She wasn’t supposed to be here. He told her to stay home with Ethan, but now that she’s sitting beside him, Kyung doesn’t mind. Gillian knows he’s not a talker; he never has been. She doesn’t press him for details or ask any unnecessary questions. She just reaches into her book bag and hands him a bottle of water. Then she opens one for herself. He wonders if she’ll offer him a cookie or granola bar next because this is who she is now, the type of woman who carries snacks in her bag. They sit like this for several minutes, looking around the room but not speaking to each other. Kyung studies the elderly couple wedged in the corner, shaded by the canopy of a potted palm. The husband is dressed in pajamas and a robe, sucking oxygen from a portable tank while his wife flips through a Reader’s Digest. No one has spoken to them since they checked in. The construction worker too. He’s been waiting even longer, holding a melting bag of ice against his bloody thumb.
In high school, Kyung spent most of his spare time in hospitals, doing internships or community service. He liked watching the doctors race through the halls, so competent and professional, motivated by purpose. It never occurred to him that he’d be anything other than a doctor when he grew up, an idea he was quickly disabused of after dropping out of med school. Now hospitals make him nervous. He dislikes their antiseptic smell and sickly desert color palettes. And the whispering—so much whispering—like the walls will collapse if the sound level rises above a murmur. Occasionally, Kyung overhears something about the mayor or next year’s union contract. But mostly, the conversation is about his parents—what happened, what the cops think happened, what will probably happen next. He learns that Jin has multiple broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a concussion. Marina is in surgery—for what, he doesn’t know. The cops refer to the men who did this as animals and degenerates. They say the dead guy is lucky that he’s dead. Only once does he hear any mention of his mother. That poor fucking woman, someone says, which sends Kyung’s eyes straight to the ceiling, to an old water stain blooming on the paint. It feels like the roof is about to fall on top of him.
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.”