I fled from the junk room, coughing, and into my adoptive parents’ suite, and once inside the bathroom, I helped myself to a tiny cup of water. Next to the bathroom was a door to a gigantic walk-in closet, which they shared. I opened it and went in. I walked along my adoptive mother’s side. It was the size of my side of the shared studio apartment. Her clothes, most of them plain, a few colorful and cheerful blouses, took up an entire side. There was a shelf near the floor with a jewelry box, empty, and above it, a faded, tattered copy of the French Impressionist painting SUNLIGHT STREAMING THROUGH PINK FLOWERS. I touched the paper lightly, and that light touch caused it to rip off the tack, then it fluttered to the floor, where I left it.
My things were in my adoptive brother’s bedroom, I remembered. It’s simple; just go in there, I thought, go into there and get your things. I went out into the hallway and marched up to the door. I pictured myself opening the door, and then what would happen? I would turn into dust; I would see all of my enemies; I would walk into a white oblivion.
The strip of light was gone; someone must have turned off the light. What if that person was still in there? I wondered. I put my ear to the door: silence. Was it a mistake to go into his bedroom? Mistakes have been made before. I have made plenty of them. Was it too soon after the death? No one was around me to ask. Everyone had gone to bed early; everyone had set their alarms for 6 a.m. I had heard them talking about the funeral in the kitchen, it was scheduled for tomorrow morning, even though no one directly asked me to go, not even my adoptive parents. I’ll show them. I’ll just show up and sit in the front row of the church, right in front of Chad Lambo, and everyone will see me and my sisterly mourning, I will create a mourning spectacle of myself.
I opened his bedroom door. With the hallway light on, I saw a small desk light, I went in, turned it on, and closed the door. I looked around the room, which was sparsely furnished, even sparser than my own. Then I turned on the ceiling light. There were no knickknacks, one shelf, one desk and metal chair, one twin bed with a metal frame. I recognized on the shelf a book I purchased during a period of teenage decadence, How To Stop Time, a memoir about an elegant and sophisticated female heroin user who kept her heroin in glassine envelopes. The image of the glassine envelopes stayed with me for almost sixteen years. He snuck into my room and stole things, I said to no one. He took my things. I sat down on the bed and I ran my hand across the bedspread, then I stood up and lifted it off. Because of my fear of bedbugs, I knew exactly how to examine a bed. I ripped off the top sheet, then the fitted sheet. With all my strength, I lifted up the mattress. What was I looking for? I wondered. Everything was freshly laundered; the sheets were sparkling white with a faint bleach smell, the mattress spotless. I inspected the pillowcases: no traces of blood or drool or bedbug feces.
It wasn’t physically clear a human had ever occupied this room. The desk was situated in front of a large window. It was too dark to see out, but I knew there was a large tree outside, the tree that depressed him. A large houseplant was placed upon the desk, blocking the view of the tree. Instead of looking at the depressing tree, he must have looked at this depressing plant.
I went over to the closet and opened it; I braced myself for a tremendous odor. Of course, I had spent a lot of time imagining what was inside it, days and days of visualizing that landscape, and when the material reality did not match up, I was, for a second, astonished. Someone, most likely my adoptive mother, had cleaned it out and remodeled it. To clarify, my adoptive mother paid someone to clean and remodel it. She paid someone, a professional closet designer, to rip out the rotting wood with the dead animal and replace it with shiny and smooth pieces of plywood, to build in drawers and shelves, to add an adjustable rod with cedar block hangers and assorted places for shoes and hats and ties. A ceiling light switched on automatically when the door opened. There was a floor-length mirror that reflected back the bed. I saw I had a puzzled expression on my face, which became even more puzzled when I realized there was one item of clothing in the entire wardrobe. My puzzlement turned to joy when I realized it was my black ribbed turtleneck. My black ribbed turtleneck! I took off my shirt, and slipped the turtleneck over my head, and I saw in the mirror it was a perfect fit. I decided I would sleep in it, which would cut down on the time it would take to get ready in the morning. My adoptive mother must have put it in the closet, along with my suitcase and traveler’s kit, which were on the closet floor. I took a pill to calm myself, to make the information I took in rational. All of my things were lit up in a yellowish light. It was nothing short of a great pleasure to be reunited with my objects, and there was true comfort in them. But there was nothing of his. He left behind almost nothing, not even a pair of socks. It occurred to me how quiet it was in the room. The silence shocked me, causing a sharp pain to needle up and down my legs, which forced me to sit down at his desk. I realized I had not paid enough attention to what was on the desk.
Someone had turned off the desk fan, the ever-persistent desk fan that provided background noise and peace, his lifelong companion. The fan had been unplugged and someone had wrapped the cord neatly around the neck. As I sat at the desk, I observed that the room did not appear to be a crime scene. I did not see
any blood or brain matter. I did not see a body. There was a cleaning-product aroma.
You must air out this disgusting house! I said to no one. His laptop computer, a basic PC, was on the desk. I turned it on and when I looked up, I saw the balding European man. He was holding a cup of coffee. I noticed his shoes were loafers open at the toe. He took a sip and nodded at me. Then he opened the door and strode out. I got up to close the door, and I looked both ways in the hallway. I went back to the desk and examined the computer. I clicked all over the place. The contents of the hard drive had been emptied, and erased. The background was the computer’s default wallpaper. It chilled me to the bone. This suicide was not an impulsive act of desperation; it had been thought out and planned well in advance. Now the only question was how long ago, how long ago did the thought he could kill himself pass through his brain? I didn’t even have a potential motive, except the six reasons, plus one philosophical reason that I didn’t even know. I stared for an eternity at the blue patterned wallpaper. Then I clicked on the trash icon. The entire hard drive was erased, except one document.
A NOTE ABOUT
SWANS AND ORGANS
—
SEPTEMBER 2013
I am X. Moran, born February 10 1984.
Who am I to you?
I’m a person, a Korean adoptee.
I have two parents and one sister.
I have a mom in Korea.
What am I to you?
Inside me are organs that keep me alive.
* * *
This past year so much has happened to me.
I am about to drive to the hospital. So much happened. Here are the highlights from the past year.
I hope you understand.
2 0 1 3
Jan.—Nothing
Feb.—I was up late one night, and I clicked on this link to a program about a young woman who was about to die, because she was waiting for an organ. She was so far down on the list, she probably died after the program. This was the first time I had heard of something like that happening and it made me upset. Why should people die like that, when there are so many healthy people with extra organs they don’t need? It didn’t seem fair.
Mar.—I had my first living organ donation interview. The nurse made me give two references. I put down Helen, and Zach. My hope is that they don’t call Helen, I can’t think about what she would tell them. They asked me a lot of questions and did all these tests. In case this one doesn’t work, I made appointments in St. Louis, Janesville, Chicago.
Maybe the best thing about this month was an orphanage called me. I couldn’t really understand the woman, she had a bad accent, but she told me my mom in Korea was looking for me! After all the time I spent looking for her! It made me really happy. Sh
e gave me more information, and a contact number for a translator.
Apr.—I received my first letter from my mom translated into English! It was cool. She asked me how I was doing and she said she felt guilty about giving me up. She said it wasn’t her idea. She asked me to come to Korea to meet her. I didn’t tell anyone. I wanted to tell Helen since she was the one who told me to stop searching. But that would have been like saying I told you so. No one likes it when people do that.
Also I was rejected as a living donor on grounds that I didn’t understand what I was doing. The doctor felt I was too young. I’m almost thirty! I went to the interview in St. Louis. I was rejected from Chicago. It’s terrible to receive these rejections, it feels bad. They told me to apply again in five years. What am I doing wrong?
May—I went to see a kidney doctor right here in Milwaukee, Dr. Abe. I used dad’s insurance card, which was a mistake because the bill was sent to our house. My parents don’t know anything about what I’m doing. I’m positive they wouldn’t understand. I tried to intercept the bill, I checked the mail every day, but I must have missed it. Or it was never sent.
I wrote my mom and I sent it to the translator. We have made plans to meet in Seoul! It’s crazy, but she really wants to meet me. I imagine her as a short Asian woman with a round face. She says she washes dishes at a restaurant, and she lives above it. It made me feel bad. But I guess it could be worse.
Jun.—I have never liked traveling but I have decided I will travel this year, I will learn how to do it for a greater cause. I flew to Colorado and stayed with relatives. I told them I was interested in fly fishing. They dressed me up in fly fishing gear and we went out to a mountain stream. The water was cold. We caught so much fish we didn’t know what to do with it. I wanted to throw it back. I have always hated the taste of fish. We kept eating fresh fish every night for dinner. I put it into my mouth then spit it into a napkin. The truth was there was a doctor I wanted to see, and I had an interview with him. I have never cared about fly fishing.
Jul.—Before I left, I got another rejection.
I went to see Helen in July, where she very kindly put me up in her TINY apartment in NYC. What stood out to me was going to the zoo with her, and a collection of the saddest most pathetic animals I have ever seen. They looked like a crazy person’s household pets. I stayed with her for one night and from there, I booked a one-way flight from JFK to Seoul, to finally meet my mom!
Aug.—Time’s going to slow down this month because I have a lot to say.
I had never been so nervous or excited. I still didn’t tell anyone, not even my parents, especially not them, because I wasn’t sure it was real. It felt like good luck and I didn’t want to ruin it. I wasn’t even sure it was real until the airplane landed at the Korean airport, where a translator met me, and took me to the orphanage. I was placed there two months after I was born, almost thirty years ago. I didn’t even tell Helen, although the orphanage asked me for an emergency contact and I gave them what I thought was her phone number, but I might have just made something up. I think Helen might be an undiagnosed bipolar or schizophrenic, but she’s figured out a way to live with it, although I will say she was kind of dressed like a homeless person and I can’t believe she takes care of people as her job (!). I don’t trust therapists or psychiatrists anyway.
I was so excited to meet my mom, but also terrified. I wondered if we would look alike and I knew we wouldn’t be able to understand one another, still, I just thought it would be cool to meet her, and to say hello (!) after all these years. The translator helped me make an appointment to meet my mom the following day, after I got over the jet lag and stuff. That night I went to a hostel and I couldn’t fall asleep. I left and ended up at a 24 hour café. I bought a bottled water and one cup of rice, and read a book, Blood Meridian, which is about this monstrous human being named The Judge and in the end he rapes the other main character in the bathroom? It makes me upset and I never understand it. I’ve reread it like ten times and I’m still not sure about the ending. I was up all night at the café and into the next day when finally someone asked me to give up my seat, because the café was so busy. Actually, I have no idea if that’s what the guy said because he was speaking Korean, but he kept making this go away gesture at me, and then he pointed to the door.
So I went to the hostel to change my clothes. And something happened to me. I looked in the bathroom mirror. There were other people washing up, too, but eventually they left, and I was still there. I looked at myself, and became confused. I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing in Korea. It didn’t make sense. It was like a double consciousness sort of thing and it was scary. Everything in my life split along a line. And now comes the part you probably won’t believe, but… I didn’t go to the meeting. I was really freaked out, I felt like if I met her, I would see this other life I might have had, and it would be impossible to have it make sense with the life I did end up leading, the one with mom and dad and Helen.
So… it’s true. I didn’t go to the appointment to meet my biological mom. I couldn’t do it. It now reminds me of this thing my mom in Milwaukee told me. When I was little, they had books about adoption for us. I never wanted to read them. Helen read them, she loved all those books, she told my parents she loved reading about herself, but I told my mom I thought there was something bad in them. It’s true. Don’t open doors that should remain closed. It sounds stupid, but in my life, it’s true.
Let me tell you a couple more things about Korea. Sometime after I skipped meeting my biological mom, I walked to a park, where I saw an old man feeding a family of swans. He was standing on a rowboat in the middle of an artificial lake in the middle of the city. Something about the way he interacted with the swans told me that he had been their lifelong caretaker. But then something bad happened. Some of the more aggressive, dominant swans began to peck at him. And the next thing I knew, he lost his balance, he was knocked off the little boat. There were splashes in the water, and I saw swan wings flapping violently, blocking the old man from getting to the lake’s surface. The sound they made was so loud. The man drowned. The entire time, I thought I could yell for help, but it happened so quickly, in a matter of minutes, I just didn’t do anything but watch what happened. Eventually, some other people showed up and started screaming at me in Korean. The police came and fished out the body. I sort of shrank away from the scene and went back to the hostel.
I had ten messages waiting from the translator at the orphanage. As soon as I was back inside my cramped airless room, someone knocked at the door. I didn’t move to answer it. When the person went away, I used the hostel’s computer to book my ticket back to the United States. The computer was chained to the desk, an old desktop model.
Sep.—I have always been kind of a failure at everything. I can say with confidence that I was good at one thing: I could memorize long passages from books and if you asked me what page it was on, I would be able to tell you. But what kind of job can you get with that skill? It’s pretty useless.
I think Helen used to get freaked out that I memorized an entire book on trees.
But what’s not to like about trees?
I used to possess more things, but over the past few years, I’ve started to give everything away. Someone else out there could put it to use better than me.
That’s how I feel about my organs and my body. Someone else could put it all to better use than me, someone in need, someone who wants to stay alive.
A week ago, I fell, and my face hit the floor. I tried to kill myself with pills, the easy way out. It was a moment of weakness and it almost destroyed my entire plan. I was really pissed off at myself. My nose didn’t break, but my front teeth fell out, it was pretty humiliating. I’m so ashamed of that. But it taught me something about suicide. That you have to follow through with the plan.
The dentist was going to fit me in for an emergency appointment, but in the end I didn’t go. I didn’t think my teeth mattered.
I’
ve always wanted to do good things for other people, but I never did them for myself.
A couple weeks ago I acquired the gun. I thought I could do it with pills, but that was selfish. I will take my gun with me, I will drive to the hospital and sit in my car right outside the emergency room door. I will call the police and 911. I will leave detailed instructions about what my body and organs are to be used for. I will shoot myself carefully in the head, but not so my skull blows up. If I do it correctly, I will not feel anything. The car can be sold to help cover the costs of my funeral.
My organs and skin and eyes and tissues are to be donated to those who are about to die, every person that is last on any organ donation list, all of my physical material is to go to them.
This is my way of doing something right in the world.
I hope you understand what I have decided.
I’ve wanted to die since I was eighteen. I kept myself alive for as long as I could. This is the moral answer to that feeling.
When I was little I used to go swimming and I thought I could die by holding my breath. Every time I almost did it, I got scared.
When I was little I lied a lot. Helen and I played confession and I fell in love with lying. Our mom washed our mouths with soap, and after a while, I started to like the taste of it. Or maybe I’m tricking myself. I guess I got used to it.
I’m not scared anymore. You can’t do it and be scared.
Personally, I think my life was beautiful. No one else would think it’s beautiful, but it was enough for me.
Sorry to Disrupt the Peace Page 15