Page 63 of For You, Sir

Einar handed Ho-Sung’s pen back and discretely winked at me. “I’ll get our drinks,” he said. “Hot or iced?”

“Iced,” I said.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked Ho-Sung.

“Already got one.” My brother lifted a cup of coffee he’d already bought.

“Be right back,” Einar said. He hesitated, and for a dread-filled moment, I was sure he was going to kiss me, but then he pulled his phone out of his back pocket and got into the long line at the espresso counter.

“Einar fuckin’ Eriksen,” Ho-Sung marveled to himself. He gave a low whistle. “That’s so fuckin’ rad. You’re living the dream, man.”

I pressed my lips together. It was true, but not for the reasons Ho-Sung was thinking. My heart pounded, and I decided to get the uncomfortable business out of the way while Einar was still waiting in line. “How’s Mom?”

The smile faded from Ho-Sung’s face, and he scratched the side of his cheek, looking uncomfortable. “She’s okay. Officially in remission, now.”

“Oh!” I blinked. “That’s great news.” All those unheard voicemails Ho-Sung had left me, I’d always assumed he was calling with bad news.

Ho-Sung shrugged one shoulder. “She’s still got a hard road ahead. I’m driving her to follow-up chemo appointments and stuff. To make sure it stays gone.”

“You’re a good guy, Ho-Sung,” I said. “Thanks for taking such good care of Mom. I’m sorry for leaving her with you all the time,” I said. “For not visiting more.”

He slumped in his chair, shoved his hands in his pockets, and shrugged. “Eh. We both know you’re busy.”

“I know, but still. I’m sorry.”

Ho-Sung swiped a finger across his nose. “Nah, it’s fine. I mean, I’m living with her for free. I figure taking care of her and the house… it’s like my way of paying rent.”

So he said, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze, and I figured he was just making excuses on my behalf. My brother had always been quicker to forgive and overlook mistakes than I had ever been.

Ho-Sung fidgeted with his hands and bounced his knee up and down like he was craving a cigarette. I guessed neither of us really wanted to talk about Mom.

“If it was just the two of us, I’d say we should go outside and have a smoke,” I said. “But it’d be rude if we left.” I nodded toward Einar on the far side of the room, still waiting for the harried barista to make our drinks.

Ho-Sung raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? I thought you quit.”

“I did,” I admitted. But I knew Ho-Sung always had a pack on him, and some of my fondest memories of connecting with him were of us smoking together—sitting on a curb behind some bushes so our mother wouldn’t see.

“Hey. Speaking of which…” Ho-Sung dug into his pocket and pulled out a plastic copper coin the size of a poker chip and set it on the table in front of me. It had a triangular symbol with a circle in the middle andTO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUEwritten around the border.Oh, crap.Had he joined a cult or something? But then I looked closer and saw8 MONTHS RECOVERYstamped across the bottom.

“You joined AA?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” he said. “Booze-free for eight months last Thursday.”

“Wow.” My mind reeled.

“Still smoking grass like there’s no tomorrow, though,” he laughed. “Whatever gets me through, ya know?”

“But I thought…” My voice strained. “I thought you and Mom were drinking at the hospital.”And that was way less than eight months ago.

He shook his head, and his mouth twisted to one side. “Naw, I mean…I’mnot drinking, but she still made me bring some for her.”

“Oh.” Now that I thought of it, he’d only smelled like cannabis at the time.

“I know you’re pissed about it,” he said sheepishly. “And you’re right. She shouldn’t be drinking that shit. But what am I supposed to do? I still live at home. Gotta keep the peace somehow.” He crossed his arms and sighed. “I try to nudge her to sober up, but it just pisses her off. She says she’s got nothing to live for, and I’m making what’s left of her life miserable or whatever. Then I finally cave.”

Ugh. Sounds familiar.

I picked up the sobriety coin and turned it over in my hand. Dad had tried Alcoholics Anonymous a few times. When I was a kid, each time I prayed fervently that he’d never touch alcohol again. Invariably, my father would be drunk again within a week, and I’d feel impotently furious at both him and God for getting my hopes up.

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