“There’s a process, Kyung. I should know. I grew up with this. They’re doing exactly what they’re supposed to be doing.”
His father is watching Gillian, studying her as she speaks. Her behavior is probably distasteful to him—a wife sharing an opinion that differs from her husband’s, contradicting him in front of others. Mae would never dare, having learned long ago that dissent was the fastest route to grief. Neither of his parents really knows Gillian—how stubborn she is, how she doesn’t hesitate to speak her mind. Over time, he’s come to accept and sometimes even love this about her, but suddenly she’s making him nervous. After a week of living together under the same roof, she’s abandoned his careful list of dos and don’ts. With no advance warning, no discussion at all, she’s letting his father see who she is, who they are as a couple. Kyung doesn’t know how to interpret the expression on Jin’s face, a queer mix of curiosity and embarrassment, maybe even anger.
“I’m sorry,” Gillian says. “My husband’s anxious—we all are.”
“Why are you apologizing for me?”
“Everyone’s a little on edge right now.”
“But we’re not the ones who should be apologizing. We’re the victims.” He stops and tries to glide over his mistake. “My parents are the victims. They shouldn’t have to live like this, knowing he’s still out there somewhere.”
Lentz’s cheeks flush pink, and he looks at the platter of sandwiches again. Something about this reminds Kyung of the kids he grew up with, the ones whose parents were too poor or neglectful to feed them properly. He was always grateful to Mae for offering them food, for encouraging them so kindly to take it. Kyung, however, regarded them differently afterward, saddened by the glimpse of something shameful about their lives. He realized how little it took to reveal a secret, and what a burden it was on people once they knew.
“If you want a sandwich, then just take one already.”
He slides the platter across the island, pushing the slick plastic much harder than he means to. The platter veers off toward the edge of the countertop like a bowling ball headed for the gutter. Kyung sees it all happen in slow motion—the skid, the drop, the crash of the platter against the tile and the startled jump that Lentz takes to avoid the bread and cold cuts strewn at his feet.
“What is the matter with you?” Gillian shouts.
Kyung locks eyes with Ethan, whose face registers an early, confused stage of alarm. He can stop it, he thinks. He can stop it if everyone else plays along. He walks to the other side of the island and gets down on his knees, using his hand as a makeshift broom.
“Sorry about that,” he says, not looking up.
Lentz gently kicks his foot to the side, discarding a piece of lettuce on his boot. “It’s all right. Like your wife said, you’re all on edge these days. You have every right to be.”
This wasn’t what Kyung intended, not at all. He wanted to be assertive in front of his father; he wanted to prove that it was possible to disagree with his wife without feeling the need to beat her into submission. Instead, he’s crouching at another man’s feet.
“I should probably get going now,” Lentz says. “If you folks need anything, if you have any more questions…”
Kyung continues scooping handfuls of meat and cheese onto the platter until he realizes that no one is talking; no one is moving at all. He turns and finds Mae standing behind him with a towel draped over her shoulders and a head of dripping wet hair. She’s dressed in the powder blue bathrobe that Gillian bought her, a cheap polyester one that zips all the way to the neck.
“What happened?” she asks.
Her face is even paler than usual. The skin hangs loosely from her chin. Mae has always been a petite woman—a hundred pounds wet, at best—but even the billowy, oversized robe can’t disguise the fact that she looks thinner than before, almost skeletal.
“What happened?” she repeats.
“Nothing,” Gillian says. “I knocked a plate off the countertop.… I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”
Kyung can feel Lentz staring at him, but he doesn’t contradict what she said. No one does, not even his father. Everyone defaults to the illusion that everything is fine, everything is normal.
“I got out of the shower and heard voices—I thought that was you. Hasn’t anyone offered you coffee yet?” She leads Lentz to the table, frowning over her shoulder at Gillian. “Can you get him a cup?”
Coffee was always his mother’s way of making people feel welcome. Regardless of who the visitors were or how long they planned to stay, she tried to turn it into something special, breaking out her nice china and cloth napkins and tins of cookies that she stockpiled just for guests. Being a good hostess mattered to her—she said it was a skill that girls didn’t learn anymore. Perhaps that’s why she looks so upset when Gillian puts a manure-colored mug on the table, a gag gift from an old roommate with the words HOT AND STEAMY written on it.
“You know what, Mrs. Cho? I think I’ve had enough coffee for the day.”