trees, reaching out of the shrubbery with their deep red trunks. In the day, visitors go there to eat their sandwiches and sip undrinkable coffee from paper cups. Or they sit on the stone benches, silently throwing crumbs towards fish in the pond. This is where I go when the nurses come in to change and check the various bags and tubes my mother is attached to. I’m going for a walk, I would say. And my father would nod. Whenever I looked up at the window from below, he would be looking down. Watching as I phoned work, as I slyly stubbed out my cigarettes among the white gravel scattered neatly in the earth.
He is still looking out. Even though dusk is creeping in around the glow of the lamps’ muted light. There is nothing to be seen. I finally think of something to say, get ready to ask what he is reading lately until I remember that he tried to but couldn’t. His eyes were giving him trouble. He likes to say that he has now the time to read all the books he bought for me while I was still in school but his eyes were not giving him a chance. He gives this little speech, all the while smiling his faint smile, walking along the wall of books in our living room. Refusing to sit and simply wait while Yang or I made the meal we always had together on Sundays. He would stand around, head tilted to the right so that he could read all the titles, pulling out ripped paperbacks from their places and fastidiously returning them to their original spots. There was none of that last night, he sat down after circling the sofa and coffee table for a minute, as if he had never been in the room before, never put his hands between his knees, talked about my mother and her Alzheimer’s and in just a few minutes, decided to have her put in a home nearby. It was here that I asked him to move in with us, there was a spare room which he could have, if he wanted. He said no and it was the last time I asked. It seemed he said no to everything I offered. Sweet tea, water, anything. So I just let him be.
He looks at me now and says, it’s your hair.
What? I say.
Your aunt had the same hair, he says, and pats me on the top of my head. I move away a little too quickly, ashamed because I smell of cigarettes and grease, of used, wearied hands. I try to disguise the silence by rummaging around in my bag for the phone and when I walk out to make the call, I concentrate on the loud clicks my high heels make on the floor. Clear, commanding and sure.
KIM / YANG
I ALMOST LEFT YOU ONE TIME. WE HAD LOST EACH other, wandering around one of the shopping malls in town. I turned and you were gone. We were going to dinner afterwards, and then to the movie theatre to see if there was anything good on but first we went to the department store. To the part where they sold television sets and stereos. We might need a new TV for after we move, you said. I walked a little away, and then you were gone. I made to look for you, weaving through the aisles. There was the same movie playing on all the screens at once. The one based on a book, with that pretty, too skinny girl. It was like a maze, the way all the screens showed the same image so that I turned and then couldn’t figure out which direction I was facing before. I walked on until I was out of the building, walking like I had someplace to be, until I got to the bus stop a little away. I stood among the other commuters, in their black and white office wear, ignoring the faint tinkle of my phone from deep in my handbag and wondered about which one to take. Which one would be faster or if I should hail a cab instead. The buses came, stopping noisily with a tremendous huff and then rolling away again. I counted three of them before I walked back to the mall and there you were, waiting at the entrance, standing much too close so that the sliding doors stayed open all the while you were there. I remember being glad that you hadn’t been facing out. You would have seen me waiting at the bus
He is still looking out. Even though dusk is creeping in around the glow of the lamps’ muted light. There is nothing to be seen. I finally think of something to say, get ready to ask what he is reading lately until I remember that he tried to but couldn’t. His eyes were giving him trouble. He likes to say that he has now the time to read all the books he bought for me while I was still in school but his eyes were not giving him a chance. He gives this little speech, all the while smiling his faint smile, walking along the wall of books in our living room. Refusing to sit and simply wait while Yang or I made the meal we always had together on Sundays. He would stand around, head tilted to the right so that he could read all the titles, pulling out ripped paperbacks from their places and fastidiously returning them to their original spots. There was none of that last night, he sat down after circling the sofa and coffee table for a minute, as if he had never been in the room before, never put his hands between his knees, talked about my mother and her Alzheimer’s and in just a few minutes, decided to have her put in a home nearby. It was here that I asked him to move in with us, there was a spare room which he could have, if he wanted. He said no and it was the last time I asked. It seemed he said no to everything I offered. Sweet tea, water, anything. So I just let him be.
He looks at me now and says, it’s your hair.
What? I say.
Your aunt had the same hair, he says, and pats me on the top of my head. I move away a little too quickly, ashamed because I smell of cigarettes and grease, of used, wearied hands. I try to disguise the silence by rummaging around in my bag for the phone and when I walk out to make the call, I concentrate on the loud clicks my high heels make on the floor. Clear, commanding and sure.
KIM / YANG
I ALMOST LEFT YOU ONE TIME. WE HAD LOST EACH other, wandering around one of the shopping malls in town. I turned and you were gone. We were going to dinner afterwards, and then to the movie theatre to see if there was anything good on but first we went to the department store. To the part where they sold television sets and stereos. We might need a new TV for after we move, you said. I walked a little away, and then you were gone. I made to look for you, weaving through the aisles. There was the same movie playing on all the screens at once. The one based on a book, with that pretty, too skinny girl. It was like a maze, the way all the screens showed the same image so that I turned and then couldn’t figure out which direction I was facing before. I walked on until I was out of the building, walking like I had someplace to be, until I got to the bus stop a little away. I stood among the other commuters, in their black and white office wear, ignoring the faint tinkle of my phone from deep in my handbag and wondered about which one to take. Which one would be faster or if I should hail a cab instead. The buses came, stopping noisily with a tremendous huff and then rolling away again. I counted three of them before I walked back to the mall and there you were, waiting at the entrance, standing much too close so that the sliding doors stayed open all the while you were there. I remember being glad that you hadn’t been facing out. You would have seen me waiting at the bus
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