by An Na
What? Apa looks up from his paper toward the information window.
Where is the number, Apa? I ask.
Here, Apa says, checking his pockets.
The information lady calls out our number again. “Ninety-three.”
I know that is our number, I say and stand up. Let us go.
Apa follows after me, still searching for the lost number.
“Yes?” the information lady says.
I start to step forward, but Apa rushes in past me. He found the number. He lays the wrinkled baby-blue scrap of paper on the counter and asks our question. “We here for green card. For her.” Apa points at me.
“You’ll have to go to window three. Here is your number.”
Apa reaches out and takes the new number.
“No, wait,” I interrupt. “I have a green card. I’m supposed to renew it or something.” I turn to Apa and say, Apa, can you get my green card out?
What are you doing? Apa asks me, his eyes slightly narrowed. This ahjimma has already given us a number for the next window.
Apa, please give me the green card, I say again, a begging note cracking my voice. The information lady taps her pen against the counter. Apa pulls out his wallet and finds my card. He hands it over to the information lady instead of placing it in my outstretched hand.
The information lady looks at the numbers and words written like ant trails on the back of my card. She looks up at me. “Are you turning thirteen?” she asks.
“Yes, that’s it. I’m supposed to renew my card, right?”
“Yes. Give me that number back and I’ll give you a new one for window four.”
I turn to Apa and say, Apa, you have to give the number back.
Apa growls low, What is going on? What are you telling this ahjimma? You better not get the wrong information. I cannot take off another day from work to come back here.
Apa, you have to give back the number, I say again. She will give us another number. When Apa squints his eyes at me, I add, For the right window.
Apa reluctantly places the baby-blue scrap of paper back on the counter. The information lady gives us another number, 36, and points to window four. We find ourselves another set of seats. Two elderly Chinese men have taken our old ones.
At window four, Apa doesn’t speak, just hands over my green card to the young black man in the same dark blue wool sweater. The man, while reading the card, says, “So, Young Ju, you’re turning thirteen.” He lowers the card. “Did I say your name right?”
I can’t help smiling and nodding.
“Well, happy early birthday,” he says with an answering nod. He slides the green card back to me. Piano fingers. He has long, lean piano fingers like what Amanda wishes she had so she could stretch her hand across one full octave.
“What we doing,” Apa asks impatiently.
“Well, sir, you’ll have to fill out some paperwork and get a picture taken of your daughter. Here.” Piano Fingers reaches under his desk and pulls out some forms. “If you or your daughter will just read that over, it’ll explain all the steps you need to take to renew Young Ju’s green card.”
“What more?” Apa asks. “Cannot do now. Here?”
Apa, I say, we can look at the papers at home.
Stop talking. Apa points his finger at me in warning. I am speaking with this man now.
“Sir, you can look at all the paperwork at home and then mail in the renewal fee, forms, and photograph. There’s even a list of establishments that take the particular photo we need for the green card.” Piano Fingers takes out another sheet from under his desk and shows Apa the list.
“I no can come back. I work every day.”
“Sir, you don’t need to come back. Just mail in the forms.”
Apa, I plead, we can leave now. This man has given us all the forms and we can mail it in.
Yah, Apa yells at me. What did I say? I am the one who is talking now.
“Sir, you have everything you need. Once we have all the paperwork, we’ll mail you Young Ju’s new green card.”
“You making sure,” Apa says, pointing to the papers. “I no come back again. Making sure.”
Ever since Apa had to go four times to clear up some mistake with Joon’s Social Security number, he has become paranoid that people are trying to trick him.
“Making sure,” Apa says again.
“Sir, we have a long line of people waiting.”
“I waiting.”
Piano Fingers looks at me.
“Please,” I whisper, stepping closer to the tall counter. “Please, just look through the paperwork one more time.”
Piano Fingers clasps his hands in front of his face. He presses his lips together and stares down at me and then at Apa. His eyes linger on the deep red permanent sunburn of Apa’s neck from mowing lawns all day. Piano Fingers picks up the papers again. He leafs through them slowly. After he has gone through all the forms, he leans forward and addresses Apa in a clear, clipped voice. “Sir. All the necessary paperwork is right here. See? Just fill out the forms and mail them in with a check and a photograph of your daughter.” Piano Fingers pushes the papers to Apa.
Apa picks them up and holds them to his face as though he is reading closely. The way Apa takes his time, licking his fingertips to separate each page from the next, makes the blood crest under my cheeks. I gaze down at my feet and take a deep breath.
“Good,” Apa finally says. “I no come back. Right? No missing work again.”
“No, sir, you don’t have to come back.”
Apa steps away from the window and turns to leave.
“Thank you,” I say to Piano Fingers.
He smiles briefly, flashing me a row of white picket-fence teeth. As I turn around to leave, I hear him call out the next number, “Thirty-seven.”
When we return to the car, Apa slumps in his seat and grips the green-card renewal forms with his brown callused fingers. The dark circles under his eyes gather in puffy tucks when he squints at the words. He glances up from the forms and reads the afternoon traffic for how long it will take us to get back home—maybe he can fit in a nap before leaving for his night job cleaning lawyers’ offices downtown. Apa blows out his breath in a noisy sigh and turns in his seat to hand me the papers. In that moment, when the papers pass from his hands to mine, our eyes meet and I know. His will always be a face washed and dressed by sun.
Apa turns on the ignition and eases the car out of the parking space. With his eyes focused on the road, Apa says in a weary voice, Read those forms carefully. I do not want to go back to that office again. Make sure.
Reaching
I cling to the branch with one hand and lean out. The wind sings in my ears. If I could just get out a little farther, let the branch go and take one more step, I could almost touch the cloud. But I’m afraid to let go of the branch, so I continue to stretch. It’s right there. Almost.
The ringing of the phone wakes me from my dream. My arms ache as though I have just fallen from the sky. I open my eyes and flop over onto my stomach, stretching out my hands, reaching under my pillow for the coolness of the sheet. I rest my chin on the pillow and look up through my window to gaze at the stars.
My dream of the cloud is not new. I have had variations of the same dream since we immigrated to America. Sometimes I fall from the tree. Sometimes I wake up before I have even finished climbing to the highest branch. Most times I am leaning out, reaching. But in every dream there are always the clouds just beyond my grasp. They float close above me in thick, solid folds of billowy white sheets. In my dream I have somehow figured out that to catch a cloud means I’ll fly to heaven. Fly to the place that I have never seen but only dreamed exists. Heaven, the place I was supposed to go, but instead I ended up here.
Young Ju, Uhmma calls softly, opening my bedroom door.
I pretend I’m sleeping instead of thinking about my dream. I rub my eyes and squint against the hall light streaming into my room.
What, Uhmma? I ask.
Young Ju, Uhmma says and comes to my bed. She strokes my face with her worn hands. My skin tickles beneath her rough fingers. Her face is wet with tears.
Uhmma, what is wrong? I ask and sit up.
Uhmma bites her lip and looks away. She reaches for my hand and says quietly, Your Halmoni has passed away.
What? Halmoni is gone? I shake my head, unsure of what this means. Passed away? Dead? I have not seen Halmoni since I was four years old, so I can’t be quite sure of how death takes her even farther from me.
Uhmma brushes a stray hair from my face. She whispers, Your Apa is very sad.
I sit up and move my feet from under the covers, hanging them over the edge of my bed. I lean my head against Uhmma’s shoulder and gaze out the window.
We did not expect her to leave us so quickly, Uhmma says. She was always so strong. Like a horse. Uhmma sighs. We thought that she would wait for us to come back and visit.
I listen to Uhmma talk and think about the only clear memory I have of Halmoni’s face. We were walking on the beach and the wind whipped Halmoni’s long skirt around her legs. She bent down to adjust the hem so it did not tangle around her ankles. Then as she reached for my hand, her face turned toward mine, the last firelight rays of sun softened her wrinkles. Her face shone, polished as a beach pebble.
My other memories of Halmoni come in puzzle pieces: a hand on my back, a few notes from a bedtime song, the deep well of her lap, her voice telling me to pray. I wish I could gather all the pieces from my mind, lay them out on the floor, and fit them together. But I know there will be too many ugly gaps for any real picture to exist. A salty tear runs into my lips.
Uhmma moves her shoulder and wakes me from my thoughts. Young Ju, Uhmma says. Go to your Apa. You are the only one who loved Halmoni like your Apa did. Go to him.
Uhmma, do I have to?
Uhmma clucks her tongue. Yah. What kind of talk is that? Your Apa is in such pain and you do not even want to comfort him? What kind of daughter are you?
I bow my head.
Uhmma puts her arm around my waist. Go ahead, Young Ju. Go to him. It will make you both feel better.
Apa sits cross-legged on the living room floor, his back against the couch. He stares out the large window by the front door. No lights have been turned on. Only the moonlight keeps him company.
Apa, I call out softly from the edge of the hallway.
His face turns toward me at the sound of my voice, but he doesn’t really seem to see me.
Apa, I say again and step out from the hall.
Young Ju? Apa says. The corners of his lips turn down as though he disapproves of my being up at this hour.
Yes, Apa, I answer.
Why are you not sleeping? You have school tomorrow.
I know, Apa.
Go back to bed. Get some rest. Apa turns back to the window and sighs.
I stay where I am, gripping the shaggy strands of the carpet between my toes. We stay that way, not speaking, for what seems like years, but the clock ticks only minutes. The guttural roar of a lone car driving by the house draws my eyes to the window. I notice the moonlight on the chain-link fence, the way it turns even the ugliest pattern into a delicate, luminous web.
Apa clears his throat, and without looking away from the window, says, Halmoni was only seventy-four. Only seventy-four.
She was still young, I add.
Yes, she was.
We fall silent again. The drip from the kitchen faucet marks the passing of time. I start to grow cold in my pajamas. I take a step back, my warm bed beckoning, when I think of something to say.
Apa, are you going to go back to Korea for the funeral?
Apa shakes his head. He runs his hands through his hair, gripping his scalp, his neck. He whispers, I cannot even be at her funeral. What kind of son am I? What kind of son am I? His shoulders shake and shake.
I walk over to the couch and sit down. I remember the way Halmoni would sing me to sleep, beating the soothing rhythm of a song on the wing of my shoulder blade. I try to hum a few bars, my hand hovering over Apa’s back, but the song sticks inside my throat, refusing to come out. I lower my hand and remain silent.
Apa looks up at me, the corner of his eyes tight with pain. He tells me, Halmoni was a good woman. She always tried her best to make everyone happy.
I nod.
Apa turns back around, puts his hands together as though he is praying, and holds them to his lips. He talks to himself. She would tell me not to borrow the money to fly out there. She would tell me to use it on more important things. Apa starts to cry again, pounding his fists into his forehead. She would tell me that. She would. She would. Would she not?
Apa. Apa. I say it over and over again, trying to call him back to himself. Who is this man crying like an abandoned child? This is not my Apa who growls instead of talks. My eyes search out the window. A small wisp of cloud hovers in the sky wearing the moonlight like a silver dress.
I imagine somewhere, in that sky, Halmoni is in heaven, bowing and greeting Harabugi and Jesus. There, her back will never be tired, and she’ll fly with the angels and not say once, Slow down. This was always her dream. To be up there. In heaven. I am still here, reaching.
Apa, I say and rest my hand on his shoulder. Halmoni is already in heaven. She does not need you to fly to Korea to see her. She can see you.
Apa bows his head. He reaches back and holds my hand.
My Best Is Always Not Enough
A rectangle. Picture frame. Doorway. Apa sits at his card table desk, both elbows on the surface. He holds a piece of paper up to his face, moving his lips, feeling his way among the foreign words. He puts the paper back down and cups his chin with one hand; the other hand punches numbers into a calculator. The small green desk lamp on the far corner of his table throws the shadows of his face deeper, longer. Into the night.
• • •
A noise in the kitchen startles me from my reading and I check the clock. Past midnight already. I stretch in my chair and yawn. I wonder if it is Uhmma in the kitchen. She should be sleeping. Sunday is the only day she can fit in a full night’s rest. I glance at my notes again. Tomorrow’s history exam has me worried, but there is nothing more I can do so late at night. I’ll check on Uhmma and then get some sleep.
I walk down the hallway, my fingers lightly following the wall, my eyes fixed on a tiny light coming from the kitchen. My step falters when I hear Uhmma’s voice.
Where were you? Uhmma asks.
That is not your concern, Apa slurs.
You have an early-morning gardening job tomorrow and you get drunk the night before. What kind of responsible man are you?
I told you, woman, Apa growls low. That is not your concern.
I hear Apa cursing loudly as he steps into the living room. I take a few steps back, turn, and flee quietly to my room. Safely behind my door, my heart finally slows.
The crashing is loud and strong. I plug my ears but can still hear Apa’s loud yelling. Who do you think you are? Questioning me. Slap.
Stop it, I say to myself. Go out there and stop it. But I do nothing. Say nothing. Only listen to the walls like a shameful mouse.
Yuhboh, Uhmma cries.
You think I am worthless. I see it in your eyes. A son who does not even go to his own uhmma’s funeral. A husband who does not provide you with enough. You always want more. But there is nothing. Look, we have nothing. My best is always not enough. Get away from me. You are strangling me to death with your hopes.
Uhmma’s sharp cry shatters the air.
The front door slams. In the distance, the station wagon sputters to life, then fades into the night.
I tiptoe out into the hallway again. Uhmma sits on the floor, crying softly in the dark living room. I walk over and kneel down, sit silent as a shadow by her side.
Uhmma clutches something close to her chest and rocks back and forth in rhythm to her sobs. When Uhmma’s shoulders cannot shake anymore, when her throat finally
opens and her breathing steadies, I touch her shoulder and say, Uhmma.
Go to sleep, Young Ju, Uhmma says with a sigh, trying to stand. Aigoo.
I grab Uhmma’s arm and help her onto the couch. When I turn on the lamp, Uhmma squints and turns her face away from the light. But not before I see her swollen eye.
The coffee table is overturned, Korean newspaper strewn all over the carpet. The smell of Apa’s alcohol breath soaks the air. I pick up a broken picture frame, the photo of our family at the airport in Korea slightly skewed, and set it on the couch. In the kitchen, I find an old plastic bag and fill it with some ice.
Here, Uhmma, I say and offer her the bag of ice. Uhmma takes it from me, presses it to her eye, and grimaces. I stand hovering above her, unsure of what to do, what to say, how I can help. On her lap, I notice the checkbook. Uhmma sees me staring and pushes the checkbook under her leg, out of sight.
Young Ju, go to sleep, Uhmma says.
But Uhmma, I protest.
Please, Young Ju, Uhmma begs.
I press my lips together, give Uhmma a few seconds to change her mind.
Do not speak of this to anyone, Uhmma says. Not even Gomo. Now go to sleep.
I walk back to my bedroom.
• • •
A rectangle. Picture frame. Doorway. Uhmma sits at Apa’s card table desk, both elbows on the surface. She holds the checkbook up to her face, moving her lips, feeling her way among the numbers. She puts the checkbook down and cups her chin with one hand; the other hand punches numbers into a calculator. While she checks the numbers on the calculator against the numbers in the checkbook, Uhmma absent-mindedly rubs her thumb back and forth. Back and forth over the unfamiliar nakedness of her ring finger. The small green desk lamp on the far corner of the table throws the shadows of her face deeper, longer. Into the night.
The Power of Prayer
Today we are going to church, Uhmma announces.
Joon and I look up from our breakfast bowls of rice and seaweed soup.
Church? I ask.
Uhmma sits down with her bowl of soup and nods. She says, I met the minister while I was shopping at the Korean market.
