I'm Ok

by Patti Kim

  “Burn. Amen to that too. Time to put down your stone, man,” Asa says.

  “You don’t get it. He doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t want me around. He wouldn’t mind if I got into a little accident, if you know what I mean. Like . . . like whenever he drives me, he doesn’t even tell me to put my seat belt on.”

  “My daddy is a professional truck driver, and he never wears it, and he never makes me wear it either,” she says.

  “And he nearly force-fed me mushrooms,” I say.

  “There ain’t nothing wrong with mushrooms. I love mushrooms. My ma makes this one thing with butter and garlic, and she mix it up with some chicken and macaroni noodles. Man, just thinking about it makes my mouth water,” Asa says.

  “I always get mushrooms and onions on my pizza,” Mickey says.

  “I take my pizza plain with extra cheese. You try that new pizza place? They got, like, a dozen different cheeses. What’s that place called?” says Asa.

  “Da Vinci?” Mickey says.

  “Yeah. Yeah,” he says.

  “I’m not crazy about their sauce. It’s way too sweet—”

  “People! The mushrooms could’ve been poisonous!” I say.

  They both look at me like I’m crazy.

  “Listen, Ok. You being out here on your own is more dangerous and life threatening than eating a couple of mushrooms. You’re not right in the head,” says Mickey.

  “Yeah, I gotta side with Mick here. I don’t know, Ok. Maybe you got it all wrong. The way he was carrying on about you, he looked like he cared. I thought he was your pa,” Asa says.

  “He was putting on a show,” I say.

  “Looked real to me, but if you say so. Look, I gotta head home, man,” Asa says, and gets up.

  “But you just got here. I have more dogs,” I say.

  “You need to get on home too,” Asa says.

  “Never thought I’d say this, but Asa’s right. Go home, Ok.”

  “You guys are going to rat me out?”

  “I can’t speak for Asa, but I have a mind to ’cause I’m your friend and friends are supposed to care and I care and I’m relieved you’re alive and I want you to stay alive.”

  “Stayin’ alive. Stayin’ alive,” I sing.

  “Seriously,” Mickey says.

  “I get it, man. You need to stop time. You need your own space. I know how that goes. But your ma’s worried sick. She’s having it the roughest right now, and I ain’t no rat, but I’m glad Mick here is.”

  “Shut up, Asa.”

  “What? That was a compliment.”

  “I gotta get home. I’m supposed to be watching Benny,” Mickey says.

  As she hugs me, I say, “Thanks.” Asa bumps my shoulder. I want to tell both of them, “Please don’t go.”

  As the sun sets, the room darkens. The fire is out. With my flashlight I light our way down to the basement. I think about having to return upstairs without them, and the dread and loneliness hit me so hard that I stop in the middle of the stairs. “Go,” Mickey says, nudging me. I proceed down. Mickey climbs out of the window first. Asa follows. I shine my light on them. They exchange insults and shuffle through the shrubs, making their way back home.

  forty-nine

  As I lie in my tent later that night, I blink my flashlight at the nylon ceiling, pretending I know Morse code and there’s someone out there to receive my message. I think about Mickey and Asa’s visit and wonder if they’ll come back again. I should’ve told them to come over anytime because mi casa es su casa and friends are friends forever and friendship is magic and friends don’t let friends drive drunk. Friends care. I remember Mickey saying I’m her friend even after I told her I stole her mother’s money, and I keep hearing Asa’s voice, saying how worried sick Ŏmma is and how this here is cool and all, but you don’t want to live here. It ain’t home.

  I hear something coming from the basement. I turn off my flashlight and listen more carefully, wondering if Mickey and Asa are back. I hear footsteps on the basement floor, the tap-tap of leather soles. Those are not Asa’s or Mickey’s shoes. Those are not the paws of a cat. Those can only be the shoes of a police officer. It’s that Jergens. They’re onto me. They caught me. I freeze, my heart racing and my legs ready to make a run for it upstairs. The basement steps creak.

  I unzip the tent, pop out, and scurry upstairs to the bedroom that has the loose board over its window. I lift up the board, squeeze through the opening in the window, and crawl out to the roof. The cold feels good. It calms me down. I find a nice flat spot, curl into a ball, and hug my knees, waiting it out. Tonight the moon shows a quarter of itself. I want to believe the moon smiles down on me, and the stars root for me, bringing light to my sorry heart. I press my eyes into my knees and breathe, telling myself I’m going to be all right, I’m not going to jail, I’m not going to fall and die. I lift my head and look down. Was this anything like my father’s view? Did he have a moment to stop, take note of the thick heat in the air, the persistent sun, the interrupting butterfly, the rooted trees? Did he remember me? I rub my eyes because parked in front of the house is my father’s green Cougar. What’s Appa doing here? Has he come back?

  “Ok-ah? Ok-ah?”

  I hear my mother’s voice. I start to cry because instead of sounding angry with me, her voice is full of sorrow and full of hope. She leans out of the window and speaks into the night sky. “Ok-ah.”

  “Ŏmma,” I say.

  My mother looks gray under the moonlight, like a shadow speaking to me from another world. She climbs out the window, crawls over, sits next to me, and sighs. She says, “I’ve been looking for you. I woke up one morning, and you weren’t there, and it scared me to death. I was so scared for you. I was scared for myself. I was in a crazy panic and then all that frenzy and fear quieted down, and I felt my heart breaking. I couldn’t eat or sleep or breathe, thinking I did something to make you want to go away. Maybe it was something I didn’t do. I have so much regret. I hope you can forgive me. I see how you must’ve been hurting. And all I did was hurry you along, pushing you here, pushing you there, never once considering how sad you must’ve been.”

  “Ŏmma.”

  “Ok-ah.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  “I miss him.”

  “I miss him too.”

  “Was he proud of me?”

  “Remember his walk?”

  “He walked like a cowboy.”

  “He did. He walked so proudly, with his back straight and head high. He had a strut. He never used to walk like that, not until he had you. That walk came from having you as his son. And here you are, living in his dream house, strong and safe, taking such good care of yourself. It feels good to see how independent and resourceful you’ve become. It makes me proud knowing you’d do fine on your own, but how I would miss you. I would miss you so much.

  “I missed you, Ok-ah. I don’t want to miss you anymore. It would make me feel very happy and very lucky if you would come back home. Do you think you can do that?”

  I nod, my face wet with snot and tears. I struggle to breathe. My mother scooches closer to me, puts her arm around my shoulders, holds me, and says, “Our Ok. Our Ok has been suffering, hasn’t he?”

  I sob into her shoulder. She smells like home: my father’s lingering cigarette smoke, the burned smell of the sewing machine, Jergens lotion, and kimchi. I gasp for breath and manage to let out, “You too, Ŏmma.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you: to live is to suffer. But it’s just so much better when we do it together. Don’t you think?” she says.

  “Amen.”

  It’s the deacon’s voice. It snaps me out of my sobbing. He leans out the window and says, “Ok, I’m very relieved and happy to see you. You gave us quite a scare. May I join you two out there?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  The deacon climbs out. Instead of crawling to us, he walks, wearing a long black coat, which, I hate to admit, makes him look l
ike Batman. Just a slight resemblance. I want him to look more like Dracula, the bloodsucker that he is, but his eyes are too small and his skin doesn’t look pale enough, and I’m feeling strangely generous toward him. I don’t know why his appearance surprises me, since my mother can’t drive. Who else but the deacon could’ve driven the Cougar over here? He brushes off his hands, takes off his coat, drapes it over me and my mother, and sits on the other side of me. I brace myself for a sermon.

  He doesn’t say anything. He looks out and sighs. The deacon’s coat smells like cologne with an undertone of dog. My mother leans her head against mine. The three of us sit up here on the roof in the cold, looking out into the night sky. It’s quiet and peaceful, and I feel a warmth inside of me that I haven’t felt for a long time.

  Then the deacon has to go and clear his throat. The moment was too good to last. I bury my face in my mother’s shoulder again. Here we go with the sermon about how God created the universe, the moon, and the stars, and how he created me in his image and loves me so much he killed his only son for the forgiveness of my sins.

  “Ok, if you don’t mind, I would like to clear the air about something that I believe has been bothering you about me,” he says, slower than usual, his voice sounding small and hurt. “It’s about something you saw. It was on Christmas Eve. It was at our church. I believe you witnessed me taking some money that was not mine from an offering plate.”

  I nod.

  “When your mother asked me about it, I was very puzzled at first. Then, I admit, I even got a little angry because I thought you were making things up about me. Then I went back and thought about it, and I remembered that evening. You’re right, Ok. You did see me take money out of the plate. And you’re right for holding that against me, because I certainly wouldn’t want my mother marrying a thief either. But you didn’t see the whole thing: You didn’t see me putting money in before taking it out. I was getting change for a ten-dollar bill. I wanted to give the children singing in the choir some Christmas money, but I neglected to plan ahead and didn’t have any small bills, and kids these days don’t get excited about receiving loose change, and I wasn’t going to give out tens and twenties. Anyway, it means much to me that I share with you my side of the story. Of course, it’s up to you to accept or reject it. Your opinion of me does still matter, even though I’ve lost my chance at being a father to you.”

  The deacon speaks into the night air, his hands moving with his words. They open, close, shake, point, and rest as they animate his case. I check my mother’s left hand. No engagement ring. Did she call it off ? If she dumped the deacon, what was he doing at my school? What was he doing driving my mother over here to look for me? What is he doing up on the roof with us?

  The deacon’s shoulders are slouched. He sits cross-legged, balanced on the slant of the roof. His profile is blurry under the light of the quarter moon. His solitary figure looks out into the darkness for guidance and consolation from all those he lost, and for the first time I feel sorry for him. I feel a pity that makes me want to tell him how sorry I am and how grateful I am that he helped my mother find me, but I don’t.

  Instead I say, “You can make money singing in the choir?”

  “Those kids are small, Ok,” my mother says.

  “If Ok keeps growing the way he’s been, he’ll fit right in next Christmas,” the deacon says, and smiles.

  Did the deacon just rip on me? I sit up straight and say, “There are a lot of great men who are small.”

  “Are they defensive, too?” he says.

  Did he just rip on me again?

  “I don’t know. I guess Genghis Khan was defensive when he had to be. Along with Aristotle, Tolkien, and Gandhi,” I say.

  “How about Prince?” he asks.

  “You mean the Prince of Peace?” I ask.

  “No, Prince of the Purple Rain. You know, the Prince.”

  What? The deacon listens to Prince? I didn’t see that coming.

  As I lean into my mother, I feel a fatigue so strong that I briefly close my eyes. I hear her breathing. I hear the deacon say something about taking us back home. I open my eyes, look out at the stars in the night sky, and connect them, one to the other, feeling both great and small.

  fifty

  I’m on my way to Peoples Drug Store. I walk with the Jergens bottle in my hand. My palms sweat like crazy. My heart beats so hard it feels like a jackhammer pounding in my chest. I need to do this. I’m going to be a man about this. I’m returning what I stole and telling them I stole it. I committed a crime. I shoplifted. I’m sorry, and I’ll never do it again. Confessing is the right thing to do. It’s the only way I’ll be free of feeling guilty and scared every time I hear a siren or see a police car. I’m nervous, but I’m ready, even if it means getting cuffed, arrested, and read my rights. Commit the crime, do the time.

  The automatic door opens, and I walk in, heading straight for the checkout. The cashier chews gum, picks the chipped purple polish off her pinky nail, and licks her glossy burgundy lips, which remind me of plums. Her hair is in long cornrows. I wonder if I can strike a deal. I braid; you go easy on me. She looks up at me, her eyelashes thick and curly, like an army of commas. As she continues to attend to the removal of her nail polish, she says, “What?”

  “I’m returning this,” I say, and slide the bottle closer to her.

  “What?” she says, and pops her gum, as if punctuating her question.

  “I’m returning this, but I want to say something. I have something to say. I have to tell you this. A long, long time ago, it was a really long time ago, I . . . I . . . I . . .”

  She rolls her eyes and taps her nails on the counter.

  I stare down at the box of Life Savers and quickly spit out, “I shoplifted it. I understand if you need to call the police. I’m really sorry. I really am. I’ve been feeling so awful about this. So that’s why I’m here today to do the right thing and confess my crime to you and return this and pay for it.” My voice starts to crack. I can’t cry. I can’t.

  I clear my throat and continue, “It’s just that I was going through a lot back then. It’s no excuse for my behavior, but my father had this freak accident and passed away, and my mother and I were left to fend for ourselves, and we were having a hard time. We were running out of money, so she was making all this kimchi and sewing and cooking and working as a cashier, and you know how little that pays, and her hands were dry, and she ran out of lotion, and I was braiding hair and teaching this bully in my class how to read better—well, he’s not really a bully, he’s actually one of my best friends now—and I was learning how to roller-skate from this girl so I could win this talent show that was giving away a hundred dollars in prize money, but we ended up losing, but it had nothing to do with her because she was amazing, and my mother met this holier-than-thou type of guy who just tried too hard to be my father, he kept taking me to the pool, trying to teach me how to swim, making me try mushrooms”—

  “Ewww. I hate mushrooms. They’re, like, the worst. Aren’t they basically like fungus?” she says.

  “Yes. Fungus. Gross. I’m with you. But I don’t mind them that much now. They’re not bad on pizza. You can’t even taste it, but the guy asked my mother to marry him, and I couldn’t take it anymore and kind of lost it and ran away from home.”

  “I get it. That’s understandable,” she says.

  “I had to get out of there. But my friends tracked me down and found me and told my mother and her fiancé where I was, which was in a tent out in the woods at first, but it got so cold I had to break into this old abandoned house, which was also the house my father wanted to buy someday and fix up and live in. Well, I ended up hiding in there, but my friends found me. You know, the girl who taught me how to skate and the boy who needed help with his reading but ended up being, like, a great poet? We’re friends now. We’re good friends, and I was lucky they found me. I don’t know how much longer I would’ve lasted, because I was running out of water and food, but
that wasn’t the worst part. I felt so alone. I thought all I ever wanted was to be left alone, but when I was finally all alone, I felt sad and forgotten, like no one cared about me. So I’m really sorry about stealing this lotion. I hope you can forgive me. Will you please forgive me?”

  “Uh, sure?” she says, shrugging.

  I hold my wrists up to her, waiting to be cuffed.

  “What?” she says.

  “Aren’t you going to call the cops?”

  “No,” she says, lifting the corner of her upper lip like she’s disgusted with the idea of cops.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me,” I say.

  “Whatever,” she says.

  fifty-one

  The old man’s head is so close to mine that his bushy eyebrows look like they’ll come to life and scurry off his face. He shakes my hand so hard my clip-on bow tie falls off. He mumbles something to me, slaps my back, and walks toward the deacon and my mother, who stand next to their wedding cake.

  The hot July sun shines. A light breeze blows. Birds sing. Flowers bloom. It’s lush and green in the backyard of First Korean Full Gospel Church. I sit on a hill and look out at the wedding reception. The grandmothers and grandfathers stand at the front of the buffet line, piling their plates high. Some deacons from the choir sing Korean folk songs, barbershop-quartet style:

  “Just as there are many stars in the clear sky,

  There are many dreams in our hearts.

  There, over there, is the Paektu Mountain,

  Where, even in the winter days, flowers bloom.”

  Ajummas from the fellowship committee scurry in and out of the church building, carrying platters of food. A man with his tie tucked into his dress shirt carries bags of ice to the drink table. Three boys, chasing one another, cut in front of him, and he yells at them to get out of his way. A girl throws off her shiny red shoes and runs in the grass. Her mother goes after her, brandishing a shoe in each hand. A group of fancy ajummas stand in a circle, each with a Gucci purse positioned on her wrist; their arms are angled at ninety degrees. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I’ll bet they’re gossiping. Still in his black robe, the pastor moves through the crowd, nodding at the women hard at work, shaking hands with the men, patting the heads of children, and smiling at the goodness of God.