Five
Work is more annoying than usual on Monday. When I leave, I gulp in the air until I feel dizzy. It’s not fresh since this is Bay Street, but it’s better than the office. In the middle of my breathing, Hana texts me one word: People.
That’s all she needs to say. Hana’s job as a corporate diversity consultant means talking to people about why it’s not cool to be racist, sexist, ableist homophobes and asking if they could please not be like that. Her work trips are a poisonous combination of physically and psychologically exhausting.
Me: You ok?
Hana: Work sucks. The hotel air con is arctic. Eomma says I’m eating too much fast food because I posted a picture of a matcha latte.
I’m not surprised, because Hana’s mom is a piece of work. Trying to get Hana to see how she looks unfiltered by her mother’s constant negative comments—all provided under the guise of being helpful or being for Hana’s own good—is an ongoing, eternally heartbreaking battle.
I grit my teeth and text back: Your food is your business.
Hana: I know.
We message about things we hate for a bit longer, and then I head home. Jihoon’s already in his room. I don’t want to knock on his door, but I wish he’d been in the living room so I could feel less alone. I sit on my bed, mind both empty and buzzing. I want to do something, anything, but I also want to do nothing. Inertia wins out.
My phone rings, and I glance at it. It’s Mom, and I decline the call. I don’t want to talk about Phoebe, and that’s the only reason she’d be calling at this time.
The phone rings a minute later. Mom again.
My palms tingle. She never calls twice like that. I pick up. “Mom?”
There’s a quick gasping noise. “Ari? Sweetie?”
It must be bad. “Mom, is everything okay?”
“He’s safe, that’s what you need to know. I don’t want you to worry. Do you hear me?”
I hear the words, but it’s hard to understand, as if my brain is sifting out every second syllable, leaving me with a broken message. Everything goes very slow.
“Mom? What’s going on? Is it Dad?” I stumble over the words.
“He’s at the hospital. We’re at the hospital.”
“Mom!”
“He’s okay. It’s fine.” Is she reassuring herself or me? The first is scarier. “He had a heart attack, sweetie. The ambulance came, and he’s going to be fine, I promise.”
“What hospital?”
“You don’t need to come. They said he’ll be out in a couple days. He doesn’t need surgery.”
“I said what hospital.”
She sighs and tells me, then she says, “I called your sister.”
I take a moment to absorb my rage that she called Phoebe before she called me. Now’s not the time. “Okay.”
We hang up, and I watch my hands shake. Dad had a heart attack. He could have died. What if Mom hadn’t been there to call an ambulance? What if he’d been alone?
I don’t even notice I’ve moved to the living room and am standing in the middle of the floor until Jihoon cracks open his door.
He’s in front of me immediately, hands warm on my shoulders. “Ari, what’s wrong?”
I open my mouth to tell him that nothing happened and I’m fine, but instead I tell the truth. “My dad’s sick. He had a heart attack. He’s in the hospital.”
He steps in and tucks my head under his chin as I sniffle. I’m not crying crying, but I can’t seem to control the speed of my breath or the tears leaking from my eyes. Jihoon whispers softly in Korean as his hands stroke down my arms. He walks us to the couch and urges me to sit beside him without letting my wrist go.
The comfort of his touch wars with my shame at crying in front of a relative stranger. I choke out a laugh to try to save some dignity. “Sorry I got your shirt all gross.”
I expect Jihoon to take the out I’m offering and make a joke that will be the first step in extricating himself, but he only looks at me. “Is your father safe?”
“Yes.” My breath is light and uneven.
“Your mother. She’s safe?”
“Yes, with Dad at the hospital.” I feel a little stronger. In this moment, they’re both safe, and I cling to that.
He hums an acknowledgment and sits with me silently, not loosening his hold, as I alternate between staring mindlessly at the red lines threading through the floor rug and thinking through what I need to do.
Finally I pull back and wipe my face. “I need to go to the hospital.”
He nods and releases me.
Although my thoughts are darting around, my body sits unmoving on the couch. Keys. I need my keys and my wallet. Should I change? Call a cab. No, drive. A cab is better. What do I need to bring? ID? It’s all so draining. I feel I need to move slowly, almost gingerly, like something in me will break if I rush, but I’m filled with a contrary need to hurry.
Jihoon’s dark eyes are trained on me. “Ari? What do you need?”
“Nothing, thanks.” My reply is automatic.
He doesn’t take this escape either. “Tell me so I can help.”
What I want, what I need. I want this not to be happening, but that’s not on the table. I want Jihoon to pinch me and tell me it’s a dream.
I want to not be alone, but I can’t ask him for more than he’s doing. That’s not fair to a guy who’s spent most of his time being very clear he wants nothing to do with me.
“I’m here, Ari.” This time he runs his hand up to my elbow. I crush a cushion under my other hand and avoid his eyes. My need for company is bigger than my discomfort at asking for help.
“Uh. Will you come with me? To the hospital?”
There’s a moment of silence, and I start apologizing, embarrassed for showing weakness. What was I thinking? I can do this by myself. I’m used to handling things on my own. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s a pain. I’ll be fine.” I get up, and he stands with me.
“Of course, I’ll come with you,” he says, his voice soft. “I wanted to offer but didn’t want to make you feel pressure. Where’s your bag? I’ll get it.”
In the cab, Jihoon keeps hold of me with a light touch on my hand that grounds me. A text comes from Hana, filled with hugs and hearts. I glance over at Jihoon. “Did you text Hana?”
“Yes. She wanted to call, but I asked her not to because you might be busy.”
“Oh.” I look at him out of the corner of my eye. It’s nice to have someone watching out for me. “Thanks.”
We travel the rest of the way in silence and then navigate to the emergency room. It’s crowded, and the people on their phones or talking in low voices create an atmosphere heavy with tension and resignation. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hospital Waiting Room is one of the featured tortures of Hell, and they wouldn’t even have to change the seating. I find Mom staring at a wall near the vending machines. Under the strong light, her face is drawn and haggard, the bags under her eyes more prominent. The gray streaks in her short black hair look thicker than before, and for the first time in my life, I understand she’s getting older and that one day her heart will also…
No. No. I’m not thinking that.
Her gaze shifts over when we approach. “Hi, sweetie.” She looks past me, and I step aside so she can see Jihoon.
“This is Jihoon, Hana’s cousin. He’s visiting and came with me.”
Jihoon bows as I lean over and give her an awkward hug with my right arm. “How’s Dad?”
“Resting. He’s in a shared room, so I left to give his roommate some privacy with the doctor. Did your sister call you?”
I take a deep breath. Phoebe again. “No.”
“I told her to.”
“We can talk about Phoebe later. When can I see Dad?”
“It’s his own fault,” she snaps, eyes fixed on the vending machine. “He was working too hard. I told him, let’s take a break. We haven’t gone on holiday together in years. Why work to only work more?” Mom’s voice is rising, and the older woman beside her nods in sympathy.
“Mom, I don’t think…”
“For what?” She shakes her head. “So when you die you can get he answered email at midnight on your tombstone?”
“How did it happen?” I don’t want to talk about Dad’s work ethic. Jihoon touches my arm, murmurs about coffee, and disappears.
“He mentioned heaviness in his chest in the afternoon but said it was fine. He waited five hours! Then he collapsed after dinner. All sweaty.”
“How long is he here for?” I ask, trying to keep her focused. I read somewhere that getting people to think about numbers or facts can calm them down. “A couple days?”
“They think so.” Her phone alarm sounds, and Mom stands so quickly, she almost stumbles. “We can see him now.”
I feel bad I’ve already asked so much of Jihoon by bringing him here, so I text him that he can go home if he wants. He replies with a heart emoji, which is a sweet if inconclusive answer.
The hospital corridor is bright with that light that comes down through the tops of your eyes in a jagged and headache-inducing line. In Dad’s room huddles a crowd of people chatting around the man in the first bed, who has the privacy curtains thrown open wide. They greet us with disconcertingly cheerful smiles, and I manage a terse nod in reply.
Mom slides open the curtains around Dad’s bed, the slithery rattle of the metal rings making my shoulders inch up. She only widens them enough for us to squeeze in before closing them firmly behind us. Her arm rests against mine for a moment before she steps away.
Dad’s asleep. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him with his eyes closed. He’s in one of those blue cotton hospital gowns with an IV buried in his arm and wires coming out from his chest.
“Did they give him pain medication?” I whisper to Mom. I want to cling to her hand, but she has her arms crossed in front of her. It takes all my energy to keep the tears out of my eyes and collected in a tight ball in my throat where they can’t escape.
“He’s on a lot of meds. They’re monitoring him.”
It’s creepy to stand and watch while Dad’s asleep. His black hair, streaked with gray in the same places as Mom’s, looks dull against the harsh bleached white of the pillowcase. I could sit down and hold his hand, but that feels unnatural. We don’t touch very often. I can’t remember the last time he hugged me.
I look at the lines on the heart monitor and desperately wish I could pull out my phone to have something to do that isn’t this. Beside us, the roommate’s family bids him a boisterous goodbye as they file out. “You’ll need to leave soon,” Mom tells me, eyes not moving from Dad’s hands. “I told you there was no reason to come.”
“I wanted to.”
She reaches out to give me a little side hug, and I burrow into it. I’m thirty years old and need my mommy. “I’m going home soon, too. Phoebe will be here tomorrow.”
“What?”
“She’s taking the morning train from Montreal and staying with a friend.”
I don’t answer. The last time my older sister was in Toronto, we had a fight that ended in her telling me I was a repressed child who needed to grow up. Then she stormed out of the café where we’d met for coffee.
What infuriated me was that she’d left before I said what I thought of her. No, that I didn’t get a chance to tell her I never think about her. That’s what I would have said. That’s what I was going to text her before I decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
“She misses you,” Mom says.
I glare at her. “I don’t need you to try to fix things like a 1950s mom, thanks. We’re adults.”
She doesn’t answer, and we watch Dad sleep until the nurse comes to say visiting hours are ending soon. I slowly go to his side of the bed and give him a squeeze on the arm. He doesn’t move, and Mom ushers me out.
We stand in the corridor for a moment. “I’ll keep you updated,” Mom says.
“I’ll come tomorrow.”
“We’ll see what happens after the test results, okay, sweetie?”
“Mom.”
“I promise I’ll keep you updated.” She gives me a hug. This one has the reassurance I crave, but she’s also captured my arms close to my sides so I can’t return it. It’s over as quick as it happens, and she steps away from me. “Go home and get some sleep.”
She waves me down the hall as she retreats into Dad’s room. I don’t look back as I make my way to the waiting room.
My heart thumps with relief to see Jihoon sitting there with his cap pulled down and a face mask on. I didn’t know how much I wanted him to wait. He jumps up when he sees me.
“Home?” he asks.
I nod.
“Want to talk?”
I shake my head.
“Then let’s go.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders, only for a moment, but I feel the absence when he moves away.