Like Wind Against Rock: A Novel

by Nancy Kim

  “But you were only eighteen when you met. How could you know then whether you’d want kids later?”

  “I know. It doesn’t make sense when I explain it. That’s probably why I never tried.”

  I’m the one crying now, and Janine puts an arm around my shoulder, and I lean my head against her, and we sit for a while in the twilight.

  “Are you still seeing him?” I finally ask, raising my head. “The guy I saw you with at the sushi place.”

  “Stephen?” She nods, and an irrepressible smile zips across her face. “You’re not mad, are you? Should I have asked you first? Did I break Rule Number Three?”

  “Of course not. You don’t need my permission. It’s my mom you should be asking. She’s the one who dated him, not me.”

  Janine looks at me, and a gnat flies into her open mouth. She spits it out and wipes her lips with the back of her hand.

  “Did he tell you that I dated him?”

  “He didn’t say anything. But when he saw you at Zen Sushi, he started to act funny. I thought maybe you’d met online. I asked him if he knew you, and he nodded and said he didn’t feel like talking about it.”

  “I don’t blame him,” I say, thinking of my mom’s hairy-bear description of him. “Do you like him?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I really do.”

  “Then good.”

  “But you don’t seem to be doing too poorly yourself. That guy was really good looking. Is that Rick? The guy you met for coffee?”

  I nod.

  “Do you like him?”

  I shrug. Janine looks disappointed, and I know that she thinks I’m keeping secrets from her again, which I am, in violation of Rule #1.

  “Have you two . . . ?”

  I look at her and smile. She laughs.

  “And?”

  “He’s too good looking and too rich.”

  “How awful for you.”

  “I know, but the thing is . . . there’s someone else. I just met him. His name is Victor.”

  “On setmeup?”

  “No. He’s the son of a guy I work with at the library.”

  “The son?”

  “The guy I work with is sort of old.”

  “How old is he?”

  “I don’t know, sixty or seventy or something. I can’t tell.”

  “No, his son!”

  “I don’t know, about twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-five!”

  “Wait, no, I think he’s twenty-six?”

  Janine purses her lips, widens her eyes, and raises her eyebrows.

  “I don’t mean it like that. We talked and understood each other in a weird way. I felt really comfortable with him. It was like being with Louis.”

  “So basically, you want to skip the exciting, passion-filled courtship phase and just go straight to the boring-ass marriage. Or why not just skip straight to the midlife crisis divorce?”

  “I could do that.”

  “What’s wrong with Rick, again?”

  “Nothing. Maybe that’s it. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s smart, he’s handsome, he’s polite. But he makes my palms sweat, and I can’t really relax around him because my heart is beating so hard. He throws me off and makes me feel awkward.”

  “You have a mad crush on him.”

  “It feels like stress.”

  “That’s how you’re supposed to feel when you’re attracted to someone.”

  “Then how come he doesn’t act that way around me?”

  “You think maybe he’s not into you because he doesn’t have sweaty palms?”

  I shrug. “Maybe he likes me okay. But I don’t think he’s crazy about me. Isn’t he supposed to be nervous around me? I mean, if he really liked me?”

  Janine shakes her head and then presses her palms to her temples like she has a horrible migraine. “He could just be that kind of guy. You know, the kind that knows how to handle himself? The kind that has his act together?”

  “The kind that isn’t super crazy about me?” I can feel my mouth turn down, like I’m going to cry again. Although I have never said it in so many words, Janine knows my biggest fear is ending up in a relationship without passion, like the one I saw growing up, like the only one I’ve ever had. “I guess I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what a good relationship is supposed to look like. Why does it always feel like you have to pick? Passion or stability? Romance or companionship?”

  “Hot sex or good conversation?”

  “Comfort or excitement?”

  “Lust or like?”

  “Friends or lovers.”

  “Joey or Chandler?”

  We look at each other and start laughing, and this makes us each laugh even harder, until both of us are laughing so hard that we are doubled over, tears rolling down our cheeks.

  “How old are we, anyway?” she asks. “Look at us. We’re nearly forty years old.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “And we still don’t know what we want. We haven’t changed all that much since seventh grade and Robbie.”

  “And look at him now. He’s the CEO of some big company.”

  “With four kids.”

  “Robbie has four kids? You never told me that!”

  “I didn’t want to upset you. His wife looks like a model, too.”

  “Who would have guessed in high school that this is where we’d be at forty?”

  “The question is,” she says, “where are we going to be at fifty?”

  “Hopefully not at El Toreador.”

  Ahma is talking on her cell phone at the kitchen table when I finally come inside. She acknowledges my existence with a glance and then continues talking. I open the fridge and peer inside, wondering whether there are any tasty leftovers. Ahma motions frantically to get my attention, flapping a hand like she is putting out a fire. She points to a foil-wrapped container on the counter. I nod. The bindaeduk is still warm. I take two of the mung bean pancakes and place them on a plate and pour a little soy sauce and white vinegar into a sauce bowl. I carry the plate and the bowl to the kitchen table. Ahma has already set the table for me with a pair of chopsticks, a paper towel thriftily torn in half, and a glass of water. I eat while she closes another deal. She hangs up the phone as I am taking my last bite of bindaeduk.

  “Want more?” she asks, getting up.

  “No, no! I’m full,” I say, patting my stomach. “It was really good.”

  “Not too spicy?”

  “No.”

  “Taste is better fresh.”

  “It was still warm.”

  “But soggy. You have to eat it fresh from pan. Do you want me to warm it up?”

  “No, it was good.” I used to resent my mom’s pushiness when it came to food, especially when I was in high school and on one of Janine’s Teen magazine diets. Now I try to accept it as her way of expressing maternal love.

  “Why you are late?”

  “I was talking to Janine. We were outside.”

  “How come didn’t come inside?”

  “She had to go somewhere. We didn’t mean to talk so long.”

  “She’s good friend. Longtime friend.”

  “Yeah. She is.”

  “Marry yet?”

  “No. But she’s dating someone.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Who were you talking to just now?”

  “Broker.”

  “Did you sell another house?”

  She nods. “Big house. Two million dollars.”

  “Wow!”

  Ahma looks pleased but allows herself only a hint of a smile. “Buyer want some free things. Free curtains. Free doormat. Two-million-dollars house and buyer want to save two hundred.” She shakes her head.

  “That must be some commission.”

  “I make more money now than your father.”

  “The housing market is good right now,” I say.

  “Up and down,” my mom says. “Never predict future. Even tomorrow. Maybe buyer change mind. Have
to be at office very early. Buyer from New York. Very rich.”

  “Good for him,” I say. “And for you.”

  “Not him. Rich lady. Young, too.”

  “Good for her.”

  “What does he do?” Ahma asks as she walks up the stairs.

  “Who?”

  “New boyfriend of your friend.”

  “Oh, him. I’m not sure. He’s some kind of doctor,” I say.

  “Good,” says Ahma. “She need doctor. Somebody take care of her.”

  I am tempted to tell her just who Janine’s doctor boyfriend is, but I bite my tongue. I have changed since the seventh grade, even if I’m not a CEO with four kids.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Some people think that there are no seasons in Southern California because the changes are subtle, the transitions smooth. In late September, the sun rises lazily and shines gradually rather than blazing boldly and brightly as it does in the summer. The days, although shorter, continue to be sunny and warm, but the mornings and evenings are cooler. I can finally wear my favorite sweater. A few trees change color, although many stubbornly remain green until they suddenly lose their leaves in December, like an old lady who manages to fool her neighbors with plastic surgery and then drops dead, revealing her true age. I can’t help thinking about death—and life—as I make my way through the late-morning commute to Restin. Death and life, life and death. Two ends of the same spectrum.

  The subject isn’t purely metaphysical. I am nearly three weeks pregnant.

  That’s technically incorrect. I’m probably five weeks pregnant, if you count it the weird way doctors do when they are trying to figure out the delivery date. I learned this online as I was researching all the possible reasons for missing a period: stress, obesity, low body weight, a thyroid issue. But the most common reason is pregnancy.

  Still, what were the odds of me getting pregnant? Rick and I are still seeing each other, but erratically, because he travels a lot for work. We had sex only once without a condom. It was early in the morning, and protection was not something either of us was thinking about. Anyway, I am almost forty years old. That means I am of “advanced maternal age,” and even if I were trying, it would be highly unlikely. But I bought a home pregnancy test anyway, feeling foolish and half expecting to get my period while I was in line waiting to pay for it. I was sure my body was just overreacting to the newly awakened sensation of being with a man, but then I saw the second blue line creep across the window.

  I haven’t told anyone. Not my mom or Rick when he called last night. It’s still early. Anything can happen.

  I park next to Bertha’s PT Cruiser. I glance inside as I lock my car door. The interior is immaculate, like a brand-new car. No loose tissues on the floor or empty water bottles on the back seat. The outside of her car looks newly washed and gleams, not like mine, with its dirty windows and the white bird droppings that have hardened like plaster on the roof. I don’t see Mr. Park’s Prius in the parking lot.

  Bertha and Elaine are both busy at their computers. Bertha is checking her personal email, and Elaine is buying clothes online.

  “Two dates for this weekend,” Bertha says to me triumphantly. “I am soooo glad that you told me about this website. What about you?”

  Although I am happy for her, I am not crazy about the competitive side that has emerged now that she thinks we are dipping into the same pool of available men.

  “Nothing,” I say. I haven’t told her about Rick or that I’ve taken down my setmeup profile. She squelches a smile but manages to knit her eyebrows into a semblance of sympathy. I suddenly feel very light headed. I sit down and close my eyes. The room spins. I lay my head on my desk.

  “Are you okay?”

  I turn and open my eyes. At first, I am not sure what I am looking at. A brown marble, or is it a bug with black legs? Then my vision clears like a lens being adjusted, and I realize that it is a makeup-smudged brown eye belonging to Bertha.

  “Are you okay?”

  Bertha is bent over, her face less than an inch from mine. Elaine is standing behind her.

  “Did I just pass out?”

  “I’m not sure. If so, it was only for a second.”

  I stand up and then sit back down. My head is spinning.

  “I just . . . haven’t had anything to eat . . .”

  A scone magically appears in front of me. I take a bite. I guess I really am hungry. I polish it off. I start to feel much better.

  “Thanks for the scone. I think I just had low blood sugar.”

  “It happens,” Bertha says.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Victor, from Nicaragua. We have been texting regularly. I’m kind of a spy for him. I give him regular updates on how his father is doing to reassure him. He texts Mr. Park, too, of course, but it’s not the same as seeing him. When his father doesn’t answer the phone or respond to his texts immediately, Victor imagines the worst. I guess I would, too, after what happened.

  Worried about Dad again. Can you please check on him?

  Of course.

  Thanks. I owe you.

  No problem.

  “I have to go talk to Mr. Park about something,” I say. “Do you know where he is?”

  “He’s not in today,” Bertha says.

  “Where is he?”

  “He wasn’t feeling well, so he stayed home today. He’s probably checking email.”

  I think about Victor’s text. What if Mr. Park isn’t okay?

  “I’m not feeling great myself.” I clear my throat and cough carefully. “Something might be going around.”

  Bertha scoots her chair, just barely, away from me. “Maybe you better go home if you aren’t feeling well.”

  “Yeah. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  I remember that I have to drive through downtown Restin, but I’m not as confident about the rest of the way to Mr. Park’s house. I guide myself using the crinkled piece of paper with Victor’s handwriting on it, glad that I saved it in the glove compartment instead of throwing it away. I remember following his green car, and Victor checking in his rearview mirror to make sure that I wasn’t held up by a red light, and pulling over to the side of the road to wait for me when I got cut off by another car.

  I take a turn up one of the hills right off Main Street and follow the gentle curves. I pray that I am not too late. I turn a corner, and then I see it. The cozy wooden porch with the river rock chimney and the flagstone walkway. I see both Mr. Park’s Prius and Victor’s Subaru parked in the driveway. I pull up to the curb in front of the house and rush up the walkway.

  I was so preoccupied with finding my way here, and so worried that Mr. Park might have harmed himself, that I didn’t have a chance to think about what I would say to him. When he opens the door, I can only stare at him.

  “Mrs. Markson,” he says, looking alarmed.

  “You’re okay,” I say, equally surprised. Then I quickly add, “Actually, it’s Ms. Chang. My divorce is going to be finalized in a couple of weeks.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. Then, uncertainly, “It’s a pleasant surprise to see you.”

  “Are you . . . is everything okay?”

  Mr. Park looks at me. “Why do you ask?”

  “I—I was just concerned when you didn’t come in to work today and . . .”

  The skeptical look on his face makes me stop and confess, “Okay, Victor asked me to check on you. He texted me from Nicaragua. But he didn’t ask me to check on you at home, just check on you at work, but then you didn’t come in to work, and so that made me panic—”

  “I shouldn’t have worried him. Or you.”

  “I just wanted to make sure, because I promised him.”

  “So, you’ve been communicating with my son often?” He says the words slowly, deliberately.

  “We text.”

  He frowns slightly.

  “He’s just concerned about you, that’s all. He wanted me to make sure you were okay, since he’s not
here.”

  “Do you plan to stay in touch?”

  I am not sure what he means by this. Is he going somewhere?

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “Are you?”

  “I mean with my son.”

  “I-I guess so.”

  “You seem to have hit it off. He seems to be quite fond of you as well.”

  “Victor’s great,” I say. “We seem to understand each other. Too bad he’s in Nicaragua. I think we’d be hanging out all the time. We probably will when he gets back.”

  He is staring at me and standing very still.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  He blinks, and I wonder if he is about to have a heart attack. I brace myself, ready to catch him if he falls.

  “I have to tell you something that might come as a bit of a shock to you,” he says. “I know it came as quite a big shock to me.” He stares at me for a very long moment. Then he opens the door wider to invite me inside.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Alice, formerly Markson but now Chang, follows me into the house, and I motion for her to sit down on the leather chair. When the doorbell rang, I thought it might be Walt Moroney from down the street, returning the rake he borrowed earlier in the week. The last person I expected was Alice Chang.

  “Would you like some tea?” I’d made a fresh pot and had just settled with a nice cup of sencha into the very seat in which she is now sitting when the doorbell rang.

  I am playing hooky from work today. I planned to indulge in a day devoted to drinking tea and reading a historical novel. At my age, it’s important to take whatever pleasures I can. I was feeling rather despondent this morning, and the idea of work overwhelmed me. In the past, I would have chided myself for my self-pity and gone into the office anyway. But given everything that’s happened, I have resolved to be kinder to myself, to indulge my needs once in a while.

  “Sure, I would love some tea. Thank you,” Alice says. Her eyes dart around the room, and she looks young, which has more to do with her manner than anything else.