by An Na
“Knock it off, Uhn-nee,” Joon cries and holds the pillow tightly in place.
I give a hard yank and the pillow is mine. Joon sits up. “Uhn-nee, what do you want?”
“Something’s wrong,” I say again.
“What are you talking about?” Joon grabs the pillow out of my hands and falls back on it, one arm tucked under his head.
“I don’t know what it is. Just something smells funny in the living room.”
Joon rolls his eyes, but the way his nostrils flare and stay flared, the way they get after a lecture and a few cuffs on the head or a kick in the stomach from Apa, I know he is listening.
“So what,” Joon says and rolls over. “You’re probably smelling your own stinkiness.”
“Joon, I’m being serious. It was a weird smell.”
“Well, what was it then?”
I try to remember the odor, the edge in the air. I search his room for something that might help me put a name to this thing. I bite the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know.”
“Great. You got wigged out by a smell?”
“It wasn’t just that,” I insist. I don’t tell him it was the way the smell made the back of my neck tense up.
“Uhn-nee, forget it. Uhmma was probably cleaning the house. You know how she is in the morning.”
“You think so?” My hands suddenly feel cold and stiff. I sit on them so that the backs of my thighs will keep them warm.
Joon starts to snore and pretends he is going back to sleep. I yank the pillow from under his head and tell him, “Uhmma wants us to get ready for church.”
Joon groans.
Uhmma is gone from the kitchen when I walk out of Joon’s room. I circle through the living room again, sniffing the air, wondering at the strange odor that does not belong in this house. In the kitchen, I lift up the lid from the soup pot and check to see what’s for breakfast. Empty. I put the lid back down and lean against the counter. No breakfast? Uhmma always has breakfast ready. My mouth begins to water, not from hunger, but from the familiar nervousness that makes my stomach throw up all of its contents. I start to look for the brown bag I saw Uhmma with earlier. I open the yellow plastic trash can. Empty. I pace up and down the length of the kitchen. I have to find that smell.
Outside, I notice the station wagon is gone from its usual spot on the street. We’ll have to walk to Mrs. Song’s, an ahjimma we met at church who lives a few miles away, for a ride. Uhmma refuses to let her pick us up for church even though we are right along the way. She does not want to inconvenience Mrs. Song more than she believes we already do.
Along the side of the house, Mr. Owner keeps two garbage cans, a black one for us and a brown one for him, just so we don’t mix up our garbage and end up filling more than our allotted space. I pick up the lid of the black can and notice Uhmma’s tight knot at the top of the white plastic trash bag. Just thinking about taking apart that knot makes me put the lid back down and walk away. After a few steps, I stop and kick the ground, spraying up the dust and loose gravel.
I go through the trash carefully, using an old cereal box to push through the mucky parts. By the second bag, I find it. An old rusted can of Country Fresh Lysol. I sit back on my legs and stare at the can. Why did Uhmma spray this? It explains the strange smell, but what about the brown paper bag? I lift out the white trash bags. At the bottom of the can is the brown paper bag. Now that I have found it, I am not sure that I want to look inside. I stand with my hands on my hips, staring down into the trash can, wondering if I should reach in and take it out.
“Uhn-nee.”
Joon’s voice startles me and makes me jump.
“What are you doing?” Joon asks.
“Joon,” I say angrily, still feeling my heart pound, “what do you want?”
Joon leans forward and peeks into the trash can.
“Stop that,” I say. “That’s trash.”
“So?” Joon shrugs and reaches in to pick up the brown paper bag. He peers inside, then pulls out an empty glass bottle with a white label that reads JIM BEAM and a red and blue Budweiser beer can. Joon sets them on the ground. Each time Joon reaches into the bag, he pulls out another Bud can. Soon a row of ten cans and the Jim Beam bottle line the wall.
“Is this what you were looking for?” Joon asks, staring at the lineup.
“No,” I say. “I was only looking for the smell.”
“You don’t know the smell of this?” Joon says and stomps on one of the beer cans.
“Stop it, Joon.”
Joon stomps on another can.
“That wasn’t the smell,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I don’t care what you smelled in the house, it was just this crap again.” Joon kicks the can so hard it bounces off the wall of the house and lands behind him. Joon runs after it and stomps it into the dirt. Sweat pours off his forehead, but Joon barely notices as he kicks the flattened can toward the trash. I run back inside the house.
Uhmma, I call, knocking quickly on the bedroom door and stepping inside. Uhmma sits on the bed, her body hunched forward, her head in her hands.
My breath catches. I want to believe they are shadows. Or a trick of the eye, like crouching shapes on dark, lonely streets that turn out to be trash cans up close. But they are not. The sickness in my stomach spreading up to my chest tells me they are real. Dark splotches of blue and purple camouflage Uhmma’s bare back and shoulders. She tries to quickly pull on her sweater, but the sudden movement makes her gasp.
What do you want, Young Ju? Uhmma says harshly.
I open my mouth to speak, but the words are lost. I sit on the floor and begin to cry.
Uhmma does not move. She holds herself stiffly, waiting for me to stop.
Young Ju, go get ready for church, Uhmma says finally. Go now.
The footsteps of Mr. Owner shuffle across the ceiling. A fly buzzes above the bed, hitting its body over and over against a window sealed forever by too many layers of renter’s paint.
I fiddle with the end of my shirt, trying to gather the courage to ask a question. I wipe my tears with my sleeve but remain sitting. Uhmma stands and moves to the small mirror on top of her dresser. She picks up her lipstick as though to finish putting on her makeup.
Why does Apa do it? I finally whisper and look to Uhmma for the answer.
Uhmma stares into the mirror, lipstick tight in her hand. Young Ju, go now, Uhmma says.
But I will not leave this time. Will not pretend. The sight of the dark bruises, some as big as an iron across her back, lingers on the inside of my eyelids, each blink heavy with the weight of it all.
Why does Apa do it? I ask again, louder.
Uhmma slouches against the dresser. She puts down the lipstick. Uhmma says softly, There are some things you do not know about your Apa.
I wait for her to continue.
He is a very prideful man, Uhmma says.
So he has to hit us, I say and turn my face away.
Young Ju, you are too young to understand. Uhmma sighs deep from the source of her pain. He was so different when we first met, Uhmma says. He is still very upset over the death of your Halmoni.
That is no excuse, I say.
Uhmma doesn’t respond. She dusts the dresser with her fingertips, adjusts the mirror. As Uhmma straightens the clutter of makeup on her dresser, she says, Your life can be different, Young Ju. Study and be strong. In America, women have choices.
I stand up. Stare straight at Uhmma. You have choices, Uhmma.
Uhmma refuses to meet my gaze. She looks into the mirror and quickly applies some lipstick. When she lifts her arms to tie back her hair, a small groan escapes her lips. Aigoo. She lets her hair fall around her shoulders. I move up behind her, take the rubber band from her hand, and tie back her hair for her.
Uhmma turns around. She and I are almost the same height now. Her eyes sweep across my face, my hair. You are taller, she says, her voice trembling. You must have grown when I was not looking.
Patches
<
br /> The middle school secretary calls for the second time this week. “Joon Park was not in school again today. He has been absent or tardy sixteen times this semester,” she says. “He will flunk if he continues this pattern.”
“Yes, I understand,” I mumble into the phone.
But I don’t understand. I don’t know where Joon goes, what he does. Some days Joon does not come home until almost ten o’clock, just a few hours before Uhmma would catch him. He is becoming more like Apa, only wandering home when he needs sleep or food. I open the door to Joon’s empty room. His red Korean mink blanket lies bunched together at the foot of the bed, his pillow pushed off to the ground. Sketches of his comic book heroes, X-Men, line the walls of his room. Crumpled drawings litter the floor. His drawings are surprisingly good. They have become better over time, since this is all he does when he’s at home. Draw for hours behind his closed door, coming out only when he needs to eat.
A school picture of Joon when he was seven hangs above his desk. For some reason Uhmma had enough money that year to get a small individual photo, unlike the other years when all we brought home was the complimentary class picture. Joon’s front teeth are almost completely rotten, but he flashes them for the camera as though they are made of gold. The cowlick on the side of his head sticks up in a nubby devil’s horn.
The cowlick isn’t there anymore; it got shaved off when Joon decided being bald and wearing black made him look tough. I check the room one more time and then close the door.
I am waiting on the couch when Joon comes home around dinnertime. He shuffles into the living room, dragging his feet and slouching with his head pushed forward in a new walk that reminds me of a vulture. Joon spots me on the couch and heads for his room. I call out, “Joon, come here.”
“What do you want, Uhn-nee?” Joon says without turning around.
“I got a call from your school again.”
Joon turns sideways, showing me his vulture profile. “You going to tell Uhmma?”
“Joon, where were you today? This was the second call this week. You know you’re supposed to be at school.”
“You can cut the lecture, Uhn-nee,” Joon growls. “I don’t need to hear it.”
“Well, you can hear it from me or you can hear it from Apa.”
Joon faces me fully, giving me an incredulous look. “You’re going to tell Apa?”
“I don’t want to,” I say, playing with a loose thread on the yellow sheet covering the couch.
“Then don’t. It’s not like he’s ever home anyway.” Joon turns back around and walks to his room, shutting the door behind him.
I pull on the thread even though I know I shouldn’t. Soon a small hole the size of a dime appears in the sheet. I sigh. We should get a new sheet anyway.
There is a dim crack of light escaping from under Joon’s door. I knock, and as always there is no answer. I open the door anyway. Joon sits hunched over his desk. The light from his desk lamp makes the black bristles of his hair look even more sparse, like a landscape of trees in winter. I watch him from the door for a while and then make my way over to his desk.
Joon slowly traces the pencil sketches of his new drawing with a sharp black felt-tip marker. He finishes penning a small detail on Wolverine’s leg muscle and finally looks up. “What do you want now, Uhn-nee?”
Up close, I notice that Joon’s eyes are bloodshot, his eyelids heavy and drooping. I fight the impulse to reach up and touch his eyes, to check and make sure they really belong to Joon and not some sad grandfather, homeless and lying in the street. I stare at his drawing to avoid his eyes and ask, “Joon, where do you go when you skip class?”
Joon turns to another part of his drawing. “I hang out with my friends,” Joon mumbles, trying to keep his hand steady.
“Well, what do you do?”
“What do you think we do? We goof around.”
“All day?”
“God, Uhn-nee,” Joon says, looking up from his work. “Why are you asking me all these questions? Why don’t you skip school and find out for yourself if you’re so curious.”
“Joon, you know Uhmma and Apa want you to study and get good grades. What are you going to do when report cards come around?”
Joon’s hand quivers for a second and the pen veers off the pencil sketch course. “Damnit, Uhn-nee! Look what you made me do.” Joon goes over the line again, making the black outline wider in that one spot.
“Joon, did you hear me?”
“What do you want? What!” Joon slams the pen down and turns in his seat to fully face me.
“You can’t keep cutting school if you want to get decent grades,” I say.
“Well, what if I don’t want good grades? What if I don’t want to be like you, Uhn-nee?”
“I’m not saying you have to be like me. I’m just saying you should be in school so you can learn something.”
Joon snorts and picks up his pen again. “Yeah, real life lessons there.”
“It’s not like you’re learning anything by goofing off with your friends.”
“You don’t even know what we do, so don’t act like you’re some expert, Uhn-nee. You don’t know about a lot of things.”
“Well, I know that if you skip school again, I’m going to tell Uhmma and Apa.”
Joon’s pen freezes in midair. He slowly turns in his chair, his eyes narrowed, the curl of a snarl frozen on his lips. “You squealing little pig.”
“You don’t have to get all nasty,” I say, putting one hand on my hip.
“Get out of here and mind your own stupid nerdy business. You’re probably jealous that I even have friends at school. Who are your friends, Uhn-nee? Who do you eat lunch with? The books at the library?”
I start to back out of the room. Joon stands up. “You have no friends of your own so you have to make me just like you. But I’m not like you. I have friends and at least I have fun when I’m not in this stupid apartment.”
The anger of Joon’s words forces me all the way to his door, ready to leave. But I can’t. With the doorknob jammed against the small of my back, I watch Joon return to his drawing, his neck so tense and tight the back of his head touches his shoulders. The picture of the little rotten-toothed boy hangs above him. I stare at the picture and then look at Joon’s hulking back. He is tall for his age. The tallest one in the family. Just like Apa and Uhmma thought he would be someday. The son who must make Apa proud. What has happened? Why have his eyes changed into those of someone so much older?
“Leave me alone, Uhn-nee,” Joon mumbles.
“Please, Joon. Just go to school tomorrow,” I say softly.
“I’ll think about it,” Joon answers.
I want to say more, ask him to try to go to school or else. But at the last minute I change my mind and simply leave his room. I let Joon lose himself to his drawings.
In the living room I finger the small hole that I unraveled in the sheet. I know there’ll be no new sheet. No fresh, clean cover to make the old couch look better. Just this same sheet that has been here for as long as we have. I take out Uhmma’s sewing kit and patch up the hole as best as I can.
Disclosure
Amanda and her mom drop me off at the library closest to my house after a Saturday study session for finals at Amanda’s. I have been slowly seeing more of Amanda and telling Uhmma and Apa, if they ask, that I go to the library to study. Mrs. Doyle and Amanda joke every time they drop me off at the library that I practically live there. I laugh and say it’s better than being in an empty house, and anyway, I can get my work done faster there without the distraction of the TV. They nod like they understand.
I get out quickly before Mrs. Doyle can ask about my parents, which has started to become a frequent question. She wants Uhmma to join the PTA. Come over and have lunch with a few of the other mothers. I’ve told her that Uhmma is busy, but Mrs. Doyle has not stopped asking.
Before closing the car door, I lean in and thank Mrs. Doyle for the ride.
“
No problem, Young,” Mrs. Doyle says easily. “Oh, Young, be sure to ask your mom if she can make it to lunch at our house next Saturday. She can’t be working every weekend.”
I shrug. Uhmma has Saturday mornings and afternoons off, but I don’t tell her that. I just smile awkwardly and say, “I’ll ask.”
After Amanda and her mom drive away, I start to walk home. Someday I might have to tell Amanda where I really live. Someday I’ll tell her if we are still best friends.
I’m surprised to see Apa, instead of Uhmma, coming out of the kitchen after I shout out, Uhmma, I am back from the library.
Apa, I say, startled, and close the door behind me. Apa is supposed to be at his only remaining gardening job, but here he is in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips. Uhmma quietly comes out of the kitchen. I look back and forth between them.
Where were you just now? Apa asks with a squinty eye.
I slowly put down my backpack. The way he asks that question as though he already knows the answer makes me cringe inside. I stick with my story.
I was studying at the library, I say softly.
In two strides he is by my side, grabbing my hair and dragging me across the living room.
“Apa!” I scream and try to pull my hair from his grasp.
You bitch, he snarls. You lying bitch. Who do you think you are? Lying to my face!
Apa throws me on the couch and stands in front of me heaving, his nostrils flared, eyes thin with anger.
I bow my head slightly to keep from smelling the sour alcohol breath blowing down on my face, and instead find a spot on the far wall just behind Apa’s brown belt. I keep my eyes focused on the spot.
Apa puts his hands on his hips. He says through clenched teeth, I saw you. I saw you at the library with that American girl. What did I tell you about seeing that worthless girl?
I think about asking him why he was at the library instead of at work, but instead I mumble, I do not remember.
Slap.
My ears ring and the side of my face grows numb.
How many times have you lied to me? Apa yells, stepping in closer.
