He can’t remember having more than a handful of phone conversations with Connie in the past five years. Most of them started and ended the same way. No, Gillian’s not home. Yes, I’ll tell her to call back. There was never any middle to them.
“I can’t call after telling him to leave like that.”
“Then why don’t you just ask Jin?”
Kyung shakes his head.
Gillian straddles him from behind, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as if she’s expecting a piggyback ride. He’s tempted to carry her up to their bed and close the door behind them, but to do that now would only invite a misunderstanding. She’ll assume he wants sex, which is the furthest thing from his mind. The only thing he wants is to be quiet together, to feel the comfort of her presence, but not have to listen to her advice.
“So should we go to my dad’s house, then? Maybe if Ethan and I are around, it won’t be so awkward, and you’re going to have to apologize eventually, right?”
Kyung doesn’t think he owes Connie an apology. His father-in-law did something wrong—he even acknowledged it. They were intruding, he said. Intruders. He gets up from the floor, brushing off the flecks of dust and bread crumbs clinging to his pants.
“If you don’t want to ask my dad, I still think you should try talking to yours. I mean, I know things have never been all that friendly between you two, but it’s not like any of this was his fault. It might be nice for you to acknowledge that this happened to him too.”
On some level, Kyung knows she’s right. He just can’t bring himself to that place yet. In college, whenever one of his roommates said his mother was on the phone, he picked up the receiver slowly, expecting to hear that Jin had hit her again. By the time he was in grad school, the years had stretched out long enough so he could take a call without having to brace for the worst. Until yesterday, the beatings seemed like another lifetime ago. Not forgiven, but in the past. How quick he was to assume that Jin had hurt her. And now here he is, feeling the same terror clutching at his throat as if eighteen years haven’t gone by, and there’s nothing he can do to make it go away.
“How long will it take you and Ethan to get ready?”
Gillian shrugs. “Ten minutes.”
“Let’s go to Connie’s, then.”
It takes her half an hour to change Ethan’s clothes, pack his lunch and toys and books, and find a clean shirt and jeans for herself. By the time they’re all seated and strapped in the car, Kyung is having second thoughts. He drives slowly—obeying the speed limit, coming to a complete stop at the lights—things he never does. At the fork in the road that leads to the Flats, he turns left instead of right.
“What are you doing? This isn’t the way.”
“I want to see something.”
She doesn’t bother asking what because two turns later, it’s obvious. He’s driving up the hill toward the Heights again. As they near his parents’ house, he sees neighbors gathered on the sidewalk, small packs of them huddled in conversation. With every passing block, he sees more. More people, more cars, more congestion. A block away from the house, there’s nowhere left to park on the street. Every space is occupied by vans with satellite dishes on their roofs and logos painted on their doors. Channels 6, 11, 22, and 64. Two local papers, three radio channels, seven police cruisers.
“Kyung…,” Gillian says quietly. “I don’t think we should be here right now.”
He looks in his rearview mirror. There’s another van right behind him. “I can’t back up.”
“So keep going. Just get us out of here.”
Kyung realizes that most of the people on the sidewalk aren’t neighbors at all. They’re reporters and cameramen. The slower he drives, the longer they look at him, their expressions curious, as if he’s the quote or story they’ve been waiting for.
“This isn’t right,” he says.
The front door to his parents’ house has a strip of yellow hazard tape stretched across it on the diagonal. The driveway is blocked off with orange and white police barricades.
“Is Grandpa here?”
“No, honey. Grandpa’s not here. We’re going to see Grandpa now.” Gillian puts her hand on Kyung’s leg. “Can we just go to my dad’s now?”
“Aren’t there supposed to be privacy laws for rape victims?”
“Please don’t say that word. Not in the car.”
“But how did they get this address?”
“Kyung, I don’t know. Just keep going.”
On the corner, his parents’ next-door neighbors are talking to a reporter on camera. The elderly Steiners stand stoop-shouldered and frail, slight as scarecrows from a distance. Mr. Steiner has his arm wrapped around his wife. Both of them keep shaking their heads.