The Queens of New York, page 21
Breathe, Jia, breathe. I think of Akil on his bike, the trust in his cool gray eyes as they bored into mine. You contain multitudes. I inhale the musty apartment air and the saddle-stitched, glossy paper.
“I don’t want to go to community college. I want to go to a four-year school.”
“Jia—”
“A four-year public university. One that could give me a full scholarship. I did some research and you can go to almost any state school for free now. If I do all the paperwork, I think I could even try to get free room and board.” I run my hands along the brochure bindings. “These are just options, but I want to look into them.”
For a moment that seems to descend into hours, my parents say nothing. Finally, Mom speaks.
“I knew there was something up with you this summer.” She drums her fingers on the table. “You’ve been going out so often and you don’t seem that excited about restaurant stuff anymore.”
“Really?” Dad says.
Mom elbows his shoulder. “Ai ya, you never notice anything.”
My mouth feels dry and tears sting the corners of my eyes. I am so proud of what my parents have created. Prouder than I’ve ever been. And I want to love the smell of steam-dried dishes, the clean lines of an ironed tablecloth. I want to want my future so badly.
Dad crosses his arms. “And what would you study at this four-year school?”
“Business maybe.” At that, my parents light up. “Or maybe something else. Art or English or psychology like Ariel. I really don’t know.”
“Jia,” Dad says, “we came to this country to give you a good future. A solid one.”
“I know. I just . . . I want to keep my options open.”
The clock on the wall seems to tick louder and louder. When my parents don’t respond, I think about melting into the tile.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to upset you.”
Mom gets up from her chair. I worry she is going to haul me into my room, but she just pours water into the teakettle and sets it on the burner. She touches the curls swathing her neck.
Quietly, she says, “I understand.”
“You do?”
Dad and I both gape at her as she lifts a mug from the cupboard. She opens our year-old tin of dried tea leaves from our aunties in Canton and spoons them into the cup.
When she turns to us, Dad’s brows are knitted and my eyes are wide.
“When I was in grade school, I wanted to be a writer,” she says. “In English too. My teachers said I was talented. I thought I could go to an American school and get real good. I wanted to be like that man who writes all those sad British stories. Charles Dickens.”
She sets down her mug. “But my parents didn’t think it proper for a girl to be interested in the arts. So I went to school for finance, married your father, and moved to New York. By then, we had piles of debt, and the dream went poof.”
In another world, I see my mom typing away on a sleek silver laptop, pages filled with paragraphs of smooth English words. I see her as I see myself: dreaming away afternoons, pencil sketching impossible stories, waiting for our fire escapes to ferry us away.
“You never told me this,” Dad says, the edge in his voice giving way to hollow surprise.
Mom shrugs. “Not too important anymore.”
The teakettle begins to hum while Dad surveys the brochures still piled on the table.
“I think,” Mom continues, “that my parents wanted what was best for me. They wanted to make sure I had enough money to be happy. We want that for you too.” She pauses. “But maybe there are other options. More than one way to be happy.”
Dad shakes his head. “Then who will take over the restaurant, huh? Your baby sister?”
“Ai, Jia is seventeen. She’ll be too young anyway when she finishes community college. Not mature enough.”
It’s not meant as a compliment, but I hold it close to my chest.
“And we have Lizzie for some time at least. She’s a good worker.”
I look at my mom—her crow’s feet and tired black eyes—and my mesmerized dad, trying to see a different woman than the one he married. The teakettle whistles its finale.
Dad pulls the Stony Brook brochure toward him and unrolls its folds, sticky from my fingers pressing too hard into the paper.
“Long Island,” he says hesitantly. “Nai Nai would like the beach.”
I think I might burst. “Yes, she would.”
He thumbs through half a dozen of them—bearcat mascots and Comic Sans statistics. He squints at the fine print fees as Mom pours her tea.
“All right,” he says, “but just schools in New York, Jia. And you’ll have to apply for those scholarships you talked about.”
“Scholarships, financial aid, the whole works. I promise.”
My parents are not sentimental, but I fling my arms around them anyway. We topple into a messy pile of cardigans and hugs.
“I love you,” I say.
“Ai ya, Jia. We love you too.”
August
From: arielunderthesea_29@gmail.com
To: everetthoang24601@gmail.com; jialee@leedumplinghouse.com
12:05 AM
Subject: Home
E and J,
I’m back in Queens. Well, to be more specific, JFK. I’m in a taxi on my way home. It’s weird being back. The city is so empty at night. You can’t hear the ocean here. Just our good ole East River.
Haejin and Carl came with my aunt to drop me off at the airport in Busan. They were very sweet and gave me Choco Pie for the flight. I ate approximately ten in transit (whoops) and have exactly two left for you. One day, maybe we can all meet up with Haejin and Carl in the city or in Korea. I think you’d like them.
I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. I’ll be at the dumpling house bright and early. With an abundance of hugs. And gifts from Korea. 😊
See you soon,
Ariel
38
Ariel
In the darkness, I make out the tree in our front yard. The house’s all-brick façade. The gas station at the end of the corner. It feels like years since I’ve been home. The jewelry tucked inside my cross-body bag jingles when I walk. I roll my suitcase up the driveway and the foyer light turns on. Umma and Appa are waiting for me.
I open the garage door and turn in to the mudroom. Umma is already beckoning me inside with whispers of Go, go, you’ll wake up the neighbors. Once the garage door is closed and everything is locked, she pulls me into a hug. It is so sudden, I trip over the wheels of my suitcase. My mother is angry at me, I know. But I am now her only daughter. I hug her back.
Appa flicks on a light in the living room. I notice that the money tree is still where it is, the curtains still closed. But there is one change. The photograph peeks out from its hiding spot. There is a sliver of my sister in view.
“Do you want to eat now or later?”
It is the first question my mother always asks any time Bea and I return home. Whether you are coming back from a half-day drive or you are flying across the world, the question is always What will you eat? How much pork will make you remember us?
I rub my eyes. “Later’s fine. Thanks.”
My father busies himself. Fluffing pillows. Moving a magazine on the coffee table from one side of the glass to the other. I have followed their orders. I have come home. Now they are at a loss.
Umma grips my suitcase handle and swivels its wheels toward the hall.
“Why don’t you shower and go to bed?” She pats my sweater. “You must be tired.”
She is giving me an out. Even though she has stayed up, has watched the taxi roll in from down the block, she is telling me to sleep Korea away. We will talk in the morning. She will hand me the new Briston schedule and we will forget about this whole summer.
But the jewelry is still sitting in my bag, looped over my shoulder. And Bea is fresh on my mind. Her head thrown back on the pontoon. Her silky laughter in every department store. Her peach-and-blue necklaces shining in the sand. I prepared a speech on the plane, scribbled on a cracker napkin when everyone else was sleeping. I am trying to remember it all but it seems to disappear the more I think about it.
“I know it’s late,” I finally say, “but I want to talk to you. About Busan. And Bea.”
Appa looks at Umma and then back at me. My mother puts her hands on her hips.
“Ariel,” she says, “not now. I don’t want to fight.”
“I don’t want to either. Ten minutes. Ten minutes and then I’ll shower and go to sleep.”
My parents don’t respond. We hover around the coffee table like we are in a Western standoff. Umma tightens her bathrobe. Appa pinches the bridge of his glasses. So I make the first move. I take a seat on the couch. I used to study here, and eat Cheetos, and listen to Bee and Umma fight. Now, under the haze of the streetlamps, our living room is another planet.
I settle deeper into the couch. “Before I left,” I say, “I talked to Imo. About Bea, and about you.”
Umma scoffs. “What did she say? Something horrible, I bet.”
“No.” I shake my head. “She actually defended you.”
My mother tries to hide her surprise. Appa walks over to the recliner, the backs of his legs hovering over the cushions.
“Go on,” he says.
“She told me that you always wanted Bea and me to be happy.”
“Of course we did,” my mother says.
“I know. And in your minds, good grades, and a college education, and a steady job were things that would make us happy. I get that. I mean, I believed that too. But I think Bee was different. In Busan, she had her own way of being happy.”
“Bea behaved poorly,” Umma snaps.
“She was a little rash,” I admit, “but she was also nineteen. And we’ve all behaved poorly.”
“Ari-ya, don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not. We have. I shouldn’t have up and left San Francisco without telling you first. You both kept Haejin and Carl from me. And you cut off Imo.” I swallow the needles in my throat. “I know you wanted to shield me, but that hurt a lot. Bea was your daughter, but she was also my sister. I’m glad I went to Korea because there was so much I didn’t know about her.”
I move to the coffee table and unzip my bag. The jewelry glimmers under the dim lights. I spread out the necklaces and bracelets like they’re on display.
“She made these. She told Haejin and Carl that she was inspired by the pastel houses in Gamcheon Village. And by Grandpa’s sailing.”
I explain how she loved the sea. How she charmed the locals, planned photoshoots, created a website layout, and diagrammed shops across South Korea and New York City.
Appa says, “She was going to come back to New York?”
My mother doesn’t say anything. Instead, she looks away from the coffee table and pretends she’s engrossed in the money tree’s browning leaves. I touch the hem of her bathrobe.
“Umma,” I say, “please.”
She won’t move. Appa hesitantly crouches to the floor. He runs his hands along a series of turquoise beads.
“She made all these?” he asks.
I nod while my father stares at the glass like they will bring him back into the past. Umma is still examining the tree. Her fingers pinch the corners where green meets shriveled brown.
“Ari-ya,” she whispers, “I can’t do this right now.”
It’s the first slightly honest thing she’s said all night. I stand up. My amygdala is a siren. Epinephrine flows through me like a strong tide.
“You don’t have to look, then,” I say, “just listen, for a second.”
Umma clenches her fists, and I wonder if she is going to yell or walk away or tell me to go to bed so we can sleep away the hard stuff like usual. But she just stays clenched, unmoving. So I keep going.
“Bea had dreams,” I say. “They weren’t the ones we wanted. But she had them. She liked to party. She liked dancing. She had friends, real friends, people who cared about her. She liked the beach and the ocean, and bikinis, and sunshine. She wanted to be happy and she wanted you to be proud of her, and she wasn’t sure how to do both at the same time. But she tried.”
Umma sniffles. A river brims in her eyes. She tries to wipe it away.
“Umma,” I say, “don’t. We should cry about Bea. We should talk about her. This is the one part of Bee we have left. I want to celebrate it.” I feel my own tears falling, trickling down my neck. “Come on, please.”
At last, she relents. She bends down so that she’s face-to-face with the jewelry. Her hand brushes against mine and it takes me a moment to realize what she’s trying to do. My mother cups my palm in hers. She squeezes and I squeeze back. We sit like this, an unfinished family in the dark, kneeling around the colors of the sea.
Appa holds up a necklace to the light. “They’re beautiful,” he says, “really something.”
I nod. Tears plop onto the table like clear glass beads. I’m not sure whose they are anymore. My mother leans her head against mine.
“I miss her,” she chokes out. “I miss her so, so much.”
I hold her tight and she buries her face in my hair. “I know,” I say. “Me too.”
Appa presses the necklace to his heart. My sister smiles from the water. I’m here, she says. You found me.
39
Jia
“She’s returned!” Everett shrieks.
When we yank open the creaky restaurant door, Ariel grins at us from under her baseball cap and a stack of presents. She looks the same—no makeup, skin-cut nails, gold studs she’s worn since she got her ears pierced in fifth grade. But somehow, as Everett smooshes our favorite jet-setter against her chest, Ariel seems different. Her eyes wrinkle when she smiles; her cheeks are rosy and plump. I join in on Cuddle Central until Ariel pries herself from our bodies and shakes out her sun-streaked hair.
“Next time you pull a Thelma and Louise, we’re coming with you,” Everett says, dragging Ariel and her presents to a nearby booth.
Ariel laughs. “I could say the same for you.”
The chefs start to trickle in, the whir of refrigerators and fryers humming awake as Everett chatters about Ohio, corn, and Cheney (who she has successfully blocked on four different social media platforms). Light yawns through the windowpane and I head to the back, ferrying bowls of meat and dumpling wrappers between the kitchen and the booth. When Mom hands me the water, she brushes her fingers against my wrist, her touch light but tender.
“You’re off the hook today,” she says, “but don’t stay out too late.”
The water sloshes between my palms as I reach out to hug her.
“Careful,” she scolds, “you still have dumplings to make. And you don’t want to get water on that outfit.”
She eyes the lavender dress I put on today, the one with the ruched bodice and sheer sleeves. “I assume you’ll sleep over at Everett’s then?”
“Yes,” I say, “but I’ll be home in time for dim sum tomorrow.”
“Hmm. And is your friend going to be there? Akil?”
She turns to the fan and presses her face to the blades so that her curls blow in the artificial air. Thank goodness she’s not looking when I blush.
“Um, I don’t think so. No.”
My mother shrugs, like she doesn’t care either away. “Okay,” she says, her face still bent toward the fan. “Go back to the girls.”
I shuffle to the booth, speechless. Perhaps my mother is less oblivious than I thought.
When I return, Ariel and Everett are scrolling through photos of the Jagalchi fish market, jumbo carp lined up on trays like candy bars. I organize our assembly line, listening as the sky turns starburst orange.
Everett is the first to grab a dumpling wrapper, dabbing her fingers with water and lining its circular rim.
“You’re supposed to put the water on after you do the meat,” Ariel says, purposefully plopping the ground pork in the center of the dough.
Everett shakes her head. “No,” she protests, “water first.”
“Well, Jia is the expert.”
The two look at me expectantly.
“Either works,” I say. “It doesn’t make a difference.”
Everett groans. “Why do you have to be so fair all the time?”
I roll my eyes. Nothing has changed. And yet, everything has.
We continue our assembly line, folding our rows of pork-filled envelopes until our fingers grow tired. Meanwhile we chatter constantly—about Everett’s letter (Abel Pearce and his minions have still not responded) and whether or not I should invite Akil over because Ariel is dying to meet him (absolutely not). When our plates are full with dumplings, we carry them to the kitchen and watch the chefs drown them in boiling water.
Ariel beckons us back to the booth, picking up gifts from the floor.
“For you m’lady,” she says, plopping a silver tissue-papered package into my palms.
She hands Everett a small rectangular box and we both dive in. Everett emerges with a pink neckerchief decorated with white flowers.
“One hundred percent silk from Korea,” Ariel says, and Everett gasps, immediately tying it around her neck.
“A modern-day Audrey Hepburn,” I declare.
She does a series of poses, her lips puckered, hands on her hips. I know she’s still upset about Ohio, but it’s good to see her glowing.
“Your turn, Jia.”
My friends nod excitedly as I meticulously peel off the tape and flatten the tissue paper.
“Just like Umma,” Ariel says, pinching my sweater and chuckling.
“We shall wait another millennium for Jia to unwrap her present.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” I say, but I stop when I see what’s inside.
