by R. O. Kwon
On Sunday, I drove us back to Noxhurst through light rain, leaving when we finished lunch. Phoebe, it turned out, had a Jejah meeting at five. She put a bare foot up on the dashboard, touching it to the windshield. Small haloes of body heat materialized around each unpainted toe. She switched on the radio, singing along. I didn’t recognize the tune. She fell quiet. I turned down the music to let Phoebe doze.
Hours passed, then she lifted her head. Hello, she said. I might have had too much wine at lunch. Poor Will, I left you alone. What time is it? She glanced around, blinking. So much traffic.
It was fine until a minute ago, I said, as the radio clock flickered to 4:11. It should let up.
But how long will it take before we get to Noxhurst?
If this traffic doesn’t stop, we’re about an hour’s drive from town.
Will, she said, voice high. I have to be at the meeting by five.
No, that’s if the traffic doesn’t improve. There’s nothing to worry about, since it won’t happen.
Phoebe strained in the seat, trying to look above the cars ahead of us. I wasn’t sure why I’d said what I had. She’d be on time, as I knew well enough.
Maybe we should take local streets, she said.
Why are you so upset? I’ll get you there.
I can’t be late.
I told you I’d get you there.
In the expanding silence, Phoebe pulled up her legs. She turned aside, but I still heard the panic thrum. I cracked the window open. I drove. The traffic had slowed to a standstill. I bullied hesitating cars. I shoved into each hint of a rift. I pushed; I lunged, while Phoebe’s left foot jigged. The key to driving fast in traffic is to act as if everyone else has more to lose. I willed Phoebe to complain. I wanted the fight, but since she kept quiet, I couldn’t start arguing without also being in the wrong.
Before long, traffic opened out. The wheels rushed across wet asphalt, a sound like film reel unwinding. The trip rolled back, as though it hadn’t happened. In a short while, we’d hurtled past the speed limit.
Do you want to know why I have to be on time?
Sure, I said, but she fell silent again, a hand lighting on my thigh, until I turned off the highway, into Noxhurst. Since school reopened, she said, Jejah had begun holding group confessions. Each person talked about his life, and hers, inviting questions, criticism. It was optional. If she wasn’t explaining this well, it was because she hadn’t taken a turn, not yet. She would, tonight. It was on the schedule. I might have noticed she’d been writing, at times—well, that was what she’d been doing. Drafting thoughts. It would be rude to be late. I parked in front of the house, and I asked what she hoped to tell them.
I’ll talk about my mother, she said. If I can. I don’t think I’ve told you how she died, the details. That night, I insisted on driving, but I wasn’t good at it. I hadn’t practiced enough. She didn’t like me to drive. In the last mile, going home, I was blinded by headlights. I swerved, then I hit a truck head-on. But she pitched her body in front of mine, taking the impact. I didn’t even have to go to the hospital. Will, I think you were right. It could help, talking about it.
The door chimed open. I felt the light brush of a kiss, soft lips sliding, and then she left. I watched as she walked up the path, the front door swinging wide to let her in.
* * *
–
But this wasn’t the kind of help I’d had in mind. I drove home, thinking of all the nights I woke to find Phoebe thrashing, caught in the sheets. I called her name until she sat up; I kissed Phoebe’s fists, the knuckles tipped bone-white. What’s wrong, I asked, afraid, knowing who she’d seen again, the ghost who dug herself out from an L.A. grave. She rang the doorbell, half-rotted, but alive. Finding Phoebe in the pool, she said, Hold my head beneath the surface until I drown. They stood on a rooftop, and she advised Phoebe to give her a push. I can’t do it alone, Haejin, she said. It has to be you.
Each time, I rubbed Phoebe’s rigid back. I’m here, I said. She fell asleep, wet hands balled at her head. Without fail, the next morning, she declined to talk about what she’d revealed. I think you should talk to someone, I said. But I talk so much, she said, flashing a smile. I’m talking to you. Someone who’s qualified, I said. Maybe, ah, a therapist. I thought of my own mother’s trouble: she’d admitted herself into the hospital this past June, while I was living in Beijing. She hadn’t told me until she signed out. It’s just that I wanted a break, she’d said. I didn’t want you fretting, she added, as if, knowing what she’d hidden, I wouldn’t fret more than I had.
But I’m an immigrant, Phoebe said. Immigrants don’t believe in therapists. The Koreans I’ve known would judge it to be a failure of will, the kind of thing that happens to other ethnicities: it’s like being lazy, or unfilial. I think a therapist could help you, I said. If I’m going to be honest, she said, I don’t see the point. For me, that is. I understand people find it useful, but, okay, let’s assume I wish my mother hadn’t died. It’s not worth examining. Julian says the most dispiriting words in the English language are “Red or white?” but, obviously, he’s wrong. What’s worse is “Last night, I dreamed,” and—
She riffed like this until I stopped. If I tried again, insisting she find help, Phoebe’s smile widened. It lit the girl up. In a glade of light, she slipped away. It was an act; I knew that, but I suppose I let it happen. Even now, I’ll admit, if I recall these night fits, part of me wants to protest that this wasn’t Phoebe: that the girl I loved, for instance, during a childhood trip to Delphi, went jumping through its ruins. Since she hadn’t told me much else about it, I’d filled in the details until I might have been there, too, our earliest lives conjoined. On the crowded bus ride from Athens to Delphi, this Phoebe slept against my arm. The guide lectured into a microphone. It’s the omphalos, he said. The holiest site, navel of the Hellenic world. In time, the bus rolled to a halt. Phoebe stood in the white, hot wash of sun; she rubbed light-blind eyes. Despite the heat, I held Phoebe’s hand. I kept it in mine while we leaped the ancient stones, raising exuberant brumes of dust.
* * *
–
The day after the Cape Cod trip, as we left the apartment, I asked if I could attend the next Jejah meeting. Right, Phoebe said, with a laugh. I explained I wasn’t kidding. Pulling on a white pashmina, she looked at me through its soft folds. It was raining again. I held the umbrella for both of us. We walked to Latham Hall while I told Phoebe partial truths. I’ve noticed the effect it’s had on you, I said. You’ve spent so much time with this group. I want to know more about it. Since it’s important to you, I can’t help being curious.
She kept her face tucked down, hidden in the cashmere pile, until, lifting her head, she said she’d give John Leal a call. We’d arrived at the Latham gate. She hesitated, phone in hand. I left Phoebe the umbrella, and I said I’d walk ahead.
I waited in front of the dining hall, shielded from rain by the stone arcade. Croquet wickets littered the ground. That morning, I’d passed a group of old men in pastels and wan hats, batting mallets: alumni, I figured. But in the fog they’d been wraiths, sprung from time. Balls tocked, skinkling, through delicate arches. My head pulsed. I’d had too much to drink the previous evening. She was still on the phone. I watched as she talked. Hanging up, she came to tell me he’d apologized, but it wasn’t possible. The group just didn’t have the space. Not yet, at least.
* * *
–
I kept asking questions; I’d knock until they’d let me in. This has been the cardinal fiction of my life, its ruling principle: if I work hard enough, I’ll get what I want. He heard God’s voice, she said. He’d told the group the miracle could happen for each of them, if they practiced. If they had discipline. He believed in physical training. Once, he’d had Jejah dig a large hole in the backyard. They’d labored for hours with the hard-packed dirt, after which he had them fill it in again. But a little pain
cleared the mind, he said. It made space for the waiting Spirit.
Then, as I walked to class one afternoon, I saw him, the soiled hems of his jeans trailing naked feet. His torso riding his hips like a serpent on its coil. From his gait alone, a lax, rolling, low-hipped stroll, I could have picked him out from a crowd. I stayed well behind him; I didn’t think he’d spotted me, but it wasn’t long after this that I had my chance. In bed, while I studied, Phoebe told me that the blond girl in Jejah, Tess, had quit. If you still want to come to a meeting, you’re invited, she said.
I’ll be there, I said.
It isn’t a joke, though, she said. Don’t come if all you’ll do is laugh at it—
I won’t laugh, I said.
I’m serious, Will.
So am I.
I twisted my face into a scowl, mock-solemn; she pushed me. Unbalanced, she tumbled on top of me. We rolled to the edge of the bed, and almost fell. Will, careful, she said, but she was laughing. She butted against my chest.
Don’t laugh, I said. This is serious.
I kissed Phoebe’s head, the strands gliding between my lips. I tasted chlorine. Irritated, I stopped. It was too hot, I realized. I opened a window, letting the light cold drift in. Phoebe caught ash-white flakes, ice shreds, on her fingertips. She blew them at me, but they’d melted. We were talking, until we weren’t. She felt beneath my boxers; I pulled down ribbed tights, the bared thighs white. I listened to Phoebe’s quick breaths. I shut my eyes, then a line of imagined girls pirouetted through: twirling, pouting figurines. To my surprise, not one looked like Phoebe, and the last thought before I finished was that I’d broken free of my girlfriend for several minutes. Like the breeze, this change came as a relief.
20.
JOHN LEAL
He loved to think of heaven, he said. Think of the psalmist’s plea, his love song: whither shall I escape from Thy Spirit? he’d asked, knowing there’s no escaping Him. While they lived on earth, they might still hide beneath the flesh. But dying, they’d be given up naked to the light. That’s all death is, he said. It’s an unveiling. In time, they’d show like flares.
21.
PHOEBE
I did plan to go to Beijing, Phoebe told Jejah. She flushed, then went pale again. While she talked, I might have been home, waiting. Maybe I was in the middle of a Michelangelo’s shift, clearing basil-flecked plates. I fold napkins, and I align them in white triangles. The shining knives lie flat. She pulls her ponytail, the tip soft, wide, like a paintbrush. I’m awash with images. If I’d been with Phoebe on this night—and sometimes I see it all in such bold detail I think I was—I’d have said it’s fine, I’m here, forget Beijing.
You should have seen Will when he learned he won his internship, she said. He flailed across the suite to me, half-naked, fists raised. Flinging himself on the futon, he settled his head on my thigh. Come with me, he said. Let’s go to China. He reached up to grab my face, and he pulled it down to his. But I didn’t need convincing. I said yes, I’ll go. He shouted, jubilant. I’ll go with you, I kept saying, just so that I could listen to him shout again.
For a while, I pitched myself into learning about Beijing. It was going to be my first real trip to Asia. Though born in Seoul, I’d left when I was still so little I kept nothing of it. So, I explored travel guides. I compiled best-of lists: Tanzhe Si. Houhai. I plotted which sections of the Wall we’d hike, picked restaurants. Online, at night, I studied photos of temples and red-tiled palaces. Tourists’ frilled parasols, like stiff blooms, roved the imperial pavilions.
I told Will what I learned. Listen to this, I said. Palace eunuchs relied on chili paste for a local anesthetic, nothing else. They rubbed it on, then, chop. Half the aspiring eunuchs died, but, hey, if they survived, they’d get rich. They all belonged to peasant families. One cut, then a palatial life. No men but eunuchs lived on imperial grounds. Even the emperor’s sons had to be banished from court the minute they learned to crawl. Oh, plus, eunuchs kept the genitals pickled. In jars. They hoped to be reunited in the afterlife.
Will laughed, as I’d known he would. But then, Noxhurst opened with spring, the trees bud-tipped, and I started losing interest in the trip. It wasn’t his fault. I’d been wasteful. It’s as if, or so I’ve, at times, believed, a pleasure has its allotted limit, a finite portion of juice in each pistil. I’d sucked it all out, anticipating. If I went with him, Will would have his job, while I’d, what, visit old palaces? I’d take banal pictures. Jostle along with the hordes—a tourist, like them. One night, I admitted to Will that I didn’t know what I’d do while he was working.
Do anything, he said. He didn’t look up from his book. I tapped his wrist, impatient, until he put the book down. Take a class, if you want. In, ah, the fine art of Sichuan cuisine.
I flinched; noticing, he said, fast, No, it’s what I’d do if I, I love Sichuan food. Phoebe, forget it. I’m joking! Just come. If you don’t go, I won’t. It was fine. I let it pass, though I heard what he’d implied, the insult left unsaid, that he’d enroll in a cooking class if he didn’t have his own, real pursuits. Well, he had a point. I saw them spin, like tops: a lifetime’s stack of plates I hadn’t been allowed to wash, whirligig red-gold globes of fruit I hadn’t peeled. I still couldn’t cut an apple without nicking myself. When I tried, knives slipped. Dishes fell, goblin-bewitched. The logic behind this upbringing: if I didn’t learn how to be in a kitchen, no one could keep me there. It wasn’t a spell. It was a gift, one I had put to no use at all.
* * *
–
In the spring, I learned my grades might prohibit going to Beijing with Will. I let it be what happened; I failed. I’ll miss you, I said. I kissed his hairline. He turned away, his forehead pinched, high. I didn’t like causing him pain, but I couldn’t have tagged along. I kissed him, again. I didn’t stop until he turned back to me, still so trustful: like a child, finding solace with the person who’d hurt him in the first place. I took Will to his flight, then I returned, alone, to Noxhurst. The suite locked shut. Its silence rang like an alarm. I sat on the futon, at a loss. I didn’t have a friend in town.
The June hours swelled, humid, dull, waiting to be filled. At parties, listless bodies held iced drinks to hot, moist skin. The college had no air-conditioning, and I kept thinking I should get a window unit. If I bought it, though, I’d be obliged to haul it home. I’d have to install it. I thought of the time a pigeon had flown into my suite, how it had crashed, flapped, rattling around, the trapped bird too panicked to find an exit. It dotted the living room white with shit. I was shrieking; Julian, too. Liesl ran to the landing, but Will stayed calm. He caught the pigeon with an upended trashcan. Sliding a flattened shoebox beneath the plastic lip, he carried it out. If Will were here, he’d have long since solved the air-conditioning problem. Instead, I sprawled on damp sheets. I listened to flash storms, too hot to sleep. Will’s fund in Beijing required most of his time; often, he couldn’t talk.
Julian was living in Manhattan. I could have gone to him, except that, like Will, he’d objected to the plan of staying in Noxhurst. I predict anguish, he’d said. Phoebe, you’re a capable girl, but I’m afraid being alone isn’t a skill. It’s a disposition. I didn’t want to prove him right; still, one night, I had to call him. Julian, help, I said. In minutes, I’d packed a small bag, hopped in a taxi, and claimed an aisle seat in the air-conditioned train to New York. With a short walk, I exited the station. I hailed a second cab, which sped downtown. It dropped me in front of his building. Up the last flight of stairs, then I fell in Julian’s arms. Give me that bag, he said. I’ve made big plans.
He didn’t say, I told you so. We walked to a bistro, and piled into a red banquette. Julian’s friends traipsed in, including his boyfriend. Hahn’s a poet, Julian had explained. He bartends on the side. Phoebe, I’m afraid to jinx it, but—I haven’t felt like this in so long. I made sure to sit next to Hahn. He kept quiet, so I asked questions;
I joked, I teased, until I had him laughing. Since Julian loved this Hahn, I would, too.
Bills paid, we rode taxis to a karaoke place, then crowded into a private room. I have bonbons, Julian said. He distributed round pills, blithe with the pleasure of giving. I flicked a switch, to see what would happen. Disco-ball lights, jewel ovals, slid along the walls. Hahn and I duetted, hitting each note. I high-fived him, and I downed soju. People sang, while I kicked up a dance. Time flared. I sat with Hahn again, his arm tight at my waist. I leaned into the hold, liking his strength, then I felt his hand shift, warm, inside the shirt. He’d slipped, I thought. But his hand pushed up. He gripped breast flesh, and pinched it. Everyone was singing.
I stood; I went to Julian, who hadn’t noticed. He touched his lips to the side of my head. I should tell him, I thought. But in that small box of a private room, I’d insisted on dancing. No one had joined me as I performed. Will often recalled the night I’d met him, how I’d looked, hands raised. Phoebe, I could have watched all night, he said. It’s just that I love to dance, I said, with a shrug. I’d known full well what I was doing, though. I’d felt his attention pull taut, alert, like a long puppet string. I tugged it; his eyes moved, helpless. In the spotlight I’d compelled, Will’s wide-eyed stare, I came back to life. I hadn’t tried to flirt with Hahn, but I had. He’d believed I wanted him to touch me; then, when he put his hand into my shirt, I hadn’t protested. Instead, I’d let Julian’s boyfriend admire me.
This is what I do, I thought. It’s who I am. I hurt those I love. In the morning, I left a note on Julian’s table. I woke up feeling unwell, it said. I took the first train back to school.