"How was the hospital?"

I look up from reading. "Oh . . . okay."

"What did you do?"

"They showed me the pediatrics floor and I went to the library and picked out books to read."

Irene waits, expecting more. She gives up. "So when do you go back?"

"Tomorrow, I guess, in the morning."

"I have an appointment, otherwise I'd drop you, but you can take one of the bikes in the garage. It's a quick ride."

I like the idea of getting around by myself. I nod and go back to the book. The plot has everything set out for them.

And me? One more of college, then a small-time job, and I'm not sure how far away to go. I can't help thinking now of camp visiting day when my parents came up together. What would happen how? Would it feel awkward and depressing for them to visit me after college together when they're weren't a couple anymore?

I read a book about a girl with divorced parents who grew up in the 50s. It said she came from "a broken home."

Now that's me.

Broken home, broken life, broken spirit. Like the children's song, my heard starts to sing.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

couldn't put Suzy together again.

Irene looks over at me. I pretend not to see. She shakes her head, finishes drying the dishes, wipes her hands on the towel and goes into her office. I go upstairs carrying milk and two donuts, the unhappy girl's default snack. I take out my pale pink stationary box so I can write to Sulli. I bought it two years ago just before camp. I remember standing at the stationary store trying to decide which I liked better, the paper with the red hearts or the one with pink ribbons, as if things like that truly mattered in the world.

Now for the first time in six years, only Sulli is away for the summer. "I'm in a great bunk," she said in her first letter. "And guess what? I already have a part in the camp play."

YES!

She's obviously fine without me. She's a CIT and it's her last year unless she goes back as a counselor. We thought we'd be together, that we'd end our six-year tradition at the banquet at the end of August with plastic glasses of "champagne." I had a fake ID and we even talked about sneaking into town for a six-pack - something real to toast with.

I make a lame effort to sound happy.

Hey bestie, camp sounds so cool - and wow, being an CIT - OMG, congrats!
Things here are close to comatose. Let's see. No socials, but there's a fairly hot - no, take that out - God-like lifeguard at the city's beach. Only don't get excited, he's already taken, and anyway, even if he wasn't, he's so high on himself and uninterested in me - long story: I save it. Otherwise . . . I started volunteering at the local hospital.

I put the pen down. Should I tell her about today? As soon as I start writing, everything I wanted to forget pours out.

I was in the hospital - my first day, Sulli - and, while I was there, just on my way downstairs to get a soda, a man holding a small boy in his arms rushed through the doors. His clothes were soaked with blood - it looked like he was shot. Then I saw the boy's head. He couldn't have been more than six or seven. Black curls hung off the side of his face - encrusted with blood. I felt like I couldn't breathe when I saw him.
Between deep breaths the father, who was upset he could barely get the words out, explained that his son, Tae, was riding his bike without a helmet. When he tried to race a friend he lost control, fell off his bike, and was thrown down a hill. He landed hard on some rocks. His parents were wild when they brought him in. His father kept repeating, "It was his birthday present, it was his birthday present," as if how could fate be so cruel as to turn an innocent kid enjoying his birthday present? As if everything else in the world made sense, except that.
The head wound was so terrible, and he was unconscious. The doctors weren't sure how had it was. They had to do tests, they said. They rushed the boy onto a gurney and and wheeled him into the emergency room. I don't know what happened after that. I just stood there frozen. Later on I was riding up the elevator with two doctors. One leaned over to the other. "How's the kid doing?" he said. The other doctor just shrugged. "We don't know yet."
I freaked, Sulli. Only, I don't know why. Was it that it was little kid in critical condition? Blood everywhere? His parents' faces? Or the kid being wheeled off to a room where they pulled the curtains closed fast, as if from then on, everything was bad that they had to hide it from you?
There are so many things in the world that scare me. Are you like that too? I feel like a baby. I'm almost out of school and I should be able to handle things like this. Sometimes I feel like I'm falling apart. I'm all alone here without my parents and you, and the people you love are the glue that keeps you together.
Sorry to be such a downer telling you this - especially when everything for you is perfect - but if I can't tell you . . . you know? My older cousin wants me to volunteer for the summer, but if this is what I'm going to be seeing, I don't know if I can handle it.
A little voice in my head tells to man up, only I haven't figured out how to do that.
Other than work . . . The beach here is the most beautiful place to spend the summer. I'm going to start going on long swims like my cousin. I want to get into better shape so I can try out for the swimming team in the fall. In the meantime, write and tell me more about camp. I want some of normalcy in your life to rub on me and get me through the next two months, so send good karma!
Love you and miss you a lot,
Suzy

I put a stamp on the envelope and sit with it in my hand. I think about Tae's accident and I realized that in just a few seconds, everything about your whole life can change because you did something stupid. Tae was this happy, normal kid one minute, and then, because of a split second of bad luck when his parents weren't watching, everything changed and might never go back.

I get up finally and mail the letter. Irene's garage is full of tools, picture frames, wood planks, garbage cans, an broken washing machine, and old bikes. I find a bike that's in better shape than the others and take it out for a ride. After I'm nearly down the street, it hits me - I can't believe I did that - I'm not wearing a helmet. I go back and grab one.

I ride on the bike path along the beach. The color of the ocean changes from every angle, at every hour of the day. It would be almost impossible to capture it on a canvas. I wish I had my camera. It would help to work from  pictures so the light couldn't trick me. The sky looks like rain now and the water is as silvery as an icy pond in winter. I stop and the lean the bike on a  nearby platform, taking off my helmet and wiping my forehead with my hand. I take a long drink of water and sit down. My shirt sticks to me.

I look over at the beach and see the painter Irene told me about. That has to be him. He's sitting in front of an easel with a palette next to him. A big umbrella in a white-and-black print shades him from the sun. A white dog, with a bright yellow hoodie sitting next to him.

I wish I had my sketchbook.

He's wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt in orange and blue. There's no missing him. He's this . . . presence.

His skin is pale although he seems to spend all of his life in the sun. He seems to sense I'm there because he turns his head and smiles. I smile back. Why don't I feel embarrassed? I leave my bike and walk over to him. "Yoongi?"

He nods.

"I'm Suzy, Irene's . . . uh, you probably know . . . younger cousin."

"You're an artist too."

"Well, I . . ."

"Sit down." he motions to the dog. "Meet Jimin," he says, leaning down to pat his head. He reaches into a brown paper bag and takes out a box of brownies. Jimin opens his eyes, as if on cue. "not for you, Jimin," he says. "they can't eat chocolate," he says. "Sad, eh?" he holds the bag out to me.

I nod and take a brownie. The brownie are slightly melted. I smiled at him.

"Mmm."

Yoongi looks the way I imagined him. Thich, dark hair mixed with gray and eyes brown. He's not sad like some older people, with a lost look in their eyes. He's vibrant and so handsome that he looks like an entertainer. There's a contradiction about him, though. his eyes look like they've seen and lived everything, but his face seems to used keeping a world of things inside.

I can't help being drawn to him like a wise teacher. I sit with him for a while just watching him paint, feeling no need to talk or fill the silence. His brush looks old, like an antique. The handle is ivory and it's delicately carved. He takes a long time between brush , as if each one represents a separate decision.

"You've been a painter for a long time."

"Since I was young - five years old."

He says it like it was eternity ago. "Did you teach yourself?"

He nods. "And you?"

"i can't remember not drawing. But I started taking art classes after school, during primary."

"it's wonderful, no, to draw, to paint?"

"Yes . . . but . . . it's not always easy, at least for me. Sometimes everything just comes out awful, like total garbage." I sink my toes into the sand. "it's so hard, you know?"

Yoongi keeps painting. Did he pay attention to what I said?

"the struggle," he says finally. "That's so big a part of it. You work, your work harder. It takes everything inside of you . . . all your energy . . . your soul." He makes a fist and pushes it in toward his stomach. "You have to struggle to make art. It consumes you. But art chooses us, and in the end, the pain is worth it, no? There are the small. . . glorious . . . moments." He holds up a fist.

his face softens as though he's remembering something personal and special to him. Then he looks in my eyes.

"To make art is to be alive, Suzy." He narrows his eyes. "It's like to love."

I pick up a pink shell in the sand and study its smooth, fluted surface, closing my hand around it. "Well, I'm not . . . there yet."

"But you will be, one day," he whispers. "I promise you. Your whole life . . . it is ahead of you, Suzy." He reaches out and for the briefest moment, closes his hand around mine. Then he releases it and turns back to his canvas.

° ° ° ° °

I sink back in the sand and study his hands as he works. Short, square nails. One is almost black, as if it had been hit. The back of his hands have shadowy spots on them. Veins bulge out under the skin. They're strong hands that could lift the earth. Every part of him looks strong, from his neck to the powerful forearms. he used to be a fisherman, Irene said. At one point he looks over his shoulder at me and smiles.

"I guess I should probably be going. You're trying to work."

"Stay, please," he insists. "I don't often have such fresh air around me - such fresh, beautiful air." He chuckles.

"My cousin's expecting me, but I'll come back and see you again." I scratch Jimin's head and he rolls onto his back so I can scratch his stomach.

"Bring your sketchbook, so you can work next to me."

"Maybe it'll help."

"We'll help each other," he says.

I get up and turn to go when Yoongi looks up at me. "Don't be sad," he says, softly.

I look at him curiously. How did he know? But by the then he's looking ahead of him.

"This," he says, almost to himself looking at the horizon. "This is the time I was waiting for."

° ° ° ° ° 

I ride my bike along the beach feeling calmer than I have in a long time. Did something from Yoongi's serenity transfer to me? Was something like that possible? Or was I just happy to have made a friend, even if he was the older one I had ever had. I laugh to myself.

Dear Sulli: well, I met a really cool guy today. Only don't get excited - he's in his late age!

When I get into the house, Irene is cutting up a salad.

"I met Yoongi."

"I figured you would. Did you find him on the beach?"

I nod.

"And you immediately fell for him, right?"

I look at her and smile. "How did you know?"

"It's unbelievable," she says. "The man has that effect on everybody."