Face Time

by S. J. Pajonas

  All because David died and I lost my mind with grief.

  “Fine!” I yell at the door as hot tears flow down my cheeks. I jump up and start shuffling through the dirty clothes on my floor, flinging them around, looking for I don’t know what. Fine. I don’t think I can change her mind. I have a month, maybe, to figure things out. This is Chelsea and my beautiful apartment will sell in a New York minute once it’s on the market. Remembering her dig at Lee, though, halts me, and my belly clenches so I climb back in bed and curl into a ball. I need to talk to him sooner rather than later, confess about my past, and see what he says. I should figure out if we have something real before packing my bags.

  I reach over to disconnect my iPhone from the charger and the screen comes to life with a series of texts that arrived while I was sleeping.

  Lee Park

  To Laura. From Lee.

  I grab my glasses from my dresser and stare at the photos Lee sent me. He didn’t give me any descriptions except to preface them with that text, as if they are a gift from him to me.

  The first photo is of a street food vendor in some sort of large, white marble plaza. The buildings surrounding the plaza are English colonial with a hint of Indian influence, and the cart is piled three tiers high with fried goods, breads, samosas, a plate of bright green chilies, and steam wafting from the back. The hawker — a young man in a button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up — is serving a woman in a sari a bag full of food. My stomach starts to rumble.

  The second photo is of two women in saris — one wearing pink and purple, the other brown with zigzag stripes — carrying a load of merchandise in a bag between them while men and women pass them on the sidewalk. The street is hot and dusty, and the storefronts behind them are piled on either side with empty boxes and signs in Sanskrit (or Hindi? I don’t know).

  The third photo is especially interesting because it’s posed. Two Indian men — one much older and thin with a white beard and a younger man in his thirties — are standing in a fabric shop. I get the impression they’re tailors by the measuring tapes draped over their necks, and the younger man clutches chalk in his right hand. The fabric behind them is all dark wools and lighter cottons. Maybe this is where Lee goes to get suits made? A lot of executives get clothes made in India, and I bet Lee does this too.

  And finally the fourth photo makes me laugh out loud. This is the India I hear a lot about: bustling traffic and two men walking three cows down the middle of a street while everyone gives them a wide berth. I try to imagine this scene on Sixth Avenue with yellow taxi cabs veering around steers with huge horns. Yeah, that cow would be dead within three blocks.

  Laura Merchant

  I hope I’m not bothering you at work, but I love the photos. Keep ‘em coming.

  I look at them all again with my heart breaking in my chest. Lee thinks he’s found the perfect girl, that I’m some fun and flirtatious woman who’s just had a string of bad luck to end up living with her mother. What is he going to say when I tell him the whole truth?

  I select all the photos and save them to an album entitled “To Laura From Lee” before switching over to my texts with Justin.

  Laura Merchant

  Are you up? I need to talk.

  Justin Taylor

  I’m up. Leaving for work. What’s going on?

  Laura Merchant

  My mother is marrying Richard and she wants to sell the apartment.

  Told me to get ready to move out.

  I’m not even invited to the wedding.

  Justin Taylor

  What the fuck?

  Laura Merchant

  That’s what I said.

  She said that once I tell Lee about my past it’ll be over.

  That she’s selling the apartment and “cutting the apron strings.”

  Justin Taylor

  That’s bullshit!

  Laura Merchant

  Right. That’s also what I said.

  Justin Taylor

  Is she sane? I’m asking in all honesty.

  Laura Merchant

  I don’t know. She’s been off the meds now for two years.

  Hasn’t seen her therapist in a year.

  She’s rational.

  And I’m ok with her getting married, but the rest is crazy.

  Justin Taylor

  I don’t know what to tell you.

  I’m sorry.

  Laura Merchant

  I’m sorry too. After all I’ve been through, after all the hard work I put in.

  Justin Taylor

  She doesn’t deserve a daughter like you.

  Laura Merchant

  Thanks.

  Justin Taylor

  Meet me for drinks after work. Blue Bar.

  Laura Merchant

  Ok.

  I stare at Justin’s texts and wish I could talk to Lee about this, but it’s late in the work day in Mumbai. I can’t drop something this heavy on him when he’s dealing with his clients. We’ve talked about so much over FaceTime and text. I know what kind of soy milk he likes and that he folds his clothes neatly before putting them away in his dresser at home. I can close my eyes and hear his voice, see his face. But we’ve never once spoken about my time in Asia and what happened to me when I came home. We’ve never once talked about sex, though we’ve flirted and the sexual tension has been high. We’re close but so far from each other.

  I glance at the clock and wipe the tears from my face. I’m late for work.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  =

  Lee

  When I’m in Mumbai, my firm puts me up in the Sahara Star, a huge, modern hotel west of the airport. I like the place well enough even if it is overly extravagant for me. My room is spacious with a brand-new bed that always threatens to swallow me whole, a dresser, a desk, a table, and a luxurious bath. I know lots of people who travel in India and stay in hostels so I consider myself lucky, but my conscience nags at me. I wanted to be a lawyer to help people, not make tons of money, wear the nicest suits, and stay in five star hotels around the world. But I took the job because I was the head of my class and I was still a failure to my mother. Fuck that. I got away.

  Taking the job in Seoul was the right decision at the time. I’ve made enough money to pay off my loans (my father helped too without letting my mother know), and I have a savings account that I can be proud of. I don’t have to do this job forever.

  As I lace up my shoes, I repeat, “I don’t have to do this job forever” in my head. Laura changes everything. I suddenly care more about what she thinks than any other person on this earth. I texted with her yesterday after sending her photos of India, and she said something was going on with her mom. I can’t stop thinking about her, wondering what she’s doing and how she’s managing her mother and herself at the same time.

  I need this run.

  It’s 5:45am, the perfect time to run in Mumbai. I have my iPhone, my running shorts and shirt, and a small squeeze bag of bottled water ready to go. The traffic at this time of day is low, and the air is clearer than it will be after work. The majority of the city cows are still asleep and hopefully I can avoid stray dogs. Stray dogs in India are a runner’s worst nightmare. If you see one, you need to slow down so they won’t chase you. Luckily, the first time I came here, I had drinks with a colleague who clued me into this otherwise I would have been Lee-dogmeat. But it’s hard sometimes, when you’re in a really good groove, to see the dogs ahead of time and force yourself to slow down. Those mongrels screw with my rhythm.

  The doorman at the hotel opens the door for me, and I walk to Nehru Road, stretching my legs and upper body, before choosing a running playlist on my iPhone and attaching it to my armband. When I run in India, I only wear one earbud so I can listen for cars or motorcycles. It’s best if I make it back to my hotel in one piece.

  I pick up the pace on Nehru Road, my feet pounding the pavement as I hurtle past apartment buildings, my path shaded by palm trees. A bus putters on the curb
ahead of me, and a few people are waiting along the dirt’s edge, reading newspapers and fanning themselves. I blow by them and several heads turn to follow me. I might be the only Korean they ever see, and I’m running, which is also a strange pastime in most of India.

  Running helps me clear my head. My therapy, just like Laura. A run outside gives me a chance to enjoy my surroundings, zone out, and not pay attention to anything but my legs and lungs. I can do this when I run in the States and most of Asia, but here, I can’t unless I take transportation down to Marine Drive in the south of the city where there are more pedestrians and less traffic (and dogs).

  My brain is everywhere this morning. I’m watching the cars zip past me, I’m running around people crossing the streets, and I’m wondering what Laura is doing right now. I wish she was here. What would it be like to have her travel with me? Would that be awkward or would we love being together?

  Crossing over Shraddhanand Road, I only have another block before the train tracks. I try to avoid the street that runs parallel to the tracks because it’s crowded with people and rickshaws, vendors selling fruits, and commuters with their briefcases. After a block, I zig to the right in order to get to the pedestrian overpass that goes over the tracks. Crowds are on the stairs already, so I have to slow down. I pick up my pace along the bridge and down the stairs on the other side.

  I hook left and run along Church Road which is the last quiet stretch of space before I hit Swami Vivekanand Road. S.V. Road is a nightmare during the day with two huge lanes of traffic in either direction and hawkers sandwiched into every available slot, but now the street is relatively uninhabited. I’m starting to drip sweat, the sun prickling the top of my head and possibly cooking my brain. The temperature hasn’t been less than 100ºF since I arrived. I cross the street and run on the side closest to the airstrip located here. This area is known as The Flying Club, and small planes and helicopters fly in and out of Juhu Airport all day long.

  I turn onto Vaikunthlal Mehta Road and slow down because in and off to my left is the Flying Club Shantytown. You can’t see much of it from the road but I know it’s there. Little Indian boys on the sidewalk run after me, laughing and waving their skinny arms, but I keep going, trying not to break my pace because, if I stop, they’ll swarm all over me. Ahead of me, though, is a line of white United Nations and Red Cross trucks, with dogs barking at them, so I slow even further, coming to a stop amongst a cluster of people watching men and women stream from the truck beds with supplies.

  “What’s going on?” I ask an older man next to me. I hope he speaks English.

  “They’ve come to give vaccinations and fresh water.” He points down the alley at the retreating backs of people wearing UN and Red Cross smocks.

  “I see.” I nod at him, and we grow silent watching workers stream down the alley, dogs nipping at their heels and little children running after them. I stare hard at the UN trucks. I knew a guy in law school who applied to work for the UN right after graduation. I wonder if he’s still working for them and likes what he does. I have mixed feelings about the UN, but, watching this woman smile at a little boy and hold his hand to lead him to a vaccination tent, my chest constricts. I’m not cut out for humanitarian work — my heart is too soft — but maybe I should find out what other kind of work is available to me.

  I pop my iPhone out of my arm band and back up to take a few photos for Laura and resume my run past the remainder of the shantytown. Turning left onto Juhu Tara Road, my mind starts to zone out again. This stretch is filled with high-end hotels right on the water. Sea salt infused air whips past my head, enhancing the smell of fried dough and dosas from carts at the intersections. They each have lines a dozen deep, and my stomach starts to growl.

  Just before the bottom turn of Juhu Tara Road to Juhu Road, where I turn left and loop around the airport back up to my hotel, I slow down again. One moment I’m thinking about how I want change jobs to something more fulfilling, take a pay cut, and only travel for fun, and the next I’m staring into a jewelry store. I’ve already purchased a gift for Laura from this trip, but I haven’t sent it yet. India is well-known for its gold jewelry. I’d love to get her something she could wear all the time but not a ring. It’s too suggestive. A necklace? No. Bracelets. A stack of them that she could wear one-at-a-time or all at once. Yes, that’s perfect for her. The sign on the door says the store is only open till 6:00pm everyday, so I’ll have to come back at lunch.

  I side-step this building and run down a causeway to Juhu Beach. A few families are out walking before the sun climbs higher in the sky, and a group of men are sitting and drinking tea while staring out at the water. The surf is calm, small waves breaking and pulling back out to sea, and the tide is out, making the beach seem a mile wide. Removing my iPhone from the armband again, I go back to my playlists and scroll through, stopping on The Beatles. I wasn’t joking around with Laura. I do love The Beatles. I have every one of their albums loaded on my iPhone. Which one to listen to? Time stops ticking as my finger hovers over “Let It Be.”

  My whole life, I’ve cruised along, letting the criticisms from my mother, Nari, and Sandra sit and eat away at me. I’ve been waiting for the answers to come, waiting for enlightenment. Now my life is coming into focus since I met Laura, and I feel like I just ran past the turning point.

  I take a few more pictures and then turn the camera to my sweaty face and smile. Laughing at the photo of myself, I don’t think I’ve ever looked so happy. I hope when Laura gets this she can tell how changed I am with purpose and direction. I can’t wait to talk to her again.

  I attach the photos from my run after a text, “To Laura. From Lee.” After the photo of me I write, “I’m always thinking about you.”

  I’ll send them all when I get back to the hotel.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  =

  Laura

  The Korea Society is located on the corner of Fifty-Seventh Street and Third Avenue in the same building with a bank. For a moment, I think I must be in the wrong place but then see the colorful signs ushering me to the eighth floor. I check in at the front desk, and the woman attendant points me towards a small classroom. I walk slowly, examining all the exhibits along the way, but I pause the longest in front of a display of Korean dresses. The placard reads, “Traditional Korean hanbok worn on special occasions.” They’re so colorful. Pinks, reds, greens, and blues all together in one dress with a short jacket over the top. I wonder what I’d look like in something like this.

  The classroom is small and only a few people are seated here, mostly white men with their smartphones out, texting away, but there’s a woman about my age, maybe a little younger, sitting next to them reading, so I sit next to her. She has chin length, dark brown hair, clipped back on one side, a strong wave hooking a curl right over her cheek. She might be Indian or Middle Eastern, I think. She flips the page in her book and a stack of thin, gold bangle bracelets clink on her right wrist. Sitting up higher in her chair, she adjusts her red blouse in the process. We glance at each other and say hi briefly but she goes back to her book so I pull out my iPhone.

  I check the World Clock and it’s about 4am in Mumbai. I’m sure Lee is asleep. I won’t bother him, so I put my phone on vibrate and slip it back into my bag before grabbing my notebook and pencil.

  I let the purple bag Lee gave me sit on my lap for a few moments, running my index finger up the channel of white stitches along the seam. I’ve been thinking all day about what happened with my mother. After work yesterday, I met up with Justin for drinks at the Blue Bar. I sat in the same seat I had a few weeks ago when I met Lee and concentrated on the stool next to me for several minutes hoping he would appear. I was wishing for a second chance at our first encounter. I wouldn’t have snapped at him, and maybe I would have flirted with him even more, to the point we could have had a whole night together. Regrets. I’m filled with regrets. Justin arrived and jerked me out of my misery only to remind me that my own mother
is dumping me after I changed my life to come home and help look after her. My fucking father. If he weren’t dead, I’d punch him in the face. I don’t know why I listened to him. I think the allure of a steady paycheck and a nice place to live was too much for me to pass up. I was poor and had three roommates in New Orleans but at least I was independent.

  But now I have to deal with Lee. I’m going to tell him everything. I can’t keep my past from him. If a relationship between us works out, he’ll eventually meet my mother, and I can’t trust her not to blab. I would live in fear of being found out. Or, I could break up with Lee, but I know I’d regret that. It’s only been a few weeks since we met, and I’d be willing to wait a few months until we see each other again. What’s a few months in the grand scheme of things anyway? It’s nothing. He’s worth waiting for. Being patient is like being tortured, though. I’ve been dreaming about having sex with him. It’s like porn in my brain while I’m asleep. At this point, I’d be happy to go to bed and dream about bunnies eating grass in a field.

  “Is this your first time here at Korea Society?” the woman next to me asks pulling a red ribbon bookmark across her page and shutting the book.

  “Oh.” I close my bag and set it next to me on the floor. “Yes. I’ve never been here before. You?”

  “I’ve been here a few times for their events but not for the language classes. I’m going to move back to Korea in the fall so I thought I’d get back on the wagon.”

  “Oh really? That sounds like fun.” I want to move to Korea. I haven’t admitted this even to myself until now, but I want to move into Lee’s apartment and live with him. What is wrong with me? We barely know each other.

  “I lived in Seoul for three years as an English teacher then moved back to New York. I decided I miss it too much.” She pulls a yellow, vinyl- bound Korean dictionary from her bag, a notebook, and pencil. Hmmm, I should buy a dictionary. Hers has scribbles all over the cover, the corners are creased and dirty, and it reminds me of all the journals I kept while traveling Asia. They’re currently stashed away in the back of my closet.