Free A Quiet Neighbor by Harper Kim Page A

Kang:
    3:00 P.M.
     
    I arrive at the hospital with a potted Chinese
lantern plant hoping to brighten Gramps’ room. Walking into the bland, sterile
room always irks me. The sour smells and drab appliances are unsettling. The
fake wood veneer of the furniture adds not warmth, but hopelessness to the
room.
    The bed is positioned near the room’s only
window, which would be auspicious if not for the rumpled plastic blinds that
always seem to be drawn tight. A lacquered side table stands to the left of the
bed, where my grandmother’s ( Halmoni’s ) picture is framed and kept
beside Gramps’ head.
    The lumpy green-vinyl chair where I spend many
sleepless nights is tucked into the far corner of the room; again the orderlies
have moved it away from the bedside position where I prefer it.
    In the space separating Gramps and his roommate
is an old television, a round white clock (running a few minutes slow), and a
single laminate shelf that holds a growing collection of all the cards I’ve
left for him throughout the years.
    No fragrant bouquets of freshly cut flowers
grace the room. No music, just the repetitive beeps from the obtrusive monitors
that hover around both guests like overprotective parents.
    I place the plant on the side table—turning the
pot until its best side faces Gramps—and toss my bag onto the green chair in
the corner. Quickly, I size up the room, noting the blue dividing curtain drawn
tight, hindering passersby from gawking through the doorway and offering some
semblance of privacy.
    Gramps’ neighbor must be having one of his bad
spells again. Unlike Gramps, the guy is reminded every second that he is dying.
A nurse once informed me that the guy was terminally ill. Lying in bed with a
pain so great that it rips through his body while the cancer eats away at his
internal organs. He is being constantly poked and prodded, infused with dose
after dose of morphine to ease the pain. I can’t recall a time when the curtain
wasn’t pulled closed.
    Although I wish I could hear Gramps’ deep
baritone voice again, I’m glad he’s not aware of his surroundings. At least he
is shielded from feeling any pain, of knowing what has become of him, of seeing
what he no longer is. Some, I know, aren’t so lucky.
    I fiddle with the position of the plant once
more and then pull the drab uncomfortable chair from the corner. Before sitting
down I open the window. Light streams in, and the cool breeze kisses my clammy
face. The stagnant air in the hospital room always makes my head feel heavy and
dull.
    From this vantage point, I can see Grossmont
Center to the left and 24-Hour Fitness straight ahead. Summer is here and
people are desperately trying to get beach-bod ready. A group of women wearing
spandex shorts and colorful sport tanks stride cockily out of the building,
holding half empty water bottles and rolled up yoga mats. Their glowing faces
are dewy with sweat and masked in waterproof makeup.
    Whenever I get the luxury of spending an hour
working on my glutes and abs, I sure don’t fuss around in skimpy tights and
plastered makeup. What is it with these women? Oh yeah, I almost forgot about
the gym’s two-way mirror—the viewing station—that separates the classroom from
the weight room. Guys line the window as they pump their biceps with the
largest dumbbells they can handle, thinking they’ll be able to kill two birds
with one stone: revel in their own masculinity while also taking in the visual
feast of downward dog on the other side. Without my binoculars to confirm, I
bet those women aren’t wearing their wedding rings.
    Pulling my eyes away from the window, I cross
to Gramps’ left side and kiss his sunken cheek. The hard-cop demeanor I
perfected at the Academy cracks when I look at his peaceful face.
    As a rookie homicide detective for the San
Diego Police Department, I have already witnessed my share of sadness and
despair: victims mangled and abused, bodies tattered and splattered