“It’s true,” he says, winking over her shoulder at me. “We’re all very lucky.”
“Did you at least make some of my favorites too?” asks June. Mom ignores her.
It’s stifling in here. And loud. Dad’s switched on the TV, a flat Samsung LED the size of a full mattress that’s set to stream Korean television from dubiously legal sites. A US golf tournament in Arizona has traveled all the way to Seoul to be commentated by Korean sportscasters to find my parents in Texas. The origin of the setup is a mystery to me. They can’t restart their router or personalize settings on their phones. June keeps their Apple IDs on a Post-it on her fridge in New York.
I watch June and Dad, framed by the pass-through. It’s as if I’m watching a television show of people watching a television show.
June looks good, I decide. Passably healthy in her trim suit. My hand travels to my stomach, gauging the way it fills my cupped palm.
I tip my suitcase over and unzip it, pulling out a light, cotton house dress. I slip into the downstairs bathroom, closing the door behind me. The light here, too, is unforgiving. I lift the hoodie over my head, turning sideways and tiptoeing to see as much of me in my tank top in the mirror. I pee, engage my core, then look at myself again. I turn to the other side to check the thickness of that arm. I’m grateful that my roomy navy smock has sleeves. I don’t show Mom my arms. I don’t remember the last time she saw my naked body.
And then I do.
Of course I do. Five years ago. My face burns at the memory of the pale-purple silk, crinkly and delicate in my hands. I was swaying side to side. I was too old to be trying on her hanbok. The dress was voluminous, like crinoline, and princessy, with trillions of gathers in the Empire-waisted pinafore. The skirt tied in the back with thin silk strings, and the jeogori—the long-sleeved bolero jacket of the formal gown—tied in front with a full, wide sash. I felt so pretty.
The door opened. I hadn’t heard them come home, hadn’t thought to lock it, and I saw the circle of her pale face in the mirror like a moon hung above my own round face. I have no idea how long she stood there, but I’ll never forget her eyes. They landed on my hands, which held the top closed because it was drawn too tight across my widening back and wouldn’t fasten over my boobs.
My hands drop. Mouth hung open. The moment seemed to smear around us, unending. I was horrified that she’d caught me doing something as silly as dress-up, so obviously pretending to be her and so obviously failing, but part of me wanted to show her. Even lit with shame, I’d held hope. In that beat when no one spoke, I allowed myself to think that my mother might say I looked lovely. That her eyes would soften when she realized how badly I wanted the dress. That I wanted anything of hers.
That’s when she slapped me. Straight across the face with no hesitation as hard as she could.
I dropped to the floor, tasting metal from the force of the fall, still looking at the scene through the glass. I held my cheek, pedaling my sock-clad feet, digging my heels into the carpet so I could get away from her. The layers of skirt crumpled beneath me, dress straps biting into my shoulders. It had to be a misunderstanding. My instinct was to tell her it was me. I heard myself whimpering. Pleading. Imploring her to see. I thought she’d be filled with gut-wrenching regret when she realized what she’d done, when she’d see who I was.
Instead she pointed at me, eyes gleaming, dark as holes.
“You girls don’t get to have everything,” she’d screamed before collapsing onto her knees, hiding her face as she bawled. I had never before seen my mother cry. “Take it off,” she pleaded into her hands, and I did. Hurriedly. Ears ringing.
My fingers were numb and alien as they fumbled with the front sash. I was trying to go fast, desperate not to tear the fabric, reaching behind me to undo the tricky knot in the back. I threw the jacket on her bed, unslung the straps of the skirt. I grabbed my sweatpants and held them against my body, hiding as much as I could. I kept my face turned away.
I left Mom in a heap. Afraid to look at her, desperate not to confront the disgust in her eyes a second time. I was sick with remorse. I was so glad June wasn’t home to see my total humiliation. I closed Mom’s bedroom door in the dark hall just in time to hear Dad close the door to his office and lock it.
Two weeks later, Mom left.
I knew it was my fault, and I didn’t tell June.
When I emerge from the bathroom, sweatshirt pressed against me, Mom’s right there. I startle. I freeze as she reaches over to finger the hem of my dress. “Is this cheap or expensive?” she asks. The truth is that it’s both. It’s from an extortionate Japanese designer. I stood in line for seventy-five minutes to buy it at a sample sale. “Cheap,” I tell her, letting out the breath I’d been holding. I know better than to get into a conversation about how I’ve gotten ripped off.
“Good,” she says. “I was going to say it looks cheap.” Mom ducks her head and licks the fabric. “See,” she says. “The way it discolors when you sweat. It’s not at all practical.” She then scrunches it into a fist to watch it wrinkle. “And it’s so hard to maintain. Is it dry-clean only?”
I have no idea. “No.”
“Because even if it is, I’d bet I could put it in the cold cycle and it would be just as good.” I make a mental note to never change out of it. I can’t give her a chance to test her theory. If it shrinks or discolors, it’ll be my fault. Once she disintegrated a bias-cut silk sundress with straps strung of semiprecious stones and she accused me of wearing clothes that were capricious, unserious. Most of Mom’s theories are like witch trials.
I follow her small shoulders and perm back into the kitchen, wondering how it would feel to be touched by my mother without bracing for criticism.
“Set the table,” she instructs in Korean.
“Thanks, Jayne. I love it,” says Dad, in English. I whip around. He’s holding what appears to be a red, cellophane-covered ceramic golf bag. I’m guessing it’s a mug.
“There are chocolate golf balls and matching tees in the bottom,” says June. I take it it’s from both of us. “Sorry we missed Father’s Day,” she continues. We don’t do Father’s Day. May fifth is Children’s Day in Korea, so we usually do something special for all of us, since Cinco de Mayo is huge in Texas. I widen my eyes at June. It’s insane to me that they don’t see right through her sentimentality.
“Jayne, please,” says Mom, regarding me with impatience. I have no clue how I’ve managed to disappoint her in the last ten seconds. “The table?” she reminds me with a sigh in her voice.
I snap the silverware drawer open. I’m confused by the lack of matching chopsticks. I search around the sink, greeted by the row of inside-out Ziploc freezer bags, handwashed and tented. Their logos have been rubbed off from reuse.
“Dishwasher,” says Dad. I reach in, remembering June’s detergent pods and half-full loads. She’s too busy talking to look at me. I grab utensils, making sure the chopsticks have mates.
Mom posts up in front of the refrigerator, pulling out an infinite number of shallow dishes, setting them on the table behind her as if there’s an assembly line of factory workers inside the appliance handing them out.