Fifty-One
“How did the meeting go?” Umma asks.
The chopsticks are halfway to George’s mouth, but he sets them down anyway. It takes me a second, but I realize the chopsticks he’s using are the ones Geoffrey gave me. I don’t know when George found them. “I was fired.” He’s curt, offering no other explanation.
Umma’s eyes widen. She looks at me and then at Ji-hyun, warning us to keep our mouths shut. “Fired?”
“Yes, fired,” George snaps. “Fired. Do you understand that word?”
Ji-hyun takes a sharp breath. I ball my hands into fists. Umma is the only one who doesn’t know that George is mocking her, and she puts her hand comfortingly on his arm. “What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Despite her attempts to coerce an answer out of him, George remains close-mouthed. Umma sighs. “It’s okay,” she says. “You’re going to be my husband. I’ll support our family until you’re back on your feet. It’s no problem.” She caresses him, her touch gentle.
It’s supposed to be a supportive gesture, but she’s emasculated him in front of us. Without a word, he stands up and disappears into the bedroom. We listen to him rustle around, and after a few minutes he emerges with his bags.
“I’m going back to my apartment for a while,” he says. “I need to clear my head.”
My mother watches the door as it slams. She doesn’t look away from it for at least an hour, and for the rest of the night I see her gaze lingering, until finally, she slinks into her room, dejected and alone.
It doesn’t take me long to find George’s profile on the dating app. I take a Facebook photo from one of the girls I met at Alexis’s study group months ago. She’s Asian, of course, and I create an account using her picture. When I swipe right, indicating that I like him, a heart appears on the screen. We’ve matched.
, I type out. I expect to have to wait, but his response comes instantaneously, as though he’s been waiting for me.
Over the next few hours, I work on building George’s trust. It’s easy. I’ve made up an entire life history for “Lindsay.” Her poor, hardworking immigrant parents are too strict. They live in a dilapidated apartment together, where all she does is study, locked up in her room. They want her to be a doctor, but she wants to be an artist. She’s a good girl; she’s willing to give up her dreams for theirs.
George laps it up as eagerly as a kitten drinking milk.
he asks.
He sends a very old picture that was taken perhaps fifteen years ago, and though his face is thinner, his hair fuller, the eyes are unmistakable. He’s dressed in a nice suit, the familiar blue silk tie around his neck.
George asks. I imagine him hiding in the bathroom of his apartment while Jen waits for him.
,I respond. Even typing it out makes me queasy.
This seems to excite George.
, I reply.
,he responds.