Shelter(75)

“Gillian? Are you listening to me?”

He lifts his hand to knock, but quickly decides against it. If she doesn’t tell him to come in, he’ll be no better off than he was before. He takes a deep breath and turns the knob, opening the swollen wood door with a shove. The first thing he notices is the suitcase on the bed. Gillian is standing beside it with a shirt tucked under her chin, holding the hem in place as she folds in the sleeves.

“I should have suggested a trip sooner,” he says. “You deserve something nice.”

Instead of acknowledging his presence, she folds another shirt, which doesn’t feel right to him. Also not right is the suitcase. It’s too big.

“You’re not packing for Charleston, are you?”

He asks even though the answer is obvious. But when he looks in the suitcase, he realizes that the clothes arranged so neatly inside are his, not hers. The left half of the closet has been emptied of his things, and the floor is littered with a sad array of mismatched hangers—wire and plastic and wood.

“Could we talk about this, please?”

Gillian walks to the other side of the bed, turning her back to him. He walks to the same side to face her, but then she moves again. It’s not like her to be the quiet one during an argument; it’s usually the other way around. The role reversal disorients him, shifting what little ground he thought he stood on.

“Don’t you think you’re taking this too far?”

She places the shirt in the suitcase and starts on his dresser drawers.

Years ago, Kyung learned that when he asked a question in class and his students didn’t respond, he had to resist the urge to answer for them or fill the dead air with more questions. If the wait became unbearable enough, someone would eventually blink. Gillian, however, isn’t one of his students. She seems to tolerate the silence, to prefer it over the sound of his voice.

“Could you please stop what you’re doing for a minute?”

She empties one of his drawers on the comforter, wincing at the pile of loose socks that tumbles out. Kyung doesn’t know what to do except sit on the edge of the bed and watch as she sorts, matching black with black, brown with brown.

“I really wish you’d say something.”

She glares at him as she twists a pair of socks into a ball, her expression similar to the one he saw on the Cape. But her frustration has evolved into something different now. It looks and feels like loathing. He glances at the door, tempted to walk out, but he doesn’t dare take a step. Absence was always his best weapon against Gillian. Whenever he left in the middle of an argument, he usually returned to find her in a more reasonable state than she was before. His absence, however, is exactly what she wants now, and he worries that if he leaves, she won’t let him come back.

“One day after my mother’s funeral and you’re throwing me out? Where do you expect me to go? Under a bridge somewhere?”

She continues putting his things into the suitcase, not bothering to ball or fold anything now.

“I’m not kidding, Gillian. Tell me—where do you want me to go?”

“Away.”

Her voice isn’t as sharp as it was at the funeral. It’s quiet and tired, the same way she used to sound when Ethan was a baby. The lack of volume surprises him. He sees it as an opening.

“I’m asking you to just listen now, to really listen, okay?” He waits for her to turn around, but she keeps her back to him. “I’m sorry for what I did at the Cape. I had no business yelling in front of everyone like that. There were other ways I could have handled myself, but I was drunk and stupid—not that I’m using that as an excuse. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I’d kept too many things bottled up inside and they came out badly, but it’s not like I don’t know that. I’ll be thinking about what I said and how I said it for the rest—”

He’s not even finished when he hears the metallic sound of the zipper making its way around the edge of the suitcase. When it’s closed, Gillian drags it off the bed and pulls the handle out.

“Were you not listening to any of that?”

“You have a strange way of making peace with people.”

He reminds himself not to shout, which won’t get him anywhere. Shouting is how she thinks all of this began. “Please, I’m asking you to believe me. What my mother did … I feel bad enough without—”

“That’s not what this is about.”

His mother, his father, Marina—that’s all they’ve been about for weeks. He doesn’t know what else there is to them anymore.

“I don’t understand what’s happening, then.”

She flips the suitcase around, turning the handle toward him as if she expects him to take it. When he doesn’t, she walks to her dresser and opens the top drawer, rummaging through layers of nightgowns and T-shirts.

“Who do these belong to?” she asks.

She throws something at him. A handkerchief? Another sock? It hits him in the chest and falls on the floor next to his feet. When he looks down, he sees a pair of underwear. Pale beige satin with white ribbon trim.

“Who do they belong to?”

He didn’t notice that Molly’s underwear was beige that day in the kitchen. He also didn’t notice that she left them on the floor when she ran out. Kyung remains seated, staring at the shiny fabric, a small island of color against the blue carpet.