“Maybe we should go back there again and spend a little time by ourselves, stay at a bed-and-breakfast or something.…”
He has no idea why he’s saying this, or how to pay for such a trip, although money—or the lack thereof—never stopped them before. Their sense of want was always more powerful than their sense of reason. Gillian was the first to pull back when they couldn’t keep up with their bills. She drew up a budget and limited their purchases to the basics. She devised a plan to sell their house. “Retrenching,” she called it, a term that made him think of men digging holes in the dirt. Because his idea of being a husband meant giving her the things that made her happy, it was harder for Kyung to adapt. Even now, in the midst of so much chaos, getting away with Gillian feels like a necessity to him, as important as food or water or shelter.
“It wouldn’t have to be a very long trip, and I bet your dad would be willing to look after Ethan while we’re gone. What do you think? We can go to the beach for a few days, get some sun.…”
He realizes that mentioning the beach was a bad idea. He doesn’t want to remind her about the time they spent on the Cape.
“What was the name of that area you liked? The one with the big historic mansions? The Batten?” He pauses, studying a knot in the door. “No, the Battery. The Battery, right? We can go there again if you want.”
The trip to Charleston still stands out as a happier and more hopeful time in their lives. It was Gillian’s first trip south of D.C., and he enjoyed showing her around the city, introducing her to new architecture, new restaurants, new experiences that she’d never imagined before. She looked at him with admiration then, as if her life were opening up because he was in it, but he understands how differently he must appear to her now.
“Gillian? Are you listening to me?”
He lifts his hand to knock, but quickly decides against it. If she doesn’t tell him to come in, he’ll be no better off than he was before. He takes a deep breath and turns the knob, opening the swollen wood door with a shove. The first thing he notices is the suitcase on the bed. Gillian is standing beside it with a shirt tucked under her chin, holding the hem in place as she folds in the sleeves.
“I should have suggested a trip sooner,” he says. “You deserve something nice.”
Instead of acknowledging his presence, she folds another shirt, which doesn’t feel right to him. Also not right is the suitcase. It’s too big.
“You’re not packing for Charleston, are you?”
He asks even though the answer is obvious. But when he looks in the suitcase, he realizes that the clothes arranged so neatly inside are his, not hers. The left half of the closet has been emptied of his things, and the floor is littered with a sad array of mismatched hangers—wire and plastic and wood.
“Could we talk about this, please?”
Gillian walks to the other side of the bed, turning her back to him. He walks to the same side to face her, but then she moves again. It’s not like her to be the quiet one during an argument; it’s usually the other way around. The role reversal disorients him, shifting what little ground he thought he stood on.
“Don’t you think you’re taking this too far?”
She places the shirt in the suitcase and starts on his dresser drawers.
Years ago, Kyung learned that when he asked a question in class and his students didn’t respond, he had to resist the urge to answer for them or fill the dead air with more questions. If the wait became unbearable enough, someone would eventually blink. Gillian, however, isn’t one of his students. She seems to tolerate the silence, to prefer it over the sound of his voice.
“Could you please stop what you’re doing for a minute?”
She empties one of his drawers on the comforter, wincing at the pile of loose socks that tumbles out. Kyung doesn’t know what to do except sit on the edge of the bed and watch as she sorts, matching black with black, brown with brown.
“I really wish you’d say something.”
She glares at him as she twists a pair of socks into a ball, her expression similar to the one he saw on the Cape. But her frustration has evolved into something different now. It looks and feels like loathing. He glances at the door, tempted to walk out, but he doesn’t dare take a step. Absence was always his best weapon against Gillian. Whenever he left in the middle of an argument, he usually returned to find her in a more reasonable state than she was before. His absence, however, is exactly what she wants now, and he worries that if he leaves, she won’t let him come back.
“One day after my mother’s funeral and you’re throwing me out? Where do you expect me to go? Under a bridge somewhere?”
She continues putting his things into the suitcase, not bothering to ball or fold anything now.
“I’m not kidding, Gillian. Tell me—where do you want me to go?”
“Away.”