A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  Then a tall Caucasian man appeared from the open door and walked steadily toward me with a large smile. His bushy white eyebrows and white carpeted arms moved in unison as he knelt and reached out to envelop me in a loving embrace. His arms were warm and smelled like cough drops. The scent made me wrinkle my nose. What was it with old people and their scents?

  “Come on in, Ky. It’s so great to have you come live with us,” he bellowed in warm and soothing tones.

  I knew this was coming and still I was stunned. I turned to Umma who suddenly fell silent. “Umma? What does he mean…live with us?” At that point I noticed that the taxi we arrived in had not left, but was still idling at the curb. What was the taxi waiting for?

  Umma suddenly grabbed both of my hands and knelt before me. Tears were streaming down her face, overcome in sadness and sorrow. “Ky, this is where you’ll live now. You’ll be living with Halmoni and Bill while you finish school. You remember Halmoni. She lived with us until you were three.”

  I slowly shook my head from side to side. No, I didn’t know this old woman and man with whom I was supposed to live. I searched Umma’s face for answers and found none. “But, wh—what about you and Appa? Where are you guys going?”

  “I’ll go back home. Appa’s really mad right now. You can’t stay there. Bad rumors…” she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then opened them, her eyes red. “A change of scenery will be good. Trust me.” Umma forced a tight smile, squeezed me and kissed my cheeks, leaving behind red smudges from her lipstick.

  Brushing away the tears that started to drip down my neck, I said goodbye to Umma, whom I wouldn’t see again until years later when Gramps got sick and Halmoni had passed. How was I to know that being sent to live with my grandparents was going to be the best thing my parents could have done? At the time, all I could think was that my parents abandoned me. They were ashamed and humiliated of me and I was a huge disappointment.

  At that moment I felt worthless.

  Chapter Twenty-Three:

  Friday, June 29, 2012

  10:38 P.M.

  DRINKING WAS CERTAINLY NOT AN ADMIRABLE TRAIT for a lady as beautiful as Tess. Knowing this, and the fact she was losing the battle with gravity, the elasticity of her skin and the natural luster of her hair, she spitefully poured herself shot after shot of vodka within the solitude of her bedroom walls.

  When the vodka was tapped, she decided to upgrade to a bottle of Glenlivet 18 she received awhile back from one of her clients as a thank you gift. She kept that one hidden in her closet for just such an occasion, in the oversized pocket of her seldom-used ski jacket.

  Already horribly drunk with her taste-buds burned, she pulled down hanger after hanger from the wardrobe bar until she could fish out the bottle. She greedily popped the cork and took two huge slugs from the bottle, unable to taste anything or realize how much she was spilling down her front. Staggering back, she tripped and tottered over the clothes that littered the carpet and barely made it to the bed before collapsing in a stupor.

  Her life seemed to be crumbling upon her in one fell swoop, unraveling at the seams. Her daughter dead, murdered. Suspect, husband. Did he do it? She wasn’t sure. Lover, gone. Broke up at the first sign of trouble. Drunk, alone, and lost. She didn’t even have the strength to feel sorry for herself. All she wanted was to feel nothing at all. She took another swig of single malt, and with watery eyes set the bottle on the nightstand.

  That day was a blur. She overslept and was nursing a hangover. Brett was passed out on the bed and she was trying to inhale a cup of coffee so she could figure out the best way to apologize to him when he woke up. The sneaking around with Jim was beginning to lose its luster. She got swept up in the thrill of the chase and affection. Jim was a charismatic guy with all the confidence Brett was lacking. She believed that she deserved the affair. That she was a woman who shouldn’t be denied the attention that she craved. That lie was starting to get to her, especially after the blow up with Loral and then with Brett.

  It was midmorning when the detectives knocked on her door and close to noon when they left. Once the detectives finished invading Tess and her distressed family with questions and accusations, she escaped to her office to be surrounded by the safe, the familiar, the manageable. She wasn’t ready to fully face the gravity of the news she was just given. She needed an escape.

  “Loral is probably just at Mike’s house,” she told herself as she drove to the office, “or at the park writing in that goddamn notebook of hers that she’s never able to part with.”

  She added to the mantra as she parked in her usual spot and walked into the office: “It’s all going to blow over. A simple misunderstanding, that’s all this whole thing is. Yep, a simple misunderstanding.” She almost had herself convinced by the time she sat down at her desk, when she stopped to notice the picture of her and Loral when Loral was six. They were at Sea World. She was wearing pink knee-length pleated shorts and a long striped shirt with a teddy bear on it. They had just been splashed by Shamu. Even then, she had that damn journal tucked beneath her arm, the other arm craning around Tess’s white tennis shorts, her head resting against Tess’s hip.

  At this, Tess remembered the way Loral’s eyes lit up when she unwrapped her first journal at age five. From that day forward, Loral could scarcely be seen without a journal and a pen on her. That journal opened the door for Loral, gave her an outlet for a layer of emotions that Tess herself never learned to handle without the aid of alcohol.

  “She was really something, that kid,” Tess thought as she stroked the glass frame, realizing this was the first time she used the past tense in relation to her daughter. Tears began to well in her eyes and she grabbed her hair with both hands in frustration. She spoke to the empty room, more loudly now:

  “How can it be that I can only conjure up a handful of happy memories with Loral?” She began counting off the memories by prying a finger backward for each one. “The time when she was born, the time when she first wrapped her tiny arms around my neck and whispered ‘I love you,’ the time when she opened her first journal and started frantically writing in it, and the time when Tory and Bella were born. The rest is just memories of us fighting and yelling and unhappy. What kind of mother am I?”

  Shaking, she quickly removed a cold water bottle from the mini fridge she kept below her desk, and forced herself to swallow. The water felt cool against her parched throat. Although water helped, it wasn’t doing the trick for her nerves. She craved something stronger, something more potent, something that burned away grief.

  No. She shook the need to drink and instead decided to bury herself in work. That was why she came here in the first place, right? She unwisely started by making her client callbacks. Her voice sounded dead and foreign as she spoke in the empty room. It wasn’t filled with her usual fluty tones; the tickle of sweet laughter and icy precision her clients knew and loved. More than once a client had to interrupt and ask what was wrong. More than once the caller would suddenly cut the conversation short, blaming another meeting or a sudden visitor. More than once she felt like bursting into tears or resorting to a drink. She resisted the drink, mainly because she wasn’t sure if she’d have to answer some unexpected follow-up questions with the nosy detectives regarding her daughter’s murder. So instead of turning to alcohol as a means of an escape, she called Jim.

  Jim would know what to do, she thought. He would have the answers. She just needed something to erase the pain. Like an addict, she dialed his number. When she was sent directly to his voice mailbox on the first ring—which never happened since he always picked up—she knew the affair was over. Just like that. Over.

  She broke. Anger, sadness, and confusion flooded her veins, boiling her blood. Her protective shield of confidence shattered, exposing an ugly weakness she spent years protecting. With her emotions discombobulated, she grew frantic.

  Without thinking, she grabbed her purse and angrily swiped the few tears trickling down her face. She de
cided to pay Jim a visit. If you wanted answers, you needed to seek them out for yourself—up close and personal.

  The visit was short, dramatic and heated.

  His office was pristine and lavish as always, but there was an underlying sense of unwelcome in the air. The dolled up receptionist was prissy and arrogant, clipping the end of each syllable as if the words were dull and in need of a manicure. “Mr. Kings. Bee. Is. Busy.”

  “I know. That’s why I came in person.”

  “Sorry you made the trip, but like I said—”

  “Listen, Bitch, either you tell Mr. Kingsbee that Ms. Holmes is here to see him or you let me pass. I know where his office is dear and I don’t need your services or permission to find it.”

  Looking up at Tess through a fan of thickened lashes, Candy pursed her painted lips and said, “I’ll let him know that a Mrs. Holmes is here to see him.”

  “Thanks,” she said with an icy sneer. “At least you’re not as dumb as you look.” Color flushed her cheeks as a fire erupted in her belly. By now, her throat screamed for a drink, but she pushed back the need when she saw Jim’s tentative smile come floating down the hall.

  “Tess!” Jim exclaimed. He lifted his arms as if to say it’s been a long time and what a pleasant, but unexpected surprise. “Please, step into my office.”

  Tess glowered. “How kind of you to make the time.”

  “For you, my dear, no problem at all. Candy, please hold my calls.”

  “Sure thing Mr. Kingsbee.” Tess noticed Candy’s flirtatious purr and sneered.

  Jim quickly led Tess within the thick walls of his soundproofed office, sealed the door, and sat at the edge of his enormous mahogany desk, unclipping the Bluetooth from his ear. Clasping his hands together and forcing a wide, phony smile he said, “So, what can I do for you?”

  Keeping her voice low and snipped, she said, “Why aren’t you answering my calls?”

  He laughed. “I’m a busy man, Tess. You know that.”

  “What I know is that in the past few months, when you weren’t banging me between the hotel sheets, you answered every call I made. Except, that is, for today. And I want to know the reason. Actually, I demand to know.”

  “Tess,” he smiled patronizingly, “what can I say, I’ve moved on.” The last words dripped out slow as honey. He shrugged and let out a little, incredulous gasp of a laugh. “You didn’t think we were serious, did you? I was under the impression that you just wanted a little fun. Besides, you are still married and the mother of two girls and I—”

  “Two?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You said two girls. I have three.”

  “Oh…right. Sure you do. What I meant to say is if I’d known you were the clingy type, I wouldn’t have even tried. Really Tess, I’m kind of disappointed. You knew I wasn’t looking for anything serious. And even if I were, I wouldn’t want to add complications in my life. And to be frank, well…after last time with that call from your husband, you are a liability I just don’t need.”

  An eerie calm settled over her flushed face. Taking a minute to settle the burn that had colored her voice up to this point, she took a deep breath. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower, almost inaudible. “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth. “I figure you’ve already seen the news. The San Diego Homicide Unit is trying to look for my daughter’s killer. Cops are poking their noses around, asking questions. Looking for clues and pretty much anything that might hint at a clue.”

  “What are you getting at?” An icy drop of fear trickled down the center of his back. Amused at his discomfort, she smiled thinly, noticing the sudden trepidation in his icy blue eyes.

  She shrugged. Turning toward the door she gazed past her shoulder and said, “Like you said, it was only fun, nothing serious, so why should you worry?”

  “Tess? What shouldn’t I worry about?” Nervous panic rose in his voice. “What are you planning to tell them? Think, Tess. Think about your kids.”

  Turning the knob she said icily, “Oh, you mean my two kids?” and closed the door behind her. Shaken but unbowed, she walked down the Kingsbee-celebrity corridor with her head held high and her hands clenched to her sides, fighting the urge to tear the pictures off the walls.

  Without acknowledging the seething redhead, she walked straight through the large revolving doors and out into the baked air of the parking lot.

  She made a beeline toward her BMW, choosing to tramp through a row of carefully manicured Japanese boxwood and daylilies rather than follow the curvaceous footpath bordering the parking lot. Fumbling with her keys, she unlocked the door and slipped inside. Sinking into the leather seat, she closed her eyes and punched the steering wheel for effect. The outside world seemed to fade away now that she was enveloped by the soundproof bubble of her luxury sedan. The remote silence coaxed down her bravado, blandishing fresh tears from her eyes.

  Looking back on the day, she wondered: how could I be so stupid?

  Feeling pathetic, she opened the glove compartment, pulled out the hidden pint of Smirnoff, and took a desperate swig. The burning heat rushed down the back of her tongue, licking her esophagus and stomach lining with intoxicating flame. How stupid am I to get involved with another man? Why was I so easily seduced? If it weren’t for her alcoholism and her insatiable need to be desired, she might have noticed Loral’s subtle cries for help. But weren’t all teenagers moody, always griping about something? And what could she have done to stop her daughter’s killer? She had no control over the mental defects crowding this world. Come to think if it, what more could she have ever done to help Loral, really?

  She tossed the bottle onto the passenger’s seat and turned the ignition. The bubble of silence collapsed, giving way to an engine’s purr, an unobtrusive seatbelt reminder—ding-ding-ding—a thin gurgle and swish of vodka in glass, all blending with the roar of the tires as she threw the sedan into drive and headed home.

  Although she wasn’t directly responsible for her daughter’s death, she could not deny her contribution to her daughter’s ill state of mind in the days prior. All those days—and so many others before—she danced about, worried only about her own adulterous cravings, turning a blind eye to her daughter’s obvious inner turmoil. And Loral knew about the affair. With all she had to process just being a teenage girl, there was her mother, throwing kerosene to the fire.

  Tess thought of all the times she brushed Loral aside for a man, for work, or for simple vanities. She had always lived by one motto: act now and ask for forgiveness later.

  But now there was no time for forgiveness. Tess winced at the thought as she parked in the driveway. She made her way inside and, seeing no one, slipped upstairs toward the master bedroom with the Smirnoff cradled under her arm.

  Frustrated and lonely, leaning against the closed bedroom door, she gulped down the rest of the fiery liquid and feebly threw the empty bottle at the full-length mirror across the room, at her own hideous reflection. The bottle struck harmlessly against the soft edge of the bed instead. The barely audible thud from the bottle hitting the carpeted floor was drowned out by her booming headache.

  In frustration, Tess began tearing the room apart. Screaming. Pulling out drawers and sweeping the tables bare with the length of her arms. Ripping the clothes from her body, she collapsed face down on the bed, muffling her screams into the pillow in ragged, clenched breaths and smears of makeup, booze, and tears. She cried out in pain, in anger and regret. In shame. In disgust and contempt. She wanted her life back. Demanded she get another chance. Wanted nothing more than a chance to be a better wife to Brett and mother to her now, two little girls.

  “I’ll get sober…stop drinking…change everything…” she blubbered to an empty room as she fell into a catatonic sleep.

  11:11 P.M.

  HUDDLED IN THE CORNER BEHIND THE CLOSED bedroom door was Tory, with her knees pressed into her Dora the Explorer nightshirt and her spindly arms hugging them tight as she spilled quiet tears. Lonelines
s seemed to be a genetic trait in the Holmes family.

  Bella was tucked into bed—content, sucking on her thumb, protected—by her big sister, which was now only Tory. Bella was still too young to understand that Loral wasn’t coming back. All she was able to comprehend was that Loral was not home right now.

  Thirty minutes ago, Tory was changing Bella’s Hello Kitty sheets. Bella wet the bed, a bad habit she suddenly fell back into since Loral’s murder. In the past, Loral was the one to change their sheets. She would always make them feel better, and would hide the embarrassment from their parents. Now, it was Tory’s job. Just like making dinner used to be Loral’s job, it was now hers. Unable to reach the stove or the top shelves in the fridge, she looked to the lower cupboards for a meal. Tonight, she took out a pack of gummy bears and animal crackers and poured them into a bowl. Although it wasn’t something they would normally have for dinner, it was chewy and colorful. Bella had fun with it and that’s what mattered most. She was the older sister now, so that meant protecting Bella above all else.

  During the day it wasn’t as lonely because they were allowed to watch television and play with their toys. They were never allowed that much television before; now, it seemed like they couldn’t watch enough. What was also nice was having Mommy home more. What wasn’t so nice was that Loral wasn’t there anymore and now Daddy was also gone. The nice detective lady and her scary partner took him with them. She missed her daddy and sister so much.

  Tory knew her mommy was drinking again; the smell seeped out through the crack under the door and wafted into her nostrils. A moment ago, sounds of animal cries and soft thuds from inside the room—from Mommy—sent a new set of tears streaming down her splotchy face. But now, no more sounds could be heard and the silence was worse. Tory stood up, shaking.