not the reason why things should be different.”

The sudden change in volume sends Kyung back a step. Before he has a chance to respond, a young, ponytailed doctor approaches them, tilting her head to the side like a little girl. She seems tentative, as if she overheard their argument and doesn't know if she should interrupt.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cho? I'm Dr. Keller. Could I talk to you for a few minutes about Miss Jancic?”

It takes Kyung a moment to realize that he's not the Mr. Cho she's addressing. “Why? He's not family.”

“We couldn't track down any relatives, so we requested her records from school. She listed Mr. Cho as her emergency contact. And you are?”

“His son.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, although she's already looking away by the time she says it. “Would you mind coming with me, sir? I have a room around the corner where we can talk.”

Dr. Keller rests her hand in the hollow of Jin's back, gently steering him down the hall. Jin doesn't bother to say good-bye or even cast a passing glance in Kyung's direction. He just leaves him there, frozen like a pedestrian in the middle of the street while everyone else speeds past.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Kyung calls out.

But Jin is already rounding the corner, playing deaf or dumb to the question.

*   *   *

Gillian and Ethan are doing a puzzle on the kitchen floor when he returns home from the hospital. It's not where he expected to find them, still dressed in their pajamas with mugs of orange juice at their feet. He was hoping to slip in the side door unnoticed, but the longer he watches them, the less he wants to hide. Seeing them like this reminds him of his mother, how they'd sit on the floor when he was little, coloring on the backs of paper bags. It was a rare activity, reserved for days when Kyung was too sick to go to school, but too bored to stay in bed. The cold ceramic tiles felt good against his feverish skin, so he and Mae would sit for hours, sharing fat, waxy crayons from a communal bucket placed between them. Sometimes, if the mood was just right, he'd ask her to draw an animal or insect so he could color it in. But trees, he learned, were her specialty. Tall oaks and pines and willows like the ones in their yard. All he had to do was point at one and watch as she sketched out a knotty trunk or feathered out some branches and filled them with leaves.

“So what are these called?” Gillian asks. In her hand is an oversized puzzle piece shaped like a bunch of grapes.

“Raisins,” Ethan says.

“Almost. Do you remember what I told you about raisins? What were they
before
they sat in the sun?”

Ethan looks out the window, as if he might find the answer in space. “Grapes?”

“That's right. And which do you like better? Raisins or grapes?”

“Raisins are like grapes that died.”

Kyung admires Gillian's way with Ethan. She's always sharing little facts with him, always ready with a smile or a laugh or a question. Her instincts with the boy are so much better than his own. Four years in, and parenthood still feels like a heavy new coat, one that he hoped to grow into but hasn't quite yet. Earlier that week, the three of them made pizza together, an activity she'd read about in a magazine article and taped to the fridge.
BUDGET-FRIENDLY FAMILY NIGHTS
. Every time Ethan did something—sprinkle a handful of cheese or make a face with slices of pepperoni—she complimented him. When they finished, the pizza looked awful. Lumpy and burnt and glistening with grease. Still, Gillian kept saying “good job” over and over again, elbowing Kyung in the ribs until he finally said it too. He finds himself doing this more often now—saying what he knows a good parent should—but he worries that it doesn't come more naturally.

“Okay, so what's next?” she asks.

He clears his throat so they'll notice him.

Gillian spins around, startled by the noise. “Oh. You're home already,” she says cautiously. “You weren't gone very long.”

Kyung pours himself a cup of coffee. “I know.” He joins them on the floor, kicking off his shoes so he can sit cross-legged as they are, which seems to surprise her. He looks down at the half-assembled puzzle. It's the same one Ethan always plays with, the fruit bowl.

“So was everything—okay over there?” Gillian asks.

“What's this?” Kyung offers Ethan another piece.

“It's an apple.”

“Do you like apples?”

Ethan nods. “And bananas too.”

“Show me which one's the banana.”

They go on like this for several minutes until all of the smiling pieces of fruit are in their proper places. Kyung can feel Gillian watching him the entire time, but she should be happy, he thinks. This is exactly the kind of thing she says he needs to do more often. Play more, discipline less.

When Ethan finishes reciting the names of every fruit, he turns the puzzle tray over, and the wooden pieces fall out, clattering against the tile. “Again?” he asks hopefully.

Children have a strange tolerance for repetition. Ethan has been playing with the same tool belt and puzzle since April. He's been demanding the same bedtime story since May. He doesn't lack for toys or books—Gillian's made sure of that—but he acts like the others don't exist. This is the pattern as Kyung has come to understand it: months of Ethan fixating on one thing until he moves on to something else, something equally mind numbing, and then the pattern begins again.