Forty-Seven

Months ago, when he first moved in with us, George let us try on “the Rolex.” He told us it was “the most expensive kind,” and that it was passed down to him from his father after his passing five years ago. It was the only time he ever mentioned his father.

Even then I thought it was beautiful. There were diamonds embedded on its mother-of-pearl face, and the entire thing glittered like a giant jewel. I had never held anything so valuable in my hands, and when George let Ji-hyun and me clasp it onto our own too-small wrists, I knew what would come of it.

“If I ever lost this, I would die,” George said, removing it carefully from my wrist. He put it back in its dark-green, leather-­clad box on Umma’s dresser. “It’s my most prized possession. Plus, my father would probably come down and haunt me if anything happened to it. He loved it more than he loved me.” He said it as though it was a joke, though he didn’t smile. I saw right through him.

It doesn’t surprise me that your father loved the watch more than he loved you, George. You’re greedy. Selfish. Unlovable. You pretend like you care about your father, but you don’t. You only care about what he left for you. Or in this case, what he didn’t leave behind. How many times have you complained about the house you didn’t get? Your meager inheritance? You don’t even have a single picture of him.

Tonight, I channel the ghost of George’s father, because I’m certain he will approve of what I’m doing: punishing his son in ways he couldn’t while he was still alive. I imagine him hover­ing over my shoulder, observing silently as I hold the heavy watch, the metal links cold in my hand. By 3 a.m., I’m outside the apartment, standing next to George’s truck.

In the moonlight, the watch is stunning. I admire its shine and the hands that move across the face. Everything is precise. Perfect. It’s a pity I have to destroy something so beautiful, but the ends justify the means.

In the morning, George rushes out without a goodbye, a blue silk tie clutched in his hand. He’s forgotten his watch, which he often does when he has meetings with clients. I wait, unable to hide my restlessness. Ji-hyun smacks me as she leaves to go to school. “Stop fidgeting!” she orders.

“Brat,” I retort.

As soon as she’s gone, George storms through the door, blood dripping from his fingers. In his shaking fist are the remaining fragments of his watch.

“My Rolex,” he moans. “My Rolex.”

Umma runs out from her room. “What’s going on?”

“My father’s watch. It’s—it’s completely fucked.” He opens his hand and lets it fall to the floor. Shards of glass spray over our feet. George slides down next to it, his head buried in his hands. When he looks up, there’s a smear of blood across his forehead.

Umma crouches next to him and puts her hand on his back. She murmurs something into his ear. He wrenches away from her.

I know that feeling of despair. It’s how I felt the day my father left.

Through his fingers I see his tear-stained cheeks. He’s trying to hide the fact that he is crying.

“I must have dropped it while getting out of the car,” George babbles. “What’s wrong with me? What’s happening to me?” He digs his fingernails into his face, leaving a trail of crescent moons dotted across his cheeks.

The tears in his eyes amplify their color. I’m doing my best to hide my excitement, but I’m quivering.

Hope is a terrible thing.

Hope is my mother waiting by the front door for months. Hope is a table full of banchan, side dishes, carefully prepared by hand. Hope is my sister curled in my arms, her head resting against my shoulder, asking, “Do you think he will come back?”

But hope is also George, crawling on the floor, collecting pieces of glass so small they are nearly invisible.

For the next few weeks, George is despondent. He doesn’t shower, stinking up our living room, a cloud of putrescence following behind him. He doesn’t eat, not even when Umma buys and makes his favorite foods: cheese sandwiches, bacon, and macaroni.

“It feels like I’ve lost him all over again,” he says glumly. It’s a rare show of vulnerability, coming from him. “And he keeps coming to me in my dreams. Last night, I was in my childhood home, looking at an old picture of my father. He had just died, and I was crying. But then the image came alive, and he came through it, his mouth wide open, irate, the skin peeling from his face. He grabbed me and shook me, and then—” George shivers. “I realized it wasn’t a photo of him. It was a photo of me.”

We are silent. We’re not used to seeing him this way. Umma clears her throat, clearly at a loss for words, moving away from the table. George stares at her for a long time before getting up and retreating to the bedroom.

Is this what it takes to make our fathers return to us?