A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  After getting one of the baristas to replace my cup of water, I place my bag on the table and walk to the front of the line. Bitter stares dig into my back like knives. Sorry guys, I know this is a jerk move, but please excuse me this one time. I need this. I flip open the flap of my jacket, exposing my badge and Glock in one seamless move, and the stares retract immediately. I always feel a twinge of guilt when I use my position for personal benefit, but a cop should be entitled to a few perks, shouldn’t we?

  I feel at home inside the warm coffee shop with its distressed floors and bold décor. Retro reds, purple and dark gray showcase International portraits that line the walls. An eclectic mix of plush, conversational seating scatters the room while a vinyl-cushioned bench seat lines the far wall. Everyone that works here knows me as the detective with the intense eyes. They grant me the privacy and space I need.

  By the time I finish paying at the register, my large extra-hot Americano (no room for cream) and honey-wheat bagel, toasted with a thin spread of butter is waiting for me. As with my social life, my breakfast order is predictable and drab. Nibbling on the bagel, I ponder over the message Leila left me.

  Leila, now older, has finally dropped the annoying baby voice she used to keep in her back pocket for whenever she wanted something. She also sounded a bit rushed and hesitant. I already knew she is married; most likely her husband has been approved by her father, which means he has money and status. Don’t money and power usually solve everything? So, why did Leila insist on help from an old friend, who isn’t really a friend, considering, especially if the problem deals with Brett? Was Brett murdered? Was that it? No, Leila would be bawling her eyes out if that were the case…wouldn’t she?

  We haven’t spoken or seen each other in seventeen years. Why call now? Leila’s reluctance to explain the situation over the phone makes me wary. All I know for certain is that whatever the favor is, it isn’t something I would have jumped at over the phone.

  From across the street, I see an elegant lady dressed in a slimming, wraparound floral dress and nude pumps strolling toward the café. She glides in through the swinging door as two men on their way out both wrangle to hold it open for her, grinning dumbly. Pausing, with her head held high, she scans the room. She frowns slightly and moves effortlessly to the bar, motioning for one of the handful of employees sporting fitted black t-shirts screened with the coffee shop’s logo (a steaming ceramic cup filled with what you would guess to be a cappuccino).

  Peering from my corner table, I observe the young lady with keen interest. Her fair blond hair—most likely touched up monthly to keep the natural appearance of exuberant youth—is intricately braided and set into a neat bun. Wisps of hair frame her small ivory face and her deep-set blue eyes squint under a thick fan of lashes. Her painted coral lips twist into a frown as she tries describing the person she is scheduled to meet in five minutes. I wish I could hear what she is saying.

  I knew it was Leila the minute she glided through the door. Leila has aged gracefully, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. What gets to me is the fact that I am disappointed. A part of me secretly wanted Leila to show up fat, with a face full of pimples, limp hair, wrinkles, and perhaps sporting an awkward limp.

  Leila is still as perfect as I remember and I suddenly feel eleven again.

  Let’s get this over with. Come on Ky, you can do it. Buck up!

  I force myself to stand and wave a hand. Leila’s eyes widen in surprise before fixing back to neutral. Her glossy lips curve into a slight smile. I watch as Leila thanks the boy with the ridiculous grin behind the counter and moves in regal strides toward me.

  Timidly, Leila stands across from me. Her face flushes slightly. “My…it’s been a long time. Hasn’t it? I almost didn’t even recognize you. You look fantastic, Ky.”

  “You look great too, Leila.” I gesture for Leila to sit in the bench seat across from me. I give her a couple points for not wiping the seat first.

  The boy with the ridiculous grin stumbles over his untied shoes to get Leila’s order. She smiles, courteously, and says, “I’ll have a cup of lemon tea. Thank you.” He blushes and scurries away, probably hoping that expedient and attentive service will grant him another smile.

  Scrutinizing my long lost friend, I say mildly, “I see some things still haven’t changed.”

  Leila giggles nervously. She daintily props her left hand on the table—her nails properly manicured—exposing a glittering stone as large as a dime. “I’m married.”

  “Yeah. I’m not blind, although now I might be.” I can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Of course Leila would be married first. I take a punitive bite of my bagel, which is golden and gleaming with the sheen of melted butter.

  “Kids?”

  “Oh, no…” Leila sniffs and sighs. “I can’t.”

  “Oh. Uh, sorry.” Tension mounts heavy between us. Shit, wrong topic. Kids are usually a great icebreaker. Just like it wasn’t a surprise she was married, I assumed she’d have a Brady Bunch family.

  “Never mind that.” Dabbing at moist eyes, Leila strains for composure. “So, how are you doing?”

  “Good.” I shrug. “I’m a homicide detective for the SDPD. Single. No kids. But I’m guessing you know that by now, given the call.”

  Leila nods politely. “Yes, well, I had to have Art—my husband, Arthur Grimwald the Third—look you up. Guess you’re wondering about why I asked for us to meet,” she says, keeping her tone reserved.

  I give an impatient nod as the boy with the ridiculous grin sets the small ceramic cup and an extra pot of hot water onto the glass tabletop. Leila lifts her head and smiles. With a fixed grin, he walks in a daze back to his station. He probably already took a sly photo of her with his iPhone and would soon hurry out back to tweet her picture to all his friends and followers.

  I clear my throat, getting us back on track. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  Cradling the teacup in her hands, caressing the rim, Leila hesitates before looking up. “Ky, I need your help.” Leila’s gaze is steady, her voice low. “You see, I don’t know where Brett is and I want you to find him for me.”

  An acorn-sized knot forms in the back of my throat. I cannot believe his name still brings a pang to my system. Taking a sip of my now lukewarm Americano I will my body to relax and hope my voice is steady enough to respond. It is. “I don’t understand. For one thing, isn’t Brett like, I don’t know, thirty-four by now?”

  Leila gives a defeated sigh and nods.

  “Second, I’m a homicide detective, not a search party. So why—”

  “Long story short, Daddy disowned Brett shortly after the…the incident…and Brett stormed out. He just left and Daddy let him. I thought he’d at least contact me, at least he did in the beginning, but he stopped right before I announced my engagement on Facebook. He must have seen it, but he didn’t call, send a card, or visit. He just vanished. I’m worried about him. And Art, he’s a big time criminal defense attorney in Irvine, but even with his connections I was only able to track Brett to some club downtown. I guess he was a bartender there, but he stopped working a little over six years ago and is no longer listed in the directory. So you see, I thought that since you worked here, that you could help. I need your help, Ky. Please, help me?”

  “You’re telling me Brett’s been working here? In downtown San Diego? What club?”

  She shrugs. “Some upscale club called the Onyx.”

  He’s been here this entire time? I idiotically feel my heart race at the idea that I have been so close to seeing him again. I am acting like a teenybopper going crazy for Justin Bieber.

  Fumbling with my half-eaten bagel—now separated into bite sized pieces and smeared with butter and crumbs—I rehash the painful past with a slight shudder. Embarrassed and unsure of how this request will pan out for all parties involved, I sit up and look into my once best friend’s weary eyes.

  Relenting to the memory of the blood-oath that binds me to the elegant
lady sitting before me, I suck in a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Leila lifts her head. Surprisingly stunned and filled with gratitude, she exposes her vulnerable, wet eyes—water pooling over thick darkened lashes, as she must have also remembered the oath—and whispers, “Thank you.”

  I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable.

  Rising from her seat, Leila slings her designer purse over her bare shoulder and hesitates. Turning, she says, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Ky.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  I meet Leila’s saddened smile with one of my own. The smile seems to weigh a thousand pounds and hangs in the lively café like a pile of used coffee grounds, wet and useless. How many times did Leila cross my mind? Too many to count. How many times did I visualize our first meeting and the apology I’d deliver? Also too many, always ending the same, with the final goodbye to our childhood friendship.

  Watching Leila leave, I know that once Brett is found, our ties will sever and we will graciously part ways forever. This momentary truce cannot last as we are no longer the same two naïve kids in that tree house, joining our blood and vowing to be sisters.

  The reality is that I no longer know anything about Leila Grimwald and Leila doesn’t know anything about Detective Kylie Kang. The oath and blood we exchanged on that bright spring day within the secrecy of the wooden tree house is only a fond memory, faded over time, and will eventually vanish completely.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Flashback to:

  Wednesday, April 7, 1993

  9:45 A.M.

  Young Kylie Kang:

  Spring Break meant little to the people living in Rowland Heights. Mostly, the kids would hang out with friends at the mall, go to the movies, lounge around at home in front of their televisions, or, in the case of the less fortunate, help out their parents at work. But to those living in Walnut—north of the railroad tracks and set among the quiet, tree-lined streets—Spring Break meant traveling to tropical resorts, laying out on white sandy beaches while drinking fruity drinks with colorful paper umbrellas, and treating themselves to lavish spas.

  I was in the back room of my parent’s Korean BBQ restaurant, busily working on my boring Kumon math packet. Middle-aged women and men—dark-skinned, haggard from countless hours of working in the kitchen, and who didn’t speak a lick of English—rushed past me, the seven-year-old girl with black pigtails and pouty lips. The harsh smell of bleach burned my nose while the clanking of pans and dishes rattled in my ears. I didn’t mind the clamor, I grew up in it. The restaurant was my home; it was what I knew.

  My parents had opened their first restaurant in the Koreatown district of Los Angeles shortly before I was born. My dad, Jay, was the only son, and got ownership of his parent’s restaurant when they moved back to Korea to be with his sister and her family. My dad (Appa) was more of the avid gambler than witty businessman. His parents spoiled him and he grew up with a golden spoon in his mouth. Responsibility was a foreign concept that he took lightly. It wasn’t a surprise that they lost the restaurant within a year of acquiring it. When things didn’t work out my parents sold everything and we relocated to Rowland Heights to try again and to escape Appa’s demons, away from the congested city.

  Near the broom closet my mom (Umma) was squatting, hands gloved and bright red, making a new batch of kimchi in a low plastic tub. Sweat prickled her ragged face as her hands quickly prepped the mound of Napa cabbages to be basted in a mixture of salt, red chili pepper, garlic, and salted shrimp. This concoction, once fermented, would eventually be served as a side dish with every meal ordered at the restaurant. Umma worked fast, with a skilled determination. Hard work was ingrained in her leathery hands and crooked back. A Korean drama was playing on the small television set, which was propped on some old phone books atop a metal filing cabinet (the broom closet was also a makeshift office). Three video tapes were stacked on top of the television, ready to be watched and returned.

  Soon Appa would be stomping into the kitchen with buckets of raw meat that would need to be cleaned and marinated in their special sauce (Asian pear was the secret ingredient). Chaos would ensue within the next few hours, as the crew shifted from hurried cleaning to frenzied prep work before the first wave of customers could clamor inside and take a seat.

  After I finished my Kumon lesson, I would have to restock the to-go supplies—rubber banding soy sauce packets, chopsticks, plastic forks, and napkins together. I wasn’t looking forward to my week away from school.

  The phone rang in the front room. Umma yelled in Korean for me to move my eongdeong-i and pick up the phone. Begrudgingly, I rose and sulked to the phone. The coiled receiver cord was wound tight and I had to lean close to the base in order to answer.

  “Kang’s Korean BBQ. How may I help you?”

  “Ky? Is that you?”

  “Leila?” I immediately changed the frown upside down. “Hi. Where are you calling me from?” I hoped I was receiving a call from some place exotic like Hawaii, Cancun, or Fiji. It made me feel important.

  “At home. My family decided to wait until summer break to go somewhere. Except for Brett. He’s tagging along with Scott and his family. He’s going to learn how to surf without me. So unfair.”

  “Yeah. That sounds like fun.” I was disappointed. Leila was having as much fun as I was—well, probably more. Her mom didn’t make her do math packets and work.

  “Anyways, my mom said I can invite you over. You can even spend the night here if you want. We can have a sleepover in the tree house. My mom said it’s warm enough so we should be okay out there.”

  “Really? Wow. Um, let me ask my mom.”

  “Okay. If you want, my mom can talk to your mom. My mom’s really good at convincing people.”

  “Errr…let me try first.”

  I uncoiled the receiver so I could lay it on the counter, and walked hesitantly toward Umma. Something funny just happened in the drama because she was laughing. That was a good sign.

  Umma titled her head toward me and narrowed her eyes into slits. “Who was on the phone?”

  “That was Leila. Her mom wants to know if I can come over and spend the night. Can I, please?”

  “Did you finish your Kumon?”

  “Almost. I have one page left.”

  She gave a hard nod. “After you finish the Kumon and make one hundred chopstick packets, you can go. You remember what bus to take?”

  I nodded, ecstatic, my pigtails flailing around my round face.

  “Good.”

  “Thank you, Umma. Saranghae.” I wrapped my scrawny arms around Umma’s neck and kissed her cheek.

  SET HIGH ON THE TRUNK OF A TOWERING eucalyptus, the Ficks’ wooden tree house was like a miniaturized version of the main house—complete with dual-pane French doors, plantation shutters, shiplap siding, and composite roof shingles. A twisting wooden staircase led up to the wraparound deck, which was surrounded by a sturdy rail so the kids would be safe. Inside, there was a Murphy bed folded neatly against the wall, a large floor lamp set in the corner, a tiny refrigerator that held juice boxes and water bottles, a cupboard filled with snacks, and a television loaded with all the entertainment accessories a kid could want (VHS player, Nintendo, and karaoke machine). It smelled faintly of cedar, citrus and menthol. An oversized rug was laid out in the center of the room, covering the smooth floor planks. A large cedar chest held piles of blankets, quilts, and pillows so the girls would be comfortable throughout the night. The massive trunk of the Eucalyptus, which took five girls locked hand-in-hand to circumscribe, had been polished smooth where it plunged through the room like a dramatic, off-center pillar. Skylights were embedded in the ceiling for natural light by day and stargazing by night.

  The first time I stepped through the doors, I stood agape. The tree house was nicer than the house I lived in.

  A warm batch of chocolate chip cookies—still gooey from the oven—was piled high on a plate along with mini triangle-shaped tur
key and ham sandwiches on white bread (with the crusts meticulously cut) and a pitcher of fruit punch. Leila and I were settled cross-legged on the rug, enjoying the meal Mrs. Ficks prepared.

  Leila rose elegantly and walked over to open the Murphy bed. Inside one of the pillowcases was a tiny wooden box with Leila’s name neatly etched on the side. She brought the box back to the rug and sat down. Her eyes flickered with mischievous excitement.

  “What’s that?” I pointed to the box.

  “You’ll see. First you have to answer a question.”

  I shrugged, impatient. “Okay.”

  “Will you be my sister?”

  “Uh, I don’t think that’s possible. Don’t we have to have the same parents to be sisters?”

  Leila rolled her eyes. “Not real sisters silly,” her eyes gleamed, “blood sisters.”

  I swallowed. “Blood?”

  “Yeah, it’s really cool, I saw it on TV. We’re like bound for life or something. We’d be even closer than real sisters.”

  I took a millisecond to think about it. “Cool.”

  “Great. Now I just need your finger.” Leila opened the box and took out a sewing needle. She grabbed my pointer finger and pricked the tip until blood bloomed and spilled over the ridges. The blood startled, yet fascinated me, and I examined it in awe.

  Then, Leila pricked her own finger and held it out for me to do the same. “Now we say an oath before we smear the blood together. Hmm… How about Leila Ficks and Kylie Kang pledge to be blood sisters forever. Okay now we press our fingers together. Ta-da. Now we’re sisters.”

  In an E.T. gesture, we became blood-sisters for life. The prick stung a little but what surprised me most was the sticky texture and the coppery taste. Sucking on my finger, an overwhelming sense of loyalty flooded my veins. I belonged.