“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 andresignation. 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 gethe answered email at midnighton 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. Iread 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.
