The Love of My Afterlife(12)
I scroll up through the last few messages she sent me, photos of big abstract paintings she’s been working on, which, by all accounts, are set to sell out before they’re even shown publicly. I studiously ignore my own stack of unused oil paints and head to the bathroom, where I create my usual hairstyle of two side braids pinned up tightly across the top of my head. Then I get dressed into my work uniform of black trousers and white short-sleeved shirt. Merritt! Ha! I snort. How the hell did my brain come up with that name? I’ve never even heard it before. So weird. Maybe I should see Dr. Lane, get my fluoxetine dosage increased. I make a note to call her, but then remember how much she was pushing for me to start talk therapy. I’ll call another time.
My phone buzzes with Mum’s reply.
Darling! Today/tomorrow is manic. We have a New York art curator staying at the commune and I’m doing the welcome dinner party. Isn’t that exciting? Glad to hear you’re doing well. Gerard sends his love.
Rolling my eyes, I pluck the box of Blackwing pencils off my side table, a pack of bagels from the bread bin and, opening my fridge, grab a carton of eggs, a slab of butter, and a packet of smoked salmon. I leave my flat and knock on Mr. Yoon’s door.
* * *
Mr. Yoon and I have an understanding. I always give him a chance to answer the door before I use the keys I had cut. He rarely does, but I don’t want to burst in and see something that could forever change the simple, relaxed nature of our relationship.
After two minutes of knocking with no response, I unlock the door and head in.
Mr. Yoon’s apartment is twice the size of mine, and while both have the same nice high ceilings, his has a huge bay window and a little balcony overlooking the shops on our street. The August sun streams into the large living room, and I notice with a slump that the house has fallen into disarray again. The dishes are washed, precariously stacked on top of Mr. Yoon’s favourite tea towel—something red, covered with little musical notes—but the kitchen tops are mucky, and the sun illuminates a haze of stagnant dust in the air. This wouldn’t be such a big deal if Mr. Yoon weren’t usually fastidious about keeping his house immaculate. I’ve caught him looking spacey recently, forgetting things, not combing his hair or cleaning up the way he used to do. I make a mental note to call his GP. It’s probably normal for an eighty-something to get a little scatterbrained from time to time, but it’s probably best to double-check.
“Hello, hello, Mr. Yoon.” I grin, approaching my neighbour as he sits at his circular table by the window, smoking a cigarette and puzzling over one of the crossword books he’s obsessed with. I plonk the box of pencils at his side. “Only the best for you.” He gives me a small smile and a distracted wave before returning to his puzzle book.
Mr. Yoon is nonverbal. He’s recently started to write little notes to me every so often—which is how I learned he had a vocal cord injury as a baby and has never spoken—but mostly we just sit together in silence. I think this is largely one of the reasons I like hanging out with him so much. That and the fact that he’s not fake. He doesn’t pretend to like me or dislike me. The problem with so many people you encounter in life is that they’re being the version of themselves they think they should be rather than the person they actually are. Which is almost always judgy and superior and—if it serves them—willing to break your heart without a second thought. If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that people are mostly shit. Not Mr. Yoon, though. He’s good and true, not an ulterior motive to be seen.
It’s funny. I remember being scared of him as a child. The grumpy-faced silent man who was forever gesturing with finger over lips that I should hush if I was being too loud in the hallways with Gen. Mum always said he was just a lonely old man who wanted to be left alone, so I never tried to interact with him. And then, a couple of years ago, it was my birthday. Mum had forgotten to call, so in a burst of self-pity, I went to the nearest bakery and bought myself a whole cake. I bumped into Mr. Yoon in the hallway. He looked at me, down to the cake, and then back up to me.
“It’s my birthday and I’m eating all of it,” I’d muttered, pushing into my flat with a sigh. About an hour later, an envelope slid under my door, skidding across the floorboards with speed. I opened it to find a piece of thick A4 paper folded in half. On the front was a little pencil drawing of a birthday cake. Inside, in neat handwriting, it read Happy birthday to you, Delphie. From Mr. Yoon. I pressed it to my nose for some reason, immediately sneezing at the scent of cigarette ash. Now I keep it carefully tucked inside my folder of important documents, alongside my tax forms and degree certificate. It was the only birthday card I’d gotten that year.
Heading to the open-plan kitchen, I prepare a pot of coffee in Mr. Yoon’s old copper cafetière. Then I grab a mixing bowl and crack the eggs into it, whisking them up with sea salt, pepper and a pinch of chilli flakes before adding them to a hot pan and stirring as quickly as I can. I lightly toast and butter two bagels, top them with the eggs, and add the smoked salmon to the plates. I set our plates down on the table with a flourish.
“Order up!”
Mr. Yoon closes his puzzle book and hungrily tucks into the food. He seems ravenous. Did he forget to eat last night? I notice his wrists are looking bonier, his old silver watch looser than usual.