Shelter(10)

When Gillian finishes her water, she removes a textbook from her bag, a huge brick of a book called Educational Psychology. A fringe of Post-its lines the pages she marked—so thick and colorful, it seems like she marked everything. He’s surprised that she brought it, but she brings it everywhere these days, squeezing in a few pages of reading whenever she can. Gillian is studying for her master’s degree in school counseling, usually a class or two every semester. The plan is for her to go back to work when Ethan starts kindergarten, to finally start making some money like she used to. Kyung covers his eyes, overwhelmed by the thought of ever having a plan again. It feels like they’ll never leave this waiting room. For the rest of their lives, they’ll always be here.

“What’s the matter? Do you not want me to read right now?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“I never told you.” He wonders if this will be enough, if the nature of his sin is so obvious that she won’t need more than this to understand.

“We don’t have to talk about that right now.” She closes her book anyway. “It makes sense, though.”

“What does?”

Gillian shrugs. “I thought it was kind of strange—how you never wanted to spend time with your parents. And then when we had to, you’d get so stressed out.” She stares at her book, running her hand over the shiny cover. “Some school counselor I’m going to be. I had no idea your dad used to hit you.”

Kyung jerks his head at her. “I didn’t say he hit me.”

“Honey, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

“No. Listen. He never hit me, not even once. He only hit my mother.”

“But that’s not common. You know that, right?” Gillian shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Let’s, let’s just talk about this when you’re ready.”

Kyung doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready. He wants to discuss it now, and then never again. “My father didn’t hit me. It probably would have been better if he did.”

“That’s awful. Why would you even say that?”

Because it’s worse to listen to someone in pain, he thinks. Because hearing a beating and not being able to do anything about it are their own form of punishment. This is the truthful answer, the one Kyung knows he should give, but he doesn’t like the damage it implies.

“I always thought that if my mother didn’t do certain things, if she behaved better, like me, then he wouldn’t have a reason to.” He glances at Gillian, at the perfect O her mouth makes when she doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t think that now. I used to, though.”

Gillian sits back in her seat, leaning her head against the wall. He can see the wheels spinning, the way she’s reconciling everything she knew about him with what she knows now. There was a reason why he didn’t want a big wedding, why he hates family gatherings, why he threatened to move when his parents bought a house so close to their own. He’s tempted to tell her not to apply her little textbook lessons to him, but her arguments would probably make more sense than his denials. He waits for her to continue where they left off. Instead, she places her hand on top of his, not quite holding it, just resting it there as she would on a table or chair.

“What?” he asks. “I know you want to say something, so just say it.”

“I guess I don’t understand, then. Your mom—the way you’re kind of mean to her sometimes.”

Kyung pulls his hand away. “Just shut up, Gillian.”

He’s never dismissed her like this before, not even as a joke. She isn’t the kind of woman to take that from anyone, which is what he liked about her in the beginning, what he likes about her still. He waits for a response, but the longer nothing happens, the more he begins to accept the fact that she’s given him a bye. When she opens her book again, he sits back in his seat, not certain if he feels terrible or relieved.

At half past six, a doctor appears in the waiting room. He’s an Indian man with dark skin and a full head of shock-white hair. Something about him is different from the others, the ones who wandered in to see what the commotion was about and then left. This one is searching. His eyes sweep the crowd slowly, stopping when they land on Kyung.

“Will you please come with me, Mr. Cho?”

The police back up to clear an aisle, their bodies parting like some strange, biblical sea. Kyung tries not to look at their faces as he and Gillian pass. All he feels in this gauntlet of men is pity. He realizes this is what everyone has been waiting for, the moment in which he learns how bad is bad. Near the end of the row, Connie takes a step forward, volunteering to join them, as if he’d ever thought twice about Mae or Jin in the past. Kyung squeezes Gillian’s hand, hopeful she knows him well enough to understand the message he’s trying to send. Keep him away from me.

“Should I come with?” he hears Connie ask.

“No. Not right now, Dad.” Gillian pats him gently on the chest, her voice lowered to minimize his embarrassment. “I’ll let you know.”

The doctor leads them into a break room and shuts the door behind him. Despite the tables and chairs, no one bothers to sit—Kyung has been sitting long enough. He and Gillian stand next to the window, which overlooks the hospital parking lot below, and just beyond it, the back end of a car dealership. The doctor leans awkwardly on the corner of the table, resting an expensive brown loafer on one of the chairs while he pages through his records. His name is long and unpronounceable, both first and last. Kyung studies the tag clipped to his white coat, trying to parse out the syllables. Ra-jen-dra-ku-mar Ba-nu-su-bra-man-i-am. He should know the name of the man who’s treating his parents, but as he listens to the doctor introduce himself, he still can’t make sense of what to call him.