Forty-Eight

In late spring, just a few weeks after the incident with the watch, I spot George’s truck zipping through traffic. He’s driving fast, much faster than his normal pace. His urgency piques my interest. Without thinking I follow him, my foot stomping on the gas pedal.

We weave through Koreatown, through Downtown LA. George is on his phone the entire time. I follow him to a strip mall in the Arts District, where he parks his car on the street and disappears into a small, nondescript coffee shop. I park next to a meter on the street and wait for him to come back out.

He emerges a few minutes later, but he’s not alone. There’s a woman with him, a petite, fair-skinned Asian woman, with long, dark hair that’s parted in the middle. She’s wearing a floral sundress, and they’re holding hands and laughing. I recognize her instantly.

I duck down in my seat as they cross the street, looking up just in time to see George reach over and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

I roll down the window to listen to them talk.

“I’m so glad you called me,” George says.

“I missed you. The apartment has been so lonely without you there. . . . I know you’re traveling a lot for work, but still. . . . Don’t you think it’s a bit much?” She speaks with a slight accent. Her voice is as lovely as her face.

They walk to George’s car. He opens the door for her and helps her up into the truck, and when they drive away, I follow behind them. At the stoplight, they lean into each other and kiss. This morning, he kissed Umma the exact same way, and just hours ago, his arms were around my mother’s waist as he filled her ears with empty promises.

I follow them to a towering luxury apartment building in the center of downtown. It’s Jen’s apartment. George floats from place to place, preying on Asian women. He slithers into their hearts and their beds. He takes over their homes. He eats their food. He takes and takes and takes.

Jen is nothing but a pawn in George’s game. Just like Umma.

I’ve missed one class already, and even though I can probably make it back in time for the second one, I’m too frenzied to do anything but return home. I rush back to our apartment to sit and collect my thoughts. But when I open the front door, Ji-hyun is sitting on the couch in front of the TV in her pajamas, an open pack of cookies in her lap. Her mouth drops open.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I—I’m not feeling well,” she stammers.

“You’re not?” I put my hand on her forehead. “You feel fine to me.”

“It’s my stomach.”

She doesn’t appear to be sick at all. I squint at her, the realization dawning on me. “Did you ditch school?”

“No! I didn’t.”

“What the hell, Ji-hyun? You know how important it is to have a good education! How many times did Appa—”

At the mention of our father, she bursts into tears. “I don’t want to hear about Appa! I’m sick and tired of hearing about him!”

She runs past me into our room, slamming the door. I wait a beat before following her. She’s burrowed under the blankets in our bed like a mole, the tip of her nose poking out. She’s sobbing.

“Ji-hyun. What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” she says. “Everything is wrong.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Talk to me.”

My sister sniffles loudly. “Nobody cares about me. Nobody cares about what I want or what I’m thinking about or—”

“I care,” I say, interrupting her. “I care a lot. You know I do. Why would you say such a thing?”

“It doesn’t feel that way anymore.”

When we were younger, Ji-hyun and I used to play a game that we dubbed Genie. We would take turns being the Genie and granting the other’s wishes. Of course, we didn’t have the means to grant any wishes. Most of them were impossible, anyway. Ji-hyun would wish for puppies and kittens and, once, a Nintendo Wii. I wished for mountains of money and my own room. It gave us comfort to speak our wants and desires out loud in the hope that somewhere a benevolent god was listening. Maybe someday, those things would come true.

I take Ji-hyun’s hand and squeeze it. “I am Genie,” I say. The covers lower an inch, and Ji-hyun peeks at me, teardrops clinging to her eyelashes like morning dew. “I can grant you whatever your heart desires. What is your wish?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “I wish Umma and George wouldn’t get married,” she says.

“Your wish is my command.”