“It’s not a thing, you know,” she says. “Fan death.”
“Fan death” is a pervasive Korean superstition that if you fall asleep with a fan running without opening a window or door for ventilation, you’ll suffocate. It makes no sense logically or scientifically, but there’s no convincing Mom. Or me, evidently.
“I just don’t want to hear about it in the morning,” I reason.
“Sometimes I think most of what Mom told us is stuff she made up.” June’s voice is becoming raspy. She’s pressed her cheek against the knee of her tented legs. Once her foot twitches or she coughs dryly, she’s about to fall asleep.
“Fan death is a myth,” she says. “Just like lying down after a meal won’t turn you into a cow.”
“I love how that only applied to kids. Meanwhile Mom and Dad always passed the fuck out after lunch on their days off.” I smile at the memory.
“Writing someone’s name in red would definitely kill them, though,” says June. “That’s just science. And possibly the story line to a Grudge sequel.” She leans and knocks her shoulder to mine. I smile. The first time we watched that movie, I slept in June’s bed for a week.
We sit in silence for a moment.
“It’s so weird.” I stretch my legs out in front of me. “I didn’t ever believe her, but I didn’t not believe her. I don’t think to question anything she’s ever told me.”
“Yeah, I get that.” June stretches her legs out next to mine. “I always thought that if I just did everything the way she told me to, or the way she’d do it, that she’d love me more.”
I stare at June’s doll feet.
“I always figured Mom didn’t like me anyway so what was the point?”
“She loves you,” says June gruffly. “She’s just the worst at letting you know. I don’t think you can change people by acting a certain way. Just like how being skinny or smart doesn’t make them treat you differently.”
“I just want Mom to like me.” I reach behind my sister and pull on the white bed skirt, releasing it from where it’s hitched up on the box spring like a girl with her dress tucked into her panties. I don’t mention the part where I wish my sister liked me, too.
June pats my leg with uncharacteristic affection.
“She likes you,” she says and then laughs. “She told Helena Park, so it must be true.”
chapter 37
Mom drives us to the airport the next morning. I expect her to say something profound, something worthwhile, but all she can talk about is how she’s packed us lunches of kimbap.
“Did you remember everything? I put your clean underwear and laundry on your suitcases.”
“Yeah,” says June, who’s sitting in front. Dad’s at the restaurant for payroll.
“When will I see you girls again? Christmas?”
I look in the mirror, daring June to sign us up.
“We’ll see,” she says. “Depending on your behavior.”
Mom scowls, and they both laugh. I watch the backs of their heads. I try to catch June’s attention in the mirror, but she only has eyes for Mom. It breaks my heart that she thinks she’s doing Mom a favor by not telling. I can tell she wants to.
“Thanks for the food,” says June, instead of all the other things lingering in her expression.
“Yeah, Mom, thanks.”
Mom turns and pats my leg. I love that she’s put on lipstick for the short drive. “Don’t wait so long to come back,” she says to me.
I pop my door open.
Mom gets out and grabs our bags. Then she does something she’s never done before. She gathers both of us into her arms. “Ah, my daughters,” she says. “When will we be together like this again?”
She reaches for our hands. Her palms are papery and rough. “You’re both going to get married off and probably move away even farther,” she says. “Serves me right for leaving my own mother behind. They say that daughters are never yours to begin with.” She squeezes our hands tightly, pursing her lips. I wonder if she’ll cry. “And I guess they’re right. Ji-hyun I knew would go away from the moment she was born. But you…” She palms my cheek. “You I thought I’d get to keep, my smallest blood clot.”
I feel June watching us.
“Bye, Mom,” I tell her, stepping away. June hugs her as I check my boarding pass for the hundredth time.
“Be nice to each other,” she says. “You’re all you’ve got.”
It’s not until we’re past security that I burst into tears.
“I’m gonna get us some magazines,” says June, turning away but squeezing my arm before she goes.
The moment wheels hit tarmac I text Patrick. I’m home.
He sends prayer hands as I grin stupidly into the aisle.
“Are you staying with me?” interrogates June when I get off the plane.
“Uh…” I’d been planning to ask. I have no idea if I even have running water at my place. “Is that okay with you?”
“Yes. God, shut up,” she says, yanking my forearm. “Just hurry. I fucked up and already called the Uber. It’s coming in four minutes.”
As we’re sprinting through the arrivals hall, I think of how much June and Mom have in common. Manufactured urgency is their absolute favorite emotion. I get it. Control feels good no matter how small the triumph. If anything, it’s amazing that Mom doesn’t move to New York. She’d love the energy if she gave it a chance. In New York you always feel late regardless of the circumstance.
Back in her apartment, we slump on the couch with our jackets on. Bags dumped at the door.
“Holy shit,” she says. We were silent the entire ride home.
“I know.”
“So tired.” My sister keels over and closes her eyes.
It feels so good to be back but I know in a matter of minutes, she’ll be asleep and we need to figure out food.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s Patrick. When am I seeing you? and then I want to hear everything.
I smile, remembering our phone call. There’s so much I want to say.
Cringing, I take the risk. Tomorrow?
Instead of tossing my phone across the room from douchechills, I leave it facedown on the coffee table and groan like an old woman.
“I’m so hungry,” June says.
“Same.” I get up to check the fridge. The turkey chili I made for her last week is still in there. The lidless saucepan has a ladle stuck in it. I pull it out and scrape it into the trash.
“At least I put it in the fridge,” she calls out.
“We’re going to have to get groceries,” I tell her.
June groans.
“I can go.” I wipe my hands on her crusty-ass kitchen towel. “Do you need anything?” I ask her, reaching for my coat.
“Fuck.” June groans again. “I’ll come with you.”
Trader Joe’s is a madhouse. I grab a basket so we can move quickly, but June upgrades for a double-decker cart. I watch the back of her head as she aggressively rips through the crowd. Everything is a contest with her. I wrest her cart away before she can drive us into the tangle of abandoned shopping carts that’s been left in the middle of the frozen foods. If June steers, there’s no way we’re not catching a fistfight.