Seven
It’s clear Jihoon has successfully hurdled over both his lingering jet lag and any reservations about me.
I know he’s fully adjusted to eastern daylight time when I hear him singing as he gets up at six in the morning. It’s not “Paradise City,” and I’m certain he’s on key. Or on pitch. Whatever you call it.
I know he’s adjusted to me when he pops his head in my room and asks if I want breakfast at shortly after six in the morning.
I’m buried under my duvet, enjoying my usual seven minutes of snooze, but I jerk upright when I hear his voice at my door. Shoving my sleep mask on top of my head and knowing my hair must be wild despite its night braid, I stare at him in shock. Not even Hana, our friendship resting on a sound foundation of years of goodwill, would dare come into my room this early.
Jihoon stands there in a loose black shirt and fitted gray sweatpants—and those things are the devil’s garment leading people to sin—looking at me as if this is normal.
The alarm goes off, and I silence it with a vicious motion. “What?” I snap.
Though I sound crabby, he takes it in stride. “Breakfast. What would you like? I’m a good cook.”
“No. Nothing.” I rub my face. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
He frowns. “It’s the most important meal of the day.”
What, is he on hire from Canada’s Food Guide? “I’m fine.”
“Not even cereal?” He pauses. “We have lots.”
“God, no.” I’m not awake enough to be polite or to deal with the thought of eating whatever repulsive sugar bomb he’s into this morning. He must have bought out the cereal aisle judging from the number of brightly colored boxes in the kitchen.
“I’ll get you coffee, then.” He ducks out before I can reply.
It’s clear Hana fibbed. Despite his initial reticence, Choi Jihoon in his natural state is a Choi and, as such, not the type to keep quietly to himself once he’s comfortable.
He’s in the kitchen assessing his collection of cereals when I’m ready to leave for work. His smile gives him a funny, impish look, but his eyes are shadowed, and it fades almost as soon as it appears. He might be acting more natural, but it’s clear whatever he’s been through has taken a toll.
“We can watch a movie tonight,” he says. “If you have time.”
I think it over. It sounds relaxing. Dare I say…fun? Too bad I have a heavy day today.
“I’ll be home late.” I know the regret makes my voice harsher than usual but don’t know how to stop it.
“I understand.” His eyes drop to the floor. “Bye, Ari.”
I open my mouth to say something that will soften the rejection and let him know that I appreciated his company last night, but I’m not sure how to phrase it without sounding graceless or putting my foot in deeper. A reprieve comes with the ding of my phone, so I nod at him and escape, the emails coming through making it easier to feign distraction.
When I get to work, I text Jihoon the address of a café I like, hoping to make partial amends. We got to bed late, I tell myself. He’ll need the caffeine.
My concentration at work, already being tested thanks to fatigue, is not helped by constantly checking my phone for updates from Mom, which come through as if being squeezed through a dropper. Dad is awake and feeling better. They’re running tests. He’s being moved to a new room. Phoebe missed her train and will catch a later one.
Exactly what I’d expect from her.
I’m about to do my next email triage when a text comes from Jihoon, a photo of a cinnamon-flecked cappuccino from the café I’d mentioned.
Jihoon: I was going to bring a croissant home for you but it looked so good I ate it.
A wave of pleasure tingles my skin.
Me: Probably for the best. Squishing croissants that perfect is a crime.
Jihoon: Do you come here often?
Me: That’s the worst pick-up line ever. Tell me you never use it.
That could be on the edge of too flirty. My pulse quickens as I wait for his reply even as I tell myself it’s only a joke, so a rebuff wouldn’t be a real rejection.
Jihoon: I never use pick-up lines.
Me: Confident.
This is definitely flirty.
Jihoon: Except this one. Ready?
Me: Probably not.
Jihoon: If I could rearrange the alphabet I’d put U and I together.
I run through six different responses that could either nip this in the bud or see where it goes. I settle on my default, which is a little bitchy but teasing. Flirtsults, Hana calls them.
Me: That’s horrible. Did you google worst pick-up line ever?
Jihoon: No. I searched bad pick-up lines not worst.
I’m laughing at my phone when it dings again.
Jihoon: Have a good day, Ari. It was nice to be with you last night. I hope your father is well.
When I get to the hospital later that evening, I pause in front of the gift store. It’s filled with little volunteer-knit booties and saccharine get-well-soon cards (no sympathy ones, I notice with morbid interest), and I hold an internal debate over whether to get a gift. Flowers are a no-go, since both my parents think they’re a waste of money. Chocolate might not be the best for a man recovering from a heart attack. Books are safe, but as I linger in front of the display of books on how to lead a better life, inspirational autobiographies, and a selection of romance and thrillers, I’m struck by the realization I don’t know what my own father would like.
Forget it. I head up to Dad’s room empty-handed and find him asleep when I arrive. Mom is by the bed filling a cup of water. Phoebe lounges in a padded plastic chair.
She reacts first. “Hey, sis. Long time.”
I bite back my gut response, which is a cheap variation on whose fault is that? “Hi, Phoebe. How was the trip?”
I congratulate myself on my neutral tone. I didn’t even point out how she missed the train to visit her own father, who barely cheated death twenty-four hours ago.
“Not bad. I met a woman who plays cello in a rock band. She invited me to her next show.”
“Only you,” says Mom fondly.
Only Phoebe, that’s for sure. “How’s Dad?” I ask, getting the conversation back to the priority topic.
“Good,” Mom says. “He’ll be back home tomorrow if all goes well.”
“He’ll need to take it easy,” says Phoebe. “Maybe start taking those Zumba classes with you, Mom.”
I want to argue with her, but I can’t. She’s right, he will have to change his lifestyle, but I don’t want to admit it.
Phoebe stands up and stretches, causing her lace kimono-style robe—which I’m fairly sure is a negligee—to fall off her tattooed shoulder. Her style has always been eclectic, and next to her, my tidy, work-appropriate suit feels beige even though it’s navy. Her bleached brassy hair with inch-long black roots is cut in a choppy shag that reaches her shoulders and highlights her eyes. They’re the same long and narrow shape as mine and have been accentuated with liner that extends them to her temples.
According to science, it takes four seconds for silence to become awkward, and I count to eleven before Mom, used to being the peacemaker, intervenes with a detailed rundown of what’s going on with Dad. I try to listen, but I’m distracted by looking at him on the bed. At least if he were awake, he’d be more alert, but now his face is sallow and sagging, and his hair is a greasy mess. Dad is always very put together. He tucks in his shirts on weekends and throws out any sock without a match. It’s almost transgressive to see him so weak, and a faint sense of shame rises in me, like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t or that he wouldn’t want me to witness. Phoebe moves close to touch my arm. I shake it off, and she backs away with her hand up and rolling her eyes.
When Mom’s done, I ask a couple of questions, and Phoebe heaves a dramatic sigh. “Lay off Mom. She’s doing what she can.”
I don’t even look at her. “I was only asking.”
“Girls.” In the past, Mom’s voice held a slight pleading tone whenever she wanted us to get along. Not today. She’s firm as she points a finger in turn at both of us. “Enough.”
We sit—or, in my case, stand—in an obstinate silence, neither of us willing to lose by being the first to talk. This lasts until a nurse comes in.
“How are we doing?” she greets us.
Mom glances at the door, and we obey her wordless order to vacate the room. I lead the way, Phoebe’s bootheels clicking behind me.
“Why do they always have this spotted floor in hospitals?” Phoebe says, tapping her foot as we stand in the hall. “What even is this? Linoleum? Tile?”
Since she was the first one to speak, I take that as the win it is and answer her in kind. It’s easier to talk about inane things like hospital flooring than why she’s here. “It’s probably vinyl. Easy to clean and slip resistant.”
Phoebe grimaces. “Of course you’d know that.”
“There was a case study in law school that involved flooring.”
“Right.” Phoebe style, she gives the single word, that one syllable, a mocking intonation that says so much more. There’s no point confronting her about it because she’ll hide behind her usual defense.
That’s not what I said, Ari.
You didn’t have to. I know what you meant.
I didn’t mean anything. You’re being paranoid.
The silence gets to be too much, and I crack first. “When did you move to Montreal?”
“A few months ago. I wanted to improve my French, capisce?”
“That’s Italian.”
She gives me a long-suffering look. “Damn. Guess I’ve got work to do.”
Against my will, I snort. Phoebe’s superpower is that she can make me laugh with the silliest comments based on years of in-jokes. It drives me wild that she continues to know me so well this still works.
She looks satisfied, as if she’s scored a point by making me react, but I let it go. “How long are you staying in Toronto?” I ask.
Phoebe points her thumb back over her shoulder toward Dad’s bed. “Guess we’ll see.”
We stand and watch a harried nurse bustle down the hall before Phoebe says, “You never called me.”
“What?” I shouldn’t be surprised that she jumped right into it. Phoebe goes after what she wants with the tenacity of a bulldog and the impulsivity of a child.
“After I saw you last and we had that fight. You didn’t call.”
“You want to do this here? Now?”
Her eyebrows lift. “When else?”
“It was obviously your responsibility to call since you were the one who walked out,” I point out. “Not me.”
She bites her lip. “You could have emailed.”
“Wow, so could you, if you weren’t such an immature asshole.”
A man passing by with his toddler glares at me. We wait until they pass, as frozen as the statue game we used to play as kids except for the deep flush I feel traveling up my neck from embarrassing myself in public.
“Me?” she finally says. “Me, immature. That’s rich.”
“Right. Like you’re not the one always running away and expecting me to chase after you.”
Phoebe huffs and stares at the ceiling. “Yeah, because that’s totally what you do.”
“It’s what you want me to do.”
Her eyes snap down to me. “You don’t know jack about what I want.”
The nurse comes out and smiles, oblivious or uncaring of the tension woven between us. “You can go in now,” she says. “He’s awake.”
Phoebe thanks her in a sugary voice. I do my best not to shoulder Phoebe out of the way as I go in, even though I want to slap her. I’m not violent as a rule, but Phoebe brings out my worst self. Her boots thump behind me, and when I look through the curtain, Dad is propped up and frowning at his hands as Mom sits beside him tapping on her phone.
“Ariadne.” His voice sounds a little rough. He looks past me to where my sister has pulled the curtain open to reveal herself. “Phoebe. What are you both doing here?”
When I turn, I see the gobsmacked expression on my sister’s face. Despite our fight in the hall, we share a glance of understanding. Dad being Dad.
“You had a heart attack,” Phoebe says slowly. “Of course we’d come.”
“I’m fine,” he says with a dismissive wave. “I’ll be good as new in a couple days.”
“That’s not really how a recovery works,” Phoebe says. Both Mom and I shoot her a look, and for once she pays attention to the social cue and lightens her whole attitude. “I mean, sure, Dad! That’s great news.”
“Can you pour it on any thicker?” I mutter.
“Shut up,” she mutters.
Dad pulls lightly at one of the wires. “All unnecessary. Doctors always play it too safe.”
“Martin, I can’t believe you.” If possible, Mom’s arms fold tighter over her chest. “This is a wake-up call.”
“I’m fine.”
“This is not fine.”
“Soolin.” We all know that voice, which is the one that always ends the conversation. There’s no point in arguing with Dad when he’s in this mood. Mom’s lips pleat, but she keeps quiet and busies herself moving around the items on the side table.
Dad turns his head to look at me. “Ariadne, how’s work?”
“Great, but Mom said you need to…”
He holds up a hand, then stares at it as if surprised it’s pincushioned with IV needles. “I can take care of myself,” he says. “You need to worry about you.”
“Right.” I feel flattened. “I brought in a new client.” That will make him happy.
“Good.” His eyes flutter a bit before opening. “I’ve told you your hair is too long. Shorter is more professional.”
“Okay, Dad.” The hair comment is a biannual ritual.
The room eventually settles into silence, the opposite of the family last night, who huddled close and talked over one other, connecting with soft touches. It’s been years since we were all together, and even when we were a real family, we respected each other’s physical space. I always thought that was the best way to exist. Then I remember how Jihoon touched me on the arm or the shoulder as if to reassure me that he was there and I wasn’t alone. In this room, my family is close enough to touch, but somehow they’re too distant for me to even try to reach out.
“Time to let your father get some rest,” Mom says, rubbing her hands on her pants. “We’ll be home tomorrow or the next day, so I’ll tell you when we get settled.”
Phoebe gives Dad a hug, and I watch as his arms come up but then drop back down to the bed before he raises them again to gingerly tap her shoulders. I wave from the end of the bed and make my escape.
“Want to share a cab?” Phoebe trundles her suitcase beside me. “My friend’s place is in your direction.”
“Sure.”
I don’t want to talk, and luckily, I don’t have to because we’d have to shout to be heard over the phone call the driver is taking on speaker. I take the respite gratefully as we head back into the city. When we turn south onto Jane Street, Phoebe waves her phone at me. “I should give you my number, in case something happens.”
I’m leaning against the back of the seat, letting the streetlights shine through my closed eyelids. “Fine.” Even before I finish the word, my phone buzzes with a text from Phoebe.
Hi, it says.
I experience total disbelief. She hadn’t lost my number. She just…didn’t want to contact me. The knowledge that she couldn’t even be bothered to type A in her contacts list to bring up my name sits like a rock in my stomach, but it’s not unexpected. Even if she had lost it, she could have asked Mom or emailed, but that would take effort, and that’s not her style. There’s no point in bringing it up. I’m too tired to have another fight, which is what will happen if I do.
We turn onto Bloor Street. “This is me,” she says. “Tell me the final fare, and I’ll transfer you the money.”
“Never mind.” I don’t turn from the window.
“Thanks.” The cab pulls over, and she hesitates. “Look. Ah, we should get together. For a drink or coffee.”
When I look at her, she seems uncharacteristically unsure of herself. She must want something from me, but I don’t want to think about what it could be because I’ve had enough Phoebe for today. I take the easy way out. “Yeah, okay. Text me.”
There, the ball is in her court, and I have a feeling it’ll bounce there for a while. She nods, and I hear the thud of the trunk as she collects her bag and leaves.
“Where to, lady?” The cab driver leans back to look at me.
“Wait a sec.” I watch Phoebe, shadowed by the light coming through the bay window, as she yanks her suitcase up the crooked front steps. The door opens to show a woman with a high ponytail. She laughs as she brings my sister into a close hug and then pulls her into the house. Neither of them looks over to where I wait in the dark cab.
I tell the driver my address and head home.