If I Had Your Face

by Frances Cha

  Bora sunbae looks at me and laughs. “I mean, it’s no wonder no one is having babies these days. I don’t blame them. Let me just recount this past month, OK? Let’s see—he’s at school, which, I applied for the free state-run daycare but of course he didn’t get in, so we decided to go with an English daycare, which is 1.2 million a month.” She does not hear my sharp intake of breath here, and continues. “School is from 9 A.M. to 3 P.M., which means my ajumma has to come in the morning at eight and stay until I get home at night. So I have to pay the ajumma two million won a month. Then, clothes. I don’t know why, but kids need a lot of freaking clothes. I feel like I have to go buy some every week. And every time I take him grocery shopping, we have to buy a toy or else he throws a screaming fit in the middle of the store and I want to die of shame. And books! Do you know how much books cost? They sell children’s books in sets of thirty or fifty. And I had to buy that fox robot that reads books out loud because everyone in his class has one.” She rattles on and I am listening to her in a murky dream.

  I know that most of the things on her list are frivolities. There will be no extra toys or reading robots or book sets of fifty for my child. But I’m also not naïve enough to think that I won’t want them when the time comes. It will wring my heart that I can’t buy things for my daughter.

  The conversation switches to vacations because Bora sunbae is talking about how she “had to” book the kids’ suite and the children’s activities package at a hotel in Jeju. I give up on asking her about maternity leave as she clearly exists on a different planet, where it does not matter. She probably didn’t even ask for paid leave.

  * * *

  —

  WE ARE BACK in the office when at around 3 P.M. Miss Chun calls me to the meeting room. She does not specify what report to bring, or what update I am to give her, so I gather everything I am working on to have whatever she needs.

  She is sitting at the end of the table, looking grimly down at a sheaf of papers. She loves calling people in here because she can pretend that this is her office and that her desk isn’t the same size as ours out on the floor. I bow and sit down two seats away from her, fumbling with my reports.

  “Hold on,” she says without looking at me. She flips through the rest of the papers for a good five minutes, and all I can do is stare at the first pages of my reports and wonder when I wrote them because I do not remember writing these words at all.

  “So,” she says. “Miss Wonna.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not going to beat around the bush here. Are you pregnant?”

  I am so shocked that I actually gasp. My hands fly to my stomach.

  “How did you know?” I say.

  “I have eyes,” she snaps. “And a brain. And your reports have been the worst I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something because they were never very good.”

  I stare down at them and nod. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I don’t know if I am apologizing for the pregnancy or the reports.

  “When are you due?” Her voice is crisp. I can feel her eyes boring holes into my skull.

  “September ninth.”

  “And have you talked to HR?”

  “No…”

  “Good.”

  I look up in fear. She settles back in her chair and sighs.

  “I am going to tell you this now very clearly,” she says in a weary voice. “I cannot spare you because there is a companywide hiring freeze on top of a giant round of layoffs coming our way. Honestly, if there wasn’t a hiring freeze, I would have fired you a long time ago, but now I have to make do with you because if I lose even you, I can’t replace you and that is more work for the rest of us. Do you understand?”

  I nod silently.

  “We have four new projects coming up in the second quarter of next year. If we don’t deliver on them, this entire department will be gone. My boss has told me that this project is a test to determine whether to keep us or not. Now, if the department goes, I will stay because of my position. I will just be moved to another department. Everyone under me, however, will be laid off. So I don’t think it’ll be quite fair for you to take a long maternity leave when your colleagues will all be working to save their livelihoods, do you? Especially when we don’t have the head count to add anyone else?”

  She is looking at me and looking through me at the same time. I wonder why she did not tell me to close the door. My first instinct, always, is to be secretive. The fact that she is talking about cosmic events in my life in such a matter-of-fact way has me gasping for air again. But she is waiting for a reply.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Yes, what?”

  I plead with my eyes. Just tell me what you want me to say.

  She blinks and sighs again.

  “I think the most we can spare you for is three months. Let me rephrase that. We cannot spare you at all, but if you absolutely must take maternity leave, then I will leave it to your conscience. In light of this information, I trust that you would not apply for more than that. Or let me put it this way. If we do not perform well and the entire department goes, then you will have as long a maternity leave as you desire.” Her sarcasm slices the air.

  “You know, in America, they have three weeks of maternity leave. Or something like that. Anyway, I am sorry the situation is what it is.” She frowns darkly, and when I don’t say anything, she waves her hand at me to leave. I stand up and bow deeply.

  * * *

  —

  AT MY DESK for the rest of the afternoon, all I can do is stare at my screen and do mental calculations. If I have to return to work after three months, then we will have to hire an ajumma until my daughter can enter a state-run daycare, when she turns one. Perhaps I could find a cheap one for around 1.5 million won. It would only be for nine months, I tell myself. Bora probably overpays for a good one. Maybe her ajumma even speaks English.

  If this job goes away, I will not be able to find another one. That I know for a fact. No one will hire me, because even this job I got through my husband’s father’s connections when he was still working. There will be no use looking for another job. And if I don’t have a job, we will not be able to pay for rent and food, let alone a baby and an apartment, on my husband’s three-million-won salary. I start hyperventilating.

  “Are you all right?” Miss Jung is in the bathroom fixing her lipstick when I walk in and slump over the sink.

  “I think I have to take the rest of the day off,” I say. “I am not feeling that well.”

  I am giving up nine months of maternity leave. Surely Miss Chun won’t say anything about leaving a few hours earlier today. I pack up my things and go home without even calling HR about taking a half day.

  * * *

  —

  BABY MUST HAVE FELT a jolt because she is tapping again. I am smiling and tapping back at her as I walk slowly up to my apartment. When I open the door, my husband is standing in the hallway, wearing his navy suit and looking so scared that my own surprised yelp dies on my lips.

  “I thought you were coming back on Saturday,” I say, breathing hard. “You scared me!”

  He doesn’t answer, but just stands there looking so nervous I become confused.

  “Um, what are you doing?” I say.

  “I’m not feeling well so I came home early,” he says, putting his hands into his pockets.

  “Oh,” I say. “Are you sick?” I motion for him to move aside and let me enter.

  “My stomach,” he says. “Just not feeling great.”

  I go to put my bag down in the bedroom and then realize that his suitcase is not there. Usually when he comes back from a trip, the house looks like the aftermath of a hurricane, with dirty socks and underwear strewn all over the place. I wander back and see that it is not in the living room either, and he is still standing where he was a few seconds ago.<
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  “Where’s your suitcase?” I ask.

  He is at the kitchen table clearing away a half-eaten bowl of jjambong. He dumps the remainder of the bright orange stew into the sink.

  “Your stomach hurts and you’re eating spicy stew?” I say. He still has his back turned to me at the sink. “Why didn’t you tell me you were flying back early?” Not that I actually care. I’m just confused because he’s usually overcommunicative about things like this.

  He turns around slowly, drying his hands on the washcloth, while I start wiping down the table for flecks of soup.

  “And you know you left your dress shoes here? Did you have to go buy some for the meetings? Didn’t you say they dress superformally there?” I ask, rinsing the washcloth in the sink next to him.

  “Yes, I need those dress shoes,” he says, clearing his throat loudly. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I need them for an interview this afternoon. You’re home early.” He trails off.

  “An interview?” I ask. “What kind of interview?” For a promotion? I want to ask in hope, but I force myself not to.

  “It’s for this job at BPN Group,” he says.

  “Why on earth would you interview there?” I ask. BPN is a third-tier conglomerate.

  He stares at me again and then takes a deep breath. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says.

  “Do what?” I ask.

  “Listen, Wonna, why don’t you sit down?” he says. He guides me to the kitchen table and pours me some water from the refrigerator. After pouring himself another glass he starts to explain.

  That he has not been on a business trip the past two times he said he was. That he actually lost his job two months ago. That he has been staying with his father when he pretended to leave so that he could apply for jobs and interviews. That he did not want to worry me in my condition, but perhaps it was for the best that I found out because he felt terrible about keeping a secret from me like this. That he was looking for a job that offered free daycare at work the way his old job had.

  “But what about—what about when you put on a suit every morning and go to work?” I say, stupefied.

  He tells me then that he had been dressing as if he was going to work, and then he would just come back home for the rest of the day.

  It was true, he had been home before me almost every night. I had not given it much thought—I’d believed him when he said his company was trying to promote family time.

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” he says. His eyes and voice are plaintive, but he has taken a step back. He has always been afraid of me; we both realize that now with surprise.

  And he stares at me and I at him and we are both listening to the sound of our heavy breathing. Outside our door, footsteps patter up the stairs.

  “Don’t be upset,” he says, waiting to see what I will do next. “It isn’t good for the baby.”

  * * *

  · · ·

  I HAVE TO admit that I have no idea what your younger years will look like, other than some very vivid visions of me holding a beribboned, swaddled you in my arms. In these visions, the curtains are drawn but light is seeping through them—it must be your nap time, and I must be trying to put you to sleep in my arms. You are squirming and perturbed, but your gaze is locked on mine and I know just how to soothe you. In my visions the concept of time is hazy, and soon, or perhaps it is hours later, you are quiet and still and slumbering.

  You will have things I did not when I was growing up—like cherished photographs and birthday cakes and days spent at the beach.

  What I daydream about most is an older version of you. You are a young woman, perhaps the age of those girls who live above me—not that much younger than I am now. But unlike them and unlike me, you have a perpetual smile lurking at the corners of your mouth because you’ve had a happy childhood.

  In my daydream, you are coming to visit—you are practically flying to see me because you have some good news and you want to tell me in person because we are so close, you and I, and you want to see my face shimmer with joy. You ring the bell, your foot tapping impatiently, and when I open the door, there you are, in your splendid, regal confidence, wielding your happiness like a scepter. And your news will spill from your mouth, your words running over each other because it is something you have worked hard for and you are so proud to tell me how you have achieved this.

  And I will pull you inside, saying come in and sit down and tell me more slowly and fully, and I will cry because the process of raising you will have made me sentimental, and I will wrap my arms around you and marvel at how beautiful you are, how tall and strong and shining. And all of my memories of you will dance in front of my eyes as I thirstily listen to all that you have to say, laughing and holding my hands and leaning on my shoulder, or perhaps putting your head in my lap the way you would do as a child.

  And then it is time for you to leave me again, to go back to your own life, humming with aspiration. You don’t have to worry about me—I will be the happiest I have ever been, even as my heart breaks a little to let go of you.

  Still, I know you will always come back to me. And that will be the only wish I’ll have ever known.

  Ara

  It is only when I jolt awake that I realize I must have fallen asleep at my desk again, watching old videos of Taein on his final reality show, Slow Life, Happy Life. He’s been lying low ever since his scandal with Candy broke, so I haven’t been able to indulge in my favorite routine of binge-watching all his latest TV appearances at once at the end of the week. Instead I have to resort to watching reruns for the eightieth time. This is all Candy’s fault and I usually fall asleep fantasizing about her getting blacklisted from every network in the country.

  My neck and lower back hurt from my uncomfortable sleeping position. I’m cold—spring is finally here but the temperature still dips at night. I get up, and as I am stretching, I hear an odd sound that seems to come from very far away. I stop stretching and listen. And there it is again. It is muffled screaming, mixed with some terrified crying. I open my door and step out to the living room, wondering if it is Sujin.

  The lights are on in the kitchen and Sujin’s door is open but her room is dark, which means she must have come home and gone out again. The clock above the TV reads 3:22 A.M.

  And there it is again. That sound. It’s definitely a woman screaming. I put my ear against the front door and I can hear it through the door. It is coming from outside. Now it is quiet again. When I peer through the eyehole, I see nothing.

  I text into the group chat of the girls who live on our floor—Kyuri, Sujin, and Miho.

  “Anyone up/home? Anyone else hear that screaming? I don’t think it’s our floor but it woke me up.”

  I wait and stare at my phone. They must be sleeping or out. Kyuri is perhaps with Sujin. Miho might be at the studio? Do I call the police? But how would I be able to tell them the information? Do police take texts? I do not know. I am typing into my search bar “how to text the police” when my phone buzzes.

  “I’m on my way home.” It’s Miho in the group chat. “Should I call the police?”

  “Maybe that married couple downstairs is having a fight?” I text.

  “No, I saw the husband leave today,” texts Miho. “He got into a taxi with giant suitcases.”

  “How far are you, Miho?” I text.

  “About 20 minutes away? I’m on the subway.”

  Twenty minutes is too long. Someone might be dying.

  “Can you call the police then?” I text. “I’m going to go see what it is.”

  Immediately Miho starts texting furiously.

  “Just wait for the police. Hold on. I’m calling now. If you’re going to go, wait for me at least!!!”

  “It’s ok, don’t worry,” I text. “I’ll take a weapon.”

  “NO!!!!”


  It’s sweet of her, being worried about me. I’m surprised since she’s heard about all the other fights I used to get into when I was young. The problem is, we have no good weapons in the house. Not for a situation like this. I long for my grandfather’s long wooden staff, sitting useless back at the Big House. For a second, I plot ways to steal it the next time I go to Cheongju. Not that I would have any idea how to wield it, but I vow to learn.

  I’m not sure if a kitchen knife would be a good idea because I have never used one before and it might just distract me in the moment. I put the electric kettle on boil and scan the house again. This is unacceptable. I make a mental note to order weapons. I snatch up a pair of scissors and put it in my pants pocket—they’re probably easier to maneuver than a knife—and once the light on the kettle goes off I take the steaming pot and quietly open my front door.

  It occurs to me, as I am standing in the hallway waiting to hear a scream, that I have never been in a fight with a male before. I have witnessed them—the boy gangs would routinely have vicious fights when I was in middle school and high school—and the girls would sometimes watch from a distance. The sheer speed and strength—the sound of baseball bats hitting somebody’s head—the popping sound that a fist would make on a jaw—never failed to shock me. The first few times, most of the girls cried, even Noh Hyun-jin, who was famous for once having taken six ferocious slaps in the face in a row from our PE teacher without breaking down. I decide that if there is a man downstairs and he is trying to rape or kill someone, the only thing I have going for me is the element of surprise. I can look both frail and vulnerable—that is what Sujin always says.