If I Had Your Face

by Frances Cha

  Hearing voices at the end of the hall, I followed the sound until I came to a partially open door. I pushed it further open recklessly.

  It was a study that looked like a movie set of a study, with a mahogany desk in front of the window and floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books. In the center of the room, four or five people were sitting on two olive sofas that faced each other. They were talking and drinking while a toy poodle sniffed around on the carpet.

  “Hey! Come over here.”

  The boy I had been talking to downstairs waved from where he was sitting. The conversation paused as I walked toward them, trying not to look self-conscious as all eyes focused on me.

  “Here, let me pull up a chair.” He walked to the desk and brought the chair over next to the sofas.

  “This is Byung-joon, who lives here,” Jae said, nodding to one of the guys on the other sofa, who lifted his chin in a half nod. “This is— Sorry, what was your name again?” he said, turning to me.

  “What the…,” the girl sitting to his right asked, her question turning into a laugh. She had shoulder-length bleached hair and cat-eye glasses. “You don’t even know her name? This is hilarious.”

  “I was talking to her downstairs,” he said in a mock-aggrieved voice. “Ruby brought her, they’re best friends.”

  With that, the mood shifted from mild to naked interest.

  “How do you know Ruby?”

  “Did you go to school with her?”

  “What year are you at SVA?”

  I smiled and said something I’d heard Ruby say once when asked a question she didn’t want to answer. “Don’t worry about it.” This made the others laugh and then they stopped asking questions, looking almost sheepish, before turning back to their previous conversation.

  “What was your name again?” I asked the boy.

  “Jae,” he said. “Your elder at SVA, so you need to be more respectful to me,” he joked.

  I gave a mock deep bow. “Of course, sunbaenim,” I said. “I’m Miho. Are you in art school too?” I asked, turning to Byung-joon.

  “Who, me?” asked Byung-joon in astonishment. “No, I’m at NYU.”

  “I was just thinking how striking the colors are in this apartment,” I said, my heart beating fast. “So I was wondering if you were an art student, like us.”

  “No, no,” he said, almost disdainfully. “My decorator did everything. She flew everything in from Portugal, including the painter. He was included with the paint.”

  Byung-joon’s phone rang and he answered in English. “Okay, send him up.” Then, standing, he announced, “Pizza’s here! I ordered Papa John’s!”

  Everyone whooped and hollered.

  “Dude, I haven’t had Papa John’s since I was in Korea!” “Awesome!” “I’m starving!”

  I was still learning the appropriate levels of reaction in this world. Things I should not express shock or delight at. Things I should be overjoyed about. I was not supposed to be amazed by the unusual beauty of the apartment, but thick-crust pizza called for riots.

  I stayed sitting while most of the others got up and followed Byung-joon, the puppy yipping at his heels as it followed him out. I looked at Jae out of the corner of my eye. If he moved to leave, then I’d follow.

  “You’re not hungry?” he asked, still sitting, and I shook my head. “Not really—we just came from dinner,” I said.

  “Me too, but I’m sure I’ll get hungry again in a minute.”

  “Should you go down then?”

  “No, he usually orders tons—it won’t run out,” said Jae, rolling his eyes. “Then he complains about what it does to his low-carb diet. For dinner he made us get sashimi at his favorite sushi place, but then he gets hungry like, two hours later.”

  I laughed. This was nice, talking to a boy as if it came naturally to me. I wished I could do it better with Hanbin.

  “So how do you know Byung-joon?” I asked.

  “Oh, we’re family friends. Our dads went to the same high school and college. I grew up with him pretty much. What about you? Do you have a lot of friends from Cheongju here?”

  “No,” I said. I could have added “of course not,” but didn’t.

  “They’re back in Korea,” I said. “A lot of them moved to Seoul for university.”

  “That makes sense,” he said. “Cheongju’s pretty small, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s pretty small.”

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS SO SMALL that it felt like everyone in town knew us: the Loring Center kids. Orphaned, disabled, or delinquent. Our abandonment scared people, as if it might be contagious. Upon meeting any of us for the first time, people were amazed if we had our faculties intact, as so many did not, and shunned us regardless. In our city, the word “Loring” was synonymous with “retarded.” “Isn’t he Loring?” or “You look so Loring!” By the time we were in high school, the word was so embedded in the local vernacular that many kids didn’t even know it wasn’t a real English word.

  “Can’t wait to get out of this shitty backwater hellhole,” my friend Sujin used to shriek whenever she’d come home to the Center after getting in trouble with her teachers. I was lucky: the teachers in my arts high school liked me, but Sujin had been branded a mischief-maker at her school, and we no longer had Miss Loring behind us. She was years dead by then and the directors at the Center changed almost yearly.

  I never expected Sujin to actually make it on her own, but she left the first chance she could. She carved out a little life in Seoul, sliver by sliver, reporting back to the rest of us that the word “Loring” meant nothing to people there. Two of the other girls also left for Seoul not long after she did, but I was the first to come to America. Without being adopted, I mean.

  * * *

  —

  “YOU WANT SOME more?” asked Jae, pointing to my glass, which was sitting heavy and empty in my hand.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Oh, there’s plenty here, you don’t need to go to the downstairs bar,” he said. Getting up, he walked over to one of the shelves behind me, which I now saw was stocked like a bar, with crystal tumblers and decanters filled with amber liquors.

  “Unless you want cranberry again,” he said, stopping and looking at me.

  “No, that’s okay. Whiskey is good.”

  “Here,” he said, pouring a glass and handing it to me, then turning around to pour one for himself. “There’s ice on the table in the bucket.”

  We started talking about school—which professors he liked and which to avoid—which cafés had the best seats to study in and where to buy art supplies. His voice was nice: it quickened in excitement whenever he talked about things he liked. He was more animated than the other kids I had encountered at SVA—and in his animation he seemed vulnerable, and to me that vulnerability was moving because I had not seen it since I had come to New York.

  “And I heard the library pays pretty well for jobs too,” he said. “If you’re looking for student jobs. Not to assume that you are—” He stopped what he was saying, looking embarrassed. This was endearing, also.

  “I actually have a job already,” I said. “I’m working in one of the student galleries.” I did not add that it was Ruby’s gallery and that was how we had met.

  “Oh cool!” he said, relieved that he had not offended me. The fact that he was even worried about that made me feel a rush of affection for him.

  Before I could think too much or stop myself I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  It was just a peck, and then I drew back into my chair—what I’d done had startled both of us. He smiled and then in a gentle fluid motion, he took both of my hands in his and pulled me over to the couch and then started kissing me, his lips cold and wet and spicy from the whiskey.

  “You’re
really pretty,” he whispered. “Your hair is unreal—like something out of a painting. I’m glad I started talking to you downstairs.”

  I laughed a little for no reason at all and was leaning against him. This was exhilarating, this soft sofa, the books that surrounded us, his warmth through his sweater. My cheeks were warm from the alcohol, and the hip-hop music that had been too loud when I was downstairs seemed low and soothing now. I had no idea where to leap from here, but I was wildly content.

  The door opened and Byung-joon came into the room, Hanbin following him. They both stopped when they saw us entwined.

  “Hello, what’s this?” said Byung-joon. “I thought you didn’t even know her name.”

  Stung, I blushed, but Jae just laughed.

  “I was just trying to pretend I wasn’t interested,” he said without missing a beat, as if it were a punch line. Byung-joon laughed a little too, but in a preoccupied way, as if he was already thinking about something else. I glanced at Hanbin, who was staring down at us with frosty eyes.

  “We were talking about how Miho is working in a gallery,” said Jae. “You should go see it, Byung-joon. Didn’t you say you wanted to buy something for your kitchen?”

  Byung-joon looked pained. “Yes, but I have very specific stuff in mind, so I think I’m just going listen to my decorator,” he said.

  I was mortified that Hanbin would think I was trying to talk myself up somehow.

  “I work in Ruby’s gallery,” I said, not looking at Hanbin. “She has beautiful selections, even if it is a student gallery.”

  “Oh, Ruby’s gallery?” Byung-joon looked discountenanced. “I did hear that she started one…she only uses student works?”

  “For now,” said Hanbin. He was looking at books, running his finger along the shelf. “It’s practice for her.”

  “Of course,” said Byung-joon. “Well, then I should definitely go help a friend out. And see the new artists who will be the next big thing!” He guffawed. “Not that Ruby needs any help,” he amended, glancing at Hanbin.

  “It’s a fun little project for her,” Hanbin said. “Miho can tell you all about it.” He still wouldn’t look at me, and it was dizzying—how my heart was soaring and skidding and plunging all at once. And my face! I was blushing again. I was glad Hanbin was not looking at me.

  “Here,” said Jae, pouring some more whiskey into my glass and handing it back to me. “Anyone else want some more?”

  Byung-joon said yes and Jae poured him some too.

  “Your face is all red,” said Hanbin abruptly. Looking up, I saw that he was talking to me from where he stood by the bookshelf. “Like, bright red.”

  I clapped my hands to my cheeks and was surprised at how hot they felt.

  “You should probably stop drinking if you don’t want to look so crazy,” he said.

  “All you need is some Pepcid before you drink,” said Jae. “It’s a little trick I use because I get super red too. Here, I’ll give you some.” Taking his wallet from his pocket, he opened it and fished out a sleeve of white pellets, which he held out to me.

  “It won’t help now—you have to take that before you drink anything,” said Hanbin.

  I didn’t know what Pepcid was—drugs? But I wasn’t about to ask. I took the tablets and put them in my purse. “I’ll try it next time,” I said weakly. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I really needed to see what my face looked like—if I looked as crazy as Hanbin said.

  As I passed Hanbin on the way out of the room, he said in a low voice, “You should go home, Miho. Don’t make a fool of yourself. It’s embarrassing.”

  With the door shut behind me, I felt tears welling and I hurried to the bathroom I’d seen down the hallway. Locking the door, I started crying for real until I saw myself in the mirror and stopped, horrified. My face was distorted and ferocious, patterned with red welts. I looked down and closed my eyes.

  Remorse, that was all I allowed myself to feel. “How Loring,” they would have said if they could see me now, all the girls from the Center. “Stop being so Loring,” I could hear them jeer. Because secretly, to each other and to ourselves, even we used that word that way.

  Ara

  I do not like going back to Cheongju. I feel bad because it is no fault of my parents that their only daughter has not been to see them in three years. I know the other servants of the Big House pity them twice over, for having a mute daughter in the first place, and an ungrateful one at that. She would rather spend holidays alone than travel home like the rest of the country.

  Perhaps this is why I feel so at home with Sujin or Miho. Neither is the type that longs for family. Anyone else would fault me for being a bad daughter, or wonder how it is that I do not withdraw to where I came from, bruised by an impatient city.

  My parents are old. They should have had a daughter who is filial and generous, one who sends them a percentage of her paycheck and comes home every month with news of promotions and romantic conquests. TV dramas depict such daughters in droves—with their doe-eyed faces that furrow in sorrow when they choose their beloved, destitute parents over their fabulously wealthy suitors because you cannot have both. I have never met such a daughter in real life, but perhaps that’s because they’re all at home, busy being virtuous. Kyuri, I suppose, comes close, but she has her own share of problems that would kill her mother and sister if they ever found out.

  But for Sujin, and for Sujin alone, I am thinking of going home for Lunar New Year and taking her with me. Watching her fall apart yet again this week in front of our bathroom mirror, agitated and despairing, I have been asking myself how I can get her mind off the state of her face. It has actually come a long way but she is unable to get over how it stays stubbornly swollen.

  “All the girls in the blogs had their swelling go down so much faster. It’s been more than two months! This really isn’t normal, is it? I should call Dr. Shim, right? Don’t you think so, Ara? And I keep hearing a clicking sound in my jaw when I walk. That cannot be normal or they would have told me at the hospital, right?”

  It is true that she does seem to have more swelling in her jawline than the girls from the blogs, but the lower part of her face does not protrude like that of a fish anymore—instead her mouth has moved so far inward that she now, in my secret opinion, looks toothless. Although I assure her that she will look better than any of the bloggers in the end—her transformation will be all the more dramatic for being so prolonged—she pushes my notepad away whenever I write this.

  It was of course Taein who gave me the idea and the courage to think it over. In his latest SwitchBox message, he said that he was going home to Gwangju before leaving for Crown’s world tour. It would be his first homecoming since his debut. He said our roots are what make us who we are and he wouldn’t change the hardships in his past for anything, because they are what inform his lyrics and music and even his dancing today. And if he can find it in his heart to go visit his estranged mother and four older brothers, who used to ignore him and then sued him for a share of his Crown earnings, I can go home too. I have to admit that it makes me feel warm all over, to embark on this parallel journey with Taein.

  Sujin will protest at first. What about our tradition, she’ll say. Every major holiday, we patronize a new bathhouse and spend the entire day roving from themed room to themed room and stone bath to stone bath, and at night we fall asleep in the TV room with snail masks smeared on our faces and oil of Jeju flowers packed into our brittle hair.

  Over the years, we’ve been surprised by the number of people we see at these baths. It is nice to know that we are not the only ones who don’t want to go home.

  I love our made-up tradition as much as Sujin does, but I read somewhere that it’s best to avoid saunas for a month after surgery for risk of infection, and while hers was more than two months ago, I’d rather not have her go. Having strangers stare at he
r would also be quite catastrophic for her mental state.

  So when my mother sends her usual tentative text about my plans for Lunar New Year and how she hopes I will come home because she has something important to discuss with me, I finally respond yes. And add that Sujin will be joining me. She is recovering from a big surgery and needs a change of scenery, I write. This is to let my mother know that she should not get her fragile hopes up about this becoming a regular thing. I imagine my mother gaping at my unexpected reply, and how she will rush to the Big House garage to find my father.

  While we are home, Sujin will have to focus all her energies on distracting me from getting upset. To overcompensate for my wretched memories, she’ll work herself into a frenzy.

  The things I do for her.

  * * *

  —

  WE TRAVEL THE DAY of the actual Lunar New Year, as tickets for the other days were sold out long ago. Miho is also with us. She’d heard we were going back to Cheongju and she wanted to come along and visit her teacher’s grave at the Loring Center. I’d felt obligated to invite her to stay with us, and she accepted with alacrity despite my halfhearted offer. Kyuri had already left to visit her mother a few days ago, and I was glad I didn’t have to invite her too.

  It will be extremely uncomfortable, I warned Miho, underlining extremely several times. You will be sleeping on the floor. On a thin blanket, not a sleeping mat. And our hot water runs out by early afternoon, or whenever there are too many hot showers in a row. And our toilet is the kind where you have to squat.

  “That’s fine,” Miho said serenely, twisting her long, sinuous ponytail around a too-thin wrist. “I only wash my hair twice a week anyway, and plus I heard your parents’ house is a huge hanok that’s centuries old? I think I remember Sujin mentioning it when we were younger. I really want to see it.” Her vivid, piquant face brimmed with expectation.