“Raisins are like grapes that died.”
Kyung admires Gillian’s way with Ethan. She’s always sharing little facts with him, always ready with a smile or a laugh or a question. Her instincts with the boy are so much better than his own. Four years in, and parenthood still feels like a heavy new coat, one that he hoped to grow into but hasn’t quite yet. Earlier that week, the three of them made pizza together, an activity she’d read about in a magazine article and taped to the fridge. BUDGET-FRIENDLY FAMILY NIGHTS. Every time Ethan did something—sprinkle a handful of cheese or make a face with slices of pepperoni—she complimented him. When they finished, the pizza looked awful. Lumpy and burnt and glistening with grease. Still, Gillian kept saying “good job” over and over again, elbowing Kyung in the ribs until he finally said it too. He finds himself doing this more often now—saying what he knows a good parent should—but he worries that it doesn’t come more naturally.
“Okay, so what’s next?” she asks.
He clears his throat so they’ll notice him.
Gillian spins around, startled by the noise. “Oh. You’re home already,” she says cautiously. “You weren’t gone very long.”
Kyung pours himself a cup of coffee. “I know.” He joins them on the floor, kicking off his shoes so he can sit cross-legged as they are, which seems to surprise her. He looks down at the half-assembled puzzle. It’s the same one Ethan always plays with, the fruit bowl.
“So was everything—okay over there?” Gillian asks.
“What’s this?” Kyung offers Ethan another piece.
“It’s an apple.”
“Do you like apples?”
Ethan nods. “And bananas too.”
“Show me which one’s the banana.”
They go on like this for several minutes until all of the smiling pieces of fruit are in their proper places. Kyung can feel Gillian watching him the entire time, but she should be happy, he thinks. This is exactly the kind of thing she says he needs to do more often. Play more, discipline less.
When Ethan finishes reciting the names of every fruit, he turns the puzzle tray over, and the wooden pieces fall out, clattering against the tile. “Again?” he asks hopefully.
Children have a strange tolerance for repetition. Ethan has been playing with the same tool belt and puzzle since April. He’s been demanding the same bedtime story since May. He doesn’t lack for toys or books—Gillian’s made sure of that—but he acts like the others don’t exist. This is the pattern as Kyung has come to understand it: months of Ethan fixating on one thing until he moves on to something else, something equally mind numbing, and then the pattern begins again.
“Why don’t you go watch TV now?” Gillian says. “You can take the puzzle with you if you want.”
Ethan picks up the apple and walks into the living room, where the piece is sure to go missing.
“He watches too much TV,” Kyung says.
“It’s fine every once in a while. We grew up with TV, and there’s nothing wrong with us.”
Actually, Kyung grew up with tutors. Piano, French, swimming, golf. If he could afford it, Ethan would have tutors too.
“So what happened? Why are you home so early?”
“She’d already given her statement by the time I got there. Then she went to sleep, so I left.”
“But what about your dad?”
“What about him?”
“Well, how is he? Did he tell you what happened?”
“Why don’t you ask Connie or Tim?” His irritation spikes when he mentions his in-laws, who have no right knowing more than he does, no right at all. “I got to the hospital five minutes before visiting hours started, and they were already there with the cop from yesterday. And that reverend from the church—he brought half the congregation with him.”
Gillian slides across the floor until she’s sitting behind him. “I’m sorry about my dad,” she says, kneading the knots in his shoulders. “I’m sure he meant well. He probably thinks he can help. And you know Tim—wherever one goes, the other follows.”
She’s always making excuses for them, trying so hard to smooth things over. Connie irritates her from time to time, but she adores him like a daughter should, bouncing back from their disagreements as if they never happened.
“I snapped at them a little. You know, for being there.”
The kneading stops. “What exactly did you say?”
“I told them to leave. Maybe I said get out.… I can’t remember.”
“Kyung! Why would you do that? They were only trying to help.”
Of course, he thinks. She’s always quick to take a side unless it’s his. “Someone should have called me once she started giving her statement. It’s not like I can ask her what happened. She’s too embarrassed. The whole time I was there, she wouldn’t even look at me.”
“So why don’t you just call my dad and ask him what she said?”
“Call?”