by Nancy Kim
“Then, fast as magician, he naked,” she says, switching to English.
I am not sure that I want to hear what happened next.
“He look so funny. I laughing.”
“You laughed?”
Ahma nods. “He look like little boy. Only more hair.”
I know that laugh, the insensitive cackle of a mother at her awkward daughter. I have heard it enough times to know how cruel it sounds to vulnerable ears. I can’t help feeling a little bit sorry for Stephen.
“So hairy! Like bear. Hair everywhere.”
I do not want this visual of naked Stephen.
“Not like your father. Your father’s chest smooth as baby bottom.”
I really do not want this visual of my father.
“Stephen chest hairy. Bottom too! Like gorilla.”
“Ahma!”
She laughs. Despite myself, I laugh, too.
“He mad but even more excited. He talking nasty words. Try to kiss me again with his trash mouth.”
“Nasty words?”
“Ooh baby. Like bad movie on cable. But I told him I have to go home. He got mad and push me. He yell, too. He tell me to leave his house and never come again.”
“What did you do?”
“I tell him I want to leave very much. He never want to see me again. Me too, I say. Then you know what?”
“What?”
“He say he want present back.”
She shakes her head. “Can you believe? He thought my worth equals only a cheap bracelet with one charm.”
Ahma doesn’t seem so upset after she finishes telling me her story. In fact, she almost seems to be in good spirits. There is no need for me to stay with her and comfort her, since somehow I am now the one in need of comforting and she has quickly fallen asleep. While she quietly snores next to me, I lie on top of the covers, anxious about my mother’s entry into the modern world of dating. She is so naive sometimes! She dresses in sexy clothing that shows off her figure, accepts expensive presents, and agrees to nightcaps at the homes of men she barely knows. I know that a woman should be able to do all those things, and it shouldn’t mean she has to put out. I know that no means no, that paying for dinner does not mean paying for sex. But I also know that sometimes, things are not the way I want them to be and that the world is full of men who take without asking, who assume certain things about a woman based upon what she looks like and how she dresses. I know that until there is a baseline of mutual understanding, it is important to be cautious, look both ways, and always wear your seat belt. But Ahma, not Ahma! She accepts dates from strangers at the gym, wears clothing that is a size too small and a generation too young, and laughs at naked men. She is completely ignorant about the rules of social conduct.
But no, something is not right in that characterization.
Ahma was the one who lectured me before I went off to college about the dangers of drinking and boys and sex, with and without condoms. She was the one who made me change my clothes when I showed up at the breakfast table wearing a skirt that was too short or a sweater that was too tight. When I protested, “I am not a slut! It doesn’t matter what other people think because of the way I dress—that’s their problem, not mine!” she calmly provided an explanation of the social meaning of clothes that would have made Roland Barthes proud. And the fact was, she was right, and I knew it, even though I didn’t want to accept it and wanted to rebel against it.
I am reminded of a picture I saw at a museum once, a black-and-white drawing of two black faces, or was it a white goblet? The more I stared at the picture, the harder it was to tell what it was, and the images seemed to flicker from one to the other. A figure-ground illusion. This is an entirely different situation from what I had initially thought.
Ahma is not a rebel, but she is practical. She made her calculation. Tight jeans and a sassy attitude garner male attention. The occasional unwanted advance is a hazard but one that she can handle. She escaped Stephen’s house fully clothed and has already recovered. Stephen, on the other hand, may never be the same.
My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and I can see Ahma’s sleeping face. Her mouth is slightly open and she is snoring. Her eyeballs roll underneath her closed eyelids. I hope she is having a pleasant dream.
I gently lift myself off the bed, so as not to wake her, and make my way downstairs. The moonlight shines through the open curtains, and I see Ahma’s purse at the bottom of the stairs, gaping open like an invitation. The image shifts again. The white box sits like an egg in its nest. I lift the lid and take out the gold bracelet. The charm dangles limply, a racket looking for a match.
The next morning, Ahma acts as though nothing has happened. I don’t mention the charm bracelet, and neither does she. She asks me if I want pancakes, and I shake my head.
“You not late?” she asks as she pours the mix into a bowl.
“No.”
“Good. Not good to be always late.” She adds water and stirs.
“I said I didn’t want pancakes.”
“Pancake good for you. Have to eat breakfast.”
“I know, but it doesn’t have to be pancakes.”
She slices a banana and puts it into the pancake batter.
“Why do you always pretend that you are doing something for me when it’s actually for you?”
She ladles the batter onto the hot frying pan and gets a plate out of the cabinet.
“I hate bananas,” I add. “And I am sick of pancakes. You love banana pancakes. Why don’t you just make the pancakes for yourself and cut the pretense that you are doing something nice for me?”
“Selfish girl,” she mutters. She flips the pancake.
“I’m not the selfish one! I’m just asking you why you have to pretend like that. It’s dishonest. It’s a lie.”
She lifts the pancake off the pan and onto the plate, and then hands it to me.
“Ha! You the liar.”
She looks at me hard, and in that moment, I realize that she knows the truth about me and Louis, that the separation isn’t temporary and we are getting a divorce. I take the plate. Ahma picks up her purse, slips on her shoes, and, without eating a single bite of breakfast, is out the door.
I sit down at the kitchen table and pick up the pancake with my fingers. The brown edges look deliciously crisp, the center pale and soft, and despite my convictions, I can’t resist taking a bite. It’s fluffy inside, and although I usually don’t like bananas, these cooked slices are creamy and sweet. Only Ahma could make a pancake this good from a mix. I make more pancakes using the rest of the mix, but somehow they don’t taste as good. I devour the stack anyway and polish off a tall glass of milk. I long for a cup of strong coffee, but Ahma doesn’t have anything but a jar of old instant in the cabinets. I can pick up a latte at the drive-through Starbucks when I get off the freeway.
I finish my morning ritual—brush teeth, comb hair, apply lipstick, slip into shoes. I run downstairs, open the front door, stop, and then turn and run back upstairs. I grab the yellow envelope from the back of my closet, where I have hidden it at the bottom of a box of sweaters. I pull it out and cradle it to my chest. I need some answers, although to what questions, I don’t know.
Mr. Park is carrying a large box into the room at about the same time that I am settling in at my desk with an overpriced latte.
“Doughnuts?” I ask.
“Cake!” He is smiling, and his whole face shines like a light bulb.
“Isn’t it too early for cake?” groans Bertha. She is perpetually on a diet and resents all temptations but resists none.
“Never too early for cake!”
“What are we celebrating?”
“My son’s birthday! He doesn’t like cake, but I do!”
Everyone gathers around Mr. Park. Bertha is first in line, holding out her paper plate like a child at a birthday party. Mr. Park often talks about his son, Victor, who by all accounts is handsome, charming, smart, and committed to social justice. He was a
n EMT before he went to law school, and now he is going to help build schools for children someplace in Central America. He sounds too good to be true, and I would dismiss Mr. Park’s claims as the delusional tales of a proud parent if the other women didn’t corroborate them.
“Handsome as a movie star,” Elaine says. “You’d never believe he was Sam’s son!”
“It’s true,” Bertha whispers to me through a mouthful of frosting. “He is all that. Too bad he’s only twenty-six.” I nod sympathetically. Bertha has been much nicer since she found out that Louis and I split up. Even more disturbingly, she has started to bond with me over single-gal issues like the lack of good men, the perils of online dating, and the importance of losing ten pesky pounds. I usually nod and hope that she will not one day ask me to join her for a girls’ night out on the town. I already have Janine for that sort of humiliation.
Later that day, I find Mr. Park in the courtyard, partially hidden by the container bamboo. He is standing with legs apart, in a classic warrior pose. My father stretched every morning, too, but that didn’t keep him alive.
“Mr. Park?” Although the other women in the library call him Sam, it is impossible for me.
He lowers his arms to his sides and turns to me with the grace of a ballet dancer.
“Mrs. Markson,” he says. Mr. Park has always referred to me formally as Mrs. Markson, which is odd, because I expect someone as politically aware as he is to use Ms. It’s even odder because he’s on a first-name basis with everyone else in the library. It might be because I’m only a glorified temp at Restin, but it might also be that, in the same way I can’t see him as “Sam,” he can’t see me as “Ms. Markson” or even just “Alice.”
“I’m sorry if I startled you. Is this an okay time to talk? I know you’re on your lunch hour.”
“Fine, fine. I was just finishing up anyway.” He waits patiently, his round face a question mark.
“I was wondering whether you knew any translators that might not charge very much.”
“Depends on which language.”
“Korean,” I say.
“That’s a little tougher,” he says. “Spanish, French, Italian, Japanese . . . but Korean, not so many. They will charge you an arm and a leg.”
I already know this from my online research. It will cost at least $2,000, probably more, because of the number of characters. All the translation agencies charge per word.
“Is there someone you know who could do it? Someone who might charge me less than a professional?”
He smiles. “Funny thing is, everyone I know who is a native speaker could not translate it for you very well. Korean is not a hard language to learn, but it is not so popular, either.”
“I feel like I should have learned it myself. I mean, I can speak it and understand it, but I just can’t read Korean.” I feel defensive, remembering times in the past when my parents and their friends chided me, “You have a Korean face. You should be able to speak Korean.” But how could I learn if there was no one to teach me?
As though he can read my mind, he says, “Not so easy to find an instructor. I tried to find one for my son when he was younger, with no luck. And I am not patient enough.” He smiles and adds, “My son is fluent in Spanish, though.”
It is not the first time I have been struck by Mr. Park’s empathy. He knows that I feel embarrassed to be in this position.
“Is it an official text? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“No . . . it’s just a notebook that my father left behind. I don’t think it’s anything terribly important. Probably something to do with his work.”
“I might be able to help if you just want to know what it says. My skills may not be good enough if it is a business document, but if it is just for you and you don’t need an official translation, I can do it as a favor.”
“Oh no,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you. I mean, that would be very nice. I really appreciate it, but . . .” But what? I don’t have other options. Should I? It’s tempting, but I’m not sure that I want Mr. Park to know what is in my father’s notebook.
“I don’t think it will be much work for me. But if it contains legal or technical words, I might have to look them up. I think I have a Korean-English business dictionary somewhere in my office.”
Maybe I should let him. It could just be a journal of my father’s dental practice. But in my heart, I know it’s something personal, and to let Mr. Park read it would be an invasion of my father’s privacy. But does his privacy matter now to anyone but me and Ahma? And if she never knows, what difference could it make?
“It’s rather long. About fifty pages,” I say, in the interest of full disclosure.
“Perhaps you don’t trust my ability?” He is smiling, but I wonder whether I have offended him with my reluctance.
“No, I don’t mean it like that,” I say quickly. “I just don’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble. No rush, right?”
“Right. I mean, it’s probably nothing important. But just in case it contains helpful information about his dental practice. One of the other dentists took it over, I think . . .” I am talking too much, trying to justify my unseemly desire to poke my nose into my father’s business.
“Understandable. You are curious. It could be important.”
“It’s probably not, but I should find out.”
He nods. “Yes. Lots of mysteries when somebody dies.” Suddenly, he looks very sad. I remember hearing that Mr. Park’s wife died earlier this year, sometime after the holidays, before I started working here.
“I really appreciate it. I’m happy . . . to compensate . . .”
His expression changes, and I know that I have made a grave mistake in offering. I quickly pivot: “By balancing your personal checkbook or organizing your home office files, or even taking out your trash on a weekly basis.”
He laughs again. All is forgiven.
“Your mother doesn’t read Korean?”
I look at the bamboo waving behind Mr. Park’s head. I remember when they installed these pots in the courtyard. It was his idea to provide shade from the sun, so people could enjoy their breaks and lunches outside. But most of the time, the courtyard is still empty.
“I don’t want to trouble her. She’s still so upset, and she has so much to deal with . . .”
He nods. “Of course. If you have it today, please drop it by my office. I can take it when I leave tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Park. I really appreciate it. Thank you very much.”
LOVE AND LONELINESS
CHAPTER SIX
I am sitting at my desk, reading the latest newsletter from HANA, a nonprofit working to preserve Hawaii’s environment and cultural heritage. I see that the organization is looking for an “archivist-specialist” to organize and collect materials for its new library. I imagine applying for that position, wonder what it would be like to return to Hawaii. The organization does good work, and I wish I could do more than write a check every few months. Although I am contributing to society at my current job, I often have the feeling that I could do more to help make the world a better place. But my life is here now, and it would be impossible to return home.
There is a soft knock at the door. I drop the newsletter in the recycling box that I have by my desk and call, “Come in.”
It is Alice Markson, and she apologizes for the interruption. She reminds me of our previous conversation and hands me an envelope. The envelope is thick, but it is not the work that it contains that makes me feel uneasy. It is the way she looks, apologetic and flustered. She is a banana, a girl who is completely American except for her dark hair and her facial features. Even her physical build is Western, her bones large and strong from drinking gallons of cow’s milk, her muscles developed from an abundance of meat and eggs and athletics. There is nothing Korean about her name, Alice Markson, which makes me think of gingham dresses, raccoon-tail caps, and rifles. Yet, when she hands me the envelope, she is dis
tinctly Asian in the way she offers thanks, the instinctive bow of her spine, the nod of her head, the way she backs out of my small office, thanking, thanking, thanking me for a task that I have not yet undertaken. I hold the envelope in my hands, feeling the weight of the words within. Already, I fear that I have promised too much—not because the task exceeds my skills but because it might compromise me somehow.
Last night, Victor and I had a quiet dinner, just the two of us. I didn’t get him a gift, even though it was his birthday. Birthdays and holidays make us both uncomfortably aware of who is absent. His mother used to take care of the details when she was here living with us. At least during the time when she still cared.
Expressive words, terms of endearment, occasions that require presents—all make me shift with discomfort. For me, the display creates distance rather than intimacy. What should I say: “I’m proud of you, son”? Those words, coming from me, would sound false. I imagine they would make Victor feel uncomfortable as well, or am I wrong? Does he expect celebrations, rites of passage? Should I have bought him a present? I brought a cake into the office because my coworkers like sweets and because they are not so close to me. I can celebrate with them because the celebration creates the meaning. But with Victor? Everything means so much. I don’t really know what he expects. He seems to have grown up on his own, under my nose, while I was distracted by his mother.
Tonight, Victor is out with friends, having a proper birthday celebration. I imagine there will be music and laughter. I hope there will be lots of laughter. I fix myself a cup of genmai cha, tea that will both calm and revive me. I sit at the dining room table and think about making dinner, but I am not hungry. I remember the notebook that yesterday I promised to translate for Alice. I retrieve it from my backpack and undo the metal clasp, slide my index finger underneath the flap of the envelope, and pull out the notebook. After a few words, I realize that this is not a business journal. This is a man’s private thoughts. I know I shouldn’t continue, but his voice compels me. There is something familiar about it. Is it possible that I knew Alice’s father? There aren’t many Koreans of our generation in this part of Orange County. We were the pioneers. The ones who had to explain when we were asked, “Where are you from?” that Korea wasn’t China, Japan, or Vietnam, even though Americans had fought a war there, too. Maybe I knew him. I continue reading despite my misgivings, looking for clues.