Gillian and his father refuse to speak to him. Not on the ride home to Marlboro, not in the days after they return. Kyung is relegated to the guest room of his own house, sleeping in the same bed his mother occupied only a few nights before. Vivi comes by daily to help with the funeral arrangements, having recently planned services for her father. He listens in on their conversations, sitting at the top of the staircase as they select flowers and music and menu items for the reception. Not once does anyone mention Kyung or ask for his opinion. His only notice of the funeral date is the sudden appearance of his suit on the bathroom door, wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic with a note skewered through the hanger: Be dressed at ten.
With one car gone and only Gillian’s battered hatchback as a spare, Connie has to pick them up for the service. Kyung would rather walk across town than spend time with his father-in-law again, but he accepts the favor for what it is. When Connie and Vivi arrive, he climbs into the far backseat of the Suburban, where he sits by himself like the family dog, hot and sticky and ignored as he stares at the backs of everyone’s heads. No one says a word during the drive except for Ethan, who complains bitterly about his itchy new suit, which looks like a miniature version of Kyung’s. He wonders if Gillian explained to him what a funeral is, and whether four is too young to attend one. The fact that she didn’t consult him before letting Ethan come says everything about the state of their marriage now. She’s no longer interested in being partners in their child’s upbringing, or any of the things she used to aspire to before Ethan was born. Their relationship is beyond aspiration, and if he allows himself to see things from her point of view, he understands why she would think so.
First Presbyterian is on the outskirts of town, on a fading commercial strip lined with stores that are either vacant or closed. Although the neighborhood looks different now—poorer and a little dirtier—the building itself has hardly changed since he last attended services there as a teenager. The tall brick church sits on a corner lot, elevated from street level and flanked by beds of bright orange daylilies that provide the neighborhood’s only color. The matching brick sign in front offers a Bible quote to random passersby. PRECIOUS IN THE SIGHT OF THE LORD IS THE DEATH OF HIS SAINTS, PSALMS 116:15. Kyung doesn’t know if the quote is a coincidence, or if it was changed for their benefit, but it makes him uncomfortable to think of his mother as a saint. It doesn’t seem right to embellish her memory, to turn her into the person she thought she had to be for everyone else. He wants to remember Mae as she really was, flawed and fragile and the product of a life that never gave her a chance to do or be anything more.
Connie pulls into the fire lane in front of the church and turns around. The starched collar of his shirt appears to cut off the circulation to his neck. “I’ll let you out here and find a place to park.”
“I’ll stay with Connie,” Vivi adds. “You all should go in.”
People are streaming into the building, so many that Kyung keeps losing count. He’d rather use a side door and slip in unnoticed, but he knows what’s expected of him today. He gets out of the car, trailing behind his father and Gillian, each of whom is holding on to one of Ethan’s hands. As they make their way up the path to the front steps, people he doesn’t recognize stop to pay their respects. All of them, even the children, are dressed in black and gray—colors that seem at odds with the fierce blue sky and the heat of summer, which is stifling even though it’s barely midday. As he listens in on their conversations, he hears the word “accident” over and over again: “What a terrible accident.” “Such a tragic accident.” “I’m so sorry about the accident.” His father doesn’t correct this interpretation of events; he simply thanks everyone for coming and moves on.
As they step into the sanctuary, Kyung is immediately overwhelmed by the smell of flowers. Bright white gardenias, displayed to excess everywhere—not a cheap carnation in sight. They were Mae’s favorite flower, but it almost seems grotesque, spending so lavishly on decorations for a funeral. The gardenias are arranged in gilded planters, ascending along the steps to the altar. They’re bunched together in clusters, tied with white ribbon and clipped to the pews. The most elaborate display is the twin wreaths—huge, tire-sized wreaths, one on each side of a black-and-white photograph of Mae. Kyung doesn’t recognize where or when the photo was taken, but he thinks it captures her well. Straight spined and imperial, with the slightest lift of the corners of her mouth instead of a smile. Tucked behind the photo is a silver urn on a pedestal, a detail he hadn’t considered before. He’s grateful for the absence of a coffin, open or closed, but he worries where the ashes will go after the funeral. He doesn’t understand the idea of keeping the dead.
Kyung follows Jin and Gillian to the first pew, struggling with the heat and perfume of flowers as he scans the crowd of people already seated. He notices Tim immediately, sitting a full head and shoulders taller than everyone else. He also notices the Steiners, Craig, and some familiar faces from campus. Strangely, the faces he’s least prepared to see are the ones he should have expected the most. When Reverend Sung and Molly appear, hands outstretched, he feels a spike of panic. His body goes rigid, ready to be hit, but he quickly finds himself wrapped in the reverend’s arms, bear-hugged in a way that seems wrong among men.