Leave the Night On Pt. 05

Henry and I reached a consensus that it'd be better if he and Sun-Hi came over this year instead of us traveling to Korea. Henry is an actual doctor, after all. Although, his professional brain can't seem to function where Umma is concerned. "I'm only a dermatologist," he always says to defend himself.

"She was just chopping chives," he tells me now. "She cut her own finger and didn't even notice it until Sun-Hi started screaming and blood was over the place."

I swallow a ball of worry, turning my back on Henry to search the bathroom cabinets for the first aid kit. "Have you noticed anything else these past few days?"

Henry has been here for two weeks. Ever since New Year's. I know the slight changes in Umma are scaring him. He's seen her last a year ago. What was a smooth transition for me is a blink-of-an-eye change for him.

"Apart from the fact she can't tell us apart even though we're not two anymore?" he says, exasperation marking his face. "She called me by your name a thousand times yesterday. Then when we're together she thinks there are two of me!"

A stupid, mirthless chuckle escapes me. "You're the favorite."

"That's not funny, man!"

"I didn't say it was."

Henry shuts up, but his breathing is a windy, huffing remark of his discontent. I might not be a people doctor, but even I know what Umma's symptoms might signify. Henry knows, too. None of us is willing to say the words out loud. I'm not even surprised, only resigned. I've always known she'd need me as more than an attentive son who drops by once a day. I was waiting for the day to come. Now, it's here.

I rummage through the cabinet and spot the red plastic box tucked in behind rolls of toilet paper. "It's empty." I turn to Henry, showing him the box. "Not even a single band-aid."

Henry rubs a hand down his face, his worry and fear are etched in too deep. The dent between his eyebrows is the same I usually wear. Looking at him, I wonder if that's how I appear when I'm overwhelmed, when I feel like the weight of it all will flatten me.

My brother and I might have the same face, the same body, however we're wildly different people. I'm the pragmatic one. Henry is all emotion.

This past month, I've been contemplating the possibility of moving out of the farm. If Umma won't come live with Hannah and me, we might be forced to come to her. I glimpse that life. I wonder how Hannah might adapt to it. I wonder how I'll manage. I wonder at everything I gave up. I'm almost glad I don't even have the option to bring her into this. These are my issues, my life, my responsibilities. I don't have the right to share them with someone who doesn't have any obligation with my future problems.

I shake my head, scattering thoughts I don't have to engage in right now. "There's a drugstore nearby, close to Hannah's school," I say. "I'll go get some stuff. Band-aids. Some antiseptic maybe."

"I'll go with you," Henry offers.

I'm about to argue he should stay with Umma, but the begging look on his face halts my tongue. Not for the first time, and against my better instincts, I resent my twin a little. It's an unwelcome, useless emotion. Resentment. I feel it all the same and I despise it. Despise myself for it. Henry is leaving tomorrow. He'll go back to his life. A life that contains a job he adores with a wife he loves. He'll call, he'll worry, he'll offer me help he can't actively give. In the end, everything here is part of my load. I'm the one who stays. I'm the one who deals.

Henry leans his shoulder on the door and I know he's going to say things I would happily leave unsaid.

"She's not doing so well anymore, Dongsaeng." He looks up at me with a worn-out searching gaze. He likes to brag about being the seventeen minutes older twin even as he always looks up to me like a younger brother would. I could never decide whether I hate or love this about him. "Whatever's going on, it's the start of a neurological condition that is likely to worsen. She's becoming a danger to herself."

I nod, biting the insides of my cheeks to contain an unreasonable surge of anger. Henry's eyes are studying me too closely, noticing it all. It's impossible to deceive your exact carbon copy. Our body language is the same.

"She shouldn't be living alone, man," he says and my patience snaps.

It only takes one step and I'm right up against him, staring at my mirror self. "I know that, Henry!" I say, spittle flying from my mouth, the feelings I've been shoving behind a cool façade bursting free. "Don't you think I fucking know that! I've been here every day for years! It hasn't exactly been a joyride for me! Don't you think I've tried talking her into moving in with me? You don't know half the shit I've had to give up to be available for Umma. When you're not here, I'm the one holding this shit together! You don't have to tell me I should be here for her. I know that! I've always known that!"

My own blood rushing through my body is the only sound I can hear in the wake of my outburst. My chest is heavy, my gut twisted and tight like I've swallowed stones. My brother is staring at me unfazed, unaffected. The eyes we share, the eyes we've inherited from Umma, are soft and understanding on his face.

I don't understand this emotion seeping through my cracks until my brother brings a hand to my shoulder. His arms tighten around me and a sort of desperate hollowing sound leaves my mouth. A sob. I allow it to happen. The tears, the slight humiliation I feel at this slip in my composure, this admission of weakness when I should be the strong one.

"It's okay, Dongsaeng. It's going to be okay." Henry keeps repeating the words to both of us while his own throat is bobbing with an emotion he's trying to rein in for my sake. It's been our rule since we were tall enough to consider ourselves men: if one of us is crumbling, the other must stand tall. There was never space for the both of us to fall.

I'm trying to remember the last time I actually cried, rifling through my memory files. Instead, the image my mind pulls portraits Pearl. As I often do these days, I wonder and wonder. What would she do if I crumbled down like this in front of her? She'd hug me, too. I'd bury my face in the curve of her neck, that slide where she's impossibly soft and warm, where she smells like lemongrass. She'd probably know the right words to say. She'd likely kiss me until I forgot there's even a world beyond the comfort she'd offer me.

That is just a fantasy. Real life is here.

It's forever before I push off my brother's bear hug. I wipe my cheeks with the backs of my hands, sniffling like a child. I wash my face in the sink, check my blotched eyes in the mirror while Henry's gaze is burning my back.

"I'm sorry," I say to his reflection, meeting his eyes in the mirror. It doubles us, creating the illusion we're four of the same people.

He shakes his head, running a hand through his short hair. "No. I am sorry."

"No, no. I'm an asshole, Henry. I didn't mean to say you don't care," I say. "I know this whole thing is hard on both of us in equal measures."

"It isn't though," he says. "It's mostly on you. And it's a lot. I get it."

He does get it. I know that much. That's why I'm feeling like such a piece of shit. Seems like fucking up is my modus operandi now.

"I feel so useless," he says. "Last time I was here she was so well. Now, she's aging faster and I'm missing it. The burden of taking care of her is all on you because I can't do much from the other side of the planet."

I turn to look at my brother, my back to my mirror-self. "Henry..."

He holds up a hand to stop me. "I know I haven't been around. You had to deal with Appa's cancer, and now Umma..." he stops himself, squeezing his eyes shut. "You're entitled to your frustration. I should've been here. Technically, I'm the eldest."

"Ehh." I shrug, tilting my head left and right. "Seventeen minutes, man. It's a technicality."

He huffs out a sad laugh. "Still..."

I lay a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. I'm back to myself now. In practice, I've always been the eldest. I'm the one who's supposed to comfort him. "Henry, we've had the same choices. I could've left, too. I chose to stay and I don't regret it."

Henry's been gone since he was twenty-two. Our parents gave us both the choice to attend university in Korea. Henry didn't even think twice before leaving. As for me, by then I'd already met Karen. I wouldn't have left. Not for the world.

"There's something else, isn't there?" My brother says, his eyes narrowing the same way our mother's do when she detects a lie being told.

I feel my frown deepening. "What do you mean?"

"You're even weirder than normal," he says, scratching his beardless chin. We could never grow more than a few wisps of scattered facial hair. "You've always been the mysterious brooding one, but you're grumpier than ever. Umma has been complaining about your moodiness."

I can guess where this is going and I'm not fast enough to nip this in the bud.

"Are you seeing anyone?" he asks. His countenance shifts completely, the concern for our mother is replaced by Henry's usual pestering attitude.

"How can I?"

He smirks knowingly. "Umma has her list. She keeps saying you need a woman."

"The right woman. Someone with her seal of approval."

"You need a fuck," he says. "You've been a sulking pain in the ass lately."

"Fuck you," I mumble, mildly annoyed.

His smirk widens into a shit-eating-grin. "You've met someone, haven't you? Someone Umma doesn't like. Again."

I push off the sink making to walk out the door, but Henry stands by the threshold blocking the way. "If you don't tell me I'll call Kay. She'll rat you out," he threatens. "You know I'm her favorite twin."

"There isn't anyone," I lie, badly. "I can't have anyone. There's Hannah. There's Umma. There's work. Where am I going to find the time? Why would I even want to bring anyone into this, anyway?" I say this to my brother fully aware that I could have someone. If only I gave in to selfishness. My wants don't even factor in my choices. All the wishing in the world won't change my circumstances. Plus, she deserves better.

Some of Henry's mirth diffuses, opening a slot for the previous tense mood to slide back in. "Umma could come live with me."

We both know the option isn't doable as soon as he's said it. A tear was opened the day our parents immigrated to this country. They left everything and everyone behind to rely on friends who'd come here before them, promising them life here would be easier on their children and offer them more opportunities.

Umma has sacrificed so much to build a life here. Her eternal love of her homeland notwithstanding, leaving this place would be like abandoning a life all over again. She won't do it.

"Come on, man. She won't go," I tell my brother. "I can't even get her to move back to the farmhouse. Do you think you'll convince her to move out of the country? She won't leave Han."

Henry exhales loudly, deflating like a leaking balloon.

"She's staying here. I'll take care of her. Don't worry."

My brother nods, only half convinced, still fully worried. We descend the stairs to find our mother and his wife sitting by the kitchen table. Sun-Hi's tears have dried. Umma's pinky is wrapped in a cloth, the bleeding stanched. She doesn't really need any bandages or anything like that. I tell the women Henry and I will drive to a drugstore anyways. Her first-aid-kit box needs supplies.

Out of form for us, Henry and I enjoy some silence while I drive. A part of me wants to tell him about Pearl, if only to have an excuse to talk about her. Simultaneously, I like having the time to succumb to my own thoughts quietly.

Somedays, like today, I convince myself I did the right thing walking away from her. My method was questionable, cowardly, but I did the right thing. At the very least, she's free. None of my mistakes or my responsibilities are hers by extension.

Today, Hannah will spend the night at Umma's and I'll spend the night alone. Again. Time is longer now, trickling by sluggishly, granting my regrets more space to manifest. There's little point in cooking for one. Instead, I'll heat up some leftovers. I'll have a beer by myself. I'll light the fire for myself.

I won't sleep well tonight. Every Friday night I sit by the fire, watching as the wood is combusted into ambers only to become ash. If I close my eyes, my mind will find her. There's an alternate reality I fantasize about. One in which she's with me laughing, naked, moaning my name. I indulge in this fantasy a little too much. A daily dose of everything I can't have. Dreaming of how I wish things were won't change how they are. The things I want were never an option. If I open my eyes my fantasy vanishes, billowing away like smoke in the wind.

Pearl was my only reprieve from the responsibilities I carry. Those nights with her were saving me from the perpetual routine of boredom. Life doesn't give a shit about fairness though. I have to sacrifice something I love for the sake of the ones I love and I wonder: is it a relief or selfishness to be glad of it? Telling myself I have little choice frees me of the guilt of choosing. Or at least I've been telling myself that.

I hurt Pearl more than I knew I could. I saw the hurt in her eyes those last few days she was at the school. When I didn't talk to her, I barely even looked at her lest she saw how much I wanted to crawl on my knees and beg her to forgive me, to touch me, to come to me.

If she were here with me, all this familial turmoil would be hers, too. Her beauty, her light, her youth, her love. She would pour all of it into me, into my life, into my problems, because that's who she is. I would reduce her to an accomplice to my mess. How would she live her own life, then? How would she be herself while playing a support act in my dramas? She's better off without me.

Tomorrow morning, I'll wake up alone. I'll drive to my mother. My family will have breakfast together. Everyone will come to the farm for lunch later. We'll have a get together in the evening. Tomorrow, my brother will leave and everything will go back to the gray it was before. More of the same.

Sunday morning, I'll take my mother to church. Korean church. Full of Koreans. For Umma's sake I'll concede to religion, even if I don't believe in it. I'm pretty sure she thinks there's a Korean God out there, sitting on a cloud that only hangs over the heads of the ones like us. Hannah will play with Korean kids, speak Korean and win approval from her elders. Ummas and Halmonis will introduce me to daughters, nieces and granddaughters. They'll ask me when I'll find myself a new wife. They'll repeat my own mother's words and remind me that a man shouldn't raise a girl by himself.

After church, Hannah and I will take Fluffies for a walk in the park. We'll have some ice-cream. We might even go see a movie. Whatever Hannah chooses to do.

Then Monday will come again.

Another night alone.

I'll go to work.

Hannah will go to school.

Repeat.

It's Friday again.

I'm alone again.

Uselessly, I'm missing her again.

***

PEARL

THE INRUSH OF SEROTONIN AND DOPAMINE to my brain offers a welcome reprieve from the dullness of my routine. More than ever, running has been a cathartic exercise for me. The workings of my own body remind me of my strength. My heart is made for the sole purpose of pumping blood through me. Nothing could be simpler.

Heeding Lil's pleas, this morning I abandoned the safe haven of my room to literally run some errands. I dared deviate from my usual path and venture further from home. Out in the streets, the mid-January wintry winds are still punishingly sharp and I'm grateful for the body heat my exercise has produced.

My steps lighten and I gradually slow down to a jogging rhythm just when my surroundings become too familiar. I'm a few blocks from the school. This morning's classes must be half finished around this time. The kids are about to have a break. I can't help wondering who's replacing me or how the kids must be coping with the change. Mostly, I can't keep my thoughts from Hannah.

These days my thoughts bring me nothing but anxiety.

Thinking too much is a poisonous habit I've been feeding these past weeks. As every bad habit, it results in nothing good for me.

Removing my earbuds, as well as any useless pondering from my head, I enter the drugstore. The bell above the door jingles softly, announcing my presence. The old pharmacist's head of cotton white hair appears from behind the counter. The scraggly old man is a sight that robs me of a smile.

"Mr. Rosenberg!" I say, almost nostalgically. "Good morning!"

He breaks into a smile of crooked stained teeth, readily reaching for my prescription pills. I'm only ever here for those or for the occasional satiation of my candy cravings. "Miss Pearl," he greets me joyfully in his croaking aged voice. "Haven't seen your pretty face in a while."

"I've missed you too, Mr. Rosenberg," I joke. Ignoring the pang in my chest at the idea of having to explain the reason for my absence, I hand him my doctor's monthly prescription. There are other drugstores closer to home I could go to, however, this place had always been more convenient due to its proximity to my old job and this old man's inherent joy. Nowadays, coming here just gives me an excuse to run.

"Here you go, Miss Pearl." He hands me the paper bag with my pills and my phone starts vibrating in my pocket just when I'm about to pay him.

"Uh...Excuse me a minute, Mr. Rosenberg," I mumble, absentmindedly. "I'm going to get some chocolate."

Revisiting the brimming candy shelf, I answer the call with a smile at the ready. "Mama?"

"Perlita!"

My mother's voice awakens that part of my heart that's always longing for home. "Mama."

"I've been calling you for days, child. Why aren't you answering my calls?" Her motherly berating huff crosses the entire American continent to reach my ear.

"I lead a very busy life, Mama," I half-joke and wholly lie.

"You're too busy for your mother?"

No. I'm unemployed and drowning in self-pity. "Never. I'm an awful, negligent daughter who loves you immensely and begs for your forgiveness." One never gives reason for a Latin American parent to feel neglected.

"How are you doing?" she asks, more docile now.

"I'm good." I'm a liar. "I miss you. How's Papa?" I strategically change the subject here. No talking about my life.

"Papa misses you, my darling. We're so sorry you couldn't come home for Christmas."

"Me too," I say. The truth? The holidays were a blur. Probably because of how much I was crying. I remember eating a lot, drinking in excess and going back to bed to bawl maniacally. It was very mature of me. Had my mother seen me in that sorry state, she would have flown her ass over here to murder the people responsible for her baby's suffering. "When are you guys flying in? I'm dying to see you."

"Oh, I'm dying to see you, too, baby! We'll be there by Friday morning and listen," she says, barely containing the excitement in her voice. "I'm bringing you a surprise!"

"A surprise?" Oh God. I'm torn between horror and anticipation. My mother's surprises are usually a bit over the top. "What is it?"

"Ai, child. I can't tell you and spoil it!" Her accent shows the same as it does when she's exasperated or angry. "You'll see it when you come to dinner."

"Right. The dinner. What time is that again?"

"Ai, she's forgotten already."

I divide my attention between my phone call and the myriad of colorful candy displayed in front of me. In the end, I choose arbitrarily, grabbing too many. "I haven't, Mom. I already got a dress and everything. I'm only looking for confirmation."