“What about her?”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m asking.”
Kyung switches cheeks. “Ethan will be fine.”
“But that’s not an answer. I need you to say it one way or the other. She either hit you or she didn’t.”
He’s in no condition to explain that his childhood wasn’t simple like this, with the fault lines so straight or clearly drawn. Mae was a teenager when she married Jin and barely in her twenties when they moved to the States. She had no friends, no job, no control over anything in her life except for Kyung. If Gillian took the time to think about it, she’d know the answer to her question already. His father hit Mae. Mae hit him. That was the order of succession in their family. He just can’t bring himself to say so out loud.
“You’re not talking anymore. Does that mean what I think it means?”
“My mother’s not going to do anything to Ethan.”
“But how can you be so sure?”
“I just am.”
Gillian raises her empty palms to him as if to say, That’s all?
He doesn’t know how to convince her without steering the conversation to a bad place, but he owes her this much. She has the right to feel that Ethan is safe in their own home. “It stopped a long time ago, okay? I’m talking decades now.”
“Yes, but why did it stop?”
“I was a kid, Gillian. I didn’t bother to ask. What matters is that my mother had a miserable life back then. I understand why she took her frustrations out on me, but it didn’t happen often, and you know how small she is — it’s not like she could ever really hurt me.”
Gillian doesn’t look like she believes him. He hardly believes himself. Half of him still feels sorry for Mae. The other half only feels rage — not because she hit him, but because she stayed. Every time Jin beat her into a corner because of a lukewarm dinner or an innocent comment, Kyung wondered why she wasn’t brave enough to run away, to take him with her and simply get out. She settled for a life of meaningless terror, dragging him alongside her when she should have wanted more for them both.
“My mother isn’t that person anymore. You’ve seen her with Ethan, my father too. They’re careful with him, happy with him in a way they weren’t with me. I know you know this.”
“But the sleepover invites, and all the offers to babysit — you always said no. It was like you were worried about them being alone with him.”
“It wasn’t like that. It was more about sending them a message … about punishing them.” Kyung pauses, aware that he’s a very small man, using his child to communicate all of the things he never could.
Gillian leans down on the countertop, stretching her arms out in front of her. She seems more relaxed now. Sad, but relaxed. From her posture, the way her elbow gently touches his, he knows the argument is almost over.
“You’ve been a good son,” she says. “You figured out how to keep them in your life, even though you really didn’t have to. It’s not like you owed them anything.”
“They’re my parents, Gillian. What was I supposed to do?”
“What lots of people do — move to another city, get an unlisted number, avoid them. You had every right to cut them out of your life. Even a therapist would say so.”
“That’s an American idea. Koreans are different.”
“But you grew up here. You’re American too.”
“It’s not the same.” He switches cheeks again, turning his face away from her. “Why are we talking about this anyway? A minute ago, you were giving me grief about being responsible and taking care of people. Did you change your mind already?”
“No, no. It’s not that. I just want to make sure that if things get out of hand here, if it’s not safe or healthy for us to be around them, you’re going to take care of us, right? You’re going to put me and Ethan first?”
What she’s asking for is completely reasonable. His wife and child should come before everyone else. But this is an American idea too. On the other side of the world, the world he never fully left, it’s parents first, children second, wife last. This is how Mae and Jin raised him, although he resents their claim as much as he struggles with Gillian’s. Still, he’s not about to explain something so incomprehensible to her, not when they’re this close to the end.
“Of course you and Ethan come first.”
Gillian brushes her thumb over his. He closes his eyes, trying not to think about the doubt implied in her questions. He could easily fall asleep folded over the countertop if she’d just let him.
“Kyung,” she says quietly. “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“But now it’s your turn not to yell.”
“Why would I?”
She stands up and removes a piece of paper from a drawer. The font is so small — it takes a few blinks for his eyes to focus, to comprehend that what she’s given him is an e-mail confirmation of a wire transfer. Three thousand dollars from Jin’s bank account to theirs.
“He asked for our routing number so he could give me some money. He said I should buy all new clothes for Mae before she’s released from the hospital. I tried to call you.… He was so insistent, but honestly, I thought he was talking about a couple hundred dollars or something. I had no idea he was planning to transfer this much.”
Kyung scans the digits from left to right, counting and recounting the number of spaces they extend. “What else did he say this was for?”
“I don’t know. I’m guessing it’s for food, maybe.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“This is important, Gillian. I need to know exactly what he said.”
“Nothing, I swear. I told him it was too much and he said he wanted us to have it for our trouble. That’s it. That was the whole conversation.”
For our trouble. It’s not worth it to explain that the money is Jin’s penance for his outburst earlier, that three thousand dollars is now the going rate of an apology in his family. Kyung knows how desperate Gillian is to keep the money — he can see it on her face, the way it looks so old and lined with worry. She understands, just as he does, that pride won’t fill their refrigerator next week. Pride won’t get his license renewed or pay the water bill or keep the collection agencies at bay. It’s a useless form of currency they can’t afford to trade in anymore. Kyung folds the paper in half and returns it to her, reminded of the gifts that always appeared like clockwork after a beating, the art and jewelry and clothing with their price tags still attached. One of his clearest memories of Mae dates back to grade school, when she stood in the hallway outside his room for over an hour, staring at herself in a full-length mirror. She was wearing a new mink coat, a plush gray one streaked with black and white — the kind that actresses on television wore when their characters were supposed to be rich. Mae kept turning from side to side, swinging the coat to make the fur brush against her legs, which were purple with bruises. He hated her then — he hates her still — for teaching him that everyone had a price.
PART TWO. DUSK
FOUR
The man on the doorstep is dressed like a college student, with a T-shirt and jeans and a Red Sox cap pulled low over his eyes. Kyung doesn’t recognize him; he doesn’t recognize the car in his driveway either.
“No soliciting,” he says, pointing at the sticker on the storm door that announces the same.
The man removes his cap and runs his fingers through his matted hair. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Cho. It’s just me.”