“Do you hear me?” she shouts. “That’s enough.”
Kyung staggers back a step. There are prints all over the window, greasy prints from his fists and forehead that he doesn’t remember making. He has no idea how long he’s been banging on the glass, but the pain catches up with him quickly. He puts his hands out for balance, struggling to stay upright as pinpricks of light float through the room. The doctor eases him into a chair while Gillian slides a cup of water in front of him.
“You need to calm down, Kyung. That’s not helping anyone.”
He brings his fist down on the cup, smashing the paper flat and spraying water across the table. Gillian and the doctor jump back. She looks at him disapprovingly, straight down her nose, and wipes a stray drop from her cheek. Then she turns to the doctor as if Kyung is no longer there.
“What about Marina?” she asks. “The housekeeper?”
“She’s stable now too. I meant to ask, does Miss Jancic have any family in the area? Anyone we can contact?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never heard her talk about having relatives in the States. Why?”
“Well, she’s uninsured,” he says lightly. “Eventually, this will become a problem—not for me, but for the hospital. In the short term, my biggest concern is releasing her into someone’s care. She’ll need a fair amount of help while she’s recuperating.” The doctor runs his fingers through his hair. He looks exhausted, worn out behind the eyes. “In any event, why don’t you both go home for the evening? Everyone’s resting now. We’ll have more news tomorrow.”
“We can’t see his parents?” Gillian asks.
“No, not now. Mrs. Cho is heavily sedated, and Mr. Cho requested no visitors this evening. You understand.”
Kyung understands that his father doesn’t want to explain what happened, how he let it all happen. And for the first time, he realizes that he made a mistake when he found Mae in the field. She didn’t say, “Your father hurt me.” She said, “Your father is hurt.” Her loyalty to this man is insane. Even in that state, beaten and brutalized and reduced to nothing, she was trying to protect him, to save him. It should have been the other way around.
TWO
The Presbyterians first came to visit when Kyung was fifteen. It was a common interruption in their old neighborhood—zealots of every denomination ringing the bell at odd hours, selling their magazines or peddling salvation. His father would usually bark something unkind and slam the door in their faces, but not so with the Presbyterians. With them, it was different. Maybe it was because they were Korean. Or maybe it was because they were poor. Whatever the reason, Jin invited the ragged-looking couple inside to join him for coffee. A week later, two more couples followed. And four more after that. Within a month, the parlor was teeming with Koreans, who eventually convinced Jin to worship at their church. Kyung didn’t understand what his father saw in them, why the sudden change of heart, but he knew what they saw in him. His big house, his generous checks, his willingness to sponsor anything they asked.
When Kyung returns to the hospital in the morning, it feels like he’s gone back in time. The waiting room is no longer crowded with policemen. Instead, it’s filled with Koreans.
The irritable woman at the front desk, the same one from the day before, stands up and snaps at him as he walks in. “Can you do something about them? Visiting hours just started, but they’ve all been sitting here since seven.”
Kyung shakes his head and continues down the hall. There’s nothing he can do about these people. He has no rank with them, although they all seem to know who he is. He can feel the weight of their judgment as he walks toward his mother’s room. Doesn’t go to church. Not dutiful to his parents. Took a white girl for a wife. He has no idea how the news spread so fast, but as he enters Mae’s room, an even more confusing sight awaits him. Standing at his mother’s bedside are five men: his father, Connie, Tim, Lentz, and the Reverend Sung. All of them have their eyes closed and their heads bowed in prayer. They’re holding hands limply, not quite committed to the act.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, not certain who deserves the question most.