“No, Mrs. Lee wanted to talk about her schedule.”
“Oh, any problems?” Mr. Park craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her behind Mr. Kim. “You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you, Mrs. Lee?” He winked, almost imperceptibly.
“No, everything is fine,” she said in a steely voice. “I just wanted to...talk to him about my hours. I’d like to work more hours.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, grinning at Mr. Kim before patting him on the shoulder. Walking away, Mr. Park added, “By the way, good job, Mrs. Lee. You’ve been doing a good job.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Park went out the back door, either to smoke or leave for the day.
Mr. Kim faced her again. “Well, thank you for the apple,” he said with a smile.
“It’s a pear.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“Um...” She touched the corner of the desk with the tips of her fingers, steadying herself. “Do you still want to have dinner?”
Margot
Fall 2014
LAST NIGHT HAD been Margot and Miguel’s first night sleeping in the apartment, about a week after they had discovered her mother’s body. Margot had slept in her mother’s room while Miguel stayed in Margot’s. After brewing a cup of coffee with a French press that she had bought her mother many years ago, Margot sat at the dining room table, staring out the window at the alley that separated their building from the next. Her mother had never used the French press, preferring instead the packets of instant coffee, premixed with sugar and creamer from the Korean supermarket. Her mother had even kept it in its box as if preserving it for someone.
How many times had Margot gazed out that window?
She and her mother would sit at that table, at breakfast, at dinnertime, silent. How she had wished her mother would ask her how she was feeling more often. How she had longed for her mother to ask her what had happened that day, if it was good or bad, or if something about it had surprised her.
But maybe the questions themselves frightened her mother. Not because she didn’t care about Margot, but because the questions were the same ones that she was never willing to ask or answer about herself. It hurt too much to know. How are you doing? How do you feel?
Margot finished what was left in her mug, chewing the crystals of sugar that hadn’t yet dissolved.
Wearing a white undershirt and black jeans, Miguel emerged from the bathroom with a hand towel, drying his wet hair. She realized then that she hadn’t taken a shower herself in days, not even after she had walked on the beach and submerged herself in the ice-cold water. She placed the kettle on the stove top now to brew Miguel a cup of coffee, too. The electric coil glowed orange, deepening to red.
Miguel grabbed a razor from his overnight bag and closed the bathroom door. Her phone rang.
“Oh, hi,” Officer Choi said. She could hear background noise of him rummaging through papers, folders. “Hope it’s not too early? I’ve got some stuff for you.”
“Is it...good?”
“Well, couple things,” he said. “I finally reached the landlord. I spoke to him yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh, great.”
“Unfortunately, he said he didn’t remember anything odd about the weekend that your mother died. He said that he had no idea what you were talking about, the yelling, your mother’s voice—”
“What?”
“He said it was just like any other weekend. Your mother had been a quiet tenant.”
“I know I’m not imagining what he said.”
“So I tried knocking on some of the doors of your neighbors.”
“And?” She paced back and forth in the kitchen.
“Only one of them answered. And she said she wasn’t home at all over the weekend. She’s lived in the building for a few years and your mother has always been very quiet.”
“God, I can’t believe this,” she said to herself. “I swear, he told me... We were in the parking lot, the garage. I know what he said. I have no idea why he wouldn’t tell you...”
But she remembered the landlord’s words after she confronted him about not talking to the police: What for? I was tired and it could’ve been anyone. I don’t need them snooping around here. Do you? Do you think the neighbors like that? What do you think the police are going to do for you? Do you think they care about your mother?
“Damn it. I’ll have to talk to him again,” she said. “It’s bullshit.”
“I’m not sure what else we can do, Margot.”
“There had to have been someone else around.” She gritted her teeth. Her eyes darted toward the electric coil—red and hot. She could hear the bubbling inside of the kettle now.
“I looked into the obituary, too.”
“You did?” she said, somewhat relieved.
“Your mother’s boyfriend, Kim Chang-hee, was a pretty big deal in the Valley. Rich. Donated a lot to the church. He had this small supermarket chain, Super San. Ever heard of it?”
“No,” she said, leaning on the edge of the counter next to the stove. “I guess I just don’t know the Valley.”
“Wife. No kids.” He paused. “Pancreatic cancer. He died in October.”
“I see.” Should she tell him that she saw a resemblance between herself and Mr. Kim? No. It was silly wishful thinking.
“His widow lives in Calabasas. They have a home there.”
She knew. The tour operator had given her the address.
“I don’t really see a connection to your mother or her death,” he said. “You found this obituary at home without any explanation?”
“Yes, I... I found it in a drawer that I was going through.”
“I mean—”
“What was her name? The widow’s name?”
“Mary Kim.”
“Do you have a phone number?”
“I really don’t think we should go down this route.”
“What do you mean?”
She could hear men’s voices in the background. “Your mother.” Officer Choi lowered his voice. “She had a lover. He died. And then—later, she died as well.” He paused. “It’s terrible and sad, but there isn’t a point in hurting anyone else, right? I mean, none of this information will bring your mom back.”
“Hurting anyone else?”
“The widow. Mr. Kim’s wife. Why bring her into this? She might not even know about the affair.”
“But what if she does?”
“How are we going to figure that out? Ask her? Why would we be asking questions about your mother? We’d have to tell her.” He sighed. “I don’t really see what else I can do here, Margot. As far as your mother’s death goes—which was terrible, I’m sorry—it’s an open-and-shut case. It was an accident, and there’s not much more I can—”
She hung up the phone. The kettle screamed.
She turned off the burner as Miguel reemerged from the bathroom, freshly shaven, clean and minty, and strolled into the kitchen.
“Did you hear any of that?” Margot asked, pouring the hot water into the French press.
“Yeah, I did.” He shook his head. “So the landlord is now just acting like he didn’t hear anything. Of course.”
After stirring the grounds in the water, she said, “I’m gonna talk to him. I’ll try this afternoon.”
“The landlord?” Miguel leaned on the kitchen counter. “Do you want me to go with you? Do you feel safe?”
“I’ll be okay, I think.” She pressed the grounds down and poured the coffee into a mug. “You have errands to run. I’ll try him today, and we can still go to Calabasas this week, right?”
“Sure, how about tomorrow? Or Friday?”
“Sounds good,” she said. “I can’t believe the landlord lied. This is so frustrating.”
“Maybe you should go down there now? I�
��ll go with you. Or do you have his number?”
“Yeah, I do.” She grabbed her phone again. “I should, or actually—it’s here on the fridge, I think.” Her mother had taped up a piece of paper with the phone numbers of important people—Margot, the landlord, her church, Alma, the manager of the swap meet—in case of an emergency.
She dialed. When the answering machine picked up with a generic recording, she didn’t bother to leave a message. She had a feeling that he would be avoiding her now.
“Maybe take a break?” Miguel said. “I have some appointments at apartments today. How about we do that and then go out to eat something? We could drive around Burbank for a bit, get away from this place.”
She nodded and said, “I’m just so fed up with everything right now.”
“Too bad hot Officer Choi turned out to be such a bummer.”
“Predictable,” she said. “All of this and that landlord are so fucking predictable.”
“Why not surprise them?” He sipped his coffee. “I think we should surprise them, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“We roll up our sleeves and figure this shit out on our own. You don’t need him for anything else, right? Delete him.”
He was right. She didn’t need Officer Choi or the landlord. None of them were on her or her mother’s side, dead or alive.
Normally, she would’ve deferred to their opinions. Their doubts would’ve wormed their way through her own intelligence, her own instincts to defend what she knew was right. But she now realized that their power relied on her ability to undercut herself. And she was tired of doing that. She and her mother deserved more. She wouldn’t stop until she found the truth of her mother’s life.
TWO DAYS OF searching for an apartment had gone by before Miguel scored a modern one-bedroom in Burbank early Friday afternoon. After a late lunch at an Italian chalkboard-menu eatery blocks from his new place, Margot and Miguel endured the stop-and-go down the 101 for almost twenty-five miles to the hills of Calabasas, west of the San Fernando Valley.
The plan was to check out Mr. Kim’s house where presumably, his widow, Mary Kim, still lived. Margot wanted to find out as much information as she could about Mr. and Mrs. Kim without actually confronting her. Otherwise, Officer Choi was right; she might be revealing the affair unnecessarily to her. And in Margot’s mind, although Mary was once the only person who might have a motivation to harm her mother, the landlord, who had lied to either her or Officer Choi, had become increasingly suspicious; his answering machine now indicated that he was out of town for a family emergency. How convenient.
“Do you want to stay with me on Sunday night—after I move in?” Miguel asked. “Are you comfortable at the apartment by yourself?”
“I think I’ll be okay,” she said. “Besides, I probably should stay at my mom’s and find that landlord. Finish stuff up. Burbank is far.”
Of course, she was happy for Miguel, but she envied how organized he was, how easily he seemed to manage the logistics of life. He had found a better job in another state that gave him more options to pursue his passions, his dreams. He now had an apartment with stainless steel appliances in a LEED-certified building located close to his workplace, an acting studio, shops, and restaurants. Why couldn’t she get her life in order, too?
What was wrong with her?
She couldn’t stand her job as an administrative assistant—the data entry, the proofreading, creating brochures in that tiny appendix of an office with the adobe red walls, the single, dusty task lamp she used every day. She couldn’t bear the weather in Seattle. After a life in Los Angeles, she had never adjusted to the gray winters.
And when she did catch a glimpse of the things she wanted (a more creative job, art classes, a stronger sense of community outside of work), those things would disappear before she could touch them, back into the mess of her mind. She’d get distracted by other lives—the problems of men. Her two-month relationship with her coworker Jonathan last year had been disastrous. His self-absorption combined with his generic flattery—the compliments about her thoughtfulness, her empathy and intelligence—was seductive. She had this keen feeling that if she could support him endlessly—through his grief over his deceased wife, his adult son who struggled with addiction—she would be rewarded with his attention, his admiration forever. She could disappear around him and still feel good about herself.
But of course, he broke her heart. He was an it-hurts-me-to-hurt-you, an I-love-you-but-I’m-not-in-love-with-you kind of man. It was all so dull and predictable in the end.
And now that her mother was dead, there was no one to run from except herself. She wasn’t even a daughter anymore. She’d have to become someone else.
Her foot cramped in its stop-and-go position over the brakes. This slow miserable parade.
“Look at that sunset,” Miguel said.
Her mind shifted to the riotous sky, its mesmerizing wash of pinks and oranges. She had always loved those sublime colors that suggested both the beginning and the end of everything. The sun in LA could be a real drama queen, quietly blazing in a tulle of smog all day until the evening asked her to leave, and she became all flourish and flames.
Exiting the 101 later in twilight, the car wound up hills, past expansive homes of varying architectural styles—Mediterranean, Tudor, Cape Cod—complexes of both good and bad taste but mostly expressions of large bank accounts, impenetrability, power. Manicured lawns, a pristine green, not a leaf or twig or stem misplaced, maintained by armies of workers who lived and traveled far daily from much poorer parts of the Valley and LA, who spent hours in the sun, working while remaining invisible.
Margot couldn’t believe her mother had a lover who lived with such wealth less than thirty miles away from her in Koreatown. Could he also be her father? Perhaps she not only wanted to find out more about Mary Kim but also whether or not Mr. Kim could be her dad. It seemed absurd to follow an impulse toward such an elaborate story. But why else would her mother be dating this wealthy man all the way in Calabasas? What would they have in common with each other except the past?
Growing up, she only knew that her mother had worked at a supermarket when she had first moved from Korea and met a man there who disappeared after she became pregnant. Her mother never explained why and refused to give away any details about him—his name, his personality, his face. Eventually, Margot stopped asking.
Margot had always imagined her father as a quiet, nondescript person who still worked at a grocery store, and potentially had his own children and family, or had been a perpetual bachelor, breaking hearts wherever he went. She had preferred the latter, someone cruel. That way she never had to wonder why she and her mother had been abandoned, discarded like the peel of a fruit.
But now she couldn’t resist the potential of this story—that Mr. Kim could be her father, that her mother had found love in the final year of her life, that a vengeful wife had confronted her mother, maybe even killed her, whether on purpose or by accident. As far-fetched as this scenario seemed, it made more sense to Margot than her mother randomly falling in her own apartment, only to have her out-of-town daughter find her body days later. She understood that both life and death could be random, unnecessary—but she needed more from her mother’s story. And now that her mother was dead, Margot was no longer afraid of any truth.
They pulled up in front of the address Margot had received from the tour operator earlier this week. It was a white two-story Mediterranean-style home, expensively kept with its dense lawn and swaying palm trees. All the lights were on, blazing in the evening dimness. A tiered stone fountain gushed water indefinitely as if the drought, or any other problem of this planet, could not touch this blessed house and land. In the driveway, a brand-new Lexus SUV and Mercedes sedan posed as if straight out of a holiday car commercial.
“Maybe you should go down a block? So
they don’t see the car,” Miguel said.
“Yeah, my car’s just a little out of place.” She pulled forward along the curb. She said in a grande dame voice, “Hello, 911, there appears to be an average-looking automobile outside the grounds at this time.”
“We could be housekeepers.”
She laughed despite the pounding in her chest. What if a neighbor saw them? Were they trespassing, breathing in the citrus blossoms, the new car smell of this neighborhood? She felt foreign and alien.
After parking down the block, they strolled down the sidewalk through the bronze gate that had been left wide open. Perhaps a car had pulled in temporarily, or the residents always left the gate ajar, which seemed odd but worked in their favor that night. As they approached the house, Margot and Miguel ducked, scampering across the lawn until they reached a row of boxwood to hide behind while they peered through a large window into the silent, empty house. Elegantly unlived-in with mostly monochromatic holiday decor—pine cones and boughs painted platinum and white atop a mantel covered in silver photo frames. An ivory tufted sofa and armchair with clean, inviting lines.
“It’s nice in there,” Miguel said. “Like in that Anna Wintour kind of way.”
“It’s like a magazine.”
“Do you want to look around the back?”
“No, I don’t think we should—”
Margot froze as a pearl-skinned woman of an indeterminate age appeared in the center of the living space. In her long creamy nightgown, she cradled a crystal of whiskey with slender fingers crowned by oxblood nails. A lithe, compact body, eyes kept low. She moved in and out of their sight line, pacing like an animal in a cage as if possessed.
Margot closed her eyes, afraid she might faint. She had an impulse to run now, forget everything. She never had a father. She never needed one. She had her mother at least—a mother who was often unavailable but nonetheless protected her, perhaps protected her too much, but she had done so because she had known how sensitive Margot could be, how emotional. But now that her mother was dead, Margot had been thrust into seeing her, into seeing them both for who they really were—women who survived on their own. They thrived in their own country of two. They were in a way, despite how they might’ve appeared to the outside world, perfectly fine.
The Last Story of Mina Lee Page 12