He shakes his head. The reverend seems to understand, just as Molly does, that Kyung finds her attractive. On the rare occasions when they see each other, the reverend always inserts himself into their conversations, laying his hands on her in a gentle, chaste way that signals his ownership. Molly appears unfazed by it, but Kyung can’t stand to look at the mismatch of them. Despite the plainness of their clothes and the diamond-crusted crucifixes they wear—a pendant for her and a lapel pin for him—he still remembers the person she used to be. Sometimes he daydreams about converting her back to her former state, if only for an afternoon.
“I promise we won’t stay long,” the reverend says. “We just wanted to give everyone a chance to see your parents and get something to eat. Then we’ll be out of the way.”
“And the ladies and I will leave your house exactly as we found it.”
Every female in the church, young and old alike, is referred to as one of “the ladies.” Mae talks about them often, how the ladies are hosting a flower show, or the ladies are having a prayer meeting. Kyung has never seen a group of women spend so much time together and yet know so little about each other. He doesn’t like the idea of the ladies cleaning up his house, but there’s no use trying to resist.
“Excuse me.” He glances over at Ethan, who seems perfectly happy where he is. “I need to get some air.”
“Are you sure I can’t make you a plate?” Molly asks.
The reverend is about to encourage Kyung to stay and eat, but he seems to think better of it. “Let him go, Molly. We’ve bothered him long enough.”
In the backyard, Kyung drags a folding lawn chair under a tall window, hopeful that no one will notice him sitting outside. He leans his head against the hot metal frame and looks for the sun, which is almost hidden behind the house. The angle of it in the sky suggests that it’s only five or six, leaving so many hours before he can climb into bed and not be obligated to anyone. A gust of wind sweeps through the trees, scattering dead leaves and dried-out blossoms through the grass. He can’t remember the last time he raked or weeded, and it shows. The layer of mulch covering the flower beds is thin in some places and completely bare in others. Weeds are sprouting their green and yellow heads through every crevice, choking out the perennials that should be blooming by now.
Gillian rounds the corner, carrying a plate piled high with food. “I’ve been looking for you. I figured you were hiding somewhere.” She sits cross-legged on a shady patch of grass and kicks off her sandals, revealing the undersides of her feet, which are gray with dirt. “You ran away before I could ask how it went at the house. Was your mom okay there?”
He doesn’t consider telling her about the slap, not for a second. She’d never let Mae near Ethan again. “She was all business, actually. She just wanted to clean up and figure out what to send the insurance company.”
“If that’s what she wants to do right now, I guess you should probably let her.” She offers him a dumpling from her plate, which he declines.
“The hospital called while you were gone. They’re releasing Marina this week. You remember what we agreed to, right?” She leans her face toward his, searching for a reaction, but he’s too tired to have the same argument twice.
“Yes, I remember.”
The wind picks up again, pushing the clothesline around in a creaky circle. Two car doors slam shut in front of the house, one after another, but Kyung can’t tell if the occupants are coming or going.
“You want to sit in this chair?” he asks.
“No, I’m fine here.”
She stretches her legs out on the dandelion-covered grass, a shady patch where they once planned to build a deck. Gillian had never lived anywhere with a deck before, and he liked the thought of sitting outside with her after dinner, staring at the sun disappearing just beyond the green wall of trees. It was the ideal, idyllic image of what their marriage was going to be, but that image seems so dusty now, like an old photograph that neither of them has looked at in a while.
“So, Kyung”—she hesitates—“that thing with Lentz and the sandwiches today—that was really disturbing.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”
“There’s a lot we haven’t been talking about. We probably should at some point.”
“Like what?”
“Like how you’re feeling about all of this.”
Kyung shrugs, staring at the field of wildflowers and grass. He hasn’t set foot in the backyard since the day Mae turned up, which seems like another lifetime ago.
“I’m fine.”
“You know that’s not really an answer, don’t you? ‘Good,’ ‘fine,’ ‘okay’—they’re just words, not feelings. I’m asking you how you feel.”
Gillian’s response seems practiced, as if she’s been waiting to have this conversation for a while. This isn’t the way they usually talk to each other, and he resents the expectation of change at a time when everything has already changed enough. Kyung has no idea what he’s feeling because it’s never the same from one minute to the next. He’s angry with his parents and sad for them. He hopes they’ll get through this for their sake and worries for himself that they won’t. He knows Mae deserves his pity now more than ever, but he’s tired of handicapping her, giving her so many excuses for being a bad mother. Everything he feels seems so contrary or conflicting, it all cancels each other out.
“You’re not licensed yet, Gillian.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”