A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  “Now that we’re sisters, I can share my secret.” Leila’s voice lowered.

  “I can keep a secret.”

  “I know. That’s part of the blood-sister code. We have to protect each other’s secrets until we die.”

  “Oh, okay. So what’s the secret?”

  “Tell me yours first.”

  “Leila…I don’t have one.”

  “Sure you do. Everyone has secrets.”

  “Really Leila, I don’t have one. Just tell me yours. I promise I won’t tell.”

  “Well…okay, but you have to tell me yours as soon as you have one. I have to be the first one you tell. Got it?”

  I nodded willingly. I didn’t think I was going to break my promise.

  Satisfied, Leila sat up straight and grinned mischievously. “I found Brett’s secret stash.”

  My face squished together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “His secret stash. Stuff that he doesn’t want anyone to know about. Bad stuff. Apparently all boys have them. My daddy has one. I overheard my mom yelling at him about it once. Your dad probably has one too.”

  I thought about Appa with his stern face etched in deep lines. Mostly he grunted and complained in Korean about taxes and money. He probably had a lot of secrets. “You’re probably right.”

  “Of course I am. Anyways, I was worried that I’d get caught so I only took one thing out of the box. It’s a videotape. I think it’s a movie.”

  “A secret movie?”

  HOSPITAL ROOM (III):

  Tuesday, June 26, 2012

  2:53 P.M.

  THE ROOM SMELLED LIKE ANTISEPTIC and harsh chemicals. The sun streamed in through the blinds and a slow gust of wind rattled the plastic and fluttered the hairs draping listlessly against his pasty arm. Joe jerked awake, tugging against the intravenous needle and tubes that irritated his skin and wrenched his stomach. In a state of panic Joe started screeching in loud yelps from the pain. The young nurse—by now Joe referred to her as Nurse Freckles—scurried to his side, breathless from receiving the panic call, and without a moment’s hesitation she hurriedly punched in the morphine. By now, the cancer had spread and all she could do was ease his pain. Quickly the medication took effect and in low soothing tones she eased him back under the covers and into a state of oblivion.

  Noticing the cold breeze, she realized the cause of his erratic episode and quickly crossed the room to close the window. An eerie silence fell upon the room. Sgt. Whimplestein continued to lie still, seemingly unaffected, his heart monitors working away as the ventilators continued to pump oxygen into his lungs. Wistfully she leaned over and adjusted his blanket and pillow, tucking in his hands to warm them. She moved back toward Joe’s bed. His heart rate seemed to have decreased out of the danger zone.

  As she gazed upon this dying man, Nurse Freckles sighed in sadness and pity for his loneliness. Having stopped chemotherapy treatments a month ago, he now spent his time alone, in discomfort, and without any visitors. How much time did he have left to endure this pain? She couldn’t say, but she hoped for Joe’s sake it wouldn’t be much longer.

  It wasn’t until she stepped out of the room, and quietly closed the door behind her, that Joe spoke.

  His voice grated against his swollen throat. Gritting his teeth between every few words that passed his lips, he managed to whisper:

  Hey Sarge. Whimpy…you awake? Nurse Freckles is gone. Ugh, it still stinks in here. Wasn’t me I tell you. How you holding up? The breeze gett’n you? It sure got me. Left my skin all puckered and bruised. Sure hate when that happens. Such is life though…

  The morphine continued to numb the pain, relaxing his throat, and plugging the tears that dribbled down his scruffy cheeks in awkward trails. Behind the closed door, he could hear another disgruntled patient shouting about getting ripped off and something about the ad on the radio promising a huge room with plenty of lounge space for overnight visitors. Joe snorted a laugh.

  Hear that guy? What a dimwit, sonofagun. You know I heard the ad he’s referring to just the other day. Marketing people think they’re so damn clever. Probably they are. Sheez. Making people think they’re speaking plain English when they’re speaking in code, subliminal-message marketing language. There’s no substance in ads these days…maybe never was. The government should get rid of marketing departments altogether. They don’t do anything except confuse us common folk. While they’re at it, they should get rid of politics, too. Let people think for themselves and be held accountable for their actions instead of getting brainwashed and seeking a scapegoat. Bah. What a strange world we live in. Such is life.

  By three, Joe was in a fit of wet coughs, the kind where mucus spewed out in greenish clumps and the vile metallic taste hung menacingly in the back of his throat. Usually once the sticky substance was expunged from his system the coughing stopped and all was well again, but this time dots of red were mixed in with the green, lighting up his mouth and chin like Christmas. As the tears pooled in the folds below his eyes, he gripped his hands together to ease the violent shakes. He could feel his brittle bones scrape together under the thin film of flesh and he reeled from the pain. And all he could think was, this is how I leave the world…alone.

  Detective Kylie Kang:

  3:00 P.M.

  The nurses scramble toward Room 301 just as I step into the corridor. I just about have a heart attack. Thinking the distress call is meant for Gramps instead of his roommate, my brain switches to action-mode. Without thinking, I push past a kid in a wheelchair and almost knock a woman off her crutches to get to the room. Gasping for air I stand, wide-eyed, steeping in fear as I watch two nurses and a resident in green scrubs hunch over the patient’s body. The patient’s foot twitches and relaxes. Cold sweat plasters the hair on my face as guilt racks my conscience. I am glad the patient in pain isn’t Gramps but his roommate, and I feel guilty for my relief.

  The blood returns to my extremities. Silently I step outside and wait for the commotion to recede. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the kid in the wheelchair shaking his head with sour disgust. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut. Taking this moment to regain composure I pinch the bridge of my nose and murmur to myself.

  “Ky, you need to calm down. The case is getting to you. Get ahold of yourself. Maybe you should stop drinking gallons of coffee and go back to one cup a day. Yes, that’s it. I’m just jittery because I’m over-caffeinated. Maybe I should nix caffeine altogether. Try some herbal tea…”

  Leaning against the white plaster wall, I place my hands on my knees and take a few calming breaths. Who am I kidding? Abstain from coffee? I’m just being a Nervous Nellie. A person’s got a right to make a fool out of herself every now and then. My hair is pulled back tight by three blue rubber bands and my ponytail flops in front of my makeup-free face as I bend at the waist. Clasping my fingers around the pendant, I slowly peel my eyes open to see the boy in the wheelchair, still staring at me, now with a perplexed gaze. He must be feeling sorry for me. How pathetic.

  By the time my pulse slows, the resident and nurses brush past. I overhear the nurse with the freckles and light auburn hair muttering to a nurse with pale skin and a crop of blond hair. “Looks like he doesn’t have much longer.” The nurse with the blond hair nods in solemn agreement.

  Stepping into the room for the second time that day, I notice the blue dividing curtain is pulled tight against the rod. Sadness washes over me as I think about the man behind it. Has anyone visited him since he’s been admitted? I’m not here enough to know for sure, but I have a feeling no one has. Is he alone in this world or just alienated from his family?

  I grab a chair and drag it beside Gramps’ bed. After straightening his pillow and sheets, I take his lax hand, peppered in bluish dots, and massage it in small clockwise circles. Besides the faint beat of his pulse, his hand feels weak, doughy, and lifeless.

  “Gramps?” I jump, startled by my own voice echoing within the silent walls. I can’t seem
to get used to talking to Gramps in this grim room. When he was first admitted, I didn’t even know what to say. I was in denial and didn’t want to believe he was ill. But as the days became months and then years, I decided I should start talking to him while I had the chance.

  “I don’t know what to do. I know I say that with every case but this one is different. Everyone thinks Brett is the guy. The media are having a field day spinning the story as far and complex as it can go. Even Art can’t do much to save his ass. I know he’s innocent…but…I also don’t know if he is innocent. I just hope he is. No, he has to be.” I pause, placing my face in his cold hands. “I have to prove he’s innocent. Don’t I? No, I have to. I owe him that much. Do you think it’s wrong of me to still have feelings for him? It’s been so long. It’s just that…when I saw him—”

  The ring from my cell jolts my head up. I grab it from my back pocket, check the Caller ID, and brace myself before answering briskly, “Kang.”

  “Afternoon, Detective. Lieutenant Declan Malone. I got a Cobb, Michael here who says he’s willing to talk.”

  “Got it.” I shove the chair back in the corner of the room, then bend to kiss Gramps on his clammy cheek. “I’m on my way. Make sure he doesn’t have second thoughts and bolt.”

  “Kang, I know how to do my job, just do yours. Get in here fast. This kid’s lips are buttoned up tight. Was going to hand him off to Pickering but says he doesn’t want to talk to no one but you. So, hurry before the kid rethinks the idea and splits.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty. Just give him some candy or something.”

  “Jesus, Ky. The kid ain’t five.”

  I breathe in a not-so-refreshing breath of hospital air before heading out the door. My extremities tingle in excitement. Wearing dark denim skinny jeans that fit into a pair of soft-as-butter brown Italian leather ankle boots and my blush-pink leather jacket over a plain white tank top, I move purposefully through the stark corridor and down three flights of stairs. Taking long focused strides toward my gleaming Crown Vic—forever on its last mile—I remove the parking pass from my wallet and start the car.

  Driving on autopilot, I cycle through my mental notes about Michael Cobb. Unfazed by the up-yours signals and nasty glances tossed my way (driving has never been my strong suit), I zip onto 8 West:

  Currently on summer break. Enrolled as a Freshman at UCLA. Pre-law. Clean. No record. Family resides in modest four bedroom house across street from vic. Dad clueless. Mom secretive. Michael obedient. Ex-boyfriend to vic. Last saw vic the night of the murder.

  Betting this kid is going to give me something I can sink my teeth into and not the usual runaround, I double-park in front of the station, tighten my already taut ponytail, give a quick look in the rearview to make sure I look composed, and stride quickly inside. Worrying about a parking ticket is the least of my concerns (besides, Mark in parking owes me).

  Chapter Twelve:

  Thursday, May 24, 2012

  6:40 P.M.

  Neil Wilcox:

  The late afternoon sun still holds its fury and flames above the dusty blue sky. The air is still, suffocating. No generous gust of cool air to provide respite from the blistering heat.

  Sweat beads through remnants of sunblock on my face and neck, dribbling into the yellowed, baconed collar of my shirt and rippling downward until my white shirt appears clear. Removing a hand towel from my sports pack, I dab my face and neck. Months of walking during the rain and heat—with occasional two-hour-plus excursions—presents the need for a few essentials (sunblock, light jacket, umbrella, extra shirt, towel, water, granola bar, doggie snacks, bowl, flashlight and spare batteries). I am prepared. I am not going to miss a day of walking. I must catch a glimpse of my Betsy.

  The heat is taxing and starts to wear on Mr. Dimples’ aging body. His shiny black coat roasts under the blaze of the May sun. A quarter mile into the walk, Mr. Dimples slows and scuffles to the side, yearning for solace in a shady patch of grass, snorting when he finds none. Pity rises in my chest before I can summarily squelch it.

  “Oh no you don’t. We’re not going to turn back now. What would Betsy think if we don’t make our daily trip to say hello?” When the pug makes no motion to budge, I begrudgingly kneel and scoop Mr. Dimples into my sunburned arms, walking the rest of the way to the corner of Golfcrest and Tuxedo.

  Five months of religious walking have trimmed my body to a lean 150. My belly fat is almost nonexistent, and the calves of my legs bulge tight when exerted. My skin, once shy of gray, has turned a burnt reddish hue over a leathery texture. My trusty fisherman’s hat has dulled from the many washes and I’ve gone through more Costco multi-packs of white undershirts than during my entire adult life. No amount of bleach can save them after a few weeks of punishing sun, sunscreen, deodorant, and sweat.

  Trudging up the steep cement hill sets fire to my lungs as my breathing comes in short and rapid succession. In a few minutes I’ll start gasping for some semblance of oxygen. The arches of my feet scream in pain, but I keep marching onward, my mind rooted elsewhere to a past more enjoyable than the present. My hazel eyes turn vacant behind five-dollar Blue Blockers. The sweat and sunblock mixture dribbling into the corners of my eyes should sting me blind if I noticed, but I don’t. I stride on, unfazed. My eyes are vacant, affixed forward; my mind is set in the past.

  At the top of the hill, if I chose to take a moment to inhale the beautiful scenery that cascades before me, I would see majestic rocky slopes to my left and mounds of rolling green hills to my right. Rows of never-ending palm, ash, oak, and sycamore trees intermingle with specks of multicolored rooftops from the intricate web of houses down below. During a storm, a foggy haze cascades along the mountaintops and caresses the windswept horizon. On certain evenings, the twilight sun inks a marvelous kaleidoscope of color into the spreading clouds. Ribbons of sherbet swirling breathlessly in the air. But for me, none of these sights matter. For me, only my darling Betsy—who waits for me in the corner white house with blue shingles—matters.

  The sun sets to my right as I follow the gentle curve onto Tuxedo. This downhill stretch is normally a breeze compared to the previous half-mile march up Jackson, but with a pug tucked into the crux of my arm and the heat beating vigilantly on my right side, there is no immediate relief. My shins scream and my knobby knees crack as I dodge the late-summer thistles jutting from the sidewalk.

  After a few more minutes of hearing Mr. Dimples pant and wheeze, I snap out of my passive hypnosis long enough to set Mr. Dimples down and place a canary blue bowl beside him, into which I dribble a few splashes of water from my bottle. Watching the pug lap up the water enthusiastically, I take a moment to steal a few long swigs myself.

  The sky darkens to a dusty, grayish hue. The sun is no longer in my direct line of sight but I can still feel the sweltering heat. Cars rush past in loud whooshes, probably hurrying toward a home-cooked meal surrounded by loved ones or to their television set and an ice cold six-pack. Wiping the sweat that drips unabated from my face and neck, I watch in ominous silence as the pug laps up the remaining droplets of water. Starved for more, Mr. Dimples whimpers and scratches the dry bowl with his paw, dragging it in small circles. Blind to Mr. Dimples’ needs, I place the bowl back into the pack and hoist the disgruntled pug back into the crook of my arm. Can’t waste any more time.

  Marching on, the park comes into view. I can hear the shrieks and giggles of children playing on the swing set, and louder still, the handful of adults cheering and heckling at their kids’ soccer game as it culminates in the final intense seconds. A few walkers pass me without so much as a vapid nod. A soccer dad hesitantly pulls the greasy handle of the blue plastic port-o-potty positioned just off the grassy field, looks both ways, and nonchalantly disappears into the stinky fumes.

  Once I pass the outstretched field, the teeming throngs of snot-nosed kids, the boisterous parents who self-medicate by clap-shouting at their six-year-olds to hustle-hustle-hustle! on the field and move-move
-move! to the car afterward, and the gleaming blue shit-box in the corner, I feel a rush of anxiety, a tickle of adrenaline, and a spark that seems to shine through the dull haze in my unblinking eyes. I am close. So close to seeing Betsy again. My chapped lips lift into an ominous grin as I walk forward.

  Reaching the old oak tree, I set Mr. Dimples on the uneven sidewalk. Wavering slightly, the pug makes it to the grass and marks his spot. Darkness falls and the heat simmers to quiet warmth. The breeze sends a sharp chill radiating down my spine as my drenched shirt seems unpleasantly cool against my skin. I make the snap decision to change into a new shirt. Quickly, and in the dark, I duck behind the oak to make the switch. Need to look good for my Betsy.

  After a few minutes of waiting beneath the oak in trepidation and strained anticipation, I see her.

  A dark sedan makes its grand approach toward her house in silence. Elegantly designed, gleaming even under the orange glow of the street light, the make and model obscured by bright headlights—the car is a mirage, a barely-there shadow casting twin beams of light.

  The driver makes no attempt to turn off the engine or dim the lights. Glaring through the blinding white haze, I make out the figure of a man, notably cocky by his one arm draped over the wheel and his eyes set on the rearview mirror. Seemingly annoyed to wait—an act he probably isn’t accustomed to—he has his other hand hovering over the horn. I notice the drapes inside the house rustle slightly. The man must have also noticed the movement because he lowers his hand.

  The door to the white house with blue shingles cracks open and a flushed woman dressed in a glittery plum dress with thigh-high slits and a plunging neckline slips furtively out, clueless to the fact that with another second’s hesitation, Mr. Cocky would have belied her escape to the entire block with several curt blasts of his luxury horn.