Shelter(43)

He rips out a clump of grass and chucks it toward the field. “You’re only saying that because you didn’t know what he was like before. All you see is this nice old man who wants to spend time with his grandson, but he’s still the same person he used to be. Both of them are.”

“You don’t necessarily know that.”

“They’re my parents. I know them better than anyone. Haven’t you even noticed the way they’re just sitting in there, shaking hands and making conversation as if nothing happened to them?”

“Maybe being around their friends makes them feel better.”

He rips out another clump and aims for the clothesline, but comes up short. “This is what they do, Gillian. What they’ve always done. They’re good at putting on a show for people, but it doesn’t mean they’re different inside.”

“Your dad, though, he’s been so helpful these past few days. Isn’t it possible that this experience changed him? I mean, it’s not unusual for victims of trauma to—”

“Stop saying things like that,” he shouts. “Stop talking like you know anything about them.”

A car pulls up to the house with its radio blaring. Gillian turns toward the noise, keeping her face angled away from him after the song ends. He worries that he’s ruining her, ruining the part of her that wants so badly to have faith in people, but this isn’t a subject they can afford to disagree about. He needs her on his side.

“When I was six, my parents got into an argument about something. I’m not sure how it started anymore—it never took much back then—but he went after her with a belt right before we had to leave for an open house at school. So there I was, sitting between them while they’re talking to my teachers, and my dad’s asking all these questions about my grades, while my mom’s sitting perfectly straight, her hair and makeup just right even though her back was covered with gashes. And I remember thinking, even before I really knew the meaning of the word, that my family was just so f*cked, and I’d never be able to explain that, because who would believe me? We were all too good at pretending to be normal, like the world would end if anyone realized who we actually were inside—”

He stops when he notices the look on Gillian’s face. She’s devastated—by him, or for him, or maybe both. He can’t remember where he left off, or what more he planned to say. All he knows is that he made a mistake. The story implicates him too.

“Is that what you do with Ethan and me?” she asks.

Gillian knows him better than anyone; she’s loved him better than anyone. But even she can’t see who he really is. Kyung’s face reddens; his palms and armpits go damp. Every part of his body begins to betray him, sending signals he can’t hide. The only answer that she wants and deserves to hear is no. The word is right there, a single syllable on the tip of his tongue. All he has to do is say it, but the coupling between his mouth and brain suddenly seems disconnected. He pries his legs off the plastic straps of the chair, crossing and uncrossing them again as time slowly runs out. The longer he doesn’t respond, the less truthful he’ll sound when he does, but something inside him feels broken now, worn out with overuse. Gillian waits for him to deny it until she can’t wait anymore. Then she dusts herself off and walks toward the house, taking in the silence like the reply that it is.





FIVE

Marina’s release from the hospital brings the math into sharp focus. Kyung’s three-bedroom house is too small to accommodate five adults and one child. There’s nowhere to put her except on the living room couch, where she sits and sleeps in plain, uncomfortable sight. Although Gillian won’t admit it, he thinks she regrets taking her in. Marina’s presence isn’t good for the boy; it isn’t good for anyone. One look at her is an instant, unwanted reminder of the attack, so they all scramble to leave the house in the morning, to be somewhere she isn’t. Jin takes Ethan to the park or zoo, while Kyung and Mae return to her house to clean. Gillian offers to divide her time between them, but neither pair is eager for her company, so she goes to the library or coffee shop, unaware of the slight and grateful for the time to read.

Mae is furious that Marina is staying with them. Like a scratched record that skips in the same predictable place, she suggests that Kyung send her somewhere. A home, she says vaguely. Although she never explains whose home or where this home might be, it’s obvious that if Mae could snap her fingers and make Marina disappear, she’d do so without thinking twice. Kyung assumed that his mother would have more sympathy for the girl, but no such bond or loyalty exists. If anything, they seem to operate in sharp contrast to each other. Marina’s pain medications leave her in a stupor, a state she lingers in throughout the day, while Mae is a blur of activity, focused only on returning things to right.

“A maid,” she sneers. “Who in the world would take in a maid?” Mae is standing in her living room, placing figurines on the bookshelves as Kyung looks on. “And you didn’t even ask if I’d mind.”

By now, their argument is so familiar, Kyung knows his lines by heart. “Where do you expect her to go?”

“It’s not like she’s homeless. She has an apartment of her own.”

“In a building with no elevator and six flights of stairs. Imagine Marina trying to live there without any family around to help her.”