Mo-Sae and his grandson kneel beside the deep end of the pool. They lean over the water, which moves in dangerous fascination with sunlight. The boy has brought with him a can of coins. He drops a few into the water and watches them sink. As Mo-Sae takes in the boy—his absorbed, attentive attitude—he thinks it will be a pleasure to watch him grow. To teach him to swim or ride a bike; to eat spicy foods; to pour an older man’s soju with both hands. For a moment he truly believes that he, Mo-Sae, will do this. That he will be permitted such responsibilities.
He does not stop the boy from tipping the entire can of coins into the pool, wondering himself what interesting consequence might result. It is only afterward, as he and the boy look down on the sunken heap, that he realizes that he has misjudged. He grows aware of the music of an ice cream truck, which had been making its rounds, and realizes that the simple act of buying a child ice cream has become absurdly complicated. The boy himself seems to realize this, setting off a howling show of disappointment. The sound puts Mo-Sae on high alert. He feels that if he cannot get that noise, that resistance, that blame to stop, he is in danger of losing all sense of judgment. He tries to seize the boy by the arm but the boy takes off, running through the parking lot, into the lobby. Mo-Sae spots him just as he enters the elevator, reaches him just as the doors slide shut on them.
Now that they are in that enclosed space, the boy cannot run. In frustration, he jabs at all the black numbered buttons on the panel, as high as he can reach, and turns to Mo-Sae in defiance. Whatever motion he has set off, Mo-Sae is powerless to stop it. He feels something engage, deep inside the elevator shaft, and the gears begin to shift. The elevator car begins to rise, but only for a moment. On the second floor, it stops. Its doors open and then close. On the next floor, it stops again. Open, close. The doors keep opening and closing on identical hallways, and Mo-Sae realizes that he has no idea which is his own. Still, he begins to find his panic subsiding. His breathing slows. This small space is manageable. Its lighting is plain, its corners exposed. The boy also becomes quiet.
On the fifth floor, the doors open onto a scene with a difference. An elderly man with a cane is waiting to enter, so Mo-Sae and the boy exit the elevator car. Glancing down the hall, Mo-Sae notices that a certain door has been left ajar. Could it be their own? Had they left it open? No matter. They will find out soon enough. They head toward the open door. Walking through it, they see themselves reflected in the entryway mirror. They see paired shoes lined up neatly on the floor. That is when Mo-Sae realizes that by happenstance or miracle, he has gotten home.
Time passes. The sun goes down.
Mo-Sae feels in himself a lengthening of the patience and waiting with which he occupies his days. He moves about the house, looking for helpful things to do. The fact that Young-Ja is not home does not particularly trouble him at the moment. He clears the kitchen table, wipes it down. Shit, he says softly to himself as he waters the plants. Goddamn. The phone rings from time to time. He lets it.
In the living room, he sees Jonathan, remembers Jonathan. The boy is asleep on the living room sofa. His open mouth, his sticky grasp. Mo-Sae brings a large towel from the bathroom and lays it over the boy, to make his sleep seem more intentional.
A knock on the door.
Opening it, Mo-Sae is momentarily surprised to find a dusky stranger in doctor’s scrubs. But of course, it is the son-in-law. The son-in-law is apparently Indian. Mo-Sae suddenly feels a sharp sympathy for his wife: how she must struggle with this!
“Mr. Han? It’s Sanjay? May I come in?”
Sanjay’s manner is pleasant, suggestive. Crossing the threshold, he knows to remove his shoes. “Christina sent me over. She went straight to the hospital. She says you weren’t answering the phone.”
Hospital?
Mo-Sae isn’t sure what to do with that information. It brings something deeply unwelcome to his sense of well-being, shows it as precarious. But he is also afraid, perhaps more afraid, to expose his confusion before a young man.
Sanjay moves deeper into the house. In the living room, he notices Jonathan lying on the sofa, lightly sweating under a towel. “Oh,” he says. His face, beside the boy’s face, suddenly seems inevitable. “He’s sleeping.”
Yes, sleeping.
The two stand over the boy, not knowing how to progress from there. Young-Ja would know. Mo-Sae wonders why she is not around.
Sanjay’s cellphone vibrates in his pocket. He walks to the far side of the room and takes the call with his back turned. Mo-Sae watches and listens, newly aware of Sanjay’s scrubs, the authority of his uniform, which seems bound up in the mysteries of his one-sided communication.
“Christina? I’m here. How’s she doing?
“So what’s the whole story? They found her where? In front of which bank?
“How is it possible that nobody knew?
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.
“Who’s the attending? Maybe I’ll give him a ring…
“Jonathan? He’s fine.
“I said he’s fine. He’s sleeping.
“You want me to stay with him? With them?
“Well, what do you want me to tell him?”
Sanjay hangs up and looks toward Mo-Sae. He puts on a professional, chummy guise, telling Mo-Sae not to worry, that Young-Ja is in good hands, that the attending physician is a buddy of his. But Mo-Sae senses something false in his execution. When Sanjay falls silent, it is a relief for both men.
Only, moments later, he is at it again. It seems this son-in-law of his can’t keep still, can’t keep quiet. He consults his phone. He looks around. “I see you grow spider plants!” Sanjay says, suddenly delighted. “Oh, and begonias! Christmas cactus!” He seems profoundly relieved to have stumbled on certain matters of fact.
You like plants?
“Just a hobby of mine,” says Sanjay, walking toward a plant with flat, sword-shaped leaves. “The scientific name of this one,” he tells Mo-Sae, “is ‘Mother-in-Law’s Tongue.’”
Mo-Sae notices that Sanjay has lost all his discomfort and resumed his jokey doctor act. Perhaps this is part of Sanjay’s bag of tricks, to deliver bad news after his patients feel at ease. He watches Sanjay probe the soil in the pot with two diagnostic fingers. “Just don’t over-water,” Sanjay says. “Some plants thrive on neglect.”
Once again, silence. There is a waiting quality to the silence.
Then it occurs to Mo-Sae that Sanjay might be waiting for him to provide the next direction. That he, Mo-Sae, occupies a certain position as the father-in-law. That he has a certain power of permission and refusal.
Go, says Mo-Sae.
“I’m sorry?”
You can go. Then come back. Just leave the boy. Let him sleep. I will keep watch.
“Oh, no,” says Sanjay immediately. “Christina said I should stay.”
But moments later, he relents. “Maybe I’ll just run out and grab a bite? I noticed a Carl’s Jr. on the way over. Haven’t eaten since breakfast. In and out of surgeries all day.”
Still, he wavers.
What, he doesn’t trust Mo-Sae with the boy?
“Is okay,” he says to Sanjay. “Go.”
After Sanjay leaves, Mo-Sae goes out onto the balcony, bringing with him pieces of the mystery that he couldn’t put together in his presence. Why was Sanjay here? What is the meaning of that phone conversation?