If I Had Your Face

by Frances Cha

  I write a New Year greeting and show her. I also write out Sujin’s and Miho’s names and beckon them to come say hello.

  They enter shyly, then bow. Elders make them uneasy.

  “It’s been a long time,” says my mother to Sujin. I am relieved that there is no sorrow or reproach lining her voice. She sounds too exhausted to mind the girl she once disapproved of for leading her daughter astray.

  “It’s so wonderful to be back here again!” says Sujin loudly.

  I am waiting for my mother to comment on Sujin’s face—she looks like a completely different person after all, but my mother doesn’t say a thing.

  “You’ve been here before?” asks Mrs. Youngja, as she rummages in the refrigerator to find us some snacks. “Are you a school friend of Ara’s?” Mrs. Youngja is a relatively new addition to the staff—she started working at the Big House when I was in high school. Mrs. Sukhyang is a good decade older than my mother, but she looks about the same age, probably due to the harsh blue-black shade of her hair.

  “She is a middle school friend of Ara’s,” my mother answers. And then she says something that flabbergasts me. “You know, one of those children from the orphanage.”

  My throat constricting, I look at Sujin and Miho sharply, and so do Mrs. Youngja and Mrs. Sukhyang. The girls haven’t heard that reference, or that tone, in a long time.

  “I grew up there too,” says Miho steadily. The women cluck in sympathy—“motherless poor things” is the prevailing sentiment. But we all know that the minute we leave the kitchen, that sympathy will be undercut by something else. I’m sorry, I telegraph to Sujin, who blinks rapidly to say it’s fine and I’m not to worry about it.

  “Come, come, you need to eat after such a long journey,” says Mrs. Sukhyang. She opens the lid of one of the pots on the stove and carefully drops in the dumplings.

  “They live in Gangnam, you know,” Mrs. Youngja says knowingly to Mrs. Sukhyang. Without holiday traffic, it is barely two hours away by bus, but I know that neither of them has been anywhere near where we live now. All of their children live in the Cheongju area; some of them further out in Daejeon.

  My mother brings kimchi and dumpling sauce to the table and indicates for us to sit down. Miho says thank you softly and Sujin echoes her.

  “She has gotten much prettier,” says Mrs. Youngja to my mother.

  “Such style,” says Mrs. Sukhyang.

  “It’s Gangnam style,” they chortle together.

  “When are you girls leaving?” asks Mrs. Youngja.

  “The day after tomorrow,” says Sujin.

  “What? That’s so soon! Well, there isn’t any time, then,” says Mrs. Sukhyang. “You better ask Ara quick.”

  “Ask her what?” Sujin says. The women look at her and I know what they are thinking—how forward, such bad manners, must be the orphanage. My skin tingles but Sujin winks at me.

  My mother looks pained but seems to make up her mind. It can’t be all that serious if she is going to tell me in front of a kitchen full of people.

  “How is the salon job going?” she asks me slowly.

  “It’s going great,” pipes Sujin. “Ara can cut my hair with her eyes closed now. She has so many regulars that they have to call at least a week in advance for an appointment. So many rich ladies who all want her to give them digital perms. They love talking to her. They say she is very soothing.”

  “Is that right?” asks my mother, smiling with pride. I am about to shrug, but Sujin jabs me under the table, so I grimace and nod instead.

  What did you want to talk to me about? I write.

  My mother takes the notepad and holds it closer to see, and then takes a breath. “Now that you are home, I just want you to set aside some time,” she says. “You’re getting older, and so many of your friends are marrying.”

  What are you talking about? I write furiously. No one is getting married. Don’t you ever see the news? It’s a national problem.

  She waits for me to finish writing, and then reads what I wrote.

  “Well, here everyone is getting married. You know Hyehwa? From the bakery?”

  Hyehwa had been my year in high school. Sujin and I both nod.

  “She’s getting married next month! I see her every week when we get our bread. Maybe you can stop by and tell her congratulations in person while you are here.”

  I had thought that my parents would have given up by now on their mute, wayward, idol-obsessed daughter. Hyehwa had always been a goody two-shoes in school. Maybe Sujin pushed her around a few times, I don’t remember. I glance at Sujin, but she is looking very innocent as she spoons more broth from her bowl.

  “Moon the hairdresser is looking for an assistant,” says my mother abruptly. “Do you remember him?”

  Of course I knew him—shaggy Mr. Moon, who had a beard and a raspy voice. I’d swept floors for him for a summer in high school and babysat his son sometimes. He had given me free hair tint samples that I had passed to Sujin.

  They must be doing well if he needs an assistant, I write. His wife and her twin sister also worked in the salon, I remember. But my mother couldn’t possibly be thinking that I would come work for Mr. Moon’s tiny little shop back home.

  “His wife left,” she says. “Her sister too. They went back to Daejeon.”

  Well that is sad, I write.

  “His son really liked you,” she says.

  The beady-eyed Moon baby definitely had not liked me. He had shrieked his head off whenever I took him for a walk in the stroller.

  “We were talking about you, and he remembers you warmly,” says my mother. The other two women are watching me with owlish eyes. “He asks about you quite often.”

  “He is a good man, that Moon,” says Mrs. Sukhyang, nodding. “He was too good for that tramp of a wife of his.”

  Sujin and I exchange amused glances, but Miho leans forward.

  “How old is he?” she asks.

  “Oh, in his prime,” says Mrs. Youngja. “I saw him helping the herbal medicine doctor move in enormous medicine cabinets the other day. Moon was just carrying them on his bare shoulders as if they were small sacks of rice!”

  “I wonder if he would be able to match her Gangnam salary though,” Miho says gravely, not looking at me.

  “Salary?” sputters Mrs. Sukhyang. “It’s not about the money.” She stops, posed. “It’s about what kind of man would appreciate pink hair!” she says triumphantly.

  “You have to be practical, Ara,” says my mother, staring at me. “He would like to meet you while you are here.”

  “I bet he would,” says Sujin darkly. “She’s ten years younger than his already young wife!”

  “Why did she leave?” asks Miho.

  “I never liked her,” says Mrs. Sukhyang emphatically. “When they first opened, she gave me a horrendous haircut that Moon had to fix afterward. And I think she was drunk.” No one else speaks.

  “Just meet him once,” says my mother, pleading. “Just once. Is it too much for a mother to ask for? A chance at a normal life for her daughter? In Gangnam, people are not normal—they do not lead normal lives. Here, you would be cared for. It would be comfortable. But just one conversation—that is all I am asking.”

  I close my eyes and take a breath. I can feel Sujin’s distressed, near-hysterical energy—as distractions go, this is proving extremely successful. For Sujin’s sake I close my eyes as if I am in pain, when actually, I think this is all hysterically funny. Mr. Moon! And the Moon baby!

  “We will work on her, don’t worry,” says Miho in a reassuring voice. “You can be sure we’ll talk about it all night.”

  * * *

  —

  I AM IN DESPAIR as we walk out of the kitchen, my mother having sent us to the basement to bring up some urns of white kimchi.

  “Wow,”
murmurs Miho behind me as we noiselessly pass the main hallway to the stairs. I do not know what she is so oohing about—it is just a very old house with very old Western furniture that doesn’t match the traditional Korean architecture at all. It’s not like one of those beautifully curated hanok guesthouses with mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture and embroidered silk screens.

  In the basement there are rows and rows of urns. I head to the white kimchi corner and pick the smallest jar. To my left, Miho is opening one of the biggest jars, and the spicy, pungent aroma wafts up through the dim hall. “Smells amazing,” she says, while Sujin slaps her hand and slides the lid back on.

  Why did you tell my mother you will try to persuade me? I write and show her.

  “Why wouldn’t you see him?” says Miho.

  “What are you saying, you crazy girl?” says Sujin.

  “Look, not even counting the fact that it would make your elderly mom happy and shut her up by taking up ten minutes of your time, but why wouldn’t you go see what an alternate life is like?” Miho lifts the lid of another urn, and this time, she dips a finger in and licks it. She turns to look at me and shrugs.

  “If I were you I would look at every single option and then see what is the best, and that way you will have more conviction about whatever you choose,” she says.

  I shake my head. Perhaps that works for her, but I don’t need to go see Mr. Moon to know what my life would be like here. It does not even matter how nice he is, or whether he would make a good husband. To me it is about what is written in people’s eyes when they look at me here. It would just be another entry on the long list of the lowly life of the Big House servants’ daughter, mute and second wife. I would rather die alone in the middle of the city listening to Taein’s voice every day on my phone.

  What makes me sad is that my mother thinks this is the best my life can be.

  “Well,” says Sujin. “Miho kind of has a point.”

  I glare at her.

  “It would make your mom so happy if we go around and see him, and it would be funny!”

  I shake my head with violence.

  “Oh, come on,” says Sujin. “There’s nothing to do here anyway.”

  You could revisit the Loring Center with Miho, I write.

  “And why would I do that?” she says, her eyes glinting.

  * * *

  —

  IT IS NEW YEAR’S DAY, he is probably not at his stupid shop, I write and show Sujin before we start walking over to the bike shed. None of us have brought any gloves and our fingers are going to freeze off if we bike into town.

  “Well then, we can go get some coffee at the bakery and say congrats to Hyehwa,” Sujin says. “Make her give us a discount.” She smiles evilly.

  We round the corner and Sujin leads the way through one of the inner gates. She has a good memory, that one. We have only gone bike riding a few times and that was years and years ago. My father still keeps all the bikes in the shed clean and oiled, although I doubt anyone uses them, now that all the children of the Big House have left the nest.

  In front of the bike shed, we run into a man on the path wearing a thick black down coat. It is the youngest son, Jun, who looks at us with a startled smile, hands in his coat pockets. I haven’t seen him in years, ever since he went for his mandatory military service. I had heard from my mother that he is a nuclear scientist now, working at a government think tank. He is the only one of the children who is still unmarried.

  “Hello,” he says. “Who are you?” His voice is friendly and interested as he looks at us but mostly at Miho. She does look very out of place here, in her emerald green coat and her flowing hair, which she has fashioned into a high ponytail for the bike ride.

  The girls fall back a little and I bow, catching his eye. “Oh, it’s Ara!” he says in surprise. “Are these your friends?” His tone takes on the jolly, avuncular tone of the Big Family that I mind so much. I nod.

  “Hello,” pipes up Sujin. “We’re visiting Ara’s parents for New Year’s.”

  “Ah, I see,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “New friends from Seoul.”

  “Happy New Year,” says Sujin, not contradicting him. She had met him several times in our past life.

  “Happy New Year,” he says.

  Bowing again, I make the first move to walk past him and into the shed, and the girls follow. As I pick my old bike and search for others that Sujin and Miho can ride, I look up, and he is still standing at the end of the path, looking back at us before he catches my eye. He waves and I turn away, pretending not to see him.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN I WAS in school, I used to live for glimpses of Jun. Those were the years I helped my mother in the Big House after school, so that I could go sit on his chair and sometimes even his bed when my mother wasn’t looking. If my life was a drama, he would have fallen in love with me and battled his parents for a happy ending with the housekeeper’s daughter.

  But here we are, my friends and I, streaming into town on rusty, creaking bikes, going to peek at a lonely old man who has failed at love, who has a son and already thinks in terms of concessions.

  All for a joke, of course.

  I would care if I hadn’t already stopped caring about anything years ago, the day I lost my voice.

  * * *

  —

  IT TAKES US almost twenty minutes to get to town because Miho is precarious on a bike, plus she keeps stopping to stare at the trees even though Sujin and I yell at her that it’s cold and to please take a photo on her phone and stare at it later. “But the colors don’t show up properly in a photo,” she protests.

  The bakery is on the same street as the Moon hair salon, but the girls insist on heading to the salon first. There are no cars because everyone is still eating and making merry at home with their families.

  “We won’t go in or anything,” Miho says between pants as she pedals harder. “So stop worrying so much, Ara! I just want to have an image of what he looks like.”

  Sujin only laughs and sticks her tongue out in my general direction.

  It seems to me that it is particularly cruel of Miho to insist on this when her boyfriend, Hanbin, is not only Mr. Handsome and Rich but also our age and childless. If I didn’t know her, I would think that she wants to see Moon just to make fun of me. But she is so genuinely curious about so many things that I have to believe her. She will often strike up conversations with strangers on the subway, to their surprise and distrust, and comes away baffled by their hostility. “In New York, you can talk to anyone about anything at any time and have a conversation so long you’ll fall a little bit in love with that person, and then never see them again,” she told me. It now feels strange to her that in Korea, if you try to strike up a conversation with someone you have not been introduced to, people look at you as they would at a large rat, but if even the flimsiest of introductions is made by the most peripheral of acquaintances, they fuss over you like a long-lost sibling.

  We pull up with our bikes across the street from the salon, which is as small as I remember it—just three fake leather swivel seats in a glass box of a store, with a sign outside that reads MOON HAIR & STYLE in English and OPEN on the door. The only reason I even agreed to get on this bike was because I had been so sure it would be closed for the holiday. Who is getting haircuts today anyway? Isn’t it bad luck to cut your hair on New Year’s?

  He is inside sweeping, his back toward us. Hair is all over the floor. I remember cleaning those floors for him, trying to do it as quickly as I could so that the next customer could sit down. During that summer I was working here, when the salon had only been open for a few months, there had been long waits for a haircut by Mr. Moon, especially after he gave the grocery store owner a drastic haircut that miraculously transformed her face, and subsequently her personality. He never bothered w
ith his own hair, which is still shaggy and wild, and now even from across the street I can see that it is unwashed and graying.

  “He seems to need a haircut,” says Sujin. “Maybe you could go in there and give him one.”

  Miho starts giggling. I make a face and take out my notepad and am fishing for my pen when I hear Sujin say, “Uh-oh.”

  When I look up, Mr. Moon is standing on the doorstep with the door open, waving at us to come toward him. His usually expressionless face looks keen.

  “He means us, right?” says Sujin, looking around to check.

  “Look how excited he is to see you!” whispers Miho.

  Stifling more giggles, Miho hops off her bike and starts rolling it across the street, and Sujin does the same. Furious, I follow them.

  “It’s been a long time,” he says slowly, his gaze on me. “Are you home for the holiday? These must be your friends.” He nods to Sujin and Miho.

  “Happy New Year!” says Sujin, bowing. “Ara used to give me all the hair dye you gave her when she worked here. I went to school with her.”

  “Ah, that friend,” says Mr. Moon with recognition. “She asked for violet coating once, I think.”

  “That’s right!” says Sujin. “It was summer break.”

  “I like the pink,” says Mr. Moon, nodding toward me. “That must have taken a long time.” I give him a weak smile.

  “Ara works in a really big salon in Gangnam now,” says Sujin.

  “I heard from her mother,” he says. “That’s really impressive.”

  “Are you spending the New Year here in the salon?” asks Miho. I frown at her but she pretends not to see me.

  “Yes, well,” he says. “Nothing much else to do, I’m afraid. And I actually had a few customers come in this morning. Busy people, you know, who don’t have the time otherwise.”