A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  A

  Quiet

  Neighbor

  HARPER KIM

  Copyright © 2013 Harper Kim

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, used fictitiously, or embellished.

  ISBN: 149039513X

  ISBN-13: 978-1490395135

  To my Halmoni

  for her quiet strength and incredible story.

  Prologue:

  Tuesday, June 19, 2012

  10:01 P.M.

  Panic sets in.

  No longer thinking about the past or the future. No longer worried about trivial relationships, flighty mother, no-named father, or awkward stand-in. No longer caring to shed a tear for want of trivial desires.

  She stands. Transfixed.

  Her limbs are fused and taut. Lips cold, quivering. Knuckles white, gleaming. Acrid sweat trickles fear from her pores.

  She stares into the vacant eyes of her killer. Flat, cold, soulless.

  Dark.

  Eyes that will soon rob her of the chance to cast her net into the vast ocean called life.

  Her gaze flits to his hands. His dirty, trembling hands, with long, ragged thumbnails. Hands that will soon end her.

  How did she not see? Not know? Not feel that dark presence?

  He seemed kind, gentle, like he could be someone’s father, maybe even grandfather. But no. A switch went off and that part that was warm evaporated, exposing a demonic need for pure evil.

  White to black. Light to dark.

  She can feel his hunger drawing her still. Keeping her feet rooted to the damp ground, shackled in place. The only part of her that moves is her heart and blood—drumming in her chest like a pneumatic drill, thrumming in her ears like an eight-lane expressway.

  Darkness steeps over her.

  A thick and impenetrable cloak, suffocating her goose-bumped flesh silky smooth. No longer feeling the cold air; the colder fear tingling the tiny hairs along her arms, along the nape of her neck.

  Bile pools on her tongue, bitter and yellow.

  She bites back the need to scream, to beg, to play on her killer’s sympathies. Stiff and silent, she does nothing to struggle against her fate. Tears blur her vision, growing damp on her clammy skin.

  He closes in, with those hands outstretched, with those eyes hollowed out by obsession and dementia, eyes that remain glazed and expressionless, his jaw opening wider and wider as he speaks wordless sounds that elude her ears yet vibrate sickly in her chest.

  And then he lurches forward with a horrible gasp, shocking her out of her stupor and back into electric clarity. Electric fear, sizzling into darkness. All she can think of is now. Now. The clarity of NOW.

  As the final seconds tick away with a sudden, astounding vividness, she mouths the words that were once stolen from the pages of her notebook.

  She ends her life the way she lived it.

  With her words. Her thoughts. Her voice:

  Empty vessel, sinking deep,

  Unseen, gaping hole beneath,

  Twirling and swirling, round and round,

  Hearts sink, limbs fall, eyes abound.

  And then there was silence.

  HOSPITAL ROOM (I):

  Friday, June 22, 2012

  6:46 A.M.

  Stress is a silent killer.

  OK, not so silent. It seems innocent enough. “It’s normal,” people may say. “Don’t worry about it,” others pipe in. “It’s beneficial,” some might agree. But what they don’t say is that it can gnaw religiously at your insides until all you’re left with are scraps of unidentified piles of crap that once made up the puzzle you called life.

  Is it learned, taught, or are we all just born with it?

  The levels can be instinctual or insurmountable. But the clincher is how you deal with it. Does it come and go like passing gas or does it simmer, haunting and slow, until one day the stupid pig that once rolled around happily in mud and hay becomes a five course meal?

  Who knows?

  The doctors and politicians sure don’t. Can someone say heart-attack? All anyone seems to care about is cancer and world peace. But has anyone really looked into the underlying root of all these “problems” we consider a black hole for the next generation to cover?

  Nope.

  They just try to find a catchy solution to bandage the open wound and kick back to the next “President” to re-hash and re-patch along the campaign trail. One group yells, “Yay! Finally a Democrat is in office to fix the follies of the Republicans!” Four, or (if the guy’s a lucky bastard) eight years later another group yells, “Yay! Finally a Republican to stop the economic bleeding!”

  Yes everyone, let’s all pat ourselves on the back for being the idiotic fools that our leaders hope us to be—the perfect pawns in a deadly game of power and wealth. Of course we don’t get to see any of the benefits. No, those only get distributed to less than one percent of the human population. While the President is out hitting a hole in one along the picturesque shores of Martha’s Vineyard, ninety-nine percent of the country is crying, in pain, in debt, and stressed beyond their measly means, desperately trying to live the American Dream.

  What is the American Dream anyways?

  A century ago it meant having land, a steady job, a chance to make a difference and become rich so your family didn’t have to suffer. It meant having a voice to be heard. It meant you were able to go to sleep at night not worrying about the safety of your family or when you would be able to have your next meal. It meant prosperity, happiness, and freedom.

  Does that concept of the American Dream still hold true today?

  It seems like it has become a wash. A hidden card, pulled out to be used whenever it is deemed convenient for the lazy, the petty, the undeserving citizens who have contributed nothing and in return receive handout after handout, chance after chance, the benefit of the doubt, and who suck all the benefits in one greedy “Big Gulp” slurp from those who keep their heads down, shut up, work hard, and continue to contribute to society. Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about “entitlement.”

  Is war imminent?

  Well, if you ask me, I’ll reply, “Duh.” And if someone predicted that the US will come out on top, I’d have to counter it by arguing how and with what army? Of course we’re grateful for the military that we do have. For the men and women who choose to serve because they are patriotic and wear the red, white, and blue colors with pride, we are amazed and forever grateful. For those who serve because they reached a dead end in life and figured “hell, why the fuck not,” we are also grateful. Because of them, the rest of us are able to sleep soundly in our comfy beds, eyes veiled from atrociously disturbing scenes being sparked across the globe and thinking “thank God it isn’t me.”

  I’m just being real here. Remember 9/11?

  Stupid question—the entire world remembers 9/11. Well there you go. Case in point. How can we compete with countries that spend years plotting and scheming the destruction of the United States? Countries who have trained millions to only care about their God or king or “man-God” leaders and to look at Americans as heathens; soulless fools with a Hester Prynne target on their backs, wasting their divine air.

  Stuck on the answer?

  I’ll give it to you for free: we can’t. We are stupid if we think we can force ourselves into their country and demand they change their lifestyle and way of thinking when they have only known one way of life and one thought since they were born. How can we undo the damage of centuries of brainwashing? Are we circling back to the ways of our Forefathers, to a time when war was deemed necessary and pillaging tow
ns, raping women, and murdering kids were the only means to “saving” the human race? I thought we’d grown from those uncivilized ways. I thought we’d learned from their mistakes. Now, I’m not so sure.

  Next thing you know the so-called “yellow” countries will be taking over and we will no longer be the country where dreams come true, but the country that kneels and begs. The country that remains clueless and points fingers. The country that never looks into a mirror and blames the figure looking back.

  “Why should we,” you ask, when “I am never at fault. I am the victim. I deserve everything.” Sound familiar? It should. It’s our new national anthem!

  Who am I to make such rash accusations and critiques, you may ask?

  Am I a scientist, doctor, politician, Pulitzer Prize winner, or fortune teller? No. I’m just like you: an unidentified, law-abiding, tax-paying citizen of planet Earth. My vote, opinion, and contribution to the world have no real value.

  For now, you can just call me Joe.

  I’m a middle-aged man who has lived a simple and cautious life. Lying here on my rickety deathbed—surrounded by beeping monitors, tubes galore, and sucking cups—and next to my only friend in the world, my new, glorified neighbor, Sergeant Whimplestein.

  All I seem to have left is time, buckets of time to look back. Look back at the root of my problem, the bane of my existence, and the reason I’m lying here alone with only my limp dick (and the very quiet Sgt. Whimpy) to keep me company.

  Wife?

  Yes, I had one of those. We were high school sweethearts. Married when I was nineteen and she, shy of twenty. We started into such a quiet, happy, and safe life. That is, until the stress of pretending everything was perfect clogged her arteries and she plopped dead right in front of me on the quiet residential streets of San Carlos. The headlines read, “Woman Dies Unexpected Death on Halloween.”

  Stupid dog, I tell you. Little mutt. It’s all the dog’s fault. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have had to walk along the quiet streets of the neighborhood, and then I wouldn’t have seen her again. I would be home, in my free-and-clear condo drinking apple juice straight from the box and listening to Sinatra. Now that’s a slice of heaven, I tell you.

  Job?

  Had one of those too. The kind that requires a time stamp to clock your eight-and-a-half hours (includes a thirty minute lunch and two free ten minute breaks that carelessly get forgotten about), turns your hair white when you’re smack dab in the muck of it and makes you comatose when you return at night.

  Kids?

  Nope, was too stressed to warrant kids into our life. I always reminded my darling Betsy that we should think ourselves lucky (smart and dutiful) not to bring kids into this crazed-ass world. Of course we would have if able, but given the circumstances I say we hit gold.

  At the rate the economy is tanking and gas prices are rising, it’s a wonder just when the yuan or rupee will take over the all-mighty US dollar. Sheez. Everyone is too damn worried about their fucking money. What’s everyone going to do when they realize that their money isn’t worth shit and the government lied? Lied! I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Chaos. Mad-fuckin’ chaos is going to spread across this entire nation in one grizzly swoop and engulf us all in one massive cloud of hysteria.

  Booyah!

  AS THE WORLD OUTSIDE TRUDGED ON, oblivious and fueled by stress, inside Room 301 was static and still.

  Inside Room 301, life was subdued and sound came eerily from inanimate objects. There was the clunky breathing apparatus strapped to the neighbor’s nose and mouth and the monotonous beeps from the variety of monitors that took up residence by each patient’s bed (pseudo-bodyguards). Above them, rows of fluorescent lights flickered and fizzed.

  Across the beds, splitting the room dead center, was the slight murmur from the tiny, tube-style television set that only seemed to show infomercials, daytime soaps, and one-sided news reports (listed in ascending order of Joe’s interest) and the ticking of the round clock that hung directly above the grainy television screen like a doomsday clock.

  Black shadows pulsed through the tiny crack beneath the thick wooden door from passing nurses, residents, doctors, patients, and visitors. Soft treads squeaked hurriedly across the constantly mopped floors. Carts filled with cleaning products, medicine, mail, and prepackaged food trays rolled by multiple times during the day.

  At 1:00 P.M. a young nurse with a splash of light freckles strewn across her pale face strolled in to make her afternoon rounds. Checking the first patient’s chart (their most recent addition to Room 301), she made note of his administered meds and believed he should be good for another three hours. His pulse seemed to be within the normal range, considering, and the needles and tubes were securely taped against his limp arms. She leaned over to straighten his blanket and caught a faint mumble escape from his pale, cracked lips: “Betsy.”

  Blushing, she sighed. She felt as though she were intruding on a private conversation, an intimate moment shared between two lovers behind closed doors. She was often saddened by the patients who were alone and dying, dreaming of their long lost spouse or loved one. She thought he was too young to be a widower, dying, and alone. The young and the old patients were difficult for her to watch, but the ones that were alone, devoid of family and friends, got to the young nurse the most. Everyone should have someone, she thought.

  Joe’s haggard breath eased and his body relaxed into the crisp green sheets (not Downy-soft but anti-allergy stiff) that fit snugly on the creaky hospital bed. Every now and then he fell back into a fit of painful spasms—dreaming about his beloved wife.

  At this stage of his illness, all that was left was time to remember, to forget, and to seek repentance for his sins. All the stress and anxiety that festered around his everyday life no longer held merit. What pained him most was the knowing that he couldn’t go back and fix the past. Couldn’t undo trivial mistakes that inevitably created larger ones. Couldn’t make peace with estranged loved ones or the strangers he’d wronged.

  His time was up.

  It was too late.

  He was going to die alone.

  The young nurse rested for a moment in the chair beside his hospital bed, looking at his grayish skin and listening to the rhythmic whirring and beeping of his life-support. She rubbed her sore calf and sighed with relief.

  Once Donald finally decided to get off his ass and propose to her, she planned to quit nursing and start churning out those babies. She planned to have five, maybe six. Coming from a small family of four who barely made the time to see one another, she always dreamed of having a large madhouse of a family.

  She wouldn’t die alone. She wouldn’t want the pity of an overworked nurse to be her only human contact during the last days of her life. She wanted to be surrounded by love, laughter, and flowers. Lots of flowers, get well cards, and photos of her children and grandchildren and perhaps even a few great grandchildren. Yes, she’d have lots of kids to make sure her fate differed from all those sad cases like Joe.

  After straightening his pillow and tangled sheets, she moved on to the other patient in the room. Standing before him, she started lifting Sgt. Whimplestein’s arms and moving them side to side and in circles, making sure to keep the movements minimal to not disturb his feeding tube.

  His limbs were feeble and stiff. Sores were starting to manifest along his back and hips. She grabbed a container of liniment and slathered on a thick spread. The menthol burned her nose and tears welled in her eyes from the sting. The smell was a relief from the scent of dying flesh and bed pans that hung in the air of Room 301. Finishing the physical therapy session, she made a note of it in his chart.

  The Sergeant’s vitals had remained unchanged since he was admitted three years ago and his chart was beginning to read like a broken record. Every day at the same time, the young nurse conducted her standard procedural monitoring tasks and every day the prognosis was the same: no change.

  At least this patient had a constant v
isitor, she thought. The granddaughter. At least he had someone; at least he was loved. But even he seemed to be alone.

  Before departing to check on the next room, the young nurse grabbed hold of Sgt. Whimplestein’s limp and liver-spotted hand to whisper, “Please, if you can hear me, open your eyes…”

  Maybe today was the day for a miracle.

  Chapter One:

  Saturday, October 1, 2011

  IT WAS THE FIRST WEEKEND IN OCTOBER. The liquidambar trees in the neighborhood were distorting in color, fading from dull greens to buttery yellows clipped with dusty browns. The sidewalks were starting to accrue a blanket of shriveled leaves that had lost their brilliance. Intermingled were long, curling strips of eucalyptus bark wherever the wispy gum trees shaded the lonely roadside.

  Signs of fall kissed the Indian summer goodbye in the small town of San Carlos. The night air was crisp and the daytime shadows grew long, yet the noontime sun still baked the town beneath with doggish heat when the east winds—or Santa Anas—reemerged.

  The clouds were lumpy and full, the kind that kids doodle with their smelly fat markers on brightly colored construction paper during arts and crafts. And on the corner of Golfcrest Drive and Tuxedo Road, there stood a nondescript, two-story neo-eclectic house with a blue-shingled roof and peeling white siding, where inside stood a kitchen fridge decorated with colorful A-B-C magnets and those fat-handed doodles on bright green and yellow paper.

  Perched on the blue-shingled roof, with her knees tucked under her chin, her forlorn blue eyes peering over crossed arms, Loral Holmes brooded over her spiral notebook.

  Stuck with the duty of babysitting, she watched her two half-sisters, Tory and Bella, squeal with fearsome delight as they jumped into the lukewarm pool below, trying to catch the last of the summer heat. With each splash, buckets of water splattered out onto the concrete pool deck.