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“Maybe,” said Erica. “The things she yelled at me about weren’t always regarding my safety. When I was in middle school, I wanted to be in student government. I thought, what better way to acclimate to my new country. She yelled at me for an hour over that.
“Then, in high school, I was taking a political science class, and she made me change it. I was forced to take world geography.”
“I’ll bet she was worried that your father would know and maybe become frightened by your knowledge,” he said, trying to console her. She shook her head.
“I don’t know, Moose. You know how when you’re in the middle of something, and you can’t see everything clearly, then when you step away for a while, a day or week, it’s suddenly crystal clear?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, like my music. I’d stepped away from it, other than the PhD final. When that was done, I didn’t want to look at music for a while. I couldn’t figure out why, so I stepped back from it. I thought I might never play again, then I met you, and suddenly, my head was filled with music and notes and all things cello.” She laughed.
“I understand that. Sometimes, on an op, we’d have to stop and reassess. We used to say go slow to go fast.”
“That’s what I mean. Since I’ve been here, I’ve been able to go slow to go fast. I’ve been able to stop and see things a little clearer. I used to think my mother was protecting me from my father, but why was she having regular conversations with him? I mean, she could have changed her name, gone anywhere, but she didn’t. Why?”
“I’m not sure, honey. Maybe she was doing as her father asked, not your father.”
“Maybe,” she whispered. “I guess I’ll never know the truth. My grandfather is dead, likely killed by my father. My father is dead. My mother is dead, killed by my father. That doesn’t bode well for me.”
“You are not them,” said Moose.
“What were your parents like?” she asked.
“My mom was amazing,” he smiled. “She died when I was in middle school, but she was incredible. She was the mom that made all the homemade treats, stitched the curtains from scraps of cloth, the house always smelled clean and fresh, and she was there for everything of mine.”
“She sounds wonderful,” smiled Erica.
“She was the best. My dad never remarried. He always said there was only one Marjorie, and she was his.”
“What about him? What was he like?”
“He could fix anything with a motor. But his specialty was sports cars, you know, old-fashioned muscle cars. I’d come home from school and help him at the shop, just handing him tools. At first, I thought it was stupid. I mean, I wasn’t really doing anything. Then I realized I was. He was teaching me about the tools, and I was learning. Pretty soon, I was able to do some of the smaller jobs.”
“You didn’t want to follow in his footsteps?”
“I did, in a way. He’d been in the Army when he met my mom. I just decided Navy was right for me. He helped me to understand that I was a good guy, which often made me the guy taken advantage of by girls. You know, do my homework, help me lift all this, that kind of stuff.”
“I never did that,” she said, shaking her head. “My mother wouldn’t allow me to spend time with boys at all. Not even in high school. I went on a few dates in college, but not many. I was always worried that she’d find out.”
“You don’t think she’d approve of me?” he frowned.
“I hate to say this, but no. She would never approve of a man who’d been in the military, and she definitely wouldn’t approve of someone as large as you. She had a thing about that.”
“Well, she’d had have a damn hard time keeping me from you,” he said, kissing her again. “What do you say we take a nice warm bubble bath, listen to more of this music, and turn in early?”
“I think that sounds like a perfect evening. You check on Jennifer, and I’ll start the water. Don’t be long,” she smirked. “I’m feeling frisky.” He watched her disappear down the hallway and shook his head.
“Damn. She’s gonna kill me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
U-Jin Shook looked in the magnifying mirror attached to the bathroom wall; his back turned to the larger bathroom mirror of his hotel room. He was trying to find the small scar left by the doctors when he was implanted with the device. He knew what had happened to Keoyong, and he wasn’t about to let it happen to him.
Finding the thin scar, he ran the electric razor on the back of his head, shaving himself from temple to temple, all the way down to his neck. It was a fashionable look, but his desire was for practicality.
Taking the scalpel in his hand, he maneuvered the mirror to allow for a clear view of the old scar. He bit down on the hand towel then made the initial cut. The next would be more difficult. He’d have to go through several layers of flesh to get to what he needed. Keeping the bleeding under control would be his challenge.
He wiped the dripping crimson streak, pushing back on the bathroom counter. He was sweating profusely from the pain, but he couldn’t stop now. He felt the nerves and the muscles and held in the urge to vomit. Wiping the blood once more, he saw the shiny silver object. Unable to get a grip with his slick, bloodied fingers, he grabbed the tweezers, wrestling with his hold. Finally able to grasp it, he pulled as hard as he could, yanking the device from his body.
