by A. H. Kim
Beth’s photo albums are scattered all over the bed and floor. I return them to their place on the built-in shelves on the other side of the bedroom. Conspicuous on Beth’s nightstand are two amber plastic prescription bottles. I peek at the labels and stuff them into my pants pocket. Beth can’t bring them where she’s going, and it never hurts to have an extra stash.
“Hannah, is it you?” Beth says. My sister-in-law emerges from the bathroom with a white towel wrapped around her head like a turban. She is otherwise completely naked. Beth betrays no self-consciousness, and I try not to stare at her supple skin and pert pink nipples. Beth picks up a frosted glass jar with an ornate golden lid. She unscrews the lid, scoops out a small handful of thick cream and slowly smooths the emollient over her arms, her shoulders, her breasts. The heady scent of tuberose nearly causes me to faint.
* * *
Everyone gathers in the great room getting ready to depart. They’re all lined up along the front wall, fair-haired and blue-eyed, reminding me of the Von Trapp children introducing themselves to Fräulein Maria. Despite their eagerness to get home, none of the Lindstroms want to leave—not yet, not until they’ve watched the pivotal scene of the Lifetime network family melodrama that is their new life.
“Are you ready to go, Claire and Ally?” Karen asks.
“Mommy, I don’t want to go with Auntie Karen,” Claire cries. “I want to go with you and Daddy.” Claire runs to Beth and holds tight to her legs. Little sister Ally follows suit, nodding in agreement, not understanding anything that’s going on.
“Girls, remember I told you,” Beth says gently. “Auntie Karen is going to drive you to our Princeton house, and Daddy and Auntie Hannah are going to drive Mommy to camp. Don’t you remember I told you?”
It was my idea to tell the girls that Mommy was going away to camp. I loved the fact that it was both true and misleading at the same time. Like a good law librarian, I made sure to do my research. In the US Bureau of Prisons hierarchy, the facilities with the least security are called federal prison camps, or camps for short. In contrast with the medium-security federal correctional institutions or high-security federal penitentiaries, camps like Alderson don’t have guard towers or barbed wire fences or even locked cells. If you squint hard enough at the grainy Google Maps image, Alderson looks like it could be one of the Seven Sisters all-women colleges, only with fewer lesbians and more dental problems.
Now I feel ashamed. I’ve been spending too much time with lawyers and gotten used to using precision with words as a way to avoid harsh truths. To what purpose? To trick a five-year-old into believing that her mother is going to sleepaway camp instead of prison?
“You’re going to miss my first day of kindergarten,” Claire says. As her eyes fill with tears, the adults avert their gazes.
We all know Beth will be missing much more than that.
three
Beth dozes in the passenger seat of the BMW SUV, unable to shake off her Ativan and Ambien cocktail from the night before. Sam has the music turned up loud to keep himself awake. The AC is cranked high, but the car interior still smells stale and slightly sour. Reaching between the smooth leather seats from the back, I offer Sam an Altoid before slipping one into my mouth.
“Does my breath smell that bad?” Sam jokes. I laugh along politely, but it does. It stinks of this morning’s coffee, day-old booze and the cheesy garlic bread and pasta puttanesca Beth had delivered last night as her “last meal.” We need to work on Sam’s oral hygiene.
Sam explores the channels on the Sirius XM system, having tired of the endless loop of Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones on the classic rock station we’ve been listening to all day. He stops when he hears Madonna singing “Holiday.”
“Oh my God,” Sam says, “I almost forgot. Happy birthday, Hannah.”
At that moment, I’m glad to be sitting in the back seat. What would my face reveal? Disappointment that no one at the Lindstrom family reunion remembered? Resignation that, at the age of forty-nine, there’s unlikely to be anyone in my life for whom my birthday would be a special occasion? Or gratitude that my forty-one-year-old brother—the one person in the world who matters the most to me—always remembers, although sometimes a day or two late?
I lean back in my seat and look out the window at the rolling hills rushing past. I reach up to finger the diamond studs in my ears and think back to when Sam gave them to me. It was my fortieth birthday—my last milestone birthday.
Nine years ago, Beth and Sam had been dating for several years but weren’t married yet. They rented a gorgeous vacation home for a week in the Hamptons and invited a group of their equally gorgeous friends and family for an end-of-summer bacchanal, the precursor to the now-annual Lindstrom family reunion. Beth and Sam’s parties weren’t my cup of tea—their lavish lifestyle looked straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad—but I suffered through them. There weren’t many other chances to spend time with Sam.
It’s getting dark, and everyone is huddled around the outdoor fire pit sipping drinks when Sam starts tapping a spoon against his beer bottle and calls the crowd to attention.
“Friends, countrymen, lend me your ears,” he shouts, “because tonight is a very special night. It’s not only the end of summer, the end of our one-week bender, it’s also my older sister Hannah’s fortieth birthday.” Several people turn around to find me tucked near the back of the party. They encourage me to come closer to the fire pit and stand next to Sam. I’ve always hated being the center of attention, even on my birthday, but I take comfort in knowing Sam’s speech won’t be about me. It’ll be about him. It’s always about him.
“In honor of Hannah’s birthday,” Sam says, slurring his words slightly, “I want to tell you all the story of how I came to be conceived.” Chuckles ripple through the crowd.
“Everyone already knows the story, you drunk motherfucker!” a male voice heckles amiably. The group erupts in laughter. It’s true: Sam has a repertoire of stories, much as an actor has a repertoire of roles. “How Sam was conceived” is his Hamlet.
“My parents moved to the US from South Korea so my father could get his PhD in linguistics,” Sam continues undeterred. “Like the good, healthy, horny young people that they were, my parents quickly and easily conceived Hannah, their firstborn, who grew into a smart and hardworking little girl, every immigrant parent’s dream.” This line gets a lot of hoots and hollers. I’m pretty sure the crowd’s enthusiasm is for the horny parents, not the hardworking little girl.
“When she started kindergarten, Hannah jumped out of bed every morning, eager to go to school and learn. But one day a couple months into the school year, Hannah complained of a stomachache and refused to leave her bed. The next day, Hannah did the same thing. My mom was baffled.”
Even though most people at the party have heard this story countless times, they’re quiet, paying close attention, listening as if they didn’t already know the ending. That’s the power of my brother’s personality.
“Finally, my mom forced Hannah to go to school, and then she hid in the bushes during recess to see what would happen. And there she was, Hannah, their perfect daughter, sitting by herself on the playground bench, the only Asian child in a sea of white faces.” I look around at Sam and Beth’s friends, the sea of white faces, and wonder if any of them see the irony. I’m sure Sam doesn’t.
“My mom decided then and there she would have another child so Hannah wouldn’t be so lonely. Only this time, it wasn’t as easy for the young couple, and it took them several years of concerted fucking to conceive me.” More hoots and hollers confirm it’s the horny parents and not the hardworking little girl who are the crowd-pleasers.
“So, in honor of your fortieth birthday, my dear big sister and lifelong friend, the pride of my parents and the precious diamond of the Min family, I present to you this modest token of my affection, my adoration and my appreciation.” Sam han
ds me an instantly recognizable Tiffany blue gift bag to a chorus of oohs and aahs. Inside is a small velvet-lined box containing the most beautiful diamond stud earrings. I stand on my tippy-toes to hug Sam, who wraps his strong arms around me, and it feels like home. I take in a deep breath of Sam’s familiar woodsy cologne. His friends and family all applaud.
It’s the happiest moment of my life.
* * *
Welcome to Alderson, West Virginia, reads the sign at the town’s border, Voted Best Fourth of July Celebration. Sam drives the car along the riverbank and across a stone bridge, past a patchy green field with a lonely brown mare and along a gently curving driveway marked by a government-issued sign that announces you’re entering a federal prison camp.
It’s almost 5:00 p.m., and the Alderson Prison parking lot is empty. We shouldn’t have stopped for lunch on the road. The letter from the Bureau of Prisons made it clear Beth had to self-surrender during business hours today or risk additional punishment. There’s a black cast-iron call box next to the single-arm gate, and Sam lifts the receiver.
“Do you remember the code to dial?” Sam asks. Beth gives a mild shrug. I reach into my purse—a well-worn leather satchel found among my mom’s things after she died—and begin to sort through a thick sheaf of papers when a white sedan approaches from the opposite direction, exiting the prison through another single-arm gate.
“Is she self-surrendering?” a Tipper Gore look-alike asks. She points to me sitting in the back seat. Sam and Beth don’t say anything.
“No, I’m not the one. She is.” I gesture toward Beth, feeling like a narc.
“Okay,” Tipper replies, “dial 313 and tell them the name of the inmate. Then pull over into the parking lot, and they’ll be out to get you.” With that, she drives away.
Sam does as he’s told. We wait in the parking lot for what feels like a lifetime before a white van drives up. The three of us get out of the car.
“You the one self-surrendering?” the guard asks, looking at me.
“No,” I say quickly. My voice is louder this time.
“I’m the one,” Beth says. “I’m the one self-surrendering.” The guard ogles Beth up and down.
“You’ll have to leave that behind,” the guard says. She points to Beth’s right hand. Beth is still wearing the ring Sam got her for their fifth anniversary—everyone in the family calls it her Bling Ring—comprised of five rows of pavé diamonds in a platinum setting. Beth never wears a ring on her left hand. “I like to keep people guessing,” she always says.
“My lawyer said I could wear my wedding band,” Beth protests.
I stifle a groan. If you had read the Alderson inmate orientation handbook that I emailed you, you would know about the Bureau of Prisons’s jewelry policy—“Inmates may have a plain wedding band and an appropriate religious medallion and chain without stones.” The Bling Ring is anything but plain.
“Here, take this,” I say. I unclasp the thin chain around my neck, pull the simple gold ring off and hand it to Beth.
“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Beth says. “That belonged to your mother.”
“It’s okay, she’d have wanted you to have it,” I say. I’m lying. My mother died years before Sam met Beth, but she wouldn’t have liked her. Beth is too American, too materialistic and too domineering for my traditional Korean mother—not to mention too felonious.
“It doesn’t fit,” Beth says. She passes the simple band back to me. “Anyway, I’m afraid I might lose it.” I return the ring to the gold chain, and Beth passes me her Bling Ring, which I slip onto my finger. The weight of the diamonds feels surprisingly nice.
“Okay, that’s enough. You’re already late. Time to say goodbye,” the guard barks. We stand there awkwardly, not sure what to do next.
“I don’t know what to say, Hannah,” Beth murmurs. She takes a step forward and hugs me hard. I can feel Beth’s heart beating against my chest. “Thank you for coming all this way. I’m glad Sam won’t have to drive all the way home by himself. Be sure to take good care of the girls.”
Beth releases me and turns to Sam. She holds his hands and leans her head into his broad shoulder. Sam buries his face in her thick hair.
“I’m so sorry, Beth,” he whispers.
“Stop it,” Beth says.
“It should be me.”
“What’s done is done.”
Sam lifts his head, and Beth kisses him lightly on the lips.
“Just don’t screw up again,” Beth says. Then she pushes him away.
Beth looks pale as she gets into the white van. I watch as the van makes its way through the one-armed gate and into the prison compound. I linger until the van is no longer visible, but Sam just climbs back into his car. He seems eager to get away from Alderson as fast as possible.
It’s past 2:00 a.m. by the time we pull up to Sam and Beth’s Princeton home. The lights are all off in the house, which means Karen must have gone to bed. It feels so long ago that we said goodbye to her and the girls at Le Refuge, but it’s been less than a day.
Sam and Beth’s Princeton home is much more formal than Le Refuge. The grand foyer has polished marble floors and a curved walnut staircase leading to the second level. The large living room showcases rich Oriental carpets and framed Picasso prints, and the paneled dining room features a breathtaking crystal chandelier and Queen Anne–style cabinet displaying Beth’s collection of antique fine bone china. There’s even a library like you’d see in an elegant English manor, with built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and moiré silk wallcoverings.
We carry our bags into the pitch-dark house and make our way blindly into the kitchen. Sam turns on the pendant light over the center island and opens the stainless steel refrigerator door to pull out a bottle of beer.
“You want one?” he offers. “Oh, wait, you prefer wine, right?” Sam reaches for an opened bottle of French Chablis, pours it into a Riedel wineglass, and hands it to me. I’m grateful for the hospitality. I’d normally be asleep at this hour but got a second wind around midnight. It’ll take some time for me to decompress.
“Wanna play a match?” Sam asks.
“Sure,” I say, happy to oblige. We grab our drinks and head downstairs to the rec room to play Ping-Pong. It’s one of the few activities we have in common.
When Sam was young, my parents bought a used Ping-Pong table from an ad in the local Pennysaver and set it up in our unfinished basement. We needed something to burn off Sam’s excess boy energy, especially during the endless Buffalo winters. Unlike me, a natural-born nerd, Sam struggled with school. My parents were at their wits’ end with his terrible report cards until I read an article in Parents magazine that made me realize Sam is a kinesthetic learner—he processes information through physical movement. From the time he was six until he went to college, Sam and I spent countless hours in the basement playing Ping-Pong, with me drilling him on everything from multiplication tables to state capitals to French vocab words.
I’ve barely had time to set down my wineglass and pick up my paddle before Sam serves the first ball. “Hey, no fair,” I protest, feigning outrage. “I wasn’t ready yet.”
“You’ll never be ready for me,” he teases. He pulls a second ball out of his pocket.
We’ve had this exact exchange innumerable times. It’s our own personal liturgy. Looking across the room, I’m reminded of Sam as a gawky kid, grinning mischievously, the light from a bare bulb glinting off his metal braces. Sam serves again, and I miss badly.
“You’ve gotten rusty,” Sam says. He finishes off his beer and walks to the carved oak bar. He returns to the Ping-Pong table with a cut-crystal tumbler of something dark brown on the rocks, takes a sip, puts the glass down and waits.
“Are you doing okay?” I ask.
“Of course,” Sam replies. He answers my high-bouncing serve with a decisive smash. “Why wouldn’t I be
okay?”
I decide to give him his space. We play in silence for a while. When Sam goes back to the bar to refill his glass, I think about Sam and Beth’s goodbye at the prison, their last moments together. “It should be me,” he had said.
“Sam, I hope you’re not still blaming yourself for what happened.”
“It all came down to the deposition,” Sam replies. “Beth wouldn’t be in prison right now if it hadn’t been for the damn deposition.”
“It’s not your fault, Sam. You have to believe that it’s not your fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?” he asks. His tone is irritable, perhaps even bitter. Sam lifts the tumbler to his lips and empties the contents in one swallow before resuming the match. He serves the ball so hard it barely misses my head. It bounces off the wall and knocks over my wineglass, sending it shattering to the floor.
“Sorry ’bout that,” he mumbles as he drops his paddle and heads upstairs. I get down on my knees to pick up the shards.
lise
From the deposition of Lise Danielsson in United States of America et al. v. God Hälsa AB, Andreas Magnusson and Elizabeth Lindstrom
Q: Tell us about the first time you met Ms. Lindstrom.
A: I was sixteen, just arrived in America from Sweden.
Q: Did Ms. Lindstrom pick you up at the airport?
A: No, she sent Jorge.
Q: Who is Jorge?
A: Jorge is Beth’s driver. Also the gardener and all-around handyman. A supersweet man. He’s married to Maria.
Q: And who is Maria?
A: Maria’s the cook and housekeeper. Jorge and Maria, they’re like part of the Lindstrom family. Almost like a grandpa and grandma, you know?
Q: Okay, so after Jorge picked you up from the airport, what happened next?
