Shelter

by Jung Yun

  At half past six, a doctor appears in the waiting room. He’s an Indian man with dark skin and a full head of shock-white hair. Something about him is different from the others, the ones who wandered in to see what the commotion was about and then left. This one is searching. His eyes sweep the crowd slowly, stopping when they land on Kyung.

  “Will you please come with me, Mr. Cho?”

  The police back up to clear an aisle, their bodies parting like some strange, biblical sea. Kyung tries not to look at their faces as he and Gillian pass. All he feels in this gauntlet of men is pity. He realizes this is what everyone has been waiting for, the moment in which he learns how bad is bad. Near the end of the row, Connie takes a step forward, volunteering to join them, as if he’d ever thought twice about Mae or Jin in the past. Kyung squeezes Gillian’s hand, hopeful she knows him well enough to understand the message he’s trying to send. Keep him away from me.

  “Should I come with?” he hears Connie ask.

  “No. Not right now, Dad.” Gillian pats him gently on the chest, her voice lowered to minimize his embarrassment. “I’ll let you know.”

  The doctor leads them into a break room and shuts the door behind him. Despite the tables and chairs, no one bothers to sit—Kyung has been sitting long enough. He and Gillian stand next to the window, which overlooks the hospital parking lot below, and just beyond it, the back end of a car dealership. The doctor leans awkwardly on the corner of the table, resting an expensive brown loafer on one of the chairs while he pages through his records. His name is long and unpronounceable, both first and last. Kyung studies the tag clipped to his white coat, trying to parse out the syllables. Ra-jen-dra-ku-mar Ba-nu-su-bra-man-i-am. He should know the name of the man who’s treating his parents, but as he listens to the doctor introduce himself, he still can’t make sense of what to call him.

  “Your father’s in stable condition now. His CAT scans and vitals are all good, and we’ve injected an anesthetic into the area around his ribs, which seems to be making him more comfortable.”

  “What about my mother?”

  “She’s resting now. I suspect she’ll sleep through the night. Normally, I would have let the police talk to her before using that much sedative, but the physical exam was—challenging.”

  “She’ll be all right though, won’t she?” Gillian asks.

  The doctor nods, but Kyung doesn’t like the way his expression changes. People who work in emergency rooms are supposed to have a high tolerance for the worst kinds of injuries. The discomfort on the doctor’s face suggests that he’s still struggling with Mae’s.

  “Physically, her injuries weren’t very severe. Mostly lacerations and bruises. A sprained ankle. All the same, I’d like to keep her here a few days for observation.”

  There’s a clock above the water cooler, an old-fashioned one with black hands and a red line that sweeps through the seconds. Kyung has been at the hospital all afternoon. It was light when he arrived, and now the sky outside is turning a deep, ink-washed blue. The streetlights are all lit, their halos swimming with mosquitoes. Six hours, he thinks. Six hours and no one will confirm what he already knows.

  “They raped her, didn’t they?”

  The doctor lowers himself into a chair, settling into the molded plastic as if preparing for a longer conversation. “There’s evidence of that, yes.” He doesn’t look at Kyung as he says this. Instead, he stares at a scuff mark on the floor. “I’ve taken all the necessary precautions against STDs and HIV—antibiotics and antiretrovirals—but I opted against the morning-after pill since she’s postmenopausal. Like I said, she’ll recover from the cuts and bruises soon enough, but everything else … I think she’ll need quite a lot of counseling to work through.”

  Kyung rests his forehead on the window, gently tapping his head against the glass. Postmenopausal, STDs, HIV, morning-after pill. These are words that don’t belong together in any sentence. He doesn’t understand what kind of people would rape a fifty-six-year-old woman. Even the word: “rape.” It rings and rings in his ears, and he can’t make it stop.

  “Enough, Kyung. That’s enough.”

  Gillian is digging her fingernails into his skin. The doctor is trying to pin back his arms.

  “Do you hear me?” she shouts. “That’s enough.”

  Kyung staggers back a step. There are prints all over the window, greasy prints from his fists and forehead that he doesn’t remember making. He has no idea how long he’s been banging on the glass, but the pain catches up with him quickly. He puts his hands out for balance, struggling to stay upright as pinpricks of light float through the room. The doctor eases him into a chair while Gillian slides a cup of water in front of him.

  “You need to calm down, Kyung. That’s not helping anyone.”

  He brings his fist down on the cup, smashing the paper flat and spraying water across the table. Gillian and the doctor jump back. She looks at him disapprovingly, straight down her nose, and wipes a stray drop from her cheek. Then she turns to the doctor as if Kyung is no longer there.

  “What about Marina?” she asks. “The housekeeper?”

  “She’s stable now too. I meant to ask, does Miss Jancic have any family in the area? Anyone we can contact?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard her talk about having relatives in the States. Why?”

  “Well, she’s uninsured,” he says lightly. “Eventually, this will become a problem—not for me, but for the hospital. In the short term, my biggest concern is releasing her into someone’s care. She’ll need a fair amount of help while she’s recuperating.” The doctor runs his fingers through his hair. He looks exhausted, worn out behind the eyes. “In any event, why don’t you both go home for the evening? Everyone’s resting now. We’ll have more news tomorrow.”

  “We can’t see his parents?” Gillian asks.

  “No, not now. Mrs. Cho is heavily sedated, and Mr. Cho requested no visitors this evening. You understand.”

  Kyung understands that his father doesn’t want to explain what happened, how he let it all happen. And for the first time, he realizes that he made a mistake when he found Mae in the field. She didn’t say, “Your father hurt me.” She said, “Your father is hurt.” Her loyalty to this man is insane. Even in that state, beaten and brutalized and reduced to nothing, she was trying to protect him, to save him. It should have been the other way around.

  TWO

  The Presbyterians first came to visit when Kyung was fifteen. It was a common interruption in their old neighborhood—zealots of every denomination ringing the bell at odd hours, selling their magazines or peddling salvation. His father would usually bark something unkind and slam the door in their faces, but not so with the Presbyterians. With them, it was different. Maybe it was because they were Korean. Or maybe it was because they were poor. Whatever the reason, Jin invited the ragged-looking couple inside to join him for coffee. A week later, two more couples followed. And four more after that. Within a month, the parlor was teeming with Koreans, who eventually convinced Jin to worship at their church. Kyung didn’t understand what his father saw in them, why the sudden change of heart, but he knew what they saw in him. His big house, his generous checks, his willingness to sponsor anything they asked.

  When Kyung returns to the hospital in the morning, it feels like he’s gone back in time. The waiting room is no longer crowded with policemen. Instead, it’s filled with Koreans.

  The irritable woman at the front desk, the same one from the day before, stands up and snaps at him as he walks in. “Can you do something about them? Visiting hours just started, but they’ve all been sitting here since seven.”

  Kyung shakes his head and continues down the hall. There’s nothing he can do about these people. He has no rank with them, although they all seem to know who he is. He can feel the weight of their judgment as he walks toward his mother’s room. Doesn’t go to church. Not dutiful to his parents. Took a white girl for a wife. He has no idea how the news spre
ad so fast, but as he enters Mae’s room, an even more confusing sight awaits him. Standing at his mother’s bedside are five men: his father, Connie, Tim, Lentz, and the Reverend Sung. All of them have their eyes closed and their heads bowed in prayer. They’re holding hands limply, not quite committed to the act.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, not certain who deserves the question most.

  Everyone looks up. Reverend Sung opens one eye and quickly closes it. “We ask you to guide our beloved brother and sister in the days and weeks ahead. Heal their hearts and bodies and minds, dear Lord, and grace them with the absolute power of your love. In your name, we pray. Amen.”

  Connie and Tim make the sign of the cross and mutter “amen,” something that Kyung has never witnessed before. The McFaddens aren’t a religious family. Their faith—ceremonial as it was—seemed to die with Gillian’s mother, who dressed everyone up for Mass and confession because that’s what families in their neighborhood did. Gillian talks about this part of her childhood like she talks about her mother, with more fondness than either probably deserves. Occasionally, she mentions the idea of going back to church like it’s a long-lost hobby, something she’d pick up again if she had more time.

  “Come join us,” Reverend Sung says.

  Mae turns and angles her face toward the window as Kyung approaches the bed. Now that she’s clean and dressed, she doesn’t seem as injured as his father, who has his arm in a sling and an alarming array of bruises. Still, Kyung understands the difference between them. What happened to Mae was worse. He places his hand over hers, rubbing the soft, papery skin with his thumb. Everything he wants to say escapes him, so he just stands there, dumb for words, while the others try not to watch.

  “Well, I should get back to the station now,” Lentz says. “Thank you for your statement, Mrs. Cho. I’ll be in touch.”

  Kyung wanted to be with Mae when she spoke to them. He assumed the police would take her statement when visiting hours started, not before.

  “None of you thought to call me for this?”

  Again, he isn’t sure who should answer the question, who among this odd group of men he holds most accountable. He settles on Connie. “Why are you even here? This isn’t your case.”

  Connie shrugs. “I was just trying to be helpful, seeing you’re family and all.”

  Kyung is tempted to ask since when. Since when have Connie and Tim ever treated him like family? “Please leave now. Both of you. I didn’t ask you to come.”

  “You don’t have to talk to them like that,” Jin says. “At least they were here. They showed up early—not like you.”

  The earth feels like it’s spun off its axis. His father often refers to Gillian’s family as bigots—poor working-class white people, jealous of anyone with a little money to their name. Now he’s defending them as if they’re old friends.

  “I did come early. I just don’t understand why none of you told me to come earlier.” He glances at Mae, who has yet to look at him.

  “Your mom was ready to talk,” Tim says, “so we let her. There wasn’t time to send you an invitation and then wait around until you got here.”

  “Don’t be such a dick, Tim.” Connie’s face reddens. “Sorry, Reverend. And sorry for intruding. You folks need anything from us, just give me a call. Kyung knows how to reach me.”

  They leave the room, Tim trailing behind his father and Lentz, his shoulders still sagging with reproach. The earth is now in free fall. Connie has never taken his side over Tim’s before, never bothered to apologize for anything, no matter how big or small the offense. Kyung is so stunned, he almost doesn’t notice the reverend patting him on the shoulder.

  “It was nice of your father-in-law to offer to help. An event like this brings out the best in most people.”

  The phrase “most people” stings Kyung’s cheeks. It feels like a reprimand, even if it wasn’t.

  “I need a few minutes with my mother now.” He glances at Jin. “I’d like to talk to her in private.”

  Mae grabs the sleeve of the reverend’s jacket. She shakes her head no.

  “What’s wrong? Why don’t you want to talk to me?” Kyung’s voice rises, injured like a child’s. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

  Reverend Sung pries loose her fingers, knitting them neatly between his. “As you can imagine—actually, as none of us could ever really imagine—this was a very traumatic experience for your mother, for both of your parents. You have to understand how upsetting it might be, talking about the details of what happened with you. These aren’t the kinds of things you’d ever want to say in front of your own child.”

  Kyung looks to Mae for some confirmation of this, but sees nothing. No sadness, no anger, no pain. All of those emotions have come and gone already. What’s left is a pale shell, ready to crack with the slightest hint of pressure. It’s strange—the sight of another man holding his mother’s hand, speaking on her behalf. But the reverend’s interpretation makes sense. If someone had done this to Gillian, Kyung can’t imagine trying to explain the details to Ethan, whether he was four years old or forty.

  “Your father has some things that he’d like to discuss with you. Maybe the three of us should go outside and let Mae rest?”

  Jin drops his eyes to the floor. Kyung wonders what he has to say for himself, what sorry excuses he’ll come up with.

  He leans over to kiss his mother’s forehead. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

  She shrinks into her bed, stiff to his touch, and it occurs to Kyung that maybe she’s not over it, the way he spoke to her in the field. He wants to apologize for his reaction, to explain why he didn’t understand, but not in front of the reverend or Jin.

  The three of them walk into the corridor, waiting for Mae’s door to float closed on its hinges. Kyung stares at the shiny bald patch on his father’s head. There’s a cut running diagonally across it, and a thick wad of gauze taped over another cut on his brow line. He’s wearing his glasses now, unaware of how crookedly they rest on his nose, which is swollen and bookended by black eyes.

  “Don’t bother her about what happened,” Jin says. “She’s not right in the mind.”

  “I’m not going to bother her. I just want to talk.”

  “No.” Jin grabs his forearm, his grip still firm. “Never. Never talk to her about what happened. She won’t survive that. It’s better if we all let her forget.”

  Kyung pulls his arm away. “How could she possibly forget? She’s going to need months—years of counseling to deal with this.”

  “I’ve offered to counsel Mae, every week if she’d like,” Reverend Sung says. “For as long as she’d like.”

  “No, not your kind of counseling. The kind with a doctor, a therapist. God isn’t what she needs right now.”

  The reverend and his father glance at each other uncomfortably, but the truth seems obvious to Kyung.

  “God didn’t help her when those men broke into the house and did what they did to her. God didn’t help you either when they were beating you up. What do you think he’s going to do now?”

  “It’s only natural…,” the reverend begins.

  “No,” Kyung snaps. “Nothing about this is natural. You can hold hands and pray and do whatever it is that you people do, but don’t tell me that forgetting is what’s best for her, that God is going to help her forget. She will never forget—do you understand that? She needs a doctor, a psychiatrist.” And then, because Jin looks so stricken by his outburst, he throws him a jagged bone. “You too. You need to see a psychiatrist. Again.”

  An orderly passes, studying the three of them carefully. Kyung realizes he’s been talking much louder than he should. He turns around and sees everyone in the waiting room staring at him. The woman at the front desk is craning over it, frowning at the commotion.

  “I’m sorry for upsetting you,” the reverend says. “I know how stressful this must be.”

  The fact that he’s apologizing only upsets Kyung
more. He’s the one causing a scene; he’s the one who should be sorry. Now he’s just embarrassed. He came here to be helpful, which is hardly what he’s done.

  “It’s almost a quarter after nine.” Reverend Sung taps the face of his watch. “I have to go lead services now. We’ll all say a special prayer for you and Mae.” He shakes hands with Jin and glances at Kyung, the expression on his face still quiet and kind. When he heads toward the exit, the entire population of the waiting room files out behind him, the sheep following their shepherd.

  “You should have been more polite to him,” Jin says. “His family’s done a lot for us.”

  “All he ever does is ask for money.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  The reverend inherited the congregation of First Presbyterian from his father, who’d recently moved back to Korea after his retirement. Kyung preferred the elder Reverend Sung, a serious, bookish man who could silence any room by simply entering it. He was the only person Kyung could think to call after he’d threatened to kill Jin. When the reverend arrived at the house, he took Jin by the arm and made him kneel on the floor beside him. They stayed that way for over an hour—eyes closed, hands clasped together, praying in Korean while Mae and Kyung looked on. Jin cried the entire time, but Kyung wondered if it was all just for show, if he’d later be punished for bringing an outsider in. He stood off to the side, studying the candelabra on the mantel, the statues on the ledge, wondering which would make for a heavier weapon, which would crack open a human skull when he finally had to make good on his promise. No one was more surprised than he was when the hitting actually stopped, a change that Kyung always attributed to the elder Sung’s intervention.