Like Wind Against Rock: A Novel

by Nancy Kim

April 2, 2010

  The last time I saw Shirley in Korea, we were sitting in our favorite place, underneath the chestnut tree. The dirt was softer there, for some reason. No grass grew at the base of the tree, perhaps because of the shade. The leaves and the chestnuts were starting to drop from the branches, but we were safe as long as we stayed close to the trunk. The tree grew on the slope of a mountain, far enough away from where my friends usually played in the field below. We heard a chestnut fall with a thud, and Shirley shook her head, still amazed at their size. She explained to me that in America, the chestnuts were much smaller, the size of walnuts. The tree we sat under had chestnuts much bigger. I felt proud when she said that, as though Korea’s larger chestnuts could somehow remove the sting of having to receive food supplies and armed protection from the Americans.

  “Chestnuts are kind of like coconuts,” she said. Shirley had seen coconuts in Hawaii, where she had lived before coming to Korea.

  “How so?”

  “They don’t taste the same, but they are both so difficult to open. What made the first person think there would be something worth eating inside?” She pointed to a rock nearby. “How do we know that there isn’t some lovely-tasting juice in there? Or some delicious nut meat?”

  I laughed, but not because I found her observation so humorous. We had been talking about other things, things that made me uncomfortable, and I was glad to have the conversation shift to Hawaiian coconuts. She, however, did not even smile. I kissed her on the lips, an invitation. But she turned away.

  “I have to go home.”

  “It’s getting late,” I agreed. The sun was setting, and I imagined my mother was already calling me to come to dinner.

  Shirley sat up and looked me in the eyes. “Home is where the heart is,” she said, very seriously.

  “Then we don’t need to go anywhere.”

  She smiled a little then and returned my kiss.

  April 4, 2010

  A wise man said there is never any time for regrets. But I am not a wise man. I am a fool. Twice, I have had happiness within my sights, in my arms, and twice, I’ve let it go. Is it luck that gave me that opportunity when so many others never experience it? Or is it a curse to have felt something and to spend the rest of my life pining for that feeling?

  If I hadn’t truly believed that I could be happy with my wife, I would never have married. I would have stayed a bachelor for the rest of my days. When I met Young Ha, I was nearly over Shirley, or so I thought. She was a memory that I guarded within the deepest chamber of my heart. Young Ha was kindhearted, beautiful, and full of positive energy. My parents agreed that she would make a good wife. Certainly, they were relieved that I’d fallen in love at all, knowing how despondent I’d become after my American friend had moved away. If they only knew that what I felt was not the product of some silly unrequited crush! But they never even suspected—they could never imagine that Shirley, white as milk and seemingly as pure, would have such untamed impulses. They never could have dreamed that the feelings I had for her were as complicated and genuine as any love celebrated through marriage. My love for Shirley was stronger than what I felt for Young Ha as she stood in her Western-style bridal gown, complicated silk and lace and tulle veiling her face, trembling as she stood beside me and looking so serious, as though she were taking an oath of military service instead of reciting her marital vows.

  I did love my wife. I must believe this. For if I did not, then why didn’t I stay with Shirley when we had our second chance? Why didn’t I acknowledge my life for the sham that it was and try to be honest about what I truly desired? It is a failing so profound that I can scarcely stand to look at myself in the mirror. What I see staring back at me with empty eyes is a haunted man, someone without a soul or a heart because he lost it so many years ago.

  So why didn’t I leave? I could claim it was duty to my family. That would indicate some measure of honor, of character. But I know that it was not out of obligation that I stayed.

  So why did I stay? Because I was stupid, and too slow. Because I spoke words that I did not mean, and I waited to take them back. There would be no taking them back. I had waited too long.

  I wonder what happened to Shirley. Did she confess our affair to her husband? Did she move on and forget about me?

  Most of all, I wonder, Did she have our child?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I was hoping that I would have a chance to talk to Mr. Park and that he could give me an update on the notebook. He’s had it nearly two weeks, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s just forgotten about it. But on Tuesday, Bertha tells me he’s out sick, and on Thursday, he’s still not back. Bertha says that it’s odd, because Mr. Park never gets sick. She can’t remember him being absent for more than a day or two in the ten years that she’s worked with him.

  Rick and I have made plans to see each other again. A real old-fashioned dinner date. I text him directions to my house, and we decide that he will pick me up on Friday at six o’clock.

  On Friday, I get stuck in late-afternoon traffic, so by the time I get home, it’s nearly five thirty. I rush into the house and notice Ahma’s purse at the bottom of the steps. She’s usually not home before six. I call to her, and she answers from her bedroom. I climb upstairs to let her know my plans for the evening and see that she herself is getting ready for a big night on the town. She is wearing designer jeans with stiletto heels, burgundy lipstick, and black eyeliner, and her hair is blown out and sprayed stiff. It is terrifying to see my mother look so vixenish.

  “A date?” I say.

  She nods.

  “Who is he?”

  “Nobody you know.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “Regular way.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Way people meet. Someone at work.”

  “What’s his name?”

  She pauses, and then she says, “Harold.”

  “Harold what?”

  She shrugs. “Don’t remember.” She brushes bronzer onto her temples and her cheekbones. “Saleslady said do this, looks healthy.”

  “You have on a lot of makeup.”

  “You like? Went to department store today. You can have it.” She gestures to a small makeup bag with sample-size lipstick and skincare products inside. Her free gift with the purchase of seventy-five dollars or more.

  “What does he do?”

  “Businessman.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Development. Condos.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “I have a date, too.”

  My mother looks as though I have sprouted wings and turned into the tooth fairy. “You?”

  “Can you believe it? Even me.”

  “Not that way.” She gestures to my outfit.

  “I’m going to get dressed,” I say. “What time is your date supposed to be here?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  She applies one more coat of lipstick and mashes her lips together. She walks over to the bed and sits down.

  “Mine, too.” I glance at the clock. Only thirty minutes before our dates arrive.

  I jump in the shower and shampoo and condition my hair. When I get out, I wrap it in a fluffy white towel while I throw on some jeans and a drapey gauzy blouse. I hope we don’t go somewhere too nice. I let loose my hair, which immediately soaks the back of my blouse. I quickly blot it somewhat dry and do my best to slick back stray hairs with pink gel that I find at the back of the bathroom cabinet behind all the blow-drying accoutrements that I compulsively buy but never use. I apply some mascara, a little lip gloss, and a touch of eyeliner. I step back. Not bad. Not as hip and sexy as Ahma—my jeans are Levi’s and I am wearing flat sandals—but okay. The doorbell rings. I glance at the clock. It’s six o’clock on the dot. I search for my heels. The doorbell rings again. I’ll have to answer the door. Ahma is practicing her “let man wait” routine. I run downstairs in
bare feet and open the door.

  The man standing before me is tall and thin with a disproportionately large, bald cranium and a broad, suspiciously ruddy forehead. He smiles, showing all his top teeth, the pointy canines touching his bottom lip like vampire fangs. He looks vaguely familiar, although I am certain we have never met.

  “Lotus Flower?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

  “What?”

  My mother tromps down the stairs, calling out irritably, “It’s for me.”

  The man looks momentarily confused, but after he gets a good eyeful of my mom in her skintight jeans and heels, his smile spreads so widely that his gums are overexposed.

  My mother grabs her purse and scowls at me. “Your date is late,” she hisses and then shuts the door quickly behind them. I peer out the peephole. Her date is not entirely bald. He has a few straggly clumps of hair at the base of his neck. It strikes me why he looks familiar. He looks like the marabou stork that I saw at the zoo on my date with Rick.

  Rick is late, but only by fifteen minutes. This gives me enough time to put on my shoes, reapply lipstick, and comb my hair properly. I’m still a bit miffed that Ahma’s date mistook me for her—sure, she looks good for her age, but she is nearly twenty-five years older than I am. I open the door. Rick is holding a bunch of assorted flowers. He is wearing a smile, khaki slacks, and the perfect casual blazer.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.” I’m not sure that the flowers are for me—although I can’t think of who else they would be for—until he practically shoves them into my arms. I rush around the house looking for a vase while Rick waits for me in the entryway.

  “You live here with your mom?”

  “Yes,” I call from the kitchen. I am searching for a vase in the cabinet underneath the sink, but all I find are extra jugs of dishwashing detergent, rubber gloves, and bleach.

  “Did you grow up in this house?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Nice home.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Cozy.”

  “Yeah.” I don’t find my house particularly cozy. It’s a standard suburban tract home. The layout of this house is just like all the others on the block.

  “Nice cul-de-sac,” he adds.

  “Yeah.” I give up trying to find a vase and dump the flowers in an empty soup pot that I fill with water. I grab my purse and join Rick.

  “Okay,” I say brightly. “Let’s go.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised when Rick pulls into the parking lot of La Chemise. Although Newport Beach is one of the most expensive places to live in the United States, the fine-dining options are somewhat limited. I glance around the large dining room, feeling woefully underdressed. I wonder if Ahma will show up with the marabou stork.

  “You don’t like this place,” Rick says as the waiter seats us at a corner booth with plush orange leather seats.

  “No, it’s fine. It’s very nice,” I say. “I’m just wondering if I’ll see my mom here.”

  Rick smiles good-naturedly. “Too stuffy?”

  “Oh no, I didn’t mean that at all,” I say. I tell him about the marabou stork and then mention Ahma’s outfit and her new makeup.

  “She sounds like a blast,” he says.

  I glare at him. “She’s my mom.”

  “You do want her to have a life,” he says.

  “Of course. Just not this kind of life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He is looking at me so earnestly, but I can’t begin to tell him. How can I explain what I mean? That I don’t want my mom to have to wear uncomfortable shoes at her age? That I don’t want her to be vulnerable to the compliments of a department store saleswoman? That I don’t want her to kiss men who look like vultures or call her Lotus Flower?

  “Nothing . . . I guess it’s just strange, that’s all.”

  “It’ll probably take getting used to. It’s hard to see your parents date again, from what I understand. Fortunately, there were no kids involved in my divorce.”

  The question looms over our table like a storm cloud heavy with rain, but I don’t dare ask him, and he doesn’t offer. Maybe he thinks I don’t want to have kids. Maybe he’s afraid that I do.

  The dinner at La Chemise is about what I expected, small portions covered in bland creamy sauces that somehow manage to be both filling and unsatisfying. Rick has ordered a bottle of wine, and that, on the other hand, is delicious. I make a deliberate effort not to fill the gaps in our conversation with nervous chatter, and every time the urge strikes, I take a sip of wine instead. Rick seems as comfortable with intervals of silence as he does with everything else.

  He insists on picking up the tab again, and I don’t argue, since I know that paying such a hefty bill would make me so resentful that it would undo any goodwill earned in paying it.

  “It’s really great to see you again,” he says once we are alone in his car. I have never been in a nicer car. The leather seats are so soft and smooth that I have to restrain myself from rubbing against them. The control panel looks like that of a space shuttle, with digital displays controlling everything from the temperature to the music that we are listening to.

  “It’s great to see you, too,” I say. My response sounds canned and tinny. My blouse suddenly feels too constricting, and I have the urge to open the windows but can’t figure out which button to push. He is saying something about seeing each other again when he gets back from his business trip, and I turn and look at him and then, somehow, I am kissing him, full on the mouth. The feeling of his lips against mine, being so close to another person, is incredible. It’s been a long time.

  “Do you want me to take you home?” he whispers as he kisses my ear.

  “To your home.”

  Traffic is light, and the drive takes only a few minutes on the freeway, and then up a winding road lined with flowering trees. His house is modern and beautiful, all lines and edges, with floor-to-ceiling windows that show off an amazing view of the ocean. A house in a magazine, and there he is, a man from a magazine, offering me a drink, which I decline. I don’t want to have any regrets. We sit on his tasteful leather couch, and when he turns to me, I don’t know why I feel so comfortable moving toward him, but I do. I reach under his shirt, and the physical chemistry is so strong that I understand now what it means to find someone irresistible.

  We move to the bedroom, and I’m relieved that there is no awkward moment where I have to remind him to use protection. He knows what to do, and he knows his way around a woman’s body, and I wonder if this is how it is supposed to be. Louis is my only other point of reference. Is this what I’ve been missing all these years?

  When I wake up, it is early morning, and his arms are still wrapped around me. I turn toward him and think, This is so perfect. So perfect that there is no way it can last.

  It is before six in the morning when I try to sneak into the house, but Ahma is already awake and emptying out the dishwasher.

  “I guess a good date,” she remarks.

  I remind myself that I am a thirty-nine-year-old woman. I tell myself this a couple more times before I muster enough courage to ask, “How was your date?”

  Her lips harden into a line, and her eyes turn down like a frown. “Nothing. Big zero.” She turns back to putting the dishes into the cabinet.

  I am halfway up the stairs when I muster up the courage to ask, “Ahma?”

  “What?”

  “Why did that guy think I was you?”

  “What?”

  “Why did he call me Lotus Flower?”

  My mom is silent for a long moment, and I walk back down the stairs so that I can see her expression when she answers.

  “Ahma?”

  “How do I know?” she asks irritably. She slams the dishwasher shut.

  Rick texts me later that day. Even though it’s Saturday, we both know without discussing it that we won’t see each other tonight. It would mean too much to see each other two nights in a row. It
would create too much pressure.

  That night, I dream that I am slowly walking down a dirt road alone. A vulture with a bleeding forehead is chasing me and I am trying to get away from it, but I am not walking quickly. I’m frightened, I can feel my heart racing, but I continue to walk at the same pace, simply because I am unable to move any faster. I feel the shadow of the vulture’s wings over me, and the brush of its feathers, when mercifully I awaken. Although it’s not hard to figure out where that nightmare came from, it troubles me so much that I am unable to get back to sleep. Finally, at five in the morning, I give up and log onto the computer.

  I stare at the Yahoo! home page for a long moment, wondering whether I am still asleep and that what I see before me is just a continuation of my nightmare. Instead of the advertisements for low-rate mortgages and secret health remedies that typically populate the right side of the page, I am looking at my own grinning digital image. My setmeup profile with the words Lonely? So is she is being used as an advertisement on the Yahoo! home page! There, for all the world to see, is my height, weight, and best-case scenario for a date: sushi and a movie. But that’s not the worst part. I realize to my horror that below the first ad is another one, with another setmeup profile and another caption—. . . or maybe you prefer . . .—followed by the digital image of an older Asian woman, aged fifty-three, five feet five and a slim 120 pounds. She likes nice cars, fancy French restaurants, and designer handbags. Her name? Lotus Flower.

  I can’t take my eyes off the image. It’s a picture of Ahma.

  How foolish of me to think that Ahma was meeting her dates at the gym! How so last century. No, not for this Modern Woman, rocking tight designer jeans and strappy stilettos. If Appa could see her now, he probably wouldn’t even recognize her.

  My anger doesn’t completely obscure my humiliation at my public exposure. How dare setmeup.com use my private information for their marketing purposes? And my mother! I can’t even imagine how she is going to feel when she finds out. I glance at the time displayed at the bottom of my computer screen. It is five thirty-eight. Ahma will be up in less than half an hour to lead her clients through weekend open houses. I pray that I can remove our profiles before anyone I know sees them. I log onto setmeup’s website. I scroll down to the bottom of the home page and click on “Contact us.” There is no phone number—only an email address. I click on help@setmeup.com and type the following message: