Page 11 of The Love of My Afterlife
“Get a grip, Delphie,” I say out loud. “It was just a weird dream.”
After climbing out of the shower, I pad about from room to room feeling desperately uneasy. My flat feels too hot and too small. The sun is still too bright for 8:00 p.m. I stare at the spot on my new striped rug where I collapsed. Where I’m certain the air left my lungs. God, it felt so real.
Inspecting the fridge, I spot the offending burger. It’s unopened. I quickly grab it and dump it straight into the trash.
Then, at a loss for what else to do and with absolutely no-one to talk to about this strange occurrence, I switch the TV back onto Netflix and turn onThe Tinder Swindler, picking right up where I left off.
6
After slipping into the flat of a sleeping Mr. Yoon to make sure his cigarettes are stubbed out and his oven is turned off, I climb into bed. It takes me ages to get to sleep on account of my brand-new fear of having horrifyingly vivid dreams featuring pushy dungareed women. But eventually I drift off.
When my alarm blares in the morning, the whole thing is still right at the front of my thoughts. I kick off my summer quilt, and Jonah’s face flashes brightly into my mind. I recall the exact shade of his irises: cobalt blue, speckled with shiny touches of hazelnut brown. But more than that, the absolute warmth of them. The kindness. How calm I felt when they were on me.
I sit up, sigh, and briefly wonder if I have a brain tumour. InGrey’s AnatomyIzzie started a full sexual affair with a hallucination. Is that what’s happening to me? Or have I seen some hot guy in a movie at some point, and his face has somehow imprinted into my subconscious?
“My god,” I mutter as I remember that whole video Merritt played. Those memories were crystalline clear: The Sweethearts’ mocking laughs. Me sitting alone on my sofa watchingTV on an endless loop. Mum, before Gerard and the artist’s commune.
My heart lurches and I pull out my phone.
Hey Mum! How’s it going? Do you have time for a call later today or tomorrow? Would be nice to catch up.
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, openingmy 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 thebest 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 theyshouldbe 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 inhalf. On the front was a little pencil drawing of a birthday cake. Inside, in neat handwriting, it readHappy 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.
I pour us each a glass of orange juice from the open carton on the table and spoon some of my eggs onto his plate. “I don’t know about you, Mr. Yoon, but I had the most crackpot dream last night,” I say, taking a bite of my bagel. “I dreamed I died and ended up in some afterlife place that looked like a launderette. Oh, and there was this totally over-the-top woman there. She was supposed to be a therapist of some sort, but she was shit at it.”
Mr. Yoon takes a sip of his coffee, making a small sigh of pleasure. It took me months to elicit this from him. The first few weeks I made it, he scowled upon tasting it. I soon realised,via trial and error, that he liked his coffee strong, the beans freshly ground and with almond milk. The whole thing was like a science experiment. I even kept a little notebook with scores out of ten based on his reactions upon tasting.
“And there was this guy,” I continue. At this Mr. Yoon looks directly at me. He raises his eyebrows as if to say,Oh really? I laugh. “Yeah. A very handsome guy with a stellar set of teeth. His name is—was—Jonah. And he waslovely. Just sweet and kind.” I put down my knife and fork. “And now I miss him, lunatic that I am. So stupid, right? Missing a stranger from a dream…” I laugh darkly. “It was nice, though. For a moment. To feel that way. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I had it in me.”
Mr. Yoon carries on chewing, eyes back down on his plate.
“I should probably get one of those ‘what your dreams mean’ books…” I muse, taking a sip of my own coffee. “Although I doubt they’d have a chapter on ‘Waking Up Dead in a Launderette and Meeting a Beautiful Man.’ ”
