“I didn’t do any of it. This was all Mae.” She looks at him with a curious tilt of her head. “If you don’t mind me saying, you seem to have a hard time believing how talented she was.”
He knows his mother had a good eye for things. But he didn’t see this as a talent so much as a hobby. He never understood that she wanted a livelihood or was capable enough to have one.
“I know she was talented,” he says, because it kills him that he didn’t.
Kyung moves into the bedroom area along the opposite wall. There’s a sleigh bed with a pale gold duvet, which he assumes is real silk even before running his hand over the smooth, unwrinkled surface. The right corner has been turned over like a hotel maid’s handiwork, and he’s tempted to crawl under the inviting fold and pass out. Elinor joins him, drawing his attention to tall stacks of design magazines on the twin end tables, arranged according to the color of their spines. She straightens one, adjusting it no more than a few millimeters, and he recognizes the gesture, sees who his mother learned it from.
“You taught her a lot,” he says. “I can tell.”
“She taught me a lot too. I was so excited for her to get started here. She would have been a wonderful addition.” She clutches his shoulder, studying his face carefully. “I’m so sorry. I feel like I’m always saying the wrong thing in front of you.”
“No, no. It’s not that. It’s just kind of odd to imagine my mother—I don’t know—working.”
“She was a very hard worker, Kyung. She ordered every piece of furniture in here. All the paint and lighting too. She also sourced the decorations and artwork, managed the crew. She did everything. And the fact that she did most of it over the phone—that was always the thing I found so impressive about her. She could be very commanding when she needed to be.” Elinor smiles. “Actually, you might think this is funny. The men we usually hire to paint, they were always talking about how Mrs. Cho wanted this and Mrs. Cho wanted that and Mrs. Cho wouldn’t like it that way.… Oh, she used to get them so worked up! They were all completely terrified of her.”
Kyung is examining an old upright turntable in the corner. On the floor beside it is an antique leather suitcase filled with records by Johnny Mathis, Simon & Garfunkel, and the Platters. He shakes his head, wondering why he didn’t hear her that day in the car, why he never truly listened when she spoke. All she wanted to do was tell him about her records.
“I hope you know—I wasn’t suggesting that the painters didn’t like your mother. It was just the opposite, really. They didn’t want to disappoint her because they respected her so much.”
He understands that Elinor is gently trying to improve his memory of Mae, to convince him that she deserved more credit than he was ever willing to give. But the thought of grown men being terrified of her isn’t funny. And although he’s impressed by her work, he’s also saddened by it. The apartment was clearly designed as a refuge, a place for Mae to stay during the week and be the person she wanted to be, a person he didn’t know or pay any attention to. He imagines her walking upstairs after a long day’s work, opening a bottle of wine, playing a record, and reading one of her books or magazines. She was planning a life for herself here, a small and quiet life, and Kyung wishes she’d had the chance to live it. He thinks she would have been happy for once.
“Did I say something to upset you?” Elinor asks.
“No, I think the drive just caught up with me.”
“Well, let me get out of your way, then.” She walks to the door and turns to say good-bye. “You’re sure I haven’t upset you?”
“No, not at all. It’s nice to be here, to see what she could do.”
“All right, then. You get a good night’s sleep. You look like you need it.”
Kyung crawls into bed as soon as Elinor closes the door. It’s a luxurious combination—the clean silky sheets, soft down pillows, and firm king-sized mattress. It’s a far better setup than he’s used to, better than a five-star hotel, he suspects. He turns over onto his back and notices the painting attached to the ceiling, directly over his head. There’s a woman sitting on the grass, staring at some hills in the distance. The style of it doesn’t quite fit with anything else in the apartment, but it’s peaceful, the mix of blues and greens and grays, the content expression on the woman’s face. He can see why Mae chose it as the last thing she wanted to look at before closing her eyes.
His own eyes begin to blink, heavy and sore, so he sits up, not wanting to fall asleep before calling Gillian. Being in the apartment inspires him, energizing him in a way that California didn’t. If a person like Mae could finally change her life, he has no excuse not to do something about his own. The cell phone in his pocket is dead, so he reaches over and picks up the cordless on the nightstand. The line rings much longer than it usually does. He realizes he’s not entirely sure what time it is, other than night.
“Hello?”
“Hi. It’s me.”