Yolk

by Mary H. K. Choi

  “Ingrid,” she says, placing her hand on her chest. “We don’t really know each other, but we also do. I see you all the time near my apartment. You must go to fashion school. I can tell because your eyeliner’s always perfect.”

  “Thanks.” I’m overcome that I’m not anonymous to her. That she likes my eyeliner. That she’s collected me in some way too. “I love your clothes. The monochrome always pops in a crowd.”

  She smiles warmly.

  Her dog sneezes. “Christ Almighty, Duffy, bless you.” She hugs him close to her chest.

  So, it’s Ingrid and Duffy. I remember now, how I’d seen the dog with the lilac cowboy hat outside. How she and her dog have always foretold good things.

  “His allergies are insufferable today. Cranky old man.” She shakes her head. “So, are you one of ours?”

  “Um.” I nod slowly. “I guess I am.”

  “Uch.” She pats my hand. “The beginning’s the worst,” she says. “But keep coming back. I was a gutter, gutter bulimic. Worst of the worst. I’m still crazier than a treeful of cockatiels, but I’ll tell you what—you’re only as sick as your secrets. The second you talk about it, fffffffft.” She blows a raspberry and waggles her fingers into the air. “It all starts to get a little better. Humans need to share their darkest parts. Unburdening makes you closer to everyone. There’s that thing that all addicts have, that you’re a piece of shit in the center of the universe. That everybody’s obsessed with the ways you fall short. But the truth is, we all have the same, boring problems. Sometimes the best thing you can do is talk about it. It makes no sense, but glory if it doesn’t work like a charm.

  “Oh,” she says, plucking a pen from the knot at the nape of her neck and pulling a note card from a pocket. “What’s your number, dear? I’ll call you. I don’t text, I’m old school, but I’ll call you since you’re new.”

  I’m equal parts suspicious and flattered. I consider faking her out but don’t. I’m so curious about what she’ll say. She writes her number and tears off a corner of the card and hands it to me. With a sky-piercing “I” and a decadent swooping “G,” her penmanship is exquisite.

  “Good luck, dear.” She slides the pen back into her hair. “Keep coming back. This is the only place that will help you. Don’t go floating off to Tahiti and think it’s a cure. It doesn’t work—I can tell you from experience. Florida doesn’t work, either.” She laughs at this. “Anyway, we’ll always be here.”

  Her surprisingly warm hand pats mine again before she opens the door and lets herself back in.

  As I walk toward June’s, I realize I’m hungry. When I cross Union Square, there’s a small protest, for universal healthcare. I think about the person with the van. Wonder whether they got their kidney. I pass by work. All the winking trinkets in the display window that I only know now don’t make for a home.

  I have wasted my entire life focusing on the wrong things and the wrong people. I don’t know how it came to be that I believed changing everything about me would change the way people treated me.

  I thought a polished appearance and stellar behavior would be the passport to belonging. And when I inevitably failed at perfection, I could at least willfully do everything in my power to be kicked out before anyone left me.

  I duck into a narrow sandwich shop. It’s been a fixture since 1929 and features a lunch counter where I’ve always wanted to eat. There are black-and-white framed pictures all over the walls and a nice man who wants to know what I’m having. Until I establish a usual, I order a matzo ball soup.

  I text Ivy and tell her I’m thinking about her. I ask her how she’s doing. I realize how superstitiously I believed that if I just got away from her, I’d stop. That maybe we both would. I tried to blame her for everything when all she did was remind me of the ugliest parts of me.

  When my food arrives, it’s beautiful. Golden and steaming. The soft mound of matzo a gift. I take a picture and send it to Patrick.

  I eat my New York meal in a New York restaurant all by myself.

  When I’m done, I say a small prayer to be willing to keep the soup I’ve eaten. I pray that I’ll get healthy. That my mangled body will be restored. I speak the words in my mind with sincerity and hope. I don’t know if it works, but if it doesn’t, I know where I’ll go. I know who to call.

  chapter 47

  When I get back to June’s, there’s a twentysomething curly blond dude with a tool belt getting ready to leave.

  “Hi,” I tell him, surprised, shooting a questioning look at my sister. There’s a bookcase right in the middle of her living room.

  “TaskRabbit,” says June, and thanks him.

  We watch as he laces up his boots. I have so many questions and thoughts. He takes what feels like eleven minutes to put on his shoes.

  “Thank you,” we say in unison. June widens her eyes at me. Seriously, sometimes it’s like white people pretend they haven’t had to take their shoes off in years.

  “Ta-da!” she says brightly once he’s gone, walking me over to the white shelving grid. “Okay, so from here…”—she taps the far side of the shelf and walks around to the back of the couch—“to here…”—she glances at me to make sure I’m paying attention—“is your room.”

  I’m speechless.

  She points at the TV on the wall. “Obviously, the Samsung’s not yours, but you can use it occasionally. And we can get a pull-out couch if that makes more sense. I don’t care what the fuck you put on the shelves.”

  I think of all the versions of home I’ve mood-boarded over the years, and this is somehow my favorite.

  “Thank you.” I hear my voice thickening.

  She waves this off, and when she sits on the love seat to avoid sitting on my “bed,” the heavy droplet threatening to spill over my left eye quavers. I brush it away quickly and sniff hard. “I take it the view is mine, too?”

  “Just as far as the edge of the couch.”

  I sit beside her and she turns to me. “So, how was it?”

  “A whole lot of God talk.”

  “Yikes. What flavor of God?”

  “More of a Build-A-Bear, Choose Your Own Adventure kind of God.”

  “Is it a cult?”

  “Yeah, but there’s no leader. It’s like an independent-study cult where your homemade God helps you learn about your feelings.”

  “So, it’s a small cult.”

  I think about my talk with Patrick. About cults and families and the secrets and stories that bind strangers together.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you feel better?”

  I consider Ingrid. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Good.” She sighs heavily and gets up. “Gotta change my tampon.”

  She winces when she returns, doubled over slightly. “I wish every muscle in my body would give it a fucking rest.”

  That’s when I remember. I go into June’s hallway closet for my suitcase. I grab my crushed pack of cigarettes and slide out the half-smoked, vintage joint.

  “Yo, you want to get high?”

  “With you?” She sits back on the sofa.

  “Sure,” I falter. “Or you could just have it. For your period or whatever.”

  “Spark that shit.” June points over at the stove.

  I light it carefully, making sure the dried-out paper doesn’t completely catch, and hand it to her first. “I don’t know how old this shit is,” I warn, walking back into the kitchen to grab a plate.

  “There’s an ashtray in my sock drawer.” I don’t all the way believe her until my hand lands on a hard corner. Sure enough, there is. And, shockingly, it’s a Supreme ashtray.

  I hand it to her.

  “Old weed, new weed. I wouldn’t know the difference. I was always too scared to try. Like, I’m paranoid enough as it is.”

  She holds the joint tentatively to her lips. She takes a baby puff and holds her breath. She exhales carefully, eyeing the smoke as if to check that it’s working. “You know, I didn’t mean to say, ‘Wi
th you?’ earlier. Like, as if I didn’t want to smoke with you. I was more surprised that you’d want to smoke with me.”

  “Can I ask you something?” The weed is pleasingly scratchy in my throat.

  June nods as I hand it back. “Sure.”

  “Why didn’t you want to hang out with me when I moved here?”

  “Um.” June plants the joint in the ashtray with such force that embers fly. “Excuse me, I called you twice when you came. I had to buy you a bed just to get you to talk to me.”

  “But you never want to hang out. You called out of obligation and I’m grateful for the bed, but it’s like, that’s such an older sister duty move. That’s basically to look good to Mom.”

  June reels back, an incredulous look on her face. “Oh my God. Lastborns are the worst. That is not why anything! Oh!” She stabs the sky triumphantly. “You hid from me.”

  “What? When?” Fuck, I already know what’s she’s going to say.

  “Union Square subway, by the 4/5/6. Maybe a year ago.” She shoulders into me and laughs. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

  I try to keep a straight face but can’t. The weed keeps dissolving all the edges of my feelings.

  “You, like, leapt.” She jerks up dramatically with little bunny hands in front of her. “Behind a trash can or something. I saw you. I was late to a meeting and so annoyed, but I should have stopped just to embarrass you in front of all the cool New York commuters.”

  “It was a harp. I hid behind a guy with a harp.”

  “That shit hurt my feelings,” she says, still smiling but less so.

  I can’t believe she saw me.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her and mean it. “I’m sorry for all of it. I’m sorry that you couldn’t rely on me when mom was gone. I’m sorry I was such an asshole to you in school. I’m sorry that I didn’t help you when everyone was being a dick about your period.”

  She shrugs. “You had your own shit.” June clears her throat. “Siri, play the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack,” she calls out. The Des’ree song comes on. It’s perfect. I recall the fish tank scene in the movie. Baby-faced Leo in his chain mail and Claire with her half-pony and raver-girl angel wings gazing longingly at each other, separated by glass. It’s so weird to me that June’s never seen this movie and how I have no idea what she pictures when this song comes on.

  “It’s amazing that either of us made it out of there when I think about it.” June picks up the joint and relights it at the stove. “We both suffered,” she croaks, walking back. June hands it over, eyes narrowed. “I was such a nerd. And you…” A plume of smoke obscures her face. “Were such a chink slut.”

  I laugh—truly laugh—when she says that, and she cracks up so hard she starts coughing.

  “You know, I bought one of those Japanese paint markers and covered it over before I left.” She holds her fist in the air and mimes a box. “Made a big-ass square and blacked it out.”

  There’s a knot of pressure at my sternum. “Really?”

  “You didn’t see it?”

  I shake my head. “I never went back into that stall.”

  “Wait,” she turns to me suddenly. “So, you did fuck Patrick?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, it’s just where my brain went when we were talking about what a gigantic slut you are.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Did you tell him about everything? About what’s going on with me?”

  “God, no.” I shake my head solemnly. “I would never.”

  “Okay.” Her face relaxes. “It would just be weird if he knew and Mom and Dad didn’t.”

  “Of course. It’s not my story to tell.”

  “It is, though, I guess.” She yawns. “Partially.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” I assure her.

  “Okay, so what does his body look like? Can you count his ribs from the front, or is he, like, stealth jacked?”

  “I’m not fucking telling you.”

  She beams. “But you like him?”

  “I like him.”

  “Fantastic. Now get me a glass of water.”

  I roll my eyes and get up.

  “Don’t drink from it first,” she calls out.

  I hand it to her.

  “Thank you,” she says, and drinks thirstily and sets it down next to the ashtray. “You want to know why I really got fired?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This.” She holds the white ashtray up. “I stole this from my boss.” She shakes her head, smiling at the memory. “He was such a sexist, racist asshole. I knew layoffs were coming and it wasn’t a secret that he hated me.” June shrugs. “So, I took it. He searched everywhere. He was so fucking pissed. He knew I had it but couldn’t prove it. And you know what? It was fucking worth it.”

  I stare at the ceramic prize. June is the strangest person I know and quickly becoming my favorite.

  “It’s why they call me Selina,” she says proudly. “As in, Selina Kyle. Catwoman. Nobody could figure out how I did it. I’m a fucking legend.”

  chapter 48

  The day of the surgery, I get up before her. It’s the middle of the night, but I eat a quick breakfast of rice with hot water poured over the top and pickles. That’s what Cruella told me to do, make an action plan to eat and follow it. June can’t eat, and I don’t want to be hungry and distracted if I need to pay attention while she’s under. She can’t worry about me.

  We take a car over to the hospital in silence.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask her. She’s watching the predawn city through the window.

  “I’m fucking sad,” she says.

  I squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

  We check in at a desk that’s called the concierge, and it doesn’t feel like a hotel no matter how state-of-the-art fancy the cancer building is. The overhead lighting is a buzzkill. And you’ll never get rid of that smell. That sanitized, deloused smell. We’re told that we’ll be going to the pre-surgical center for examination and that I’m not allowed to be in the surgery, which makes sense, and frankly, I’m a little relieved.

  We’re reminded that the surgery would take only three hours, but that my sister can stay the night if she wants. As long as she’s out ten minutes before her twenty-four hours is up, we won’t be charged thousands more.

  Every time I glance over at her, I’m struck with the thought that I might never see her again. That we’re arriving together, but that she might not leave. I have her overnight bag by my side, along with her ugly fuzzy pajamas from Mom. We’ve been shown pictures of the room she’ll stay in. It’s decorated to look like a decent-to-nice motel for business travelers with this ash-colored fake-wood paneling covering a wall, but I still can’t imagine her there. June doesn’t make sense in hospitals.

  We’re led to a changing area. It looks, unnervingly, like any old dressing room in a strip mall store. She’s told to remove any jewelry.

  “Will you stay?” she asks me in a small voice. I nod. “Of course.”

  She’s given two paper gowns and a box for her possessions. She hands me her phone. I put it in my pocket. This is the wrongest part by far. My sister sleeps with her phone under her pillow. That she won’t have it with her is so unnatural and scary.

  I open up my phone, and when I see her face icon hovering over mine in the exact location of the hospital, the squeezing in my chest gets tighter.

  We don’t talk as I wait for her to change.

  “These are pretty cool,” she says, wriggling her feet in socks with little rubber grips. “They’re probably like two hundred bucks a pop.” She grins, but when we’re told she has to have an IV put in, we both stop smiling.

  We’re taken to a waiting area in what seems like a warren of different waiting areas. There’s a stretcher in there, but she’s told she can wait in the recliner for the moment.

  I concentrate so as not to look down at my own name on her tag. I’m trying so hard to be chill, which means I’m smiling often and unnatural
ly. They keep calling her Jayne.

  I can’t bring myself to look at the stretcher. I hate it so much.

  Her vitals are taken. Blood drawn. She’s being hammy, in that June way. Cracking jokes and being affable, putting everyone at ease, and I almost want to strangle her. To demand that she pay attention to what’s going on. To understand what a big deal this is. That it’s November 19. That it’s finally happening.

  A super-short, smooth-skinned Black woman with wide-set eyes and distractingly good brows comes to see us, immediately followed by an equally diminutive Asian woman with freckles. They’re both wearing thick-framed tortoiseshell glasses, and I wonder if there’s a story behind the matching eyewear.

  “Jayne,” says the first woman to my sister. “How are you feeling?”

  June exhales and says, “Okay.”

  The doctor extends her hand to me. Her palm is cold but soft. “I’m Dr. Ellington, Jayne’s surgical oncologist. Your sister tells me that I’ll be coming to speak to you afterward.”

  “Yes,” I croak, and then clear my throat. “Yes,” I repeat. I’m already feeling like a disappointment. That she was expecting a real adult, a more convincing advocate for a person undergoing surgery.

  “It’s good to meet you,” she says warmly, turning to the woman beside her. “This is Sandy Chee, our nurse liaison, who’ll be updating you throughout the surgery.”

  “Hi, June,” says Sandy to me. “I can also answer any questions as you have them. And I’ll let you know when you can see your sister in the post-anesthesia care unit. Oh, and please don’t bring flowers until she’s set up in her recovery room.”

  June pipes up. “Sandy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you get the glasses first, or did Dr. Ellington?”

  Dr. Ellington laughs abruptly, then clears her throat.

  Sandy smirks and taps the right side of the frames. “It was a joint decision,” she says. “I got them first, but then Suze tried them on, and they looked better on her.” She rolls her eyes and then laughs.

  “They were on sale,” pleads Dr. Ellington.

  “They were on sale,” agrees Sandy.