by Harper Kim
“Spaghetti?” my eyes widened, intrigued. “I didn’t know you could cook.” I smiled. There was a distinct hitch in my voice, but I didn’t care. Someone needed to be the adult and I was trying to have a normal conversation with my stepdad.
“Yes, well,” he mumbled, “it’s not much. It might not even taste that good.” He brushed past me, absently dropping the dish towel in the process.
“I’m sure it’ll be great. I mean it smells really good and we haven’t really had a decent meal in—”
“Um, Loral, I need to call Tess to see if she’s planning to have dinner with us. Can you take over for me? Thanks, you’re a sport.”
Spastically he rushed out of the kitchen to the bedroom and slammed the door.
Tears burned my eyes. It’s just the onion, I recited to myself as the timer beeped.
Why can’t we just have a normal conversation? Is that too much to ask? It was just spaghetti. Where was Tess, anyways? Tess has been acting different lately. Longer days at work, new perfume, watching her reflection a tad too long, being distracted by her phone…shit. And the cycle repeats itself again.
Not like I should be surprised, but I hoped with Brett…since there was Tory and Bella…well, I hoped it would last until I am gone from here. I feel sorry for Brett. Even though he is kind of a tool, he’s a nice guy and deserves better. Plus, there is Tory and Bella. They deserve better.
Dinner was tough. I tried my best to keep the conversation light by asking the girls about their day in school, if they learned anything new, played a fun game, heard any interesting stories. But Tory and Bella were old enough to pick up on insincere conversation and feigned interest. Sadly, the girls are veterans in the war of dysfunction, of a family built on tension, secrecy, and denial. In this war, in this house, casualties and veterans look much alike.
At the dinner table, Brett kept on looking at his watch, and then his cell, and then the door. His movements were like clockwork, speeding up as the minutes ticked on. Watch. Cell. Door. Watch. Cell. Door. Again and again, round and round until it was too uncomfortable to witness. He was like a ticking time bomb about to explode.
I couldn’t take much more of it, so I got up and cleared my half-eaten bowl of spaghetti. The noodles were a little on the mushy side. I guess I let my mind wander too long after the timer beeped. Who knew there was a short time span between the noodles being al dente and mushy?
Tory and Bella barely touched theirs; they each used their fork to smear red sauce and bits of fleshy noodles around the plate. Either the meal was inedible or everyone felt the tension tonight. I figured why make them eat it if I wasn’t, so I took their plates to the sink and motioned for them to leave the room.
They obliged willingly.
A loud squeak echoed as they scooted their chairs back against the linoleum. The girls winced in unison, stealing glances at their dad who, for the most part, was oblivious to the sound, locked in a circular trance. Without wasting another minute, they rushed out of the kitchen and stayed in our room for the rest of the night. No pouts of staying awake longer, no finagling another Wiggles episode, no desire to play hide and seek.
Turning on the disposal brought a jolt to my system. The grinding noise was a startling contrast to the eerie quiet. Washing the dirty dishes distracted me from my own raging thoughts. Normally, I hated the chore, but tonight I reveled in it, hoping it afforded me a chance to glimpse Tess’s long-awaited return. I knew it was a longshot, but I hoped Brett and I were wrong, and Tess would return sober. She’d stroll in with a flair asking why the gloom? and everything would be normal again. The glint in her eyes would be clear and focused and wide with excitement. I hoped Brett’s anger was premature and the throbbing in my head was a mere distortion of the problem at hand.
Tess was late.
There must have been another reason; a better reason than the ugly picture forming in my head. I couldn’t shake it off, just like I knew Brett couldn’t. Tess, for all intents and purposes is a drunk and wields her body like a sexual weapon. It wasn’t the first time she’d used it and it wouldn’t be the last. She needs action and drama. She bores easily and everyone in her life just needs to get on board or get out.
I should have said something, but what?
Something to cut the brewing tension and deviate from the most likely scenario that Tess was drunk and/or having an act-first-think-later affair.
Mustering up the courage to speak, I continued scrubbing the same bowl, the sponge losing the white soap suds in the process, and cleared my throat. “Tess loves you, you know.”
Brett looked up. His eyes were glazed yet dark. Behind the worry was anger and distrust. For the first time he looked straight into my eyes, pierced straight through them. My heart thudded in my chest. Fear etched in my subconscious but hope bloomed. Maybe this was our chance to have a real conversation, even if it was directed against Tess.
My hope was short-lived. There was a sudden glitch in his piercing gaze. He sighed and went back to checking his watch.
Distraught, I silently cleared the table around him. Leaving the lights on so Brett could stew in the thrumming fluorescent light of the kitchen, I headed upstairs.
I can hear the girls twisting and turning, restless from worry. I assume their restless thoughts are similar to mine: Where is Tess? Why is Brett so worried? What is wrong?
And then a car pulls up. The headlights stream against the curtains, sending long bars of light and shadow across the dark walls. I know that purr anywhere; it is Tess’s prized Beemer, her moneymaker. Tess is finally home.
At least she came home.
Holding my breath, I hear the jingling of keys, the gentle clicks of Tess’s heels on the tile entrance, and then the creaks in the floorboards as she walks up the straight flight of stairs and heads toward her room.
I hear muffled sounds coming from Tess and Brett’s room. The house is dark but everyone in it is awake.
Brett waited up for Tess’s return. Unfortunately, he isn’t as dumb as I assumed. I continue to hold my breath, waiting for the tension to erupt into something awful. Amidst the muffled voices in the other room, I hope I won’t hear the word I fear most: Divorce. It surprises me how much I want Brett and Tess to work out. I didn’t realize I care that much. I figured it would happen. But at this moment, even though I don’t believe in God, I pray for them to make it. I don’t want another change. I don’t want Tory and Bella to endure what I’ve endured alone for more than eleven years. I want them to have what I never did: a family.
New sounds emerge, soft whimpering noises from within our room.
“Bella? Is that you?”
The whimpering heightens to heavy, snot-forming sobs.
I push the covers and sit up. “It’s okay, Bella. Everything will be okay. Do you want to sleep with me tonight?”
There is a break in the sobs and a hiccup emerges. “Can I?”
“Yes. But, just for tonight.” I scoot to the side to make room for Bella.
“Can I sleep with you too?”
“Tory? You awake?”
“Yeah…I can’t sleep.”
“Sure, come in. It’ll be like one big slumber party.” I hope my voice doesn’t sound strained, but the girls are too distraught to notice.
Tory and Bella snuggle up next to me, sandwiching me between them, and immediately fall asleep. The sounds from the other room have ended and the house is still. I lay awake a while longer planning my escape. Every time Tess stumbles in past ten o’clock, I feel the strain from the growing distrust in Brett’s eyes.
Although silly, I feel responsible for Tess’s infidelity and alcoholism. Before Brett and the girls were in the picture, it had always been just the two of us and that connection we shared during those eleven years was stifling.
“Everything will be okay…” I say aloud, to no one in particular, maybe to God, maybe to myself. Silence. It is like I am trying to convince the shadows that hug the walls and lurk in every dark crevice.
/> All I have to do is get away. But even as the first lull of sleep washes over me, I wonder what Tess has been up to tonight and about the words spoken behind closed doors.
Chapter Seven:
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
8:45 P.M.
Detective Kylie Kang:
Rolling out the kinks in my neck and shoulders, I step into my spotless five hundred sixty-four square foot studio apartment. I hang my keys on the pegboard by the door. Then, slipping out of my Italian leather boots—the cost of which was measured in paychecks rather than dollars—I set them neatly in the hall closet. I shrug out of my blush-pink leather jacket—the only piece with color in my wardrobe—and hang it above my boots. Walking into my room, I drop my recently cleaned Glock on the vintage dresser and change into an oversized nightshirt. I refold my day-worn clothes, placing the tank and jeans in a separate pile on the bottom shelf of my closet—reserved for worn-but-not-yet-smelly attire.
As far as clothes are concerned, my closet is stripped to the essentials: long black trench coat, three pairs of jeans, two black slacks, a black blazer and one black dress, which I wore once to attend Halmoni’s cremation.
Clear plastic shoe boxes line one full wall of my closet, organized by type and color. The very bottom shelf holds my everyday shoes: two pairs of running shoes, a second pair of designer boots, and flip-flops. I am Spartan with my clothes, but when it comes to shoes, I’m obsessed. Each pair I own is well-crafted, purposeful, and I’m willing to pay top-dollar for quality—even if that means less quantity.
My dresser is just as organized but more practical, filled with a week’s worth of socks, plain cotton underwear, tank tops and t-shirts, pajamas, and my police academy sweatshirt. Except for the black dress and wall of shoes, barely worn, my wardrobe is utilitarian. All cop, all the way.
I have a system. I live by rules and regulations and I extend those rules to my home and personal life. Like my closet, everything has a place and purpose. I compartmentalize my life in order to expect the unexpected, be prepared, and stay in control.
I was raised in a very Confucian manner. Practice what you preach; preach what you practice. Etcetera. So, I have to respect the system. I guess being raised by a Sergeant does that to you.
Gramps showed me how to fold my clothes, organize my closet, and pull the bed sheets so tight you could bounce a quarter. As a kid, I’d watch him in awe as he ironed his clothes—even his boxers and socks—and tidied the house. Everything was precise and organized. He always told me, “Ky, you might not appreciate order yet, but you’ll see.” And I have. Order promotes purpose, and purpose provides meaning, and without meaning there is no life. I fell in love with order, as I fell in love with Gramps.
As far as I recall, he came into my life when I was eleven. I don’t remember Halmoni and Gramps helping my parents raise me in our tiny Rowland Heights apartment, but they changed my life from eleven years and on. I considered them my parents and I always will.
After getting comfy, I walk toward the glass wall and close the blinds to shut off the flow of chaos three stories below on the bustling streets of downtown. Sure enough, the yellow and orange taxi cabs are out in full force, weaving their way through the congested streets to quickly drop off one group so they can pick up the next. Women and men are frocked in their evening best; choosing between slinky or sleazy, sultry or chic, retro or mod, to meet friends or co-workers for a colorful cocktail or three.
Deciding a bath is secondary to a meal, I head to the kitchen in hopes of finding a trace of something to numb my mind and satisfy my grumbling stomach. Unfortunately, my fridge is just as sparkling clean and empty as my white-tiled countertops and cherry wood floors. No grime, dust, stain, or well-balanced, pre-cooked meal.
I settle for a leftover wedge of brie and half a stale baguette with a glass of what remains in the bottle of cabernet. I take a testing sip of wine before bringing my ready-made dinner to the living room. The wine isn’t great. There is a bitter residue that lingers from the three-dollar, week-old bottle, but it’ll have to do.
Due to my busy schedule and lack of a social life, I tend to avoid white wine and opt for red. Not because I enjoy the taste better, nor am I much of a wine snob, but because I don’t know when I’d ever be able to finish an entire bottle myself. White wine goes rancid faster than red, at least that much I know.
For a few days now, I’ve been meaning to stop by Whole Foods on the way home from the station, but each evening I end up feeling too haggard or disgruntled to make the trip.
Joining the Homicide Unit, I no longer have to don a uniform, but people still zero in on me as a woman in blue. Maybe it is my manly gait or unwavering gaze, but walking into Whole Foods always seems to rattle even the innocent shoppers.
Each evening, as the sun burns its last throes of fierce vermilion through the blinds and across my desk, the Precinct comes alive with traffic accidents, robberies, domestic disputes, and of course, homicide. Fear of being roped into another case pushes me to rush out of the station with a pile of catch-up paperwork in hand. If the current case is a mindbender, I might even bring home the case file to pore over the copious notes and get a head start on the following day.
Still new to the team, I want to make sure I pull my own weight. Also, it doesn’t hurt that the extra hours I put in and the starved-for-work mentality I wear like a badge of honor got me named lead detective on a recent low-profile case. It’s a start, and I want to keep building.
After all, the world doesn’t simply pause when a cop’s shift ends. It continues wagging its unjust finger, dispensing evil at clueless individuals, and usually choosing odd times of the night to unleash its horrifying acts.
Releasing the three rubber bands that tightly secure my thick hair for over twelve hours brings another bout of throbbing pain. Massaging my scalp, I lean back in my leather chair, letting my hair tumble free. Nice. Taking another sip of stale cab, I close my almond-shaped eyes, unconsciously rubbing Halmoni’s golden lotus pendant that hangs protectively around my neck, mulling over the hectic day.
The morning started off well enough, with a mug of hot Kona and a slice of buttered toast which led me straight to an open-and-shut homicide case out in North Park, a blighted neighborhood of San Diego (South Park being the flashier and wealthier sibling of the two).
It was a neighborly dispute in the heart of a sagging apartment complex, peeling and run down by age and hard living. One neighbor pissed off the second neighbor by filling the second neighbor’s balcony with secondhand cigarette smoke. Since the era of civil communication is no more—or perhaps never was—the second neighbor proceeded to inform the first neighbor of his distaste of the foul habit by leaving a large fly-magnet turd on his front porch. Dispensed hot and fresh by second neighbor, of course. The dispute had been resolved internally when the first neighbor walked stoically up to the front door of the second neighbor and shot him five times point blank as a thank you for the gift. Another neighbor who witnessed the act said the man then took out a cigarette and blew smoke in the dead neighbor’s face for effect. When the shooter calmly walked back into his apartment, the elderly female witness was so shaken up by the ordeal that it took her a few minutes to even think to call 911.
By late afternoon, the second neighbor was in the cooler down at the morgue and the first neighbor was behind bars under the presumption he was psychotic and would probably get institutionalized by pleading a case of insanity. But either way he would be locked away, safe from endangering himself or another neighbor who might get an inclination to crap on his front porch. As far as I’m concerned the books are closed on the neighbor who cried smoking turd. And sadly, the books were certainly closed on the neighbor who made smoking turd.
It’s a quarter past nine and I already feel run ragged. My body is brittle and unmotivated. I don’t understand how people my age are able to go to work, then go out all glammed up to drink, smoke and socialize in a span of twenty-four hours without collapsing in a
heap of limbs and hair. Of course women my age generally have social lives, family events, boyfriends or husbands, maybe even popped out a few kids. I shudder at the thought of having a little Ky running around with splayed sticky fingers, marring the surfaces of my immaculate downtown apartment.
As I debate whether to take a hot bath, browse my DVR, or wash the dishes, the phone rings. Grumbling, I mumble a few choice words and am about to pick up when I decide to let it go to the answering machine. Most likely the caller is a telemarketer. No one else calls me on the landline anymore. If it were the hospital or the station, they’d know to call my cell.
Washing the dirty cheese knife and single wine glass, I hear the distinct click as the call transfers over to the machine.
“Ky?” A muted pause and then a trailing silence.
The wine glass slips from my hand and cracks in the enameled cast iron sink, as the familiar voice echoes hauntingly in the room. I don’t move. I am frozen in place, paralyzed by the caller’s familiar voice. Broken pieces of glass wink at me from the bottom of the sink, stained with red sediment from the wine.
The caller remains on the phone. Shallow breathing can still be heard. A moment later an exaggerated sigh cuts through the silence. After all these years, that berating sigh still manages to irk me.
I was five when we became best friends. Naïve. I was so impressed by the girl’s large house, fancy dresses, pretty shoes, her bold blue eyes and blond ringlets. I thought she was a princess and the tree house was her castle. I felt honored to be chosen out of all the other girls in school to be her best friend. But even though I was honored, I knew I was replaceable, second best, plain, forgettable. There were always a few girls waiting in the wings to take my place. I had no idea what it was about me that made me so lucky to be the chosen one. I look back and wonder who that girl was with the black pigtails and perfect math grades. I’m definitely not the same girl I once was. Time and experience change a person.
