Five

“I read an interesting article the other night,” Umma says, peering at us over her cat-eye reading glasses. She’s sitting on the couch, her legs crossed, her feet facing the door. Maybe Ji-hyun hasn’t noticed that small detail, but I have. At least my mother hasn’t pretended to clean the closet or the shoe rack in a while, which I consider to be a massive improvement.

School started a few weeks ago, but already I’m drowning in assignments. I look up from my place at the kitchen table, where my books are spread. There are eraser shavings everywhere. I brush them off my sweater, watching as they float to the floor. Next to me, Ji-hyun sits with one arm hugging her knees. With her other hand, she’s scrolling mindlessly through her phone. She doesn’t make any indication that she’s heard anything Umma is saying.

Umma clears her throat and says in a slightly louder voice, “The article was very insightful.”

Lately, our mother has been trying to goad us into asinine conversations. She brings up crazy things, like conspiracy theo­ries that she’s read about on the internet or news that no sane person could possibly believe is real. The other night, she insisted that the moon landing had been faked. When Ji-hyun and I started arguing with her, she seemed almost happy, even when it resulted in an almost hour-long quarrel that left Ji-hyun in tears. Whether it’s because Umma’s lonely or bored, I’m not sure, but now Ji-hyun and I are careful not to engage her.

“Why are you girls ignoring your poor mother?”

“I’m not,” Ji-hyun says flatly, without looking up.

“It seems like it.”

“Okay.”

Distracted, I leaf through the pages of my book. This quarter I’m taking Philosophy 4: Philosophical Analysis of Contemporary Moral Issues. It’s not an easy class, and the material is confusing and dense. Ji-hyun keeps telling me that I’m being too hard on myself whenever I start complaining.

“Fine,” Umma snaps. “If neither of you care about me, I’ll go crawl in a hole and die. You’ll both wish you were nicer to me when I’m gone.”

There’s an edge to her voice, a note of desperation. Umma is speaking faster now, the Korean slipping off her tongue like water. She doesn’t pause between each word like she normally does to give us time to understand. Ji-hyun’s eyes narrow. My sister knows as well as I do that if we keep ignoring our mother, she’ll burst into tears or lash out in anger. With a sigh, I put my pencil down and rub at the graphite smudged along my wrist. “What? I’m listening.”

Umma brightens up instantly, her melancholic demeanor gone, and leans forward, putting her hands together. The couch creaks from under her, protesting her every move. “The article was about a woman who went on a hundred dates with one hundred different men,” she says. “It was an experiment to see which men were the worst to date, and which were the best.”

This piques Ji-hyun’s curiosity. She puts her phone down and looks up expectantly, waiting for Umma to continue talking. I stifle a giggle. My sister is boy crazy now, which is understandable given her age. Ji-hyun tries to conceal her feelings, growing silent whenever I ask her about boys she likes at her school. She doesn’t know that I’ve found her diary in the closet, where she’s written extensively about “Andrew.”

“So?” Ji-hyun asks.

“So what?” Umma says, grinning.

“Stop teasing,” Ji-hyun complains. “Tell us. Who was the best, and who was the worst?”

Umma takes a deep breath. “She said that white men were the best, and Korean men were the worst.”

“What? Why?” I ask. I can tell Umma is luring us into another one of her ludicrous conversations, but I can’t help myself. I’m curious, too.

“Isn’t it obvious? Korean men are rude, stubborn, fickle, and hot-tempered.” Our mother sniffs loudly and glances at the door. “They don’t know how to be accommodating. They think that they know better than everyone else. The writer said that the Korean man she dated tricked her into paying for dinner before dumping her over the phone.”

“I don’t think that means anything,” I say, choosing my words carefully. I don’t want to upset her or start an argument. “Just because that guy was terrible doesn’t mean all Korean men are terrible.”

“Yes, it does,” Umma huffs. “Ask anybody. Think about the women I work with at the grocery store. None of them have decent husbands. They’re good-for-nothing scoundrels. And do you know what they have in common? All of them are Korean!”

“But how many dates did she actually go on?” I ask, inter­rupting her mid-rant. “If she only dated one Korean man and is saying that all of them are terrible based on that experience, don’t you think that’s a bit strange? Why is she assuming something about an entire group of people? It’s like when people tell me that I should be good at math or that I’m a bad driver, just because I’m Asian. . . .”

“You are a bad driver,” Ji-hyun says. I glare at her.

Umma scowls and folds her arms across her chest. “Can’t you just agree with me for once?”

I shake my head, and Ji-hyun is wise enough to change the subject. “I’m more curious about why white men are the best,” she says.

“You don’t believe any of this crap, do you?” I ask.

“Let her talk. I want to hear this, Unni.”

Umma beams at her. “My sweet baby,” she croons before continuing. “The writer said that the white men were the most polite and thoughtful. They were good listeners and talked about their feelings openly, without any hostility. They asked her where she wanted to go and didn’t argue with her about silly things. Some of them even gave her flowers on the first date.”

“That’s corny,” Ji-hyun says.

“You say that now but wait till you’re older.” Umma pushes her glasses up on her nose. Her face is shiny, and there’s a line of sweat beading across her forehead. “You’ll want the flowers then. Trust me. Anyways, have you ever heard of a white man treating his girlfriend or wife badly? Because I haven’t!”

“That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know any white men,” I say.

“Not true. I know many. There’s a few who come to the grocery store to shop sometimes, and they’re very nice and handsome. Tall.” She raises her hand to demonstrate.

“You’re just projecting,” Ji-hyun says. Umma doesn’t know what projecting means, but she knows it’s something bad. Her lips flatten into a thin line and her chin begins to wobble. Her eyes fill with tears, and suddenly she begins wailing. Ji-hyun and I jump up, startled, and look at each other.

“Why won’t you listen? Is it so terrible for me to want the best for you two?” Umma exclaims. “You’re all I have in this world. I have nobody else. The only thing I want is for you girls to be taken care of, for you to meet someone who will be good to you. I don’t want . . . I don’t want this to happen to you.” She throws her hands over her face, her body crumpling forward. “I’m an old, ugly woman with nobody to love me. I’ll be alone until I die. I shouldn’t have married your father . . . I should have waited . . . should have found a nice white man. Then I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Time is frozen. Heat rises into my chest. The sight of my mother in distress—her wide-open mouth, the tears spilling down her shirt—is more than I can bear. I want to escape from our apartment, to disappear. Why won’t she stop crying? I close my eyes, and Ji-hyun’s voice cuts through the noise.

“You’re not old,” she says.

Hearing her, Umma stops wailing. “I’m not?”

“No. You’re only fifty-three. That’s still young. Besides, how can you say that you’re ugly? All my friends think you’re beautiful. And if you’d married someone other than Appa, then Unni and I wouldn’t have been born.”

The tightness in my chest loosens. My sister has a gift for sidestepping conflict, for easing tension, for turning things around. I, on the other hand, am clumsy, awkward. Stressful situations make me panic. Umma says that Ji-hyun has good nunchi, that because of her keen sense of tact she’s more Korean than I am.

“Is that what you want?” Ji-hyun continues. “Two other daughters who aren’t us?”

I hold my breath, waiting for Umma’s reaction. To my relief, she breaks into a fit of giggles.

“You’re right,” she says, reaching over to cup Ji-hyun’s chin. “So wise, my youngest daughter.” Ji-hyun and I pile on top of her, and for a moment we’re a happy bundle, our problems forgotten. Then Umma grows serious again, her brow furrowing. “Still, I’m not kidding. I know marriage is a long way away, but it’s never too early to prepare yourself. No Korean men. If there’s even a chance that you might end up like me, why take it?”

Without hesitating, I entwine my pinky with hers to promise that I’ll follow her advice. What does it matter to me, anyway? Right now, all I care about is keeping the peace. I want to move on from this conversation, to go back to the table and return to the safety of my textbooks.

Ji-hyun, on the other hand, shakes her head. “I’m not promising anything,” she says.

We’re lucky. For once, Umma drops the subject.