Free A Quiet Neighbor by Harper Kim Page B

beyond
recognition, and families of the deceased unable to string together coherent
sentences. Give me the aftermath of horror any day; that, I can handle. But,
the slow, desperate suffering I observe in the hospital is different. My vics are
dead and gone by the time I meet them, murdered by someone that can be tracked
and caught. Black-and-white, cause-and-effect. The logic and order of my job
allows me to compartmentalize the startling brutality.
    Here in the hospital, the patients suffer in
plain sight from intangible ailments that commit their crimes—slowly,
sadistically—with impunity. There is no perpetrator to lock up, no one to pay
retribution for each death. This grayness defies my sense of order and affects
me more deeply than the case files piling on my desk.
    The simple fact of the matter is this: the
hospital makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know how to act among the dying. I’d
rather work among the dead.
    After three years, my visits have become short
and dutiful. With my busy schedule and discomfort around hospital smells, sounds,
and sights, I can only handle a few minutes a day. The longer Gramps is in the
hospital, the harder it is to make the time to visit. It isn’t like Gramps is
awake and aware of my presence anyway; at least I hope not.
    No longer is there anyone to judge or
criticize. No longer is there anyone to confide in and weep with.
    My hand drifts aimlessly to clutch the lotus
pendant that hangs dutifully from my neck like a protective shield. A simple
symbol—in Buddhism, the lotus flower represents fortune, purity, enlightenment,
and faith—the pendant is the only object left tying me to my beloved Halmoni .
Every time I need guidance, reassurance, or a belief to keep me grounded and
safe, I find myself touching the pendant, and with it, I feel Halmoni’s warm presence.
    Unlike my mother, Halmoni was a strong
and loving woman who loved deeply and cared for and protected her own above all
else. She showed her pride in an unspoken way that fostered respect and
admiration.
    Shaking myself out of the debilitating
memories, I take a few minutes to fluff Gramps’ pillow, comb his scraggily
white hair, and straighten his blanket. I again think of the pile of work
sitting on my desk, illuminated by the lamp I probably forgot to turn off. The
curved, brass desk lamp I received from Halmoni . The one that used to
sit on Gramps’ desk at home, the house I’ll always think of as home.
    I think of Gramps—leaned back in his beat-brown
reclining chair, with his reading glasses on, taking in the newspaper by the
light of that lamp—and smile.
    Looking at him now, face ashen against the
harsh light of the fluorescent bulbs, my heart aches for the man he once was,
the hero, the man Halmoni knew and grew to love. Forcing back a tear, I
sit still and hold his limp, spotted hand, remembering the man I also grew to
admire and love.
    It was because of the Korean War that they met. Halmoni and Gramps always told me the story like it was some sort of
sordid fairytale.
     
    The summer heat was stifling. Thick humidity conjured
the angry mosquitoes in droves, attacking flesh as Picasso attacked a naked
canvas, with fervor. The small country town of Pusan was clamoring with life.
Women were busy outside tending to chores: washing laundry out on wooden
platforms, kneeling and hunched, most with a child strapped to their bent back,
making kimchi , bean paste, or washing vegetables in various plastic tubs
and clay pots, and all while keeping their many kids in line. The men were out
to work, some away serving their time with the Republic of Korea (ROK) army,
and others drowning their sorrows and stress in rice wine at the many street
markets that spotted the town. The children were either clinging to their
mothers at home or dutifully attending class, donned in their starched black
and white uniforms and bluntly chopped black hair, each looking exactly like
the other down to their knee-high socks and