by Nancy Kim
I bring back a cup of green tea from the kitchen and hand it to her. She thanks me and cradles it between her hands without taking a sip. She sits and waits expectantly. I seat myself on the couch next to the leather chair.
“You and my son seem to have a special connection.”
She looks at me and slowly turns red.
“I don’t mean to embarrass you.”
“He’s very nice, but there’s nothing going on between us, if that’s what you mean.”
“Things have a way of changing. What you think is one thing can shift into something else.”
“And you want to make sure that doesn’t happen?”
“You misunderstand me.”
She looks surprised. “Then you want me to get together with him?”
“No!”
“Then?”
“Please do not take it personally. It’s simply that . . . it can never happen.”
She looks at me, visibly annoyed and then puzzled.
“I have to tell you something,” I say, “but I am not sure how you will react. I must tell you so that you will understand.”
She takes a slow sip of tea and then nods.
“Victor is your brother. Your half brother.”
She laughs. “You’re joking, right?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“How do you know?” she asks, and then her eyes widen.
I nod. “Your father had a love affair with Crystal River, my wife. It’s in his notebook.”
I tell her about the yearslong affair between her father and my wife, how they met in Korea and then again in Los Angeles. I keep it as brief as possible, sparing her unnecessary particulars. There is no need to tell her about the first time her father got Crystal River pregnant, when they were teenagers in Korea. But I must tell her about the second time, and how my wife’s pregnancy ended their affair and gave me a son. I try unsuccessfully to control the bitterness in my voice, a bitterness that reveals what I do not say: They never stopped loving each other.
“Did my father know she had Victor? Did they see each other again?” she asks. “I want to know everything.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, but I know what she means. She wants to understand the unfathomable. I have felt this same desire, and that is why I am certain that she does not really want to know everything. She does not want to know about their youthful meetings, their assignations in hotels, his dreams of my wife. She does not want to know about her father’s regret or his disappointment with his life. She does not want to know about the passion he had for my wife, or the cruel thoughts he harbored about her and her mother. In the darkest hours of the night, my words would haunt her; they would eventually destroy her the way her father’s words almost destroyed me.
“Who ended their affair?” she asks. I know what she means: Did he choose us over her? But I can neither lie to her nor tell her the truth.
“Your questions have no answers,” I say. “They will only lead to more questions. It is better that I tell you nothing more.”
She nods, frowning slightly. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, sitting very still, immobile except her facial features, which now shift as her thoughts race through her mind, each thought altering her expression like one frame clicking seamlessly into the next to create a narrative arc. Her mother’s unhappiness, her father’s detachment, the starved marriage they must have had. My suicide attempt, the bond between her and Victor. The genetic recognition that she might have mistaken for compatibility or intimacy.
“Are you okay?” I finally ask.
“This explains a lot.”
“You understand now why I didn’t want to translate the notebook? And why I need to tell you now?”
She nods. “Does anyone else know?”
“No.”
“Not even Victor?”
I shake my head.
“Do you plan to tell him?”
“I don’t know.” After a moment I add, “Do you?”
She shakes her head. “No. That is your secret to tell.” She adds, almost matter-of-factly, “I don’t think it will make a difference to him.”
She means that Victor will not care that I am not his biological father. I know that what she is saying is probably true. I know this in my head, but I am not sure I know this in my heart.
We listen to the birds chirping. The hum of the refrigerator.
“I have a secret of my own. Do you want to hear it?” she asks after a while. I don’t say anything, but she tells me anyway. “I’m pregnant.”
“Pregnant?”
“You’re the first person I’ve told,” she says. She notices the look on my face and smiles despite herself. “Don’t worry. It’s not Victor’s.”
I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. “Then, your ex-husband’s?”
She shakes her head. “Someone else.”
“You haven’t told him?”
She shakes her head. “I guess I want to figure out what I want to do first. I’ve always wanted to have kids, but my husband—my ex-husband—couldn’t have any. And I don’t want to rush into anything with Rick—he’s the guy—just because I want to have kids. Plus, I haven’t even decided whether I want to keep it. But this might be my last chance to be a mother.”
“Do you think you could be a good mother?”
“Yes. I think so. I want to be. But I’m not sure how I would do it without being with him. Being a single parent sounds so hard. And I don’t even have my own place. I live with my mom . . .”
“Will your mother want to have a baby in the house?” Although I have never met Alice’s mother, I have great compassion for her. We have so much in common, and I do not wish her to suffer anymore.
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I stand and walk into the kitchen with the pretense of freshening my cup of tea. I need to think without being distracted by her anxious presence. I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in opportunity. Just yesterday, I received another newsletter from HANA, the nonprofit in Hawaii that I have been donating to for years. The ad for an archivist was still listed. It has been over forty years since I was last in Hawaii, that long since I saw my own parents. Crystal River had created a rift so deep that by the time I admitted to myself that my parents were right, years had passed. But it is never too late to go home.
I return, carrying my replenished cup of tea. “You can stay here.”
“Where?”
“In this house. If you want.”
“With you?”
“No. As much as I like babies, I can’t stand to hear them cry. Especially at three in the morning.”
“Where would you go?”
“Back home. To Hawaii. While both my parents are still alive. They are very old.”
“Will you come back?”
“Probably. It’s likely. But nothing is certain.”
“I appreciate this, but I need to think about it. I’m not sure I could—it’s quite generous . . .” Her voice trails off, and I suspect that she is wondering how much I would charge for rent.
“It’s your choice. You can stay here, whether you decide to keep the baby or not. I need someone to house-sit, that’s all. Unfortunately, I could not pay you. It is a lot to ask of you, and all I could do in return is provide you with a place to stay. But I need somebody to take care of the house while I am away. Somebody needs to water the hydrangeas.”
She shakes her head. “It’s so incredibly generous of you.”
“You would be doing me a tremendous favor.”
“Are you kidding? This is my dream house.”
“Then it’s the least I can do for the half sister of my son.”
She sits quietly, thinking. Imagining, perhaps, the many paths her life could take. Finally, she says, “I feel like I’m forcing you to leave your own house.”
“No,” I say. “You are giving me an opportunity that I have been too timid and unimaginative to take. You are giving me the chance to restart my life.”
“Then it’s a chance for us both.”
After Alice leaves, I remember something. I walk into Victor’s bedroom, which has remained virtually unchanged since he left. I had packed some of his things in boxes. He didn’t have much. His bed is made and his books are still on the bookshelf. I peer underneath his bed. It is dark and I can’t see anything. I get on my knees and feel around with my hands. I scrape my fingers on a surface rougher than sandpaper. I pull out the lava rock. It is heavier than I remember and looks bigger, too, as though it has grown with the passage of time. I carry it to the kitchen, where I set it down on the table. I rinse my hands underneath the tap water and then apply antiseptic while I call the airline and make reservations. I will go to Kona first, to return the rock, before heading home.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The morning sickness has subsided somewhat, but my body is still uncomfortable. I see myself in the mirror, and what I see is both the same and different, like everything else in my world. What I thought I knew turns out to be . . . not wrong, but incomplete.
I remember the morning when the tow truck came for my father’s Audi, and how my mother had tossed his belongings for curbside trash pickup. I mistook my mother’s actions for disloyalty, for coldness. Now I understand her abbreviated mourning period differently—her new job, her new wardrobe, her dates. Instead of spending the rest of her days steeped in regret, she is reclaiming the narrative of her life, changing its meaning by changing its ending.
And Victor. The instant connection. The trust we felt. The familiarity that I might have mistaken for something more if it hadn’t been for Rick, who showed me what it feels like to have someone light your fire. I understand that now, too.
I have a sibling. A brother. I am no longer an only child. I am not quite sure what that will mean, but I know it will at least mean that Victor, and Mr. Park, will always be part of my life in some way. And part of my baby’s life, because I have decided to continue my pregnancy.
I have thought about this for weeks, uncertain of the right thing to do. What kind of a mother will I be? How will I manage when I can barely manage taking care of myself? But stronger than all these worries is my desire. I want this baby, so much that I wonder whether I have ever really wanted anything before in my life. The questions I ask myself are not ones that I can answer now. Instead, I must trust myself, believe that I can do this, because this is my life, and it is time I started to live it. Maybe it’s not the life or the family that I thought I would have—or that I thought I did have—but it is the life and the family that I want. It is like solving a puzzle that I have been trying to figure out my entire life, and it is only now, after the last piece has clicked into place, that I can see the whole picture clearly. This strange new world has helped me make sense of the old one. This strange new world makes more sense than the old one.
I am going to have a baby. The thought of it still astonishes me. Even though I have not yet told Rick that I am pregnant.
Rick has to work late, so we agree to meet at the Thai restaurant near the beach. I have resolved to tell him tonight. When he sees me, he gives me a quick kiss hello on the lips. I feel light headed and regret not having had a more substantial snack before meeting him. I have gained seven pounds since our first date and wonder whether he notices, but then I think, Of course he must notice. I self-consciously tug on my shirt to cover my expanding rear. The hostess seats us at a small table in the back, where it is quiet. The waitress brings over glasses of water. I gulp mine down gratefully. My hands are clammy and trembling, and I clasp them in my lap so that Rick won’t notice.
“It’s so nice to be back home,” he says. “It never fails. Whenever I come back from a business trip, I appreciate how lucky I am to call this place home.” He waves his hand around, meaning the beaches and the weather outside, and not the bamboo furniture and the dim lighting inside the restaurant. He reaches over and takes my hand, which is damp and limp.
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt. This is not the best way to break the news to him, but I feel my resolve slipping away. If I don’t jump into the cold pool of confession, I am afraid I’ll chicken out.
He looks at me with a slight smile on his face, which fades away when he realizes that I’m serious.
“And it’s yours,” I add, just in case he is thinking of saying something hurtful.
“Are you sure?”
“That it’s yours?”
“That you’re pregnant.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back his hand. “I’m just surprised. But I guess it only takes one time.”
We sit in sullen silence. I’m not sure whether he’s angry at me or whether I’m angry at him. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
“For what? Getting me pregnant?”
The waitress appears at our table and patiently waits for our order. We randomly pick something, and she leaves.
He takes a long sip of water, and I resist the urge to rest my head on the tablecloth and fall into dark unconsciousness.
“So what are you going to do?” he asks.
We exchange a long look. I can’t tell by his expression whether he is hopeful or afraid, or of what he might be hopeful or afraid.
Finally, I say, “This might be my last shot. I’m almost forty.”
He nods. “This could be the last shot for me, too.”
“Hardly. It’s different for men.”
“Not really. Haven’t you read those articles about the risks of aging men’s sperm?”
“Listen, you don’t have to feel obligated. I’m perfectly capable of raising a child on my own.”
He nods, his face a blank. I am totally lying, and he knows it.
“I don’t think we should rush into anything,” I say.
“It’s a little late for that.”
“Okay. But you know what I mean.”
“You don’t want to rush into a relationship, but you want to have a child together,” he says.
“It sounds like you don’t want that.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then you want me to have this kid but not be together?”
“Is that what you want?” His tone is even, and I can’t read his expression. His demeanor is as calm and cool as ever. Neither of us is willing to show our cards, but he is doing a much better job of hiding his. Maybe he is fine with having a baby. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be stuck with me. Or maybe he doesn’t want me to continue the pregnancy. Maybe he does but wants nothing to do with a baby or me.
But then I see what, if we were playing poker, would be his tell. His right thumb is nervously flicking his right index finger. Flick, flick, flick. Now I know that he is as uncertain and confused as I am. I feel a little better.
“No. I don’t want to rush into anything . . . but I do want to have this baby. Other than that, I don’t know.” How could I know when we haven’t known each other very long?
“We can see how things go,” he says. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I do know that I like spending time with you.”
“I don’t want you to feel like we or you or I have to . . .”
“I know. And we don’t, either of us, have to do anything or be in anything that we don’t want to be in, especially since we’ve both just gotten out of long-term relationships.”
“So what are you saying?” I ask.
“What I’m saying is, I don’t think we have to know everything right now, do we? We can just see how it goes.” Flick, flick, flick.
I let my breath out slowly, not realizing until then that I have been holding it. Like a valve, his words relieve the pressure that I have been carrying since our first date, a pressure whose origin I haven’t until now understood. I don’t have to know how this story will end in order to begin it. I think of Ahma, who had thought of her life as one thing and then discovered it was something else entirely. The ending is not at all what
she expected, but she can make it one that she wants.
“But there is something that I am going to ask for,” he says. “If you are going to have this baby, our baby, then I want to participate. I want the chance to be a father. Even if you decide that you don’t want me for your husband.” As he speaks, he looks right into my eyes with such a serious expression that I feel a funny sensation deep in my stomach, as though the earth has suddenly dropped away, then quickly shifted back into place to catch me. I suddenly have the urge to run my fingers through his hair and wrap my legs around him.
“So, one step at a time,” I say.
He nods. “One step at a time.”
My conversation with Rick has given me enough courage to finally tell Ahma that I am pregnant. When I do, she just stares at me as though she is trying to read my lips.
“Who’s father?” she asks, after a long moment.
“You don’t know him.”
“You get marry?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in the future. Maybe not.”
Rick offered to let me move into his beautiful house, but that doesn’t feel right. It would be too easy to slip into something then, too hard to leave. I don’t know what will happen with us, only that we have decided to remain in each other’s lives. There is no road map for what we are doing, only the next step in whatever direction makes the most sense and feels right.
Ahma takes a sharp sip of air, and then she starts to cry. I was not expecting that. I was prepared for her to get angry, to call me all sorts of nasty names. But I was not expecting her to cry.
“You keep baby?” she finally asks. I nod. She’s always wanted me to have kids, but not like this. Still, I have to move forward with my life and stop paying for my parents’ unhappiness with my own. She may not understand my decision, but I hope that she will forgive me for it.
She sits quietly for a very long time, and I am too upset to move. I think that if I try to stand, my bones will crumble to dust.
“Good,” she whispers. “Almost too late for you.”
I turned forty the week before. It was a quiet celebration. Just dinner and cake with my mom and Janine, who had come over to share her good news. She had just gotten engaged to Stephen.