by Jung Yun
The clock on his phone reads 5:05, which hardly seems right to him. He doesn’t know how many hours he’s been awake. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? He can barely summon the math to do a simple calculation anymore. It occurs to him that Ethan is probably waking up right now, ready for his breakfast and morning dose of TV. When he opens the bedroom door, only Gillian will be there, and Kyung wonders if he’ll understand what this means. He drops his lit cigarette on the grass, sick with the thought of his son. He tried so hard not to think about him during the drive, but the exhaustion is finally chipping away at his resolve. The only thing Ethan had ever done was arrive in this world needing him, and the greatest failure of Kyung’s life, the one he felt daily, was not knowing how to respond. The part of him that wanted to be a good father was constantly at odds with the part that didn’t have one, leaving him with only two defaults as a parent—correcting Ethan or keeping him at a careful distance. Although his methods often changed from one minute to the next, his intentions were always the same. He wanted his son to turn out so much better than he did.
This person Kyung imagines running off to be—this more open, more willing, more expansive version of himself—this is who he should have been for Ethan all along. Not the stern disciplinarian too quick to correct every perceived step in the wrong direction, or the absentee father so convinced that mere proximity would damage him for good. He gravitated toward one extreme or the other, never finding that comfortable place in between.
Kyung removes the cigarettes from his pocket, throwing the pack in a nearby trash can. Whatever California is to him, whatever promise he thought it held, he knows it’s over now. It was over before it even began. He takes one last look at the lake and stretches his arms in the air, preparing himself for the long ride home.
* * *
Elinor doesn’t recognize him when he pulls into the parking lot. She shields her eyes from his headlights and squints, her expression confused and maybe even a bit frightened. Kyung realizes that his timing couldn’t have been worse. It looks like she was locking up for the night. Had he arrived a few minutes later, he could have avoided her altogether. He gets out of his car and shakes his legs, which are tight and stiff from the drive. Elinor picks up her bags as he walks toward her, hooking the handles over her arms protectively.
“Hello,” he calls out.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, Mae’s son. Kyung.”
She looks visibly relieved to hear his name. “Oh. I’m sorry. I couldn’t see who pulled in. For a second there, I thought I’d forgotten a meeting or something.…” The closer he gets, the more the pleasant chattiness in her voice begins to fade. “Kyung, are you all right?”
He knows he looks awful. He doesn’t even need a mirror to confirm it. He made it back from Erie in just under ten hours, waylaid by a flat on his return. He should have slept while waiting for the auto club to arrive, but all he wanted to do was get home. It’s a miracle he’s still upright now. He scratches his itchy, oily head, catching a whiff of his body odor as he lifts his arm. He stops a safe distance away, hoping she won’t notice the smell.
“I just drove back from Pennsylvania. I was there—for work.” He feels the need to mention work, if only to assure her there’s a reason for his appearance, but the lie doesn’t sound convincing enough. “So, is this your studio?”
“Yes, this is it.”
The building is a two-story brick box with a shiny black door and a sign beside it that reads HAMEL INTERIOR DESIGN. It’s not quite the successful-looking business that Elinor made it out to be at the reception, but it’s clearly a real business—not something she’s running out of an extra bedroom in her spare time.
“May I?” He gestures at the bags in her arms, aware that it might help to act like a gentleman since he doesn’t look like one.
“Yes, thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
She hands him the bags, which are achingly heavy. All three contain thick plastic binders and fabric samples held together by metal rings. He looks at her uncertainly, his shoulders curling forward with the weight.
“They’re design folios,” she explains. “Homework for a meeting tomorrow. My car’s just over here.”
He deposits the bags in her backseat, catching a glimpse of himself in the passenger window as he shuts the door. The skin under his eyes is discolored and inflamed. It looks like he recently lost a fight.
“I didn’t expect to see you here so soon, Kyung. I thought you might need more time.” She smiles at him hesitantly. “It’s kind of late to start packing, don’t you think?”
He’s not sure how to tell her that he has no intention of packing at all.
“And you do know you’re eventually going to need a truck, right? You won’t make much of a dent taking things in that—that car.”
There’s a vaguely distasteful sound in her voice, and he thinks he understands why. The flashy yellow Mustang that looked so slick in the rental lot just looks sad and abused now, streaked with dirt and dead bugs.
“Actually, I wasn’t planning to move out today so much as move in.”
“Move in—here?”
“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Elinor seems confused again. Kyung has been alone with his thoughts for too long. It takes him a few moments to realize that she needs more explanation to understand the things he decided in the car.
“You said my mother paid the rent through the end of the year, so I thought I’d make use of the place. I shouldn’t be here for more than a month or two.”
“But why? What are you going to use it for?”
Her suspiciousness doesn’t offend him; he’d distrust someone in his condition too. She probably thinks he’ll wreck the apartment and maybe even the studio beneath it.
“My wife and I, we’ve been having some problems because of all the things that happened this summer, so I need a place to stay until I find one of my own. I thought, maybe since my mother paid through December, I could just crash here.” He immediately regrets his use of the word “crash,” which he worries implies destruction. “I’d like to be close enough to see my son while I look for an apartment in Marlboro.…”
Elinor seems embarrassed for him. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve been having troubles lately. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted that for you. Of course you’re welcome to stay for a while. Actually, why don’t you come inside for a few minutes? Let me show you around.”
Kyung thinks he might pass out right there in the parking lot. He’d prefer to forgo the escorted tour, but it doesn’t feel safe to decline. Marital difficulty seems to be a topic that inspires some sympathy in Elinor, who isn’t wearing a wedding ring on her finger. He assumes she’ll lead him up the metal staircase to the apartment on the second floor, but she unlocks the door to her studio instead.
“This is where your mother would have worked,” she says, flicking on the lights.
He braces himself for the cold shock of fluorescents, but instead, the room is awash with the amber glow of oversized light bulbs. Dozens of them dangle from simple black cords across the length of the room, their thin orange filaments suspended in midair. Kyung has never been in a design studio before. He doesn’t know if they’re all supposed to look this way, or if the arrangement is unique to Elinor’s. There are four distinct areas that resemble small living rooms, each with a sofa, two armchairs, a coffee table, and stacks of binders similar to the ones he carried to her car. The color schemes are all in the same family of off-white or beige, but subtle differences set one area apart from the next—the pattern of a rug, the style of furniture, the lamps and decorations.
“This would have been Mae’s area for meeting clients.”
She sweeps her hand over the space with a flourish, seemingly happy to show it off. He tries to imagine his mother sitting there among the throw pillows, talking with people she didn’t know, selling them things they probably didn’t need.
“So … what do you think?”
Elinor
leans against a sofa, which looks like the one he slept on at the beach house. He takes in his surroundings as appreciatively as he can, trying not to think about the last time he slept.
“You don’t have desks?”
“No, not anymore. Actually, most of this setup is new. It was your mother’s idea. She said she always liked sitting with me in her house, looking at things together instead of sitting across from each other at a table. It’s much more personal and relaxed this way, don’t you think? Like chatting about design with a friend instead of someone you’re doing business with.”
“She thought of this arrangement?”
Elinor hesitates. “Thought of it … no. But inspired it, certainly. Your mother had strong opinions about what made her comfortable, and she definitely had a sense for making others feel comfortable too. Just wait until you see the apartment.”
As they walk back outside and up the metal staircase, Elinor tells him there’s no direct entrance from the apartment to the studio—a warning to keep out, he thinks. She also asks him to take off his shoes during business hours so her clients can’t hear him walking around. And no loud music or television either, she adds gently. He mumbles in agreement, trying to keep track of her sudden list of rules.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying all of this, but I’m not used to having anyone living up here. This space used to be a storage area. I was only willing to rent it to your mother because she needed a place to stay during the week.… Oh, and before I forget … Indian food.”
“What?”
“The ventilation in this building isn’t terribly efficient, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t cook Indian food, or anything with a strong odor. I can’t have my customers walking in and smelling curry.”
Kyung watches her unlock the door to the apartment. He’d gladly agree to almost anything if she’d just let him sleep. When they enter, his eyes go straight to the high ceiling, which is painted a stark shade of white. The storeroom is much bigger than he expected, and more finished too. All traces of its former use are gone now. Although there aren’t any walls separating one room from another, each space is carefully contained by a large Oriental rug. There’s a long, plush sofa in the living area, upholstered in a deep red shade of velvet, with careful rows of matching velvet-covered buttons lining the cushions. Kyung gently touches the chocolate-colored throw blanket draped over one of the arms, and the excess of it surprises him. Not only is the material cashmere; it’s a quality of cashmere ten times thicker and softer than any sweater or scarf he’s ever owned. He sits down on the end of the sofa, sinking into the perfect balance of feathers and foam, and takes in the rest of the room. Along the wall, two tall bookshelves have been meticulously arranged with books and antiques. The upper shelves feature old brass and copper trinkets, while the lower shelves house coffee table–sized books on architecture and design. Kyung gets up to examine the art hanging from the walls, all of which is framed in a similar style of ornate carved wood covered in gold leaf. He realizes that the choices his mother made for the houses in Marlboro and Orleans must have been a concession to Jin, who always preferred landscapes. Clearly, his mother preferred objects. Each framed piece is done in a different style but features a single image. A watercolor of a Victorian teacup. A charcoal rendering of a feather pen. An oil painting of a birdcage.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“How long did it take you to decorate this place?”
“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.”
“What number are you calling from?” Gillian sounds irritated to hear from him.
“I’m staying at a place in Connecticut. It doesn’t matter.… Anyway, would it be okay if I stopped by in the morning? I didn’t get a chance to talk to Ethan before I left.”
She pauses much longer than she should. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Why? Is he sick?”
“No.”
“Is he upset I’m not there?”
“No, he’s fine with it.”
Kyung’s hurt, but not surprised by this, which Gillian seems to understand.
“I didn’t mean it like that. He just thinks you’re off somewhere for work. I haven’t really explained everything yet.”
“Would it be all right if I came by, then? I think there are certain things he should probably hear from me.”
He can almost picture her right now, cradling the phone under her ear and biting her lower lip.