I'm Ok

by Patti Kim

  I hurry to leave the aisle, when a bottle of Jergens lotion, with its teardrop shape, its TRY ME sticker smudged with fingerprints, its cap left open, and its spout crusted with dried lotion, speaks to me. How can you walk away from me? Don’t pretend you don’t recognize me. You know me. You’ve seen me on your bathroom sink. Most recently, you saw me in the trash can. That’s right. She’s all out. She needs me. Haven’t you noticed her hands lately? Drier than a dried-up squid. You deserved that knuckle to the head. The poor woman needs me, and you know it. You’ve seen her hands. Your mother’s hardworking hands. You’ve cringed at their touch because they feel so . . . what’s the word? Dry. By the way, where is she today? Oh, at work, working those dry hands to the bone, while you’re here prancing up and down the aisles of Peoples with a honey bun. You should be ashamed of yourself.

  I have enough money, but I’m not going to spend it on lotion. I look up and down the aisle. The coast is clear. I take a bottle of Jergens off the shelf, tuck it into the back of my pants, fluff my shirt and jacket, and limp-strut to the registers. I pay for the honey bun, count my change, say thank you, and walk out through the automatic doors.

  It’s a good thing my pants are too small for me. The tight fit keeps the Jergens from sliding down my pant leg. The plastic bottle pressing against my skin makes my butt sweat, but I don’t dare remove it. I hear police sirens in the distance. They’re coming for me. I bet there are surveillance cameras at Peoples. They caught me on tape. They called the authorities. They’re onto me. My heart rattles like a machine gun, forcing me to move faster. Run! Run for your life!

  When I reach our parking lot, I slow down. The sirens are gone. All I can hear is my breathing. No one is around. As I walk by the Dumpster, I see a cat pacing near the side opening. It sees me and meows. I say, “What’re you looking at, scaredy-cat?” and keep walking. As if wanting to pick a fight, the cat approaches me. It’s gray with a patch of white on its nose. Its tail snakes like a whip in slow motion. The cat has only one eye. Where its other eye should be is a scabbed-up black hole. It meows, begging for help. I walk faster. It follows. I stop and tell it to scram. I bark. It meows, steps closer to me, and rubs its head against my ankle. “Please leave me alone,” I say, and squat down to push it away. It feels warm and soft. I pet the cat, wishing the bottle in my pants were filled with milk. I open my honey bun, break a piece off, and hold it out to the cat. It sniffs and licks it off my fingers. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” I say. It meows and walks away.

  When I get home, I lock the door, pull down the shades, go to the bathroom, and grab the Jergens out of the back of my pants. I rinse the bottle off, dry it with a towel, and set it on the sink. I take a good look at myself in the mirror. I am a shoplifter. I stole. I shake my head, wanting to return to when I was three years old, my mother and father holding my hands and lifting me through a terminal on our way onto an airplane. “This is what flying will feel like,” they said. “No reason to be scared. We’re going to have so much fun,” they said, and lifted me. I hung from their grips, suspended in trust and innocence, swinging my legs and laughing.

  With all the shades down, our apartment looks gray, like a cloud hovers over it. I don’t want to let any light in. I sit on the couch, listening. I hear familiar laughter coming from the TV downstairs. The refrigerator hums. A door in the hall squeaks open, squeaks shut. The hall echoes with footsteps. Our clock ticks. I listen for sirens. When I don’t hear any, I open up the honey bun and bite into it. It’s soft, sticky, and so sweet that my throat burns. I take another bite and another until the bag is empty. I lick the icing off the wrapping, crumple it, and throw it across the room. It lands next to one of my fake Chucks, which I threw off my feet in my rush to hide. The other one landed on the sewing machine.

  I am bored. I stand on the couch, and because my mother isn’t here to yell at me about throwing dust everywhere—but the dust isn’t my fault, it’s her fault, her sewing makes all this dust, and she isn’t cleaning like she used to—because my mother never lets me, I jump on the couch. One, two, three cushions. The springs squeak in applause. The cushions pop out of place, bouncing in excitement. I can’t reach the ceiling. I bounce harder. Each jump vaults me higher, higher, higher. My fingertips brush the ceiling. Maybe I can be an acrobat for the talent show. I plop down with the tired cushions, panting.

  Light beams in along the sides of a window shade, yellow and wrinkled with age. The light is orange. It’s sunset light. Dust floats in the air. My breathing slows. My eyes close. Thinking of smoke and my father’s ashes, I fall asleep.

  I dream that mermaids are waiting in line for me to braid their hair. We are at the bottom of the ocean, and I can’t hold my breath long enough to finish a braid and keep the line moving. I keep coming up for air, and when I swim back down to finish my job, the braid has come undone, and I have to start all over again. The mermaids are very annoyed with me. I try to tell them that I’m doing my best, but I can’t speak. My words come out in bubbles and gurgles. A light comes on. I open my eyes and see two blurry figures walk into the apartment. I close my eyes, pretending to sleep. The figures whisper.

  “Deacon, can I get you something to eat?” my mother says.

  (Like we have anything to eat?)

  “No, please don’t trouble yourself. It’s been a long and trying day for you. You should get some rest,” a man says.

  “Please, have a seat. These are Ok’s things. I’m so sorry for the mess,” she says.

  (Not my mess. All this is your mess.)

  “You should have a seat,” he says, taking her arm and easing her down onto a chair.

  (You don’t have to touch her. She doesn’t need your help to sit down.)

  “We just moved, and I haven’t had the chance to unpack everything,” she says.

  (What? Everything’s unpacked. We unpacked everything.)

  “Please don’t apologize. I understand. You’ve suffered a great deal today. But we have much to be grateful for. You are alive. You have a warm and cozy home. You have a healthy son,” he says.

  “I worry about him, Deacon,” she says.

  (I make you worry? I cook ramen for you, I wash the dishes for you, I bring home As on my report cards for you. What trouble have I ever caused?)

  “Do not worry. What does the Bible say? Worrying is a waste of your time and energy. It is a sign of your lack of faith. Obey our Lord and don’t worry,” he says.

  “You’re right. I’ll try my best. It’s just been very sad for me,” she says.

  (Stop it! You’re making her cry.)

  “Of course you’re sad. It’s a very sad thing to lose a husband. It’s a very sad thing to lose a father. I should know. I’ve lost so much in my own life, two wives and a father at a young age. I was only ten years old, younger than your son,” he says.

  “I didn’t know that,” she says.

  (Ewww, he’s touching her arm. Get your hands off her!)

  “But I wouldn’t change any of my past. The suffering has made me the man I am today, although I truly believe that I would be a better man if my father had been there to guide me. Perhaps I would be more open, more trusting of others, more generous,” he says.

  “Oh, Deacon, you are very generous. And if you weren’t open and trusting, you wouldn’t have helped me today. I didn’t know who else to call. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you,” she says.

  (Why couldn’t you call a taxi?)

  “God was watching over you today. I am grateful for the opportunity to serve him by serving you. All things work for the good for those who have faith in God. If I can be more helpful, please let me know,” he says.

  (How about leaving already?)

  “Thank you, Deacon,” she says.

  “Then I will leave you for now. Good night,” he says.

  (Finally.)

  “Thank you again, Deacon. Good night. Go home safely,” my mother says. She uses her church voice. I hate that voice, high and singsongy li
ke a stupid three-year-old. She sounds fake. She doesn’t sound like herself. She never used that voice with my father. She never uses that voice with me.

  The door shuts. I open my eyes and rub them. The light stings. Once the room comes into focus, I see my mother sitting on her sewing chair. I feel queasy from picturing the deacon and her together. My mother’s eyes are shut. Her hand covers her face. Her frizzy, home-permed hair looks like the brown of something burnt. The apron from Arirang Grocery hangs on her like a ghost of a baby. Her left leg is propped on a box. It’s covered in a big white boot. My mother has a cast on her foot.

  The only time I’ve ever seen a cast was back in second grade on Carry Morris. She was running home during kickball, fell, landed on her arm funny, and broke her wrist. She screamed and cried all the way to the school nurse’s office. The next day her dad delivered her to our classroom soon after lunch. He kissed her good-bye, and she strutted in with a bag of McDonald’s. I smelled the fries. Everyone flocked to Carry’s desk to check out her cast and sign it. When my turn came, I noticed that her dad had written “OUCH” with a mustached smiley face in the O. Underneath he had signed, “Love, Dad.” I was stunned that such a painful event could have such a happy ending.

  I feel sorry. I want to go to my mother, put my hand on her shoulder, and tell her that story about Carry and her broken wrist, tell her that everything is going to be all right, but she looks so tired that I decide not to bother.

  twelve

  Pastor Chung orders the congregation to kneel and pray. I stop myself from nodding and smiling because my mother and I don’t have to kneel, since her ankle is in a cast. But she grabs my arm to pull me down anyway.

  “But your ankle,” I say.

  “What about it?” she says, turns around, and goes down.

  She tugs at my shirt to bring me down with her. I don’t want to because my jeans, tighter than ever, are on the verge of splitting at the knees and, worse, at the butt. But my mother pulls me down by my wrist, and the next thing I know, my head is where my butt used to be. She presses my face into the seat of the pew, and I’m getting a whiff of something that’s making me think I could use a shower tonight. I put my hands in pray-position, discreetly using my thumbs to plug my nose. Those with the gift of speaking in tongues are pumping up their volume because, you know, God is deaf. My mother starts to do that rock-back-and-forth motion that makes me think of those ride-on ducks pooping out a coil of spring at the kiddie playground.

  I close my eyes, exhale, and pray that I had nothing to do with my mother slipping on some ice that had spilled out of a tub full of mackerel. I was nowhere near the scene of the accident. I have an alibi. I was at Peoples buying a honey bun. And. And. I use my hands to face-mask my mouth and nose, and in one short breath I speed-whisper, “I-took-a-bottle-of-Jergens-for-Ŏmma’s-dry-hands-without-paying-for-it.” But what did that have to do with her falling and breaking her ankle and not being able to stand and walk and go to work and pay bills, buy food, buy me new sneakers? It’s not my fault. God, you’re the one to blame here. You’re the one who’s supposed to be watching over her. You could’ve gotten someone to clean up the ice or keep it in the tub with the fish, you’re familiar with fish, you’ve worked with fish before, but no, you let her fall and you watched and you did nothing about it. Just because you saw me limp-strut out of Peoples with the Jergens doesn’t mean you had the right to go and break my mother’s ankle. Since you did it, why don’t you undo it? Undo it. Now. In Jesus’s name I pray. Amen.

  thirteen

  Before leaving for school, I bandage together three fingers on my left hand with white surgical tape and head for the bus stop.

  On the bus a girl sitting in front of me turns her head and asks me to braid her hair when we get to school. I strategically scratch my ear with my bandaged hand and say, “Sure.”

  As she notices my injury, she looks sad and says, “Awww. But your hand is broke.”

  “Oh, this?” I say, and hide my hand under my book.

  “If your hand is hurting, my braid can wait,” she says.

  “No, it’s okay. I can still braid your hair. I need to keep working. I could use the money. I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt that much,” I say.

  “What happened?”

  “Umm. Sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it. It’s kind of embarrassing,” I say slowly, stalling for time.

  The girl turns her whole body around, kneels, leans over the back of the seat, and says, “Awww. It’s okay. You can tell me. Promise I won’t laugh. What happened?” Her sweet voice makes me feel like a cute puppy.

  “There was this puppy,” I blurt out as my cheeks heat up.

  “Uh-huh,” she sings.

  “And it was black, and it had white spots, and it was very, very fluffy. And I was walking home from my bus stop, and I saw this little ball of fluff. It was bouncing around on the rocks near the creek. It was really cute. But then it fell into the creek. It was drowning. I wasn’t even thinking. I just jumped in and scooped the puppy out of the water. I got all wet. So I guess I kind of saved the puppy’s life,” I say, nodding to cool down my hot head.

  “Oh my God. That’s, like, the bravest,” she says. The girl sitting next to her has turned around, and some kids nearby listen along. Their heads bob in synchronicity as the bus stops-goes-stops, jerking us to school.

  “So’d the dog bite your hand?” a kid asks.

  “No, moron. You listening or what? He fell in the creek and crushed his hand on a rock,” another kid says.

  “Umm. Well. Not exactly. This is kind of the embarrassing part. Umm. There was this woman nearby. She was old. Really old. Her hair was all white. And she was probably blind, too. I’m not sure. Anyway, she was in a wheelchair, and she was screaming for help because it was her puppy that was drowning, so maybe she wasn’t completely blind, but lucky thing that I was there and I saved her puppy. She called him Billy? I think? No, it was Barney. Yeah, because I remember thinking Barney like the purple dinosaur. Anyway, so I’m all wet and bring Barney back to her. I put him on her lap. She’s trying to talk to me, but I can’t make out what she’s saying, so I have to kneel and put this hand on the ground for balance. She thanks me and starts rolling off in her wheelchair, but she rolls over my fingers because they’re still on the ground. So that’s how my fingers broke,” I say, wondering how I might turn lying into a talent worthy of a stage, because I’ve sure captivated these kids. My story is getting eaten up.

  The girl gets out of her seat, bends down, and hugs me. I feel her heart beat against my ear. She feels sorry for me. I don’t like it when people feel sorry for me, but something about her sympathy makes my head dizzy and my whole body go limp and soft like a rag doll and my eyes water. I don’t know why I feel like crying, but some knot inside of me starts to come undone. I try hard not to cry. She says, “Oak, you a hero.”

  Word gets around.

  One girl makes me a get-well card. The “Get Well” part is written out in a braid pattern. One girl draws me a picture of a princess with a long braid that flows down to her feet, with a puppy in her arms. Another girl gives me an apple-flavored Jolly Rancher. Another girl gives me a smiley sticker to put on my bandages.

  The best part is they give me more money for braiding their hair. I think it’s because they feel guilty about subjecting me to pain so they can have a good hair day.

  “Can you braid today?”

  “I don’t know. My hand is still sore. The doctor says I shouldn’t move it too much.”

  “Please? You did Lori’s hair.”

  “That was yesterday. My hand was feeling better then. Besides, Lori gave me an extra dollar.”

  “I have an extra dollar.”

  “Fine, but only one braid.”

  “Thanks a lot, Oak. You’re the best.”

  fourteen

  Mickey McDonald, the girl with the roach-motel head of hair, corners me in the classroom closet. She hovers over me, stretching out her arms and spreading
wide her orange-and-brown-zigzag poncho like a pair of wings. I think she’s about to hug me, so I shut my eyes, stiffen my body, and wait to get it over with. Instead Old McD pushes me into the jackets hanging on the hooks, stares down at me with eyes as green as the Jolly Rancher melting in my mouth, presses her foot on top of mine so I can’t run away, and says, “Braid my hair.”

  I look up at her hair. It’s a mess. She has her own solar system, with her round pink face as the sun and the wads of tangles as planets orbiting her head in the shade Crayola calls Raw Sienna. The color reminds me of wet sand on a beach. I’ve been to the beach once with my mother and father. We built sand castles, jumped waves, and held our balance while Earth and ocean, as if in a tug-of-war, pushed and pulled. My father was a strong swimmer. My mother could hold her own in the water too. It was the first time I saw them playing together like two kids on a beach.

  I show Mickey my bandaged fingers.

  “Them fingers ain’t broke,” she says, grabs my hand, and squeezes.

  “Owww,” I say.

  “Stop your bellyaching, you fraud,” she says, bending my bandaged fingers into a fist.

  I don’t pull my hand away. I let her squeeze because I’m stunned. I’m ashamed. I’m scared. And I’m strangely relieved someone knows the truth. Mickey McDonald knows about me, and I have to admire her for that. How did she know?

  “Here’s the deal. You do my hair, and I keep my mouth shut. I keep my mouth shut about the little con you running here. I keep my mouth shut about finding you crying in the girls’ bathroom. In exchange for my silence, you got to braid my hair for free,” says Mickey. She talks like she belongs in a cowboy movie.

  This is where Clint Eastwood would spit, but I skip the spit and just squint and say, “Fine.”

  fifteen

  Mickey rides alone in the back of the school bus. She doesn’t have friends. She’s always alone. I guess I was too, before my braiding business took off, but she’s more noticeably alone with that hair and those old clothes. She wants nothing to do with being invisible. I ride in the front of the bus.