Chapter 3 Look at Me
I SPENT MOST of Friday reading Pride and Prejudice .
It’s my third time reading it—what can I say, I’m a cliché when it comes to Jane Austen.
The pages are tearing at some corners because it’s an old book—it was a library book before it was donated to a big book warehouse sale.
Mom used to hunt those down to take me; we could get so many books for just a few bucks.
It was one of our things. I loved those days; even in the heat of summer when those warehouses were too hot, I was happy.
In a way, all the old books around my room carry a story, a memory of a happy day with my mother in a random warehouse.
She’s here with me, in these books, in these walls. I’m safe here, and only here.
“Time to eat!” Kamila yells from the hallway, and I sigh before heading out of my room.
The clinking of silverware echoes through the dining room as I sit at the table with Kamila and Andy.
I force myself to eat. I’m not hungry, but I know I still need to put on weight and, based on the way my sister is looking at me, she’s not going to let me skip a meal.
I glance at the clock and I start eating faster; it’s almost time for my show.
Andy notices my anxiety. “You still have twenty minutes before it starts, don’t worry.”
My sister takes a sip of juice. “I’m glad you found that show you like so much, but have you thought about looking for other things you might like to do as well?”
Andy shoots her a disapproving look, and she lobs one right back at him. “What? I don’t want her focusing on just one thing when there are so many other activities out there that I know she’d enjoy. Have you thought at all about getting back into painting again?”
I grip the spoon. I’ve completely lost my appetite. “No.”
Kamila gives me a sad look. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, K, I just want the best for you. Painting could aid your progress; it could be a very positive thing for you.”
Painting used to be my passion, way before literature and TV dramas.
My biggest dream was to open my own gallery and exhibit my art, the product of everything I imagined when I was alone with my brushes.
The smell of paint was the smell of home to me, my safe place.
But, after everything that happened, it’s now just a reminder of everything I will never be.
“I’m never going to paint again. I’ve already told you that.” I stand up and fake a smile. “It’s time for my show. I’ll be in my room.”
Outside in the hallway, where I’m sure they can’t see me, I stand with my back against the wall. I can hear them talking about what just happened.
Andy starts out: “Very subtle, Kamila. You know you can’t talk to her like that during dinner; it ruins her appetite.”
“It’s for her own good, babe, and you know it. She needs to branch out and find other interests. If she focuses all her energy on a single thing, and for some reason it falls through, where will she be then? She could experience a major setback.”
“And how is a radio show going to fall through?”
“My God, Andy, so many things could happen to that show… The host is just a college kid. What’s gonna happen when he graduates? How do you think K is going to take that?”
I feel a tightness in my chest. She’s right. Why haven’t I thought of that?
“You seem to have given it a lot of thought.”
“My little sister, who’s going through a really rough time, has only one thing she likes. But there’s so much more to life than a radio show.”
“You’re incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment,” Andy says. “Just let her enjoy her show. If it ends, we’ll deal with it.”
I go into my room with my sister’s words still echoing in my head: What’s gonna happen when he graduates?
Slouching, I pick up my phone. Last night I followed the show on Instagram, but I didn’t have the nerve to look at any of the posts.
Now, after hearing my sister, I’m feeling bolder.
My heart beats desperately in my chest as I scroll through a bunch of photos of the radio station: the microphone, the red “On Air” light, a set of headphones.
There are pictures of gifts from the show’s listeners, including drawings and knickknacks, even food sent for the entire staff. But there are no pictures of Kang.
I’m about to give up when I come to a group shot of the entire team dressed up for Halloween.
No one is tagged, but the bottom of the picture lists everyone’s names from left to right.
I scan them until I find Kang. He’s a little taller than everyone else, and he’s wearing a creepy clown mask that covers his entire face.
My heart continues to beat faster than normal, and it scares me a little bit. I’m surprised at the relief I feel over not being able to put a face to the voice I listen to every day. I know that, once I see him, I’m going to want to talk to him, but I know I won’t be able to do it.
I put my headphones on and sit down beside the bed as I look at one of the pictures on my nightstand: my mom and me, both wearing huge smiles, at a carnival a few years ago, the lit-up Ferris wheel behind us. Neither one of us was perfect, but that moment was.
I remember how hard it was to convince her to purchase the picture once the photographer told us the price.
She’d never been a big spender, always scrimping and saving, so cautious and careful.
Her efforts paid off when it came time to send Kamila to college; Mom had more than enough, and was even able to start her own bakery business. She made the best cakes in the world.
As if Kang can read my mind, the topic tonight is the loss of a loved one.
“It’s very hard to deal with the loss of someone we love.
Each person experiences it differently. It’s harder for some of us than for others.
Unfortunately, that’s the way life goes.
Sooner or later, we will all face a loss of this kind, and all we can do is take a deep breath and keep moving forward in a way we think honors that person. ”
It’s been a while since I’ve cried, but I now feel the tears building up behind my eyes. I take the picture of my mother in my hands and run my thumb over her bright smile.
“I don’t want to minimize what you feel when I say you have to move on.
We are human beings, it’s normal to feel pain, sadness…
It’s normal to cry. Let yourselves feel all of your emotions but keep moving forward, always at your own pace; there’s no correct or incorrect amount of time when we’re talking about grieving the death of someone we love.
And know that you can always carry that person in your heart the rest of your lives. ”
Kang seems to understand everything so perfectly; has he been through something like this? Tears stream freely down my face as he continues speaking. “The next song is very special to me, so please listen with me as we honor those who are no longer with us.”
Why?
I’d like to ask, to bring you back,
look into your eyes and ask: Why?
I don’t understand, maybe that’s why I can’t let you go.
Tell me, answer me, why? Why did it have to be this way?
At the top of my lungs, I shout over and over. Over and over.
Why? Why, if I love you so?
Why, if I gave you my all?
My love can’t be the air you breathe.
I’ll breathe for you, if need be.
I’ll dream for you on sleepless nights,
I’ll go up against any enemy.
I rip off my headphones. I can’t listen anymore; it hurts too much. I throw myself onto the bed, burrow under the covers, and cry inconsolably into my pillow. It’s the first time I haven’t listened to Kang’s show all the way to the end. The first time that I don’t want to hear him.