Two

If I’m being honest, I had no idea people ate fish eyes until two weeks ago. When it happened the first time, I was certain that my father’s departure had caused my mother to lose her mind.

It was a few days after Appa left. Umma had been inconsolable. She sobbed through the night, and even though she was trying to hide it from Ji-hyun and me, it was obvious. In the morning, her eyes were red and puffy, the tip of her nose rubbed raw. Besides, we’d heard all of it, her quiet whimpers and pained moans, which floated through the thin wall into our bedroom where Ji-hyun and I lay in the bed we shared. Wide awake, we looked at each other.

It was Ji-hyun who said something first. In a voice so low that I could barely hear, she whispered, “Should we say something?”

“No,” I murmured. “I don’t want to embarrass her.”

To be honest, I was afraid. Ji-hyun wanted me to take the reins, to play the role of older sister. Maybe I should have. But the thought of walking in there and seeing my mother slumped over her pillow made me feel sick to my stomach. I wanted to sleep, to ignore everything that was happening. Every time I closed my eyes, the sounds of my mother’s weeping grew louder, filling the entire space until there was no longer any room to breathe.

Ji-hyun nudged me with her elbow. “What?” I asked.

“Appa is going to come back, isn’t he?” Ji-hyun whispered. “He wouldn’t leave us like this.”

I stared down at the covers.

“I know he would never do such a terrible thing,” Ji-hyun continued. “Don’t you think so?”

I knew the truth then—that our father was not going to return. But even in the dark, I could see my sister’s expression, the wrinkles across her forehead. It hurt me so badly that I found myself lying through my teeth.

“Of course he’ll come back.”

She turned onto her shoulder, facing me, and chewed her lower lip. “How can you be so sure?”

“I just am.”

Reassured, Ji-hyun curled up next to me like a cooked shrimp, her feet hanging off the bed. I stroked her silky dark hair until she fell asleep, watching as her chest rose and fell. She looked so peaceful and at ease that I almost didn’t feel guilty. Long after my mother grew quiet, I remained awake, listening to Ji-hyun snore beside me. Only then did the awfulness of our situation swim back into my heart.

The following evening, my mother prepared a feast. It came as a surprise to us, given how lethargic and miserable she had been that morning. She came home early from work, stepping over Ji-hyun and the piles of homework on the floor, and spent the entire afternoon cooking feverishly. Sweat dripped from her forehead. She swiped at it before calling out to us, her voice high. “Dinner is ready!”

The apartment was hazy from smoke. I’d heard my mother moving back and forth from the kitchen to the living area, but still I was surprised to find that our small rectangular dining table—every inch of it—was covered with food. In the middle, there was a big stone pot filled with braised beef short ribs, my father’s favorite. Next to it was an entire fish, deep-fried, the napkin underneath it spotted with oil. I saw soy-marinated soft tofu and steamed egg speckled with bits of green onion, which jiggled when the table was touched. There was also a colorful array of side dishes, all homemade: wilted spinach, deep green in color, completely drenched in sesame oil; seasoned soybean sprouts with their little yellow heads peeking out; and garlicky fiddleheads, cooked to an earthy brown. Umma had even made fresh kimchi, the crisp white cabbage flecked with bright red gochugaru flakes. There was hardly any space to rest my elbows, and I imagined the table sagging under the weight of our dinner.

It was a lot of food for just the three of us, but when I saw the extra table setting at the place where my father normally sat, I understood. Ji-hyun and I settled into our regular spots, surrounded by plates and bowls, and began to eat. My mother, on the other hand, perched on the edge of her chair, a spoon dangling loosely from her fingers. Her attention was focused on the front door as though Appa was about to burst through at any moment.

Ji-hyun raised her eyebrows at me and nodded her head toward Umma’s tense body. I cleared my throat. “You spent so much time making this meal. You should at least have a bite.”

Reluctant, Umma tore off a piece of meat and placed it on top of her rice. As she started digging into the steaming mound of food, we heard a quiet jingling from the hallway outside. It was the sound of keys. Umma jumped up and dashed to the door. I held my breath and watched as she stood, her hand hover­ing over the doorknob. We were waiting for it to turn. Instead, a squeaky voice called out:

“Wrong door, sorry!”

It was the neighbor, a distracted and forgetful old man who tried to open our door at least once a week. Umma sank onto the floor, her hands covering her face. A choked sob escaped her lips. Ji-hyun and I hurried over to her. When I touched my mother’s shoulder gently, she jerked away. She turned her head toward me, and I saw that the mascara she had carefully applied was now running down her cheeks.

Ji-hyun and I helped Umma up and led her back to the table, where she sat, wilted like a thirsty flower, her hair wild. She looked up, first at Ji-hyun and then at me, and began to laugh. The sound was harsh and frightening.

“Do you think I’m unlucky?” Umma asked.

“No,” Ji-hyun softly replied. She was afraid, her hands clasping the edge of the table. Her knuckles were white. “Why?”

Umma shrugged and pointed at the pile of fish on the table. “Fish eyes are good luck. If I eat one, maybe it will bring your father back.”

Before I could say anything, Umma ripped the eyeball out of the fish’s head. There were gelatinous bits still attached to it, flakes of skin and flesh. Without hesitating, she popped the entire thing in her mouth and began to chew. Ji-hyun and I squealed at the same time.

“Spit it out!”

To our horror, Umma swallowed, her throat moving in a big gulp. Oblivious to our revulsion, she flipped the fish over. “Look! Here’s the other eye! Who wants to try it?”

The tofu wobbled precariously as Ji-hyun and I pushed ourselves back from the table. Ji-hyun’s chair tipped backward and fell to the floor with a crash.

For the first time that evening, Umma laughed with sincerity. “I won’t make you girls eat it,” she said, smiling through her tears. “If anything, I’m glad you don’t want to try. Your mother needs all the luck she can get.”