Lifeguard Jeon

° T W E N T Y - O N E °

Around ten that night appa calls. I'm on the window seat of my great ocean liner staring out at the moon over the dark ocean. The ring startles me.

He sounds so alone. He's not used to being on his own or cooking himself dinner. I remember his microwave meals, frozen on the inside, the nights Eomma had to go somewhere and he was in charge.

I also remember other things now, things that I tried to forget. The phone calls I heard, but weren't supposed to when I walked into his study without warning. The way his voice changed in a heartbeat, from low and intimate to cool and businesslike.

From wrong to right.

I block that thought from my head.

He's staying at a friend's apartment for a while. He went out for chicken and a beer or three, I'm guessing. He calls because it's his time to call. Okay, not fair, but they switch off. On even days Eomma calls. Odd days, appa. That way neither of them can blame the other for forgetting.

Appa isn't great on the phone. To him it's just a tool to give information or get it. He doesn't know how to fill up the conversation.

"So how's my girl?"

"Good."

"How's Irene treating you?"

"Good."

There's an uncomfortable pause and I try to continue.

"How's work?"

"Same old, same old."

Appa's a contractor and he spends 6 days a week fixing people's homes and, as he says, "making their dreams come true." That means remodeling big kitchens with islands and backyards with pools. I think he's happier with a hammer, nails, and tools than with people. He knows what to expect with tools. If they're treated the way they should be, there aren't too many surprises. Even if he had problems though, he wouldn't say. He'd think, what was the point? Practical.

"So what did you do today?"

I tell him about practicing swimming and how I'm getting better at it, and about volunteering at the hospital. Also about Yoongi. "He's eighty years old and eighty years smart."

"So then I have nothing to worry about," he says, a smile in his voice.

If he only knew.

° ° ° ° °

I wake closer to lunch than breakfast. The sweet scent of pancakes wafts through the air. On the kitchen stove there's a black iron cupcake tin filled with golden popovers with batter. Would Irene have baked them even if I weren't here? I decide she would. She does things like that. Baking bread and cakes, making homemade jelly, even making pickles out of cucumbers which I didn't you can make yourself. For her it's probably fun because she doesn't have to do it. No one comes home mad expecting dinner on the table.

"They're not hot anymore," Irene says. She watches me stumble to the table. "You must have been tired."

I eat three popovers with strawberry jelly and drink a glass of milk, studying the carton of milk. It's green and yellow with little cows in a field.

The kitchen is bright with sun. I notice for the first time that the green painted chairs around the table match the grass outside. I also notice a slant to the floor. It's an old house, maybe that's why. Outside, the seagulls fly above the beach. They sound excited t be alive and have the entire sky to themselves.

Everything is right about this new day. It feels like a new season, a fresh beginning. I look at the clock. He's been on duty for three hours. Is he thinking about me? Remembering? I can't get him out of my head. The feel of my arms around his waist. His warm skin against mine. His sweet smell. His nearness. I'm drunk with him and I don't want to get sober.