Twenty-Four

Sometime after she returned home, Ji-hyun retrieved the picture from the trash. The top layer of the photograph is a little scratched but otherwise unharmed, and the happy faces now stare at me from the desk. I hear her outside now, talking to George. For once she doesn’t sound like she’s antagonizing him.

There’s a quiet knock at the door. It’s Umma. She pokes her head in. “Can we talk?”

“I guess.”

She sits on the edge of the bed and runs her hands across the blanket, her callused fingers catching on the loose threads.

I’m nervous, even though I probably don’t have to be. My mother is rarely angry; she’s more of the sad and weepy type. It was my father who had the fiery temper, who would go into unshakable rages. On the day that the dry-cleaning business closed, Appa punched a row of holes in the drywall of the house. Umma, on the other hand, locked herself in the bathroom and cried.

“George told me everything.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. The nail on her index finger is broken, the edges ragged. She’s shy about her hands because they’re stained and rough from years of hard work at dry cleaner and grocery store. Every time I see them, I feel small. I feel like I am responsible for every unhappiness and injustice she has ever experienced. Why couldn’t I have been born a boy? Someone strong and confident who would be capable of taking care of her? If I had a million dollars, I’d buy her a house and take her to get her nails done every week.

She looks so sad that I feel an overwhelming sense of shame. I’m selfish. I’m selfish for upsetting her, for not taking control of my own emotions. I focus on her hand, staring intensely so that I don’t have to look at her face. My vision blurs.

“I raised you better than this,” she says slowly. “When he told me the story, I was shocked. I asked him, are you sure it was my Ji-won you were talking to? I couldn’t believe it.”

My eyes fill with tears. I hang my head. Droplets fall onto the bedspread, flitting down like rain. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know this is hard,” she says, her voice soft. “It probably seems so sudden, with everything that happened between me and your father. And George . . . well . . . I understand.” She grasps my hand and squeezes tightly. “But George isn’t going anywhere. He’s promised to stick around, and I need you and Ji-hyun to get along with him. I’ve already spoken to her, and she’s promised me that she’ll be nicer to him. You can try too, right? For me?”

The dream from the afternoon is still fresh. I want to say no, that I can’t be nice to George, that what she’s asking for is impossible. But the anguish in her expression is gone, replaced by a hopefulness that leaves her so delicately blooming that I can’t help but nod. “Whatever you want,” I tell her.

She smiles and hugs me, her cheek warm against mine. “You don’t mind apologizing to him?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“He’s very upset, you know. You really hurt his feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

Umma stands up and takes my hand, leading me out into the living room. The marks on my wrist where George grabbed me are faint but still visible. “Honey?” she calls out. “Ji-won has something she wants to tell you.”

George turns away from the TV to look at us. I imagine myself growing, larger and larger, filling up the entire room like Alice in Wonderland after she eats the cake; I reach down to pluck an eyeball out of his head. But in real life I’m small and he’s smirking, his lips twitching upward, his eyes boring into mine. I get the sense that he knows my terrible thoughts.

“Imsorry.” I say it so fast that the words collide into one another.

“What? I can’t understand you.”

“I’m sorry!” I say, louder this time. Ji-hyun is staring pointedly at the wall, and Umma is looking at George. He wipes at his sweaty face before bursting into laughter.

“Usually, when people apologize, they have the decency to look you in the eye. That is, if they mean it,” George says, still sneering. There’s a piece of food stuck between his two front teeth. He knows I’m uncomfortable, the bastard, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

“She said she’s sorry,” Ji-hyun says, on the verge of tears, her cheeks pink with fury. “Why are you doing this?”

“Was I talking to you, JH? I don’t think so.” His tone is deceivingly pleasant. “I can wait all night if I have to.”

Just look at him, Ji-won. Get it over with.

I take a deep breath and look him right in the eye. Tonight, his irises are luminous; they’re a more vivid, sharper shade of blue than normal. I am hypnotized, falling into them, drowning—

“Unni?” Ji-hyun pushes past Umma and touches my back. “Are you okay?”

I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand. The pain brings me back to earth. “I’m fine. George, I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have said those terrible things to you earlier.”

George stands up and approaches me, lifting my chin with his finger. I feel like a mosquito stuck in amber. “That’s better,” he says, smirking.

I sit on the toilet and cry. I cry until I feel like I’m going to throw up, the bathroom swimming confusingly around my head. The fan hums. There’s no toilet paper on the roll. The cord of Umma’s hair dryer is tangled on the floor. There’s a single knock on the door, and then Ji-hyun’s hushed, urgent voice comes through: “Unni? Can I come in?”

I don’t answer.

She knocks again. “Leave me alone,” I say. Thankfully, she listens; I hear her footsteps disappear around the corner. I hug my knees, feeling small and stupid and powerless. My shirt sticks to my chest. The doorknob rattles. I look up in time to see it burst open, Ji-hyun standing triumphantly in the doorway, hairpin in hand.

“Unni! Don’t cry. Do you want me to kill him? I’ll kill him,” she says. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

My foolish little sister. I stand up and wipe my tears away, furious at her, at George, at everyone. What does she know? She’s fifteen. I hate that she has to be the one to comfort me, that somewhere in the apartment my mother is snuggled up with her awful boyfriend while Ji-hyun and I are left to pick up the pieces.

“Leave me alone,” I snarl. “You can’t help. You can’t do anything.”

She looks hurt. I should feel bad, but I don’t. If anything, I feel better—like I’ve transferred some of my pain to her.