After a full body scrub and leg shave with a brand-new razor, I shut off the water, wrap myself in a towel, and sink my toes into the memory-foam bath mat. The scratches on my feet from gritty floors and occasional fights with foot fungus immediately heal. The rug is like aloe.
I gawk in the mirror, unsure which body part to tackle first. I decide to dry my hair so my dress won’t drown. When I’m done, my hair flops onto my shoulders, except for the few snapped strands shooting straight up from the crown of my head. Mrs. Rhee left a glass bottle on the vanity filled with something that looks like honey or liquid gold. I pump three drops onto my fingertips and rub oil into my split ends.
I fumble through the makeup bag. Three kinds of costly blush, four mascaras, five lip liners with matching sticks. There’s also the complex eyeliner I’m afraid to uncap.
I crack the bathroom door and peek to make sure I’m alone. The bedroom door is shut, so I walk to the foot of the bed, pick up the lace dress, and let the towel drop to the floor. The dress doesn’t fit as sexy and snug as I imagined. I guess I’ve lost a couple more pounds than I thought. I pinch the back of the dress to draw it tight at the waist and stuff my fist into the cups that are hunting for boobs.
Mrs. Rhee taps the door with her fingernail.
“Come in,” I say, turning around.
Mrs. Rhee’s smile reassures me she can, and will, reconstruct the dress, my mop of hair, and my face. She kneels and pins, fluffs and curls, paints and brushes. Her hands, which normally help heal the sick during the day, have transformed into those of a sculptor, turning life magically into art. I won’t say I’m a masterpiece, but when Mrs. Rhee applies her last stroke of lipstick and scrawls her signature with a puff of eau de toilette, I feel as beautiful as a Botticelli painting. I’m afraid to blink or smile big, because if I move a muscle, my face might crack.
“You’re ready,” Mrs. Rhee says, tucking in a loose strand of hair that snuck out of the side braid. She smiles, and so do I. It’s more than homecoming, or Seung seeing me in makeup and a dress. It’s Mrs. Rhee’s affection, the warmth of her fingers and care from her hands. It’s the touch of a mother I fight to remember.
Mrs. Rhee links my arm around hers and walks me to the full-length mirror. She straightens the neckline by gently tugging on the cap sleeves. When I make eye contact with myself in the mirror, my chest tightens. I want to glance over my shoulder and shake the imposter’s hand behind me, the one who should take credit for the beauty I see.
“Thank you, Mrs. Rhee.” I flicker my eyes to prevent tears from destroying her canvas.
“You like what you see?” she asks, and I nod. “You should, Linden. You’re stunning with or without all this.” She circles her hand at my dress and hair.
Mrs. Rhee snatches the towels from the floor and folds them over her arm. She walks to the chest of drawers and opens a miniature door on a wooden box. She says, “One more thing,” then drops the towels on the bed and reaches around my neck. The cold metal tingles my warm skin, and I catch a shimmer in the mirror. “This,” she says, “belonged to Seung’s grandmother. It’s from Seoul.”
I run my fingers over the baubles and stones that cluster into three tiny lotuses. “It’s gorgeous,” I say, “but should I really wear it? I mean, it’s just homecoming and this looks priceless.”
Mrs. Rhee laughs. “It isn’t replaceable, but it’s no Harry Winston.” She straightens the pendant. “Wear it. It needs to be taken out once in a while. Given a night to remember.”
And only because it’s Mrs. Rhee do I hold the poker face. Her sentimentality is contagious and makes me feel like I fit, somehow, into a family. If Seung were in the room, I’m sure he’d make me laugh or tell his mother to quit embarrassing me, but I don’t want her to stop. It’s obvious that the necklace means so much. And to me, it means a connection to family I no longer have.
“Seung’s grandparents were Buddhist,” she says. “They believed the lotus, padma, is a symbol of our true nature.”
Between her words and whispers, I’m overcome with the feeling I get when I first walk indoors following a freezing night outside. I’m fuzzy and warm from head to toe.
“The lotus flower grows in shallow, muddy water. It rises above the surface of the muck to bloom and show its beauty to the world. When night comes, the flower closes and sinks underwater. But it always rises and opens at dawn.”
“Why does it sink?” I ask.
“To remain untouched by impurity.” Mrs. Rhee smiles. “There’s so much symbolism in Buddhism and Korean culture. Seung and I don’t get the chance to discuss his father’s family. We’re all so busy. Maybe when he’s older and has kids.” She smiles again, that affectionate, motherly smile. “Now, let’s go see if Seung’s ready. He’s been a fidgety mess this week and a bundle of nerves tonight. Something’s definitely gotten into that boy.” Mrs. Rhee winks and blood rushes to my cheeks. Instant blush.
I round the corner of the hall and pass the main bathroom. The door is shut, and Seung’s on the other side.
When we reach the family room, Mrs. Rhee announces my arrival like she’s heralding a queen. Mr. Rhee says, “All hail the queen,” and I don’t know whether I should twirl or curtsy, so I jokingly do both. Mr. Rhee plays along, reaching for my hand and kissing the back of it.
“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Mrs. Rhee says.
Mr. Rhee smiles and bows. “Our homecoming queen has arrived.”
Seung struts in and clears his throat. My cheeks flame up and my hands start to sweat. I mean, he looks like Seung, only hotter. Cheeks glowing in the yellow light, hair shining almost blue. Thanks to the fabric of the tux, his shoulders look even wider somehow. I glance at my feet, then back at Seung. We finally lock eyes and stare at each other until Mrs. Rhee tugs at Mr. Rhee’s arm and says, “Honey, I need you in the kitchen,” and they bolt.
I nod. Seung nods.
I smile with the side of my mouth and Seung matches my move. It’s a slow game of chess until I finally blurt, “You look fucking hot!” Checkmate.
Seung exhales as if he’s held his breath since entering the room. “This old thing?” He thumbs at the lapels and his shoulders relax.
“So, dinner?” I say, switching subjects. “I’m starving.”
“Change of plans,” Seung says, still staring me in the eyes. I mean, he won’t look away. “We’re eating at Ham’s. He says he needs us.” Seung flashes the text from Ham on his phone screen and I step forward.
Seung takes a step back, then realizes he moved in the wrong direction. He practically jerks his body forward. “So,” he says.
“So,” I say, and smile.
His eyes bounce around the room, finally landing on me, or should I say my cleavage. I mean, holy shit, Mrs. Rhee is a miracle worker. She created cleavage and I’m not even offended by Seung glancing at it.
“We should probably get going,” Seung says.
I spin my heel on the carpet and watch the indentation it leaves. “Yeah. Yes. We should.”
Seung and I bump into each other scrambling for the doorway. “Sorry,” we both say in unison. Then Seung remembers he has parents and should probably say good-bye.
He bangs the kitchen door and Mr. and Mrs. Rhee bounce back into the living room.
“We need pictures before you leave.” Mrs. Rhee opens a buffet drawer and presents an oversized camera and lens longer than my shoe.
Seung rolls his eyes. “Really, Mom?”
“You’ll thank me when you’re older,” she says, turning toward Mr. Rhee’s already nodding head. She glances around the room. “Kids, stand in front of that cabinet. The backdrop looks nice.”
Seung and I shuffle to the picture spot like two first graders being told where to stand for school photos.
“Seung?” his mom asks. “Where’s Linden’s corsage?”
Seung doesn’t move. He doesn’t answer Mrs. Rhee, either. Instead, he stares at me as if I’m privy to its whereabouts. I shrug my shoulders. Seung reci
procates.
Mr. Rhee launches from the footstool. “Saw it in the refrigerator.” He darts into the kitchen and returns with a clear plastic box. “Chest or wrist?” he says, kneeling before me. Talk about awkward.
“Honey,” Mrs. Rhee says, “let Seung fasten it.”
I gulp and Seung’s eyes go wide. His chest, too, literally expands before me as he sucks in air. His eyes pinball until he finally fixes on the plastic shell clutched in his hands. He squeezes the top until the box bends and the lid pops open. We jump.
“Be careful not to poke her,” Mrs. Rhee says.
I refuse to make eye contact with Seung and instead tuck my lips around my teeth to prevent the push of a nervous smile.
Seung stands in front of me stone faced. Our eyes are glued on the plastic. “Wrist or . . . ?” Seung taps his chest and I tap mine back. He lifts the flower out by the stem and stares at the pin. “I have no idea how to do this.”
Mrs. Rhee pops her head over Seung’s shoulder. There are now four eyeballs staring at my chest, six if you count my own. I hold my breath as Seung’s cold knuckle grazes my bare skin. I shiver, then feel the pinprick.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.”
“All good.”
“Try not to move.”
“Okay.”
“You’re moving.”
“I am?”
The back of Seung’s hand brushes my collarbone. He slides two fingers beneath my bra strap and I slowly sip air.
“Be careful not to stick her, Son.” Ohmygod, Mr. Rhee.
Once the flower is in place, Mrs. Rhee wiggles her finger at Mr. Rhee to start snapping pictures.
Seung shakes his head and says, “Okaydonelet’sgo,” and Mrs. Rhee points at the buffet table.
“We need one more of you two together,” she says.
Seung groans. “Come on, Mom. It’s just Linden.”
My chin drops. I stare at my feet. When I’m brave enough to glance at Mrs. Rhee, I see the just Linden comment hit her, too, deep in the stomach. But Seung’s right. We’re just Linden, just Seung. Two best friends going to homecoming, together. And I guess I’m okay with that for now. I mean, he found me a dress, a flower, a mom to pamper me.
Then Seung contradicts his words and shoves his phone at his mom, saying, “Take a picture with this.” Seung hooks my waist and yanks me next to him. I’m pretty positive the photo displays my mix of jolt and joy.
Mr. Rhee hands Mrs. Rhee a small container.
“Seung,” she says, “we forgot yours.” She passes me the box.
My face freezes. What do I do with this?
Seung snatches the box from my hand. “We’re going. Good-bye.”
“Yes. Yes.” Mr. Rhee pats his son’s back. “Go on. Get out of here. And don’t return until it’s really late.” Mr. Rhee winks, but Seung is too busy rushing to the door to notice.
“Honey, if you don’t want to wear your boutonniere,” Mrs. Rhee shouts, “give it to Ham!”
“Leaving!” Seung yells halfway out the door.
By the time I step onto the porch, Seung is already in the car. I round the back of Gold Nugget and hear Mrs. Rhee say, “They make a stunning couple.”
I pause and wave. Seung’s parents wave back with so much force, it looks like their arms might snap at the elbows. Mr. Rhee snakes his arm around his wife’s waist, and they turn to walk inside. I’m still staring when Mrs. Rhee twists around for one last glance. I mouth, “Thank you,” and she says, “You’re welcome.” She blows me a kiss and my throat tightens.
If only my mother could see me and how happy I am tonight. I imagine her standing on the other side of the yard, opposite Mrs. Rhee. Her curls blow away from her face, and her skirt whips against her knee as she fixes her earring post back into place. She waves with her fingers while Mrs. Rhee nods in her direction, as if to say, Look at our babies. Look how happy they are. My mother smiles and nods at Mrs. Rhee as if to thank her for all she’s done for me. When my mom looks my way, my eyes fill with tears and I blink. She’s gone. I pause for a second, a minute, and whisper, “Mama, I love you. I don’t know how, but I’m going to be okay. I promise.”
In the car, I wiggle up and down on my seat, smoothing my dress. I attempt to sit in a way that defies wrinkle-making physics, which means when I’m finished, I’m practically standing on the floorboard, bridging my body with both hands. Seung shifts into drive and my hands slip. I plop onto the seat and bounce. Seung glances over and smiles.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, “I actually am.”
“You forgot your coat,” Seung says, still smiling. “Put it in the back for you.”
“Thank you, Seung.”
“You are most welcome, Linden.”
The ride to Ham’s quiets us. Instead of talking, I wring my hands, pop three knuckles, and smack my lips. Seung drums the steering wheel to the beat of whatever notes are playing inside his head. Neither of us speaks until Gold Nugget creeps into Ham’s circular drive. Six vehicles line the curve leading up to the steps.
“What’s with all the cars?” I ask.
“Ham’s grandparents?”
I shrug. “You know Ham has a date, right?”
“Is that what he called it? Specifically?” Seung tilts his head. Could he be any more gorgeous tonight?
I shrug again. “Has Ham talked to you about Toby Patters? Some revenge plot?”
Seung snatches the small flower box from the dashboard. “Ham hasn’t talked to me about anything,” he says, slamming the car door. “Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you’re Toby.”
We stomp up the steps and pause in the archway of the door. “Sorry about my mom,” Seung says, rubbing his neck and yanking at his collar. “She kind of overdoes it, you know.”
I smile. “I know. And I love that she does.”
Seung opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then snaps his lips shut and chickens out. He holds his finger on the doorbell, hesitates, then drops his hand and stuffs it into his pocket. He draws a deep breath, turns to face me, and reaches for my hand. I offer both. He quickly unstuffs his pocketed hand and grabs all my fingers. His Adam’s apple bumps up and down while he gulps and swallows. Finally, he says, “I’ve been meaning to say this all night.”
We lock eyes.
“You look fucking hot, too,” Seung blurts, his face beaming beneath the porch light.
Hello, goose bumps.
I’m all smiles when I bump Seung with my hip and reach for the doorbell. He’s all smiles, too, as I push the button. Any worry I had about Bea and Seung just jumped ship. I mean, we are definitely together tonight.
As soon as the bell dings, Basil and Thyme, the Royses’ Welsh corgis, yap.
I shout, “Remember to spread your feet!” when Mrs. Royse opens the door. We crouch like quarterbacks ready for the ball as Basil and Thyme weave between our legs, dribbling dots of urine.
“Basil, Thyme: Retreat.” Mrs. Royse claps and the dogs scurry off toward the kitchen, where a delicious family dinner bakes in the oven. “We’re almost ready, kids. Come in. Come in.”
Mrs. Royse disappears around the corner into Mr. Royse’s office, shouting, “Ham’s been in the bathroom for hours.”
Seung laughs. “Yeah, and I doubt he’s getting ready.”
Mrs. Royse bounces back into the hall. “Could one of you knock? Tell him we’re all in the dining room.”
Seung and I stare at each other, drawing mental straws, flipping the proverbial coin.
Mrs. Royse lowers her voice and cups her mouth. “I’d rather not interrupt a teenage boy in the bathroom, if you know what I mean.”
We slip out of our shoes and park them in the entryway, house rules, and follow the lines on the hand-scraped hardwood toward the dining room.
As soon as Mrs. Royse disappears, Seung whips around and I slam into his back. “The button ear,” he says. “Will you give it to Ham?” He shoves the box with the boutonnier
e into my hands.
“No. You should give it to him after dinner.” I push the box back at Seung and slip up the stairs toward Ham’s bathroom, wondering when and how I drew the shorter straw.
I rap on the door, hoping Mrs. Royse is wrong about teenage boys.
“Go away!” Ham shouts.
“It’s me, Linden.”
The door swings open and slams against the wall. Ham grabs me by the elbow and yanks me inside.
“Jesus, Ham!” I slap my hands over my eyes. “You could have gotten dressed first, you know?” Ham snatches a white robe from a hook and swings it over his back like a cape.
“I can’t do this, Linden.” I peek through my fingers as he cinches his robe.
“Do what? Eat dinner? Are you sick?” I reach for his forehead and a temperature check. His face is rosy, his eyes are puffy, red.
Ham untwists the towel from his head and tosses it at the sink. His hair springs in all directions.
“I’m not sick, Linden, I’m nervous for the first damn time in my life.” He grips the vanity for balance, wobbling for effect.
“Does this have something to do with Toby Patters? Your plot for revenge? Getting him back for all the terrible things he’s done to you and Seung?”
Ham chuckles and slices the air with his hand. “He’s not my concern now. He’ll get what’s coming to him in due time.”
“What, then? Why are you nervous?”
Ham finger combs his bangs. “Do you remember the moment you realized Seung’s the only guy you want to see naked?”
“Well, uh, you kind of ruined that moment for me.” I wink and Ham tightens his robe.
He clears his throat. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
Someone knocks on the door. “Franklin, honey.” Ham’s mom. “Are you ever coming down? And is Linden in there with you?”
Ham stomps to the door and shouts, “Of course Linden’s in here with me!”
“Well, um, I hate to interrupt, but, um, please . . .”
Ham whips the door open. “Jesus, Mother, get your mind out of the gutter. There’s more that goes on in a bathroom than that.”
Where I Live Page 13
