A Step from Heaven

by An Na

  Uhmma whimpers, Aigoo. Aigoo cham-neh. Yuhboh, how could you do this? How could you?

  Uncle Tim says, Do not worry. Do not worry.

  I picture Uncle Tim patting Uhmma on the back, his shoulders drooping forward so he won’t seem so tall.

  It is his first offense, Uncle Tim says. Do not worry. I will find you a good lawyer.

  This is the first and last time, Gomo says quickly, her voice cracking from the effort of keeping her tone at a whisper. What an embarrassment you have become.

  Uhmma cries louder, How could this have happened? Aigoo.

  You must change, Gomo says. What kind of example are you setting for your children? Getting arrested for drunk driving. You are acting like a common hoodlum.

  “Honey, that’s enough,” Uncle Tim says.

  “I help him enough,” Gomo says.

  “Come on. Let him get some rest.”

  Gomo announces, We are leaving. Tomorrow, Byung Ho, we will have a long talk.

  I can’t hear Apa’s answer if he spoke at all. The front door clicks shut and then I hear footsteps rustle to Uhmma and Apa’s bedroom door.

  The clatter of Uhmma in the kitchen finally draws me out of my room. I walk into the hallway and see Uhmma standing at her usual spot in front of the stove. The only sign of Apa is the closed bedroom door.

  As we are eating breakfast, Uhmma warns Joon and me to remain quiet today, maybe go to the park so Apa can rest. There is no mention of why Apa is home this morning. I wonder if he will lose his cleaning job like some of the gardening jobs. While I clear the breakfast dishes, Uhmma takes her Bible down from a shelf and opens it to a certain page. She counts out the money she has managed to save for emergencies. I watch her but don’t ask any questions. After she leaves for the restaurant, I walk quietly around the house looking for anything to prove that the distant voices, which seem more and more like a dream, were real.

  The next morning Apa comes out of the bedroom for the first time since he came home yesterday morning. Uhmma, Joon, and I are eating breakfast before going to church. Apa picks up the Korean newspaper and sits down on the couch. A dark shadow covers his upper lip, and his sweat suit is rumpled. The phone rings. Uhmma stands to pick it up.

  Good morning, Gomo, Uhmma says. Yes, he is out of bed.

  Apa lowers his paper and squints narrowly at Uhmma.

  You are coming over, Gomo?

  Wait, Apa says and glances over at Joon and me. Tell her I am getting ready for church.

  Joon bumps my arm with his elbow. I keep staring at my rice.

  Gomo, Uhmma says after a pause, Young Ju’s Apa is getting ready for church right now. Yes, I agree. Church will be good for him.

  Apa raises his newspaper and begins to read again.

  Yes, he will call you when we come home. Good-bye. Uhmma hangs up but remains standing with her hand over the phone. Uhmma looks over at Apa. Do not make me a liar, Yuhboh.

  Apa does not put down the paper.

  I will not lie for you. I will call Gomo back. I will tell her.

  Apa throws down his paper with an angry hiss and walks back to the bedroom.

  Uhmma drives to church. Apa sits in the passenger seat, shaven and clean, wearing a white shirt and the only tie he owns, the one he wore on the plane from Korea. The red diagonal strips are thick as a barbershop’s pole. Apa’s hair is wet and slicked down, his cowlick forced to lie still. Apa stares straight out the window the entire way.

  At church, Pastor Kim is speaking with another family, but when he sees Uhmma walk in with Apa, his chin lifts. He bows quickly to the other family and hurries over to us.

  Ahn-young-ha-say-yo, Mr. Park, he says, bowing and shaking Apa’s hand. We are very happy to have you with us today. Your wife has become a most valued member of our congregation. And your children are so nice.

  Apa nods, but his eyes shift around the room, flitting from person to person, family to family. Uhmma keeps her head bowed, hands folded together. Joon hops from foot to foot, impatient to run off down the hall toward the Sunday school room where he knows that some of his friends are already playing a game of Sorry before Mr. Shin’s sermon. I stand next to Uhmma, my hands folded, and wait to be excused.

  Pastor Kim turns to us. He gives Joon a pat on the shoulder and says, My goodness, Joon, how you are growing. You are almost as tall as I am.

  Joon shoves his hands into his pocket. Uhmma nudges him and Joon answers, Yes.

  Pastor Kim smiles and gestures as though announcing me on stage. He tells my parents, Young Ju is looking very grown up. More and more like a demure young lady.

  My toes curl inside my shoes at the mention of becoming a young lady. My shoulders hunch slightly forward to cover any signs of my developing young-lady body.

  Apa stands through all of this, his back stiff, a layer of sweat already glistening on his upper lip.

  Pastor Kim continues, Your wife has been—

  Apa interrupts before Pastor Kim can finish with his compliments. Thank you for your words, he says abruptly and leads Uhmma away to the back row of chairs. Pastor Kim remains in his spot, a confused look on his face.

  Joon immediately takes off for the Sunday school room. I follow slowly behind him after one last backward glance at Uhmma and Apa. They sit side by side in the last row. Uhmma has not sat in the back since the first day we came to church. Usually she sits in the front. Apa’s cowlick is at last awake. He tries to smooth it down. Uhmma discreetly wets her fingers with some spit and reaches up, pressing the lock of hair back down. It stays in place. At least for now.

  After the service while Uhmma helps set out doughnuts and coffee, Apa stands in the corner of the fellowship hall, away from everyone else, smoking a cigarette. When it looks as though someone might approach him, Apa slyly moves away to another corner of the room, pretends to become interested in his crumpled program.

  On the drive home, Uhmma talks about how Pastor Kim wants her to join the chorus, they need more sopranos. Uhmma asks Apa if he liked the sermon. Apa remains silent. Uhmma grips the steering wheel tighter and tighter, the outlines of her knuckles growing sharp. Joon looks out of his window and I look out of mine. We all stay silent for the rest of the ride home.

  Apa yanks off his tie as soon as we step inside the house and starts down the hallway for the bedroom. Uhmma calls to his retreating back, Yuhboh, remember to call Gomo.

  Apa slams the bedroom door behind him.

  Uhmma sighs and sits down on the couch, absent-mindedly tucking in the corners of the yellow sheet that covers the cushions. She takes off her high heels and rubs her ankles while staring out the front window.

  Young Ju and Joon Ho, Uhmma calls, find something to eat. I am too tired to cook.

  Joon and I search the cupboards for a snack.

  Apa walks out of the bedroom changed into jeans and an old button-down shirt. He heads for the front door.

  Yuhboh, wait. Uhmma stands up. Where are you going? You are not allowed to drive.

  I do not care. I have had enough punishment for today, Apa says without turning around.

  Yuhboh, please, you might get caught. Please, Uhmma begs, reaching for his arm. When will you be back? What if the lawyer calls?

  Apa jerks his arm away from Uhmma and leaves. He does not return for three days. Uhmma does not sleep, circles of worry rimming her eyes. Waiting.

  Daughter

  The bleachers of the gymnasium are filled with parents. Some fathers wear suits and ties, having come right from work. Others wear dark pants and short-sleeved shirts with collars and miniature alligators, tigers, or men riding horses embroidered on their breast pocket. Most of the mothers have dresses on and their faces are glossy with makeup. It’s strange to see the gym filled with parents instead of kids running around in their gray and purple P.E. uniforms. But the awards ceremony needed a big place. There’s just enough room for all the parents who have students in honors classes. If they gave awards to people in the regular classes, the gym wouldn’t hold e
veryone. They would need a whole football field for all those parents. And the parents would not be dressed in such nice clothes.

  My own sky-blue dress is tight around the shoulders and back, but long enough that it still looks like it fits. Uhmma lowered the hem a few months ago. Only if you look real close can you see the faded line from where the hem used to be.

  I sit with Amanda and her parents even though Apa has forbidden me to see her. He will never know, and Uhmma does not mind if I see Amanda at school. Mr. and Mrs. Doyle ask why I haven’t been around lately. I smile awkwardly and give them the same excuse I give Amanda, “I have a lot of homework.” Amanda rolls her eyes and complains I study way too much. By the time the principal steps up to the podium to begin the awards ceremony, my entire face has flamed red from my lies.

  Amanda receives an award for English. When her name is announced and she stands up to accept the certificate, Mr. Doyle runs up ahead of her, snapping pictures as though she is a runway model. The flashes make Amanda falter in mid-step. She waves her father away and everyone in the crowd chuckles like they know how she feels. Amanda shakes the principal’s hand, then gets a hug and a certificate from Mrs. Connor, our English teacher. Amanda walks quickly back to her seat. Mrs. Doyle claps and claps until the gym grows quiet again and the boom of her hands rings out.

  After all the department awards have been handed out, they go to the GPA awards. One person in every class with the highest grade point average receives a certificate.

  “The ninth-grade GPA award goes to Yungpark.”

  At first I am not sure if they called me because the name sounds so garbled, but when Amanda gives me a nudge, I stand up. Amanda and her parents clap loudly as I walk to the front to shake the principal’s hand. He hands me the certificate, and for a second I am lost in the reflection of the shiny gold stamp.

  After the ceremony ends, Mr. and Mrs. Doyle offer to give me a lift home. I panic and blurt out the truth: “That’s okay, I can take the bus.”

  Mrs. Doyle frowns. “Now do you think that’s safe, Young? Is that how you got here? Couldn’t your parents—”

  “Actually, Mrs. Doyle,” I break in, “if you could give me a lift to the library, I have to finish up some of my research for the history final.”

  Amanda raises one eyebrow. She knows I’m almost done.

  “It’s pretty late, Young. Are you sure you want to go to the library? We can drop you at your house,” Mrs. Doyle says.

  “The library closes late tonight and I’d rather get the research over with.”

  “Linda, come on,” Mr. Doyle says to his wife. “Young knows what she’s doing. Look at that certificate in her hand. She didn’t earn that by picking her nose.”

  “Daaad!” Amanda groans and grabs my arm, leading me to the door of the gym.

  On the car ride to the library, Mr. Doyle begins to sing along to a song on the radio. Amanda complains that he is embarrassing her in front of her friend. Mr. Doyle looks back at me in the rear-view mirror and winks. I smile even though I know Amanda thinks her parents are way too dorky. She is always saying she can’t take them anywhere.

  A few blocks before the library, a line of cars are stopped on the street. Up ahead, the blue and red lights of two police cars flash in the night. Mrs. Doyle leans to one side to see what the problem is. “I wonder what happened?” she worries. The cars slowly inch forward.

  As we near the police cars, Mr. Doyle starts to nod as though he understands what is going on. He turns in his seat to look at us and explains, “They’re just doing one of those sobriety checks.”

  “You mean for drunk driving?” Amanda asks.

  Mr. Doyle nods and turns back around.

  My chest tightens in anticipation even though I know Mr. Doyle has not been drinking. I think about Apa and how he was arrested. For some crazy reason, I begin to worry that maybe they’ll recognize me. See me as the daughter of the man they arrested. Or worse, what if Apa is pulled to the side?

  The police officer beams his flashlight into the car, making me squint for a second.

  “Hello, Officer,” Mr. Doyle says.

  “Sir, where are you coming from tonight?”

  Mr. Doyle jerks his thumb toward the back seat. “Officer, I’m carrying two of the smartest kids at Wagner High School.”

  The officer peers back at us. “That so,” he says, smiling.

  Mr. Doyle waves Amanda’s certificate in the air. “My daughter won an award for English and her friend got the highest GPA in the ninth grade,” Mr. Doyle brags.

  “That’s fine work. Fine work,” the officer says. He waves his flashlight forward and says quickly, “Be careful on the roads, we have a lot of end-of-the-school-year and graduation parties going on.”

  “Sure thing, Officer,” Mr. Doyle says and drives forward.

  Only after the car rounds the corner do I finally let myself breathe. That was so easy. Mr. Doyle even made the guy smile. In my neighborhood, the police never get out of their cars unless it is to arrest someone or harass them with questions. Usually they cruise the streets slowly, their eyes hard and heavy with mistrust. I never thought they could actually care about other people.

  After the library closes, I walk to the apartment and stay up late into the night, waiting for Uhmma to come home so I can show her the award. Uhmma holds the certificate in her hands, tilting it back and forth so the light will catch the gold medal stamp.

  You were number one in your class? Uhmma asks and holds up her thumb.

  Number one, Uhmma, I say and hold up my pointer finger.

  Uhmma studies the certificate again. Here, she says, pointing. That is your name.

  Yes.

  I am very proud of you, Young Ju, Uhmma says. She picks up my hand and gives it a squeeze. Tell me, she says. Tell me about the ceremony. Did they clap very loud?

  I nod.

  Did Amanda and her parents stand when you went up?

  I wrinkle my brow, trying to remember, and nod again.

  My goodness, Uhmma says smiling. A special ceremony to honor you.

  No, Uhmma, I groan. There were many people who received awards. Amanda got one for English.

  Yes, that is very nice. But that was not for being number one in the class. English is just one subject.

  Yes, but it is still a good award.

  Tell me what else happened. Did you have to make a speech?

  No.

  Did you bow?

  No, Uhmma. It is not like that. I only shook the principal’s hand.

  Good. He is a very important man. Do you think we should send him a gift?

  No, Uhmma, I groan again.

  Young Ju, Uhmma says and gazes steadily into my eyes. I am very sorry I could not be there for your important night. She shakes her head and laments, To think of all those people there to honor you, and your own parents could not take a night off from their jobs. Aigoo, Young Ju. What kind of parents do you have? Your Apa will be so proud of you.

  I bow my head, ashamed to remember how scared I was that the police would recognize me or that I might see Apa pulled over. I ask Uhmma, Should we try to wait up for Apa?

  Uhmma frowns at the clock and then shakes her head. She says, I will leave it in a place where he will see it.

  Uhmma places my certificate in the middle of the coffee table, next to the Korea Times newspaper. It stays there the whole night, untouched. The next morning, Uhmma tries to explain that Apa must have slept downtown in his car because he was so tired. He had to get up early to take care of a lawn down there anyway.

  When Apa finally does come home, he covers the entire coffee table with his newspaper. Underneath the scattered sheets, the certificate lies tossed aside like a useless piece of mail. I push away the newspaper and pick up my award. Mr. Doyle’s voice, bragging to the police officer that Amanda and I are two of the smartest kids at Wagner, rings in my head. If only I were his daughter, I think and crush the corner of the award. It’s only a piece of paper.

 
I look down at my name and begin to crumple the entire certificate, but a tiny black smudge catches my eye. For some reason, before I can think, I lift the certificate to my nose. Ammonia and bleach. An ache deep and wide as the sea threatens to drown my heart.

  Revealing Forms

  Sunday morning I walk out of my room and Uhmma is already in the kitchen, standing with her back to me, cleaning the counter. “Uhmma,” I call as I walk down the hallway, not because I need something but simply to say I am awake.

  But today, instead of her usual greeting, Did you sleep well, Uhmma’s back stiffens and she quickly puts something into a brown paper bag she is holding at her side. Without turning to face me, Uhmma tells me over her shoulder, Hurry up and take a shower. We are late for church.

  I walk into the living room, wondering how we could be late when it is still only seven o’clock and church does not start for another two hours. I sit down on the couch, ready to turn on the television, when I notice a strange odor in the air. Along with the smell of stale cigarettes and lingering garlic and fish from last night’s dinner, there’s something else. Like air freshener at a gas station bathroom. Country flowers or Tea Rose. I sniff the strange odor and look around the room. Everything looks the same.

  I sniff the air again, wondering if Uhmma got up early to clean the house, which would not be unusual. But this is not the smell of Comet or Windex.

  Young Ju, Uhmma calls from the kitchen. I told you to take a shower. Go now.

  Uhmma, I say, wanting to ask her about the smell.

  Now, Young Ju. I do not want to hear your whys, Uhmma insists. Go right now.

  After my shower, I knock on Joon’s door. There is no answer. I walk in anyway. Joon usually hides in his room until someone drags him out of bed.

  “Go away,” Joon croaks from under the pillow.

  “Joon,” I whisper. “Something’s wrong.”

  “What’s new.”

  “Joon!” I shake his shoulders, try to lift the pillow off his face.