A Good Family

by A. H. Kim

  “This reminds me of making Korean dumplings with my mother when I was little,” I say. The meatball mixture is nearly the same consistency as the dumpling filling. “We always made dumplings for the lunar new year.”

  “It must have been cold growing up in Buffalo,” Eva says.

  “I guess so, but when you’re a kid, you don’t really notice,” I reply. “You assume everything about your life is normal. You don’t know any better.”

  My thoughts turn to Claire and Ally and whether they think going to visit their mother in prison is normal. For many children, visiting a loved one in prison seems to be all too common. As I contemplate the sorry state of our criminal justice system, I lose sight of what’s in front of me. It takes me a minute to realize that Eva is crying.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “did I say something wrong?”

  Eva shakes her head as if embarrassed. I quietly resume scooping the meat mixture and placing them in neat rows on the parchment, not knowing what else to do.

  “Growing up, Mother wanted only the best for us,” Eva says. “She insisted we go to the best schools and wear the nicest clothes. To the outside world, our lives looked perfect. But all of that came at a cost.”

  Eva goes on to describe her parents’ lives and the sacrifices they made: leaving a land they loved, moving away from their parents and their siblings, in pursuit of greater opportunities for their children. They had to become fluent in a new language, which isn’t easy to do as adults, and to learn the customs of a new country. And in the end, they both died early—too early to see the fruits of their labor.

  The story of Eva’s parents sounds a lot like my own parents’ story, and I tell her so. She glances up from her work, and there’s a sense of mutual understanding that is comforting and a little strange. I’m not used to feeling a sense of connection with Eva.

  “Still,” I say, trying to lighten the moment, “it must have been awfully nice growing up in a mansion with a cook and driver.”

  Eva stares at me intensely, and I’m reminded of that photo of her from freshman year of college, her eyes owl-like in their bottle-lensed magnification.

  “Hannah, you know my parents were the cook and driver, don’t you?”

  The cold stainless steel slips from my hand.

  Eva’s words hit me like a thunderbolt. How could I not have known that the Lindstrom parents were the hired help? As I think back on all the times Sam described Beth’s childhood, I realize he never said what her parents did, just that they lived in the Swedish Embassy. I must have filled in the rest of the details with my own imagination.

  It makes me wonder what else I’ve misunderstood about Beth.

  * * *

  The Monday after Thanksgiving, I’m back at my job in New York. I decide to skip lunch and take the subway up to Tiffany’s. Having berated Sam for failing to renew his life insurance policy, an oversight I made sure he corrected right away by filling out the paperwork and paying the premium myself, I feel like a hypocrite for not having a jewelry rider on my homeowner’s insurance. Admittedly, I don’t have much to cover: just my mother’s wedding band, a Tiffany pearl bracelet that Owen gave me and, of course, the huge diamond studs from Sam. Nevertheless, I want to be covered.

  Sitting across from me on the subway train is an older Mexican woman holding a plastic Gristedes grocery bag. Something about her reminds me of Maria, Sam and Beth’s housekeeper. Maybe it’s the soft brown eyes or the weary curve of her spine. I hope Maria and Jorge were able to find a good job after Sam let them go.

  I emerge from the subway and walk up Fifth Avenue, the transcendent image reminding me of the dreamy opening credits of Breakfast at Tiffany’s: the long shot of the classic yellow cab driving up an empty Fifth Avenue just at sunrise, the heartbreakingly melancholy strains of Henry Mancini’s “Moon River,” and the breathtakingly beautiful Audrey Hepburn in her Givenchy black sheath gazing longingly into the windows of the famed jeweler. I step onto the deep-pile carpeting and am almost blinded by the bright lights as they bounce off the spotless glass surfaces and shiny silver corners of the display cases. A sharply dressed man approaches and asks, “May I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’m looking to have some personal items appraised,” I answer. I hate being called ma’am. It makes me feel old and matronly. The man directs me to the appraisal department on the fifth floor of the store.

  “Good afternoon, miss,” a stately gentleman greets me on the fifth floor. Now, that’s more like it. He’s wearing an official-looking blazer monogrammed with the Tiffany name.

  “I’m hoping you might be able to provide me with an appraisal for a few items,” I reply. In the movie, the salesman at Tiffany’s agrees to inscribe a toy ring found inside a Cracker Jack box for Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard. Surely, what I’m asking for isn’t nearly so silly as that. I reach into my handbag and pull out the soft blue pouch containing the pearl bracelet.

  “It’s been many years since I received this as a gift,” I say. “I saw it on your website, but the insurance company says I need an actual appraisal and not a printout.”

  “Ah yes,” the gentleman responds, fingering the pearls delicately. “A nice little piece. It’s part of our Return to Tiffany collection. It’s currently valued at five hundred dollars. Most insurance policies would cover that without a special rider, but I’d be happy to fill out an appraisal if you’d like.”

  Despite his respectful tone, I can’t help but feel a little dismissed, like my five-hundred-dollar bracelet isn’t worth his time. I feel my cheeks flush, probably from the heat of the lights. I’m eager to prove myself with my next item.

  “I received these as a gift, as well,” I say. I pull out the signature blue jewelry box from my handbag. “When I went on your website, the largest diamond studs available were one carat total weight for both studs, and I believe these are one carat each.” The diamond earrings on the website were valued at ten thousand dollars. I can only imagine how much my earrings are worth. I open the box and wait for the elegant gentleman to be dazzled. He pulls out his loupe and examines the earrings closely.

  “Do you mind?” he asks. He pulls the earrings out of the box but doesn’t wait for me to respond. I know diamonds are valued based on the four Cs—color, cut, clarity and carats—and I’m hoping he hasn’t spotted something. As far as my untrained eye can see, these diamonds are flawless. The gentleman arranges the earrings carefully back into their box and closes the lid.

  “Miss, these are lovely earrings, but I’m sorry to have to tell you—they are not from Tiffany’s. And they are not diamonds.”

  I can barely see straight as I leave the store and take the PATH train back to Hoboken. My voice is raspy when I call in sick for the rest of the day.

  They’re just earrings, I think as I lie on the couch. Are you really so materialistic that you would let something as meaningless as a pair of earrings come between you and your brother?

  I close my eyes and try to blot out the memory of that night of my fortieth birthday—but I can’t. I see Sam’s face, ruddy from drink and the heat of the bonfire, making such a spectacle of himself as he presents the gift to me. I hear the roar of the crowd’s adulation as they recognize the signature color of the gift bag and the extravagant size of the gemstones. I smell the nauseating mix of expensive cologne and even more expensive booze that envelops me as I give Sam a grateful hug.

  Why does Sam need to make it about himself all the time? Why couldn’t he just have given me the earrings in a quiet moment, just the two of us, in whatever box the earrings came in? Then again, perhaps the earrings didn’t even come in a box. Perhaps Sam picked them up from one of those African sidewalk vendors in the city, or from the buy-one-get-one-free rack at the Accessory Mart in the mall—the same place I purchased the hot-pink cubic zirconia necklace for Claire’s sixth birthday.

  I don’t have any appetite. I have no i
nterest in watching TV or reading a book. It’s not even eight o’clock when I go to the bathroom, open the medicine cabinet and take a couple Ativan and Ambien. It occurs to me I haven’t taken these in a long time, not since Beth left for Alderson. I’ve been trying to be good for the girls.

  “I just want this day to be over,” I say to my reflection in the mirror. I’m disturbed by the image I see. When did I turn into my mother?

  I can feel the drugs working to relax my tightly wound mind.

  “The earrings don’t matter, they really don’t matter,” I keep saying to myself.

  If I say it enough times, maybe I’ll finally believe it.

  hannah

  thirty

  It’s the morning after my trip to Tiffany’s, and I still can’t think straight.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I say into the law firm’s voice mail system. “I need to take one more day off, but I should be in the office tomorrow.”

  I turn off my phone and lie in bed, my head dizzy from the drugs and consumed by my memories. I reach over the nightstand and pour the pearl bracelet out of the soft blue pouch and into my palm. I distinctly remember the day Owen gave it to me to celebrate our six-month anniversary. As my fingers caress the smooth orbs, I feel like a nun saying the rosary.

  My mind floats back to that summer in Cambridge after my freshman year when Owen and I were sharing an apartment in Porter Square. I felt like we’d been playacting as adults all summer. We’d ride the Red Line into Boston, where we’d get off together and kiss goodbye at Park Street. I’d walk uphill past the grand State House to the laughably picturesque Beacon Hill brownstone that houses the publishing company where I had an unpaid internship. On weekends, Owen and I would run errands and go grocery shopping at the nearby Stop & Shop, checking items off my to-do lists. Owen somehow managed to get me to join him at the hole-in-the-wall jazz clubs in Inman Square and frenetic dance clubs in Boston.

  It’s been sweltering all week, and I’ve got the windows wide-open in the bedroom. I’m drifting in and out of sleep, my glasses still on my face, when I hear the sound of Owen’s voice. He’s half whistling, half singing a song. I recognize the melody as Hoagy Carmichael’s jazz standard, “Stardust.” I can’t tell if I’m dreaming.

  I get up and look out the window, but Owen is gone. I hear Owen’s footsteps as he makes his way up the creaky wooden stairs to our second-floor flat. As Owen reaches the door of our apartment, I’m startled by the sound of the phone ringing. I glance at the clock. It’s 12:25 a.m. My heart clenches; no one ever calls at this hour with good news.

  “Your brother is in the hospital,” my father says.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “He jumped off the roof.”

  “Oh my God, is he okay?”

  “He has some broken bones and concussion, but the doctors say he’ll be fine. It’s lucky he’s young. Ten-year-olds heal quickly.”

  “What was he thinking?”

  “He was trying to be a superhero.”

  Of course. Sam the superhero. Why wouldn’t he think he could fly?

  “And Umma?” I ask.

  “You know Umma,” my father says.

  “I’ll get on the first flight out,” I say.

  The next morning, my father picks me up at the Buffalo Niagara International Airport, his face drawn and his eyes deeply shadowed from lack of sleep.

  “How was your flight?” he asks as he takes my bag and puts it in the trunk.

  “Fine. How’s Sam?”

  “Fine. He was still sleeping when I left the hospital. The doctors say he’s recovering well but they want him to stay in the hospital a few days for observation.”

  I don’t bother to ask about Umma. I already know the answer.

  As my father drives in silence to the hospital, I look out the soot-covered car window at the flat, industrial landscape, so different from the charming brick buildings of Harvard Square. Power lines and rusty warehouses pass by in a blur. My mind drifts back to just a few hours ago, watching the early-morning light slowly brightening the walls of our Porter Square apartment, the gentle summer breeze wafting through the window, the two of us curled together listening to Nat King Cole crooning “There Will Never Be Another You.” I blink the memory away and return my focus to my family.

  “I’ll go to the cafeteria and get us some coffee,” my father says as we walk into the hospital. I nod even though I don’t drink coffee.

  “Hannah, I’ve been waiting for you!” my mother shrieks in Korean. I enter the sterile hospital room, the cheap industrial curtains drawn closed and blocking the world outside. She runs over to embrace me, then falls dramatically in a heap as if completely depleted of energy, pulling my body down on the faded teal linoleum floor with her.

  “Sorry to be late, Umma,” I apologize.

  “Sam almost died,” she says, still in Korean.

  “I know,” I say comfortingly, although it isn’t true. After my mother called 911, the paramedics arrived and asked her what happened. She couldn’t answer, so they gave up trying to communicate. During the frantic but wordless race to the hospital, my mother convinced herself Sam was going to die. Even after my father spoke with the ER doctors and confirmed Sam would be fine, my mother clung to the original fiction.

  “Sam almost died,” she repeats over and over. “Just like before, Hannah. Remember? Just like before.”

  “I know,” I say again, though it isn’t true either. This isn’t at all like before. This is just a stupid accident: my brother being foolish and acting reckless. The last time was a tragic twist of fate, an innocent life lost too soon. The two events are completely different, but I can’t fault my mother for conflating them.

  My mother pushes me away from her so she can look me straight in the eyes. Her face is streaked with tears, clumpy mascara running down her cheeks in gray rivulets, her coral-colored lipstick smeared. She looks like a madwoman.

  “You’re different, Hannah,” she says. “Something about you is changed.”

  I feel the rush of blood to my face. I know I’ve changed, but can my mother really tell? The awful thought crosses my mind: Perhaps she can smell Owen’s scent on me? But no, I showered before I left for the airport.

  “No, Umma, I haven’t changed,” I reply using my little-girl voice. “I’m still your same Hannah.” She continues to scan my face, unsure. After a while, my mother stands up and sits in the padded chair in the corner of the hospital room, where she urgently fingers her well-worn rosary beads, her lips moving silently in prayer.

  From my vantage point on the hospital room floor, I look up at Sam sleeping peacefully, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. I’m reminded of the many moments I’ve watched him in repose: as a tiny baby in his crib, as a toddler clutching his Power Rangers action figure, as a boy wearing his Buffalo Bills jersey and kicking off his thick fleece blankets. I think about the countless times my mother would beg me to intercede when Sam was going off the rails—throwing a tantrum, beating his skull against the headboard, refusing to open his mouth for the dentist or return a toy to a child on the playground.

  I get off the floor and sit gently at the foot of Sam’s bed. I glance over at my mother, who is lost in urgent prayer. I wonder where my father has gone. I can only imagine how much drama he’s had to shoulder by himself in the year I’ve been away. It can’t have been easy. For just an instant, I imagine what my life might be if I didn’t have to worry about Sam anymore, if he did in fact die from the accident. And then I wipe the thought away as quickly as I can.

  The week after Sam is released from the hospital, I call Harvard to ask them to transfer my credits to the University at Buffalo. And then I write Owen a long letter to say I won’t be coming back to Cambridge. We continue to exchange letters for about a year, but I can’t bear to talk to him by phone and I forbid him from visiting. It just
hurts too much.

  Just as Sam has his repertoire of stories, so, too, does my family. For a period in the mid-1980s, the most requested story among my parents’ social circle is “Why Hannah Left Harvard.”

  To hear my mother tell it, I just couldn’t bear the strain of being so far away from home. “My sweet daughter has such a soft heart,” she’d explain. “She missed her family too much to stay away from us.”

  The local gossips don’t buy it. “I hear that Hannah Min had a nervous breakdown,” they’d whisper. “She met a boy at Harvard, and he broke her heart.”

  My father has a more generous narrative, one he shares only with me: I returned home because my emotionally fragile mother and high-maintenance younger brother couldn’t manage without me. My family needed me to take control, to make sure that everything and everyone was taken care of, because without me things had fallen apart.

  “You should be proud of yourself, Hannah,” my father would say in my lowest moments. “You sacrificed everything for your family.”

  Homesick innocent. Lovelorn victim. Dutiful control freak.

  Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between.

  * * *

  After two days away from the office, I drag myself back in. It’s not like me to wallow in misery, but something about Sam’s deception cuts me to the core. I can barely focus on the legal cases I’m researching for one of the litigation partners at my firm. My mind keeps returning to the shiny surfaces of the Tiffany store, reflecting my image back at me a million times.

  “Hey, are you in the middle of something?” Tracy asks.

  “Not really,” I say, welcoming the break.

  “I have to show you something,” Tracy says.

  I’m puzzled as Tracy leads me out of the law library, over to the firm’s elevator banks and down six floors to the supply closet on the twenty-fourth floor. It’s where the law firm stores our miscellaneous junk: reams of extra letterhead, boxes of holiday decorations, opened bottles of cheap booze. Tracy turns on the light and reaches down to retrieve a white banker’s box that’s been tucked behind a cardboard container of firm-logo’d water bottles and fleece vests.