Eunjae sat back against his battered wooden chair. “Mum,” he answered. “Mostly.”
“I knew it. Same thing at our house. My kids, they got all those good looks from me.”
They sat across from one another at a folding card table tucked into a corner of the Wanna Waffle kitchen, where Eunjae had been duly transported by Denny and Mr. Han in an SUV roughly the size of a Spanish galleon. It was a far less exciting ride with Denny at the wheel, as he proved to be the opposite of a hellion while driving, but Eunjae was grateful. He couldn't have eaten all this food if the car ride had made him nauseous.
The Hans seemed intent on feeding him a week’s worth of breakfasts. Waffle after waffle came sliding onto Eunjae's plate, plus bacon and eggs, sausage and hash browns. A grumbling Denny had refilled his coffee the instant Eunjae finished it. Mr. Han popped up with orange juice two minutes later.
Eunjae ate everything they put in front of him. After coming to believe that he'd grown used to the omnipresent gnawing sensation of hunger, he discovered that it had only been the tip of the iceberg that whole time; he was ravenous. Eunjae had either never been this hungry, or he'd been quietly hungry for far too long.
Food wasn't something to be thoughtless about, in the world he'd temporarily escaped. Portions were doled out to precise measurements. Treats were few and far between. He and his brothers weren't made to subsist only on bowls of lettuce or one slice of watermelon per meal, nothing like that. But calories were certainly counted, everyone's intake closely watched, and Eunjae hit the treadmills and weight benches at the agency's gym according to a strict schedule.
Someone was always watching him. What he ate, what he wore, how he moved. If he smiled or if he didn't. Not here, though.
Unless you counted Mrs. Han monitoring his progress through all the waffles and scrambled eggs, but that wasn't the same thing. For starters, she wanted Eunjae to eat, observing every mouthful with a grin that betrayed gleeful satisfaction. And when he tried to protest, saying he'd been brought there to work, she flipped another waffle out of the iron and set it in front of him. “This is your work right now. You want to get fired? I can do that. I’m the owner. Not Denny, not Joey. Don’t you forget!”
So Eunjae ate, and it was easy enough to do because food had never tasted better. This place really was magic.
“How long has Wanna Waffle been here?”
“Ah, not too long,” replied Mrs. Han, offering more maple syrup. “We’ve had it eleven years, now. It was my big brother’s shop at first. He was always opening a new business. Donuts here, boba there. You name it, that dummy tried to sell it. When he got tired of making no money, he decided to go back home to Korea. A fancy coffee place, that’s what this guy wanted to do next. So we bought all of this from him. Everything, even the waffle recipe.”
“Hey!” barked Denny from the other side of the kitchen. “That’s classified!”
“Nobody’s teaching a class about how to make the waffles,” his mother barked back at him. She returned to Eunjae with the rest of the story. “I always wanted a place that was mine. You know, we pay rent at the apartment. And we pay on time, every single month. Did that even when it was hard. We’ve lived there a long time. Not ours, though. Not on paper. But this shop, it has my name on it.”
Mrs. Han stretched her arms out wide. “Yes, this is mine. Something I can leave to Janie and Yeonnie and Denny when I’m gone. They can keep making waffles forever. Or they can sell it, use the money for something else. Whatever they want. They can pick. That’s special, to me.”
“That is special.”
“Oh my, don’t smile like that! The way you listen, it makes people want to talk and talk and talk. What will I tell you next?” She made a show of clutching at her chest as if to prevent all her secrets from flying away. Eunjae obligingly covered his ears.
She laughed, but he was doing it in earnest. A few years back, he’d been cajoled into serving as a reluctant guest emcee onMusic Bank. While waiting backstage, Eunjae’s co-host had spent ten straight minutes sobbing into his shoulder about a bad breakup. Strings of tragic text messages were quoted word for word, line by line. Suddenly, he knew way too much about this young man. They’d never even spoken before that day. The stylists took one look at Eunjae’s tear-stained shirt and called for a last minute wardrobe change in a panic. His brothers teased him for weeks, pretending to weep into his shoulder at every opportunity.
“I’m bringing you to poker night at the senior club,” Mrs. Han said, patting Eunjae’s hand. “The ladies will tell you all their cards. Then I’ll win.” This prompted Denny to grouse that they were paying $50 a year for his mother’s membership to a gambling den. The complaint was ignored.
“Is there a bookstore nearby?” Eunjae thought to ask, sometime after the slabs of toast slathered in strawberry jam but before the bread pudding Denny described as ‘experimental.’ He thought he might have enough cash left for a paperback ofThe Brass Key. If nothing else, he could flip through the pages, re-read the parts he liked best. Would the book resonate as deeply now that he’d found the magic and crossed to the other side of that door?
Mrs. Han pursed her lips, thinking. “Hmm. Don't think so, but I can drive you. Maybe tomorrow. You stay 'til tomorrow, yes?” Without pausing to let him answer, she added, “Good.”
“You don't need to drive me there. You’ve done so much already.”
She patted his hand. “You’re a sweet boy, Ryan Kim. Always have amnesia, okay? Stay here with us. Wherever you came from, they don't feed you there.” Her eyes were suspiciously bright. She pulled a hankie from her apron pocket, swiveled in her seat, and blew her nose. “Allergies, allergies! All done? Feel better?”
Eunjae surveyed the empty plates and drained glasses, the dregs of his coffee and the hopeful smile on Mrs. Han’s face. He nodded. “Much better.”
The way her smile could blossom in an instant, like a full spring season flowering in timelapse — that was something else she'd passed on to her children.
“If you like to walk,” she said, while Eunjae helped to clear the dishes, “Yeonnie can bring you to the library, let you use her card. Not far from the house. And it's free! You stay ‘til then, yeah?” Mrs. Han reached up to pat him on the cheek. “Good.”
15
Eunjaespenttherestof the time stationed at the sink. This was fine because he’d always liked washing dishes. It was an ideal mindless task, perfect for slipping away into a daydream or puzzling through a problem without sacrificing productivity. And thank goodness he knew his way around a sink — Denny had him scrubbing for most of the afternoon.
“Everyone starts at the bottom here, even amnesiacs. If you prove yourself worthy, I'll give you something less lame to do.”
Eunjae harbored no resentment over this setup. He tackled all the dishes at a steady pace, still enjoying it even though his head wasn't as far up in the clouds as usual. There was too much to look at, to wonder about. If he drifted too far away from the present moment, he might miss something. The kitchen was full of stories. Constantly humming with activity, its surfaces bore a patina of age and steady use. Someone had scratched a tiny heart in the corner of Mrs. Han’s stainless steel prep table. A child’s drawings were tacked up in the pantry, the paper faded and curling with time. Eunjae realized that the artwork depicted prototype Wanna Waffle logos. All were signed with the initials DWH in bold, unswerving strokes.
Around 4:00, a girl swept into the kitchen and collected her orange apron. It was Jeannie, the same teenager from the night before. She came to a halt next to Eunjae, eyeing him with great interest.
