“I’m not staring.”
But he is. Kyung turns and scans a nearby bulletin board. The only poster he can see clearly is for a needle-exchange program. IF YOU SHARE YOUR DRUGS, DON’T SHARE YOUR BLOOD, it warns in bright gold letters. The other posters are too small or far away to read, so he watches a pair of nurses walk through the corridor, wheeling equipment that rattles and scrapes across the floor.
“I’m fine, by the way. Thank you for asking.” Sarcasm doesn’t sound right coming from Jin’s mouth. When his words hit the air, they turn into acid.
“I can see that already.”
What Kyung actually sees is his father looking old for the first time in his life. Gone are the expensive clothes—the precisely ironed dress shirts and hundred-dollar ties—against the backdrop of his enormous house and office. With the fluorescent lights bearing down on him, turning his skin a bluish shade of gray, Jin appears to have aged a decade overnight. Looking at him now, no one would ever guess what he used to be capable of.
“Not once,” Jin says, shaking his head.
“What are you talking about?”
“Not once did I think you’d save us.”
“Save you? How could I save you when I didn’t even know what was happening?”
“That’s the point.”
There’s a familiar thread of insult woven into all of this, but Kyung refuses to have the same argument again. He’s not a good son; he knows this already. But he’s the best possible version of the son they raised him to be. Present, but not adoring. Helpful, but not generous. Obligated and nothing more.
“Where’s your doctor? The Indian one? I want to talk to him.”
“He came by earlier this morning before his shift ended.”
Kyung is upset with himself for arriving late and frustrated that everyone else forgot him. He lowers his voice to a sharp whisper. “The next time Mom talks to a doctor or a policeman or anyone else, I want to be here. Do you understand? I want you to call me immediately.”
“So now you actually want me to call.”
“I should be here when they question her.”
“You never wanted to be around us before.”
“Things are different now.”
“This,” Jin almost shouts, “this is not the reason why things should be different.”
The sudden change in volume sends Kyung back a step. Before he has a chance to respond, a young, ponytailed doctor approaches them, tilting her head to the side like a little girl. She seems tentative, as if she overheard their argument and doesn’t know if she should interrupt.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cho? I’m Dr. Keller. Could I talk to you for a few minutes about Miss Jancic?”
It takes Kyung a moment to realize that he’s not the Mr. Cho she’s addressing. “Why? He’s not family.”
“We couldn’t track down any relatives, so we requested her records from school. She listed Mr. Cho as her emergency contact. And you are?”
“His son.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she says, although she’s already looking away by the time she says it. “Would you mind coming with me, sir? I have a room around the corner where we can talk.”
Dr. Keller rests her hand in the hollow of Jin’s back, gently steering him down the hall. Jin doesn’t bother to say good-bye or even cast a passing glance in Kyung’s direction. He just leaves him there, frozen like a pedestrian in the middle of the street while everyone else speeds past.
“What am I supposed to do now?” Kyung calls out.
But Jin is already rounding the corner, playing deaf or dumb to the question.
*
Gillian and Ethan are doing a puzzle on the kitchen floor when he returns home from the hospital. It’s not where he expected to find them, still dressed in their pajamas with mugs of orange juice at their feet. He was hoping to slip in the side door unnoticed, but the longer he watches them, the less he wants to hide. Seeing them like this reminds him of his mother, how they’d sit on the floor when he was little, coloring on the backs of paper bags. It was a rare activity, reserved for days when Kyung was too sick to go to school, but too bored to stay in bed. The cold ceramic tiles felt good against his feverish skin, so he and Mae would sit for hours, sharing fat, waxy crayons from a communal bucket placed between them. Sometimes, if the mood was just right, he’d ask her to draw an animal or insect so he could color it in. But trees, he learned, were her specialty. Tall oaks and pines and willows like the ones in their yard. All he had to do was point at one and watch as she sketched out a knotty trunk or feathered out some branches and filled them with leaves.
“So what are these called?” Gillian asks. In her hand is an oversized puzzle piece shaped like a bunch of grapes.
“Raisins,” Ethan says.
“Almost. Do you remember what I told you about raisins? What were they before they sat in the sun?”
Ethan looks out the window, as if he might find the answer in space. “Grapes?”
“That’s right. And which do you like better? Raisins or grapes?”