Shelter(34)

“It was nice of you to come over,” she says, sitting down beside Lentz at the table. “Do you have any news about my house?”

“Yes, ma’am. You and your husband are free to go back whenever you’re ready.”

“Good, then. I want to go back today.”

Everyone looks at her. Even Lentz seems surprised.

“But we have you all set up here,” Gillian says.

“No, not to stay. I just want to start cleaning.”

Jin clears his throat. “Maybe it’s a little too soon for that.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” she says. Her tone is sharp, sharper than she usually takes with him. “I’m tired of lying around.”

“The department has a list of numbers, Mrs. Cho. Professional cleaners, I mean. It’s going to be a lot of work for one person.”

“No, that’s fine. I’d rather do it myself.”

Kyung thinks this is a terrible idea, possibly weeks or even months premature. Although he’s relieved to see Mae out of bed and determined to do something—anything—he doesn’t understand why she wants to clean her house. He worries that she hasn’t thought through how it might feel to return, to revisit the rooms where things happened. He doesn’t want her to go there alone.

“If you’re sure you want to do this today, I’ll drive you,” he says. “I can help too.”

Mae seems irritated by his offer, but they both know she has no choice. Her ankle is still too bruised to attempt the long walk again, and she never learned how to drive.

She turns to Lentz and smiles at him almost sweetly. “Why don’t you let me make you some lunch before you go?”

“Lunch?” Lentz seems terrified by this. “Oh, no. You don’t have to do that.”

“But you must be hungry.”

He’s about to decline again, but Mae is already on her feet. She hobbles past Gillian and scans the ingredients spread out on the counter, frowning at the disarray. Then she takes over the kitchen like it’s her own, opening drawers until she finds a knife to spread the mustard with, opening the refrigerator to search for another head of lettuce. Occasionally, she asks Lentz a question—Ham or turkey? Cheddar or Swiss?—but not once does she ask why he really came to visit, what news he has to report about the case. Kyung feels like he’s watching her have a nervous breakdown. The others seem to think the same. Gillian nudges him in the ribs. He looks at her, not sure what she expects him to say.

“So maybe…,” he guesses, “maybe you should have something to eat too?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Mae is searching through a tall cabinet. When she reaches up to grab a box of plastic wrap, the sleeve of her robe falls, revealing a forearm that looks like a branch, ready to snap in half. Gillian has been leaving trays of food outside her door—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—but all the plates keep coming back untouched. As he stares at Mae’s wrist, it occurs to him that maybe she wasn’t eating at the hospital either.

“There’s a lot of work to do at the other house,” he says gently. “It’s probably a good idea if you eat something before we go, even something small.”

“Listen to the boy,” Jin says. “Eat something.”

It’s been years since his father referred to him as “boy.” Instantly, he dislikes it, but his annoyance is quickly eclipsed by Mae’s reply.

“Can’t you hear?” she shouts. “I—don’t—want—to.” Her tone is so cold, the expression on her face so withering; every carefully enunciated word hangs in the air, suspended in ice. Kyung can’t remember a time—not once in thirty-six years—when Mae talked back to Jin, much less raised her voice at him. The old Mae would never dare. His parents continue staring at each other, staring right through each other until their silence begins to feel dangerous. Kyung can’t believe that his father is the first to look away.

Mae sets a plate down in front of Lentz. “Here you go,” she says, her voice now quiet and composed.

The overstuffed sandwich has been hermetically sealed in plastic wrap. Beside it are a pickle, a handful of potato chips, and three miniature candy bars. On top of the plate is another tight layer of plastic, which keeps everything in place—the sandwich at noon, the pickle at three, the chips and candy at six and nine, a red plaid napkin underneath.

Lentz doesn’t know what to make of this arrangement. It’s probably more than he expected, and clearly more bizarre. Kyung is accustomed to Mae overdoing things—the plate resembles the lunches she used to pack for him in grade school until he begged her to stop—but seeing a stranger react to her domestic excess is embarrassing. It looks crazy because it is.

“Oh, well … Thank you. I didn’t mean for you to go to so much trouble.”

“It wasn’t any trouble. I was happy to.”

Mae volunteers to walk Lentz out. Kyung follows close behind, listening to their conversation. In the doorway, they shake hands, and Mae pats Lentz on the shoulder over and over again like a puppy or a child. Thank you, she says. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Lentz seems embarrassed by her gratitude, aware on some level that he hasn’t done anything to earn it. As he walks to his car, he stares at his neatly arranged plate of food as if its contents might be tainted.