Fifty-Six

“Have either of you heard from George?” Umma asks, staring at the clock. It’s a silly question; there’s no reason Ji-hyun or I would have heard from him if she hasn’t.

“I haven’t,” I say, without looking at her.

“Me neither.”

My mother sighs. “He said he would be home in time for dinner.”

“Maybe he’s busy trying to find a job,” Ji-hyun says. Tears well up in Umma’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” she says flatly. “But he’s not answering his phone at all. Do you think he’s alright? Should we call the police?”

“No, no,” I say. “I’m sure he got caught up with something.”

We sit in silence, our dinner cooling rapidly on the table. Ji-hyun’s stomach is grumbling.

Tonight, Umma has made bulgogi, one of George’s favorite Korean dishes. The marinated beef is adorned with sesame seeds and topped with sliced onions, garlic, and green peppers. It looks delicious, but every time Ji-hyun inches toward it, Umma slaps her hand away.

“We have to wait until George comes home,” she says.

We wait. And we wait. The steam from the doenjang jjigae and the rice dissipates, mixing into the air. As the food grows cold, I feel myself growing more and more angry. After a hushed, painfully long thirty minutes, Ji-hyun, exasperated and starving, says, “Can we please just eat?”

Umma stands up, pushing her chair back. It hits the wall. “I’m not that hungry. I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”

The words fly out from my mouth before I can stop them. “What are you doing?”

Umma swivels back slowly. She’s anguished, the tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. “What?” she whispers.

Shaking, I stand and face her. “You heard me. Why are you acting like this over a man who doesn’t care about you?”

Ji-hyun’s eyes widen with shock. “Unni . . .” she whispers.

I silence my sister with a wave of my hand. “It’s pathetic. I can’t understand you. You drag Ji-hyun and me through this mess, and then we’re left behind trying to clean it up. You don’t even care about how your actions affect us. All you think about is yourself.”

Umma’s lip quivers, and then she turns and dashes into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

In our room, Ji-hyun hugs her pillow to her chest. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“Why? Do you disagree?” I snap. “What, are you best friends with George now?”

Ji-hyun falters. “No, I—”

“Then what?”

Ji-hyun is struggling to hold back her tears, but I don’t care. I want to shake her and my mother until they understand the rage that I feel. I hate the way Ji-hyun sits on the edge of the bed, quiet, her face puckered. She murmurs something that I don’t quite catch.

“Spit it out!”

“I found a . . . picture . . . underneath the couch while I was cleaning.”

I stop, my fury abating momentarily. “A picture?”

Ji-hyun gives me a small nod. She’s afraid of me now. I regret the way I yelled at her. “Show me,” I say, softening my tone.

She disappears into the closet and reemerges with a piece of paper fluttering in her hand. It’s creased from being folded, but I recognize it immediately. It’s one of the images from George’s presentation. We must have missed it when we were destroying the evidence. This one is of an Asian woman in a short skirt. Her legs are covered in sheer white socks that have pink satin ribbons dotted all over them. She’s wearing nothing on top, and her nipples are exposed.

“What the hell? That’s sick.”

Looking uncomfortable, Ji-hyun takes the picture back, folding it into a neat square. She shoves it in the back of the closet and mumbles, “I think it belongs to George. I think he was looking at porn on the couch while we were gone.”

“Of course it’s his. Who else could it belong to?”

Ji-hyun looks just like our mother with her wobbling chin and quivering lips. She’s openly crying, hiccupping with each breath. “I’m so worried about what’s going to happen.”

“Don’t be,” I say. I’m calm now. “Just trust me.”

It only cements in my mind the fact that everything I’ve done—and everything I’m going to do—is for their own good.

If I don’t protect them, who will?