I wonder if a drunk dad is better or worse than an absentee jerk. Either way, I can’t put off the inevitable any longer.
Dad’s stuck at the hospital and won’t make it in time for dinner again. Ma and I sit together eating kimchee and spicy dumplings with chopsticks as she recites the events of her day.
Her neat beige dress stops at her knees, and a thin black belt is around her waist. Her dark hair is smoothed back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, and her shoes are sensible black pumps. A neat strand of pearls is at her neck, and her lips are a pale shade of pink. My mother’s skin is flawless.
She is the very model of a small-town church secretary.
I’m dressed in ripped jeans and a graphic tee, and my hair is styled in a fluffy bob that ends right at my ears. While I do look more like her, thanks to my Anglo dad, my hair has a little wave in it, and my dark eyes are slightly rounder. It’s clear I’m half-Korean, but I appreciate these little perks from the man with whom I otherwise have nothing in common.
We finish eating, and Ma goes to the bar separating the kitchen from the dining area. “What is this?” She picks up the envelope I left behind.
“Ms. Hughes wants you to sign and return it.”
Ma opens the letter and her dark eyes quickly scan the page. “It says you’d leave school early? To draw pictures?” Her brow furrows. “What about your science class? Your math? You should leave school early to take accounting.”
“It’s just a recommendation, Ma. I don’t have to do it.”
“Your father will not like this.”
No shit. I don’t say that part out loud. I don’t want her putting soap on my tongue again.
“What won’t I like?” Dad’s stern voice makes my insides jump.
Ma jumps as well. “Kenneth! Welcome home.” She steps over to peck his cheek. “I saved you a plate. Sit.”
He goes to the wet bar at the window, and ice clinks in a crystal tumbler as he pours his daily scotch. “Ruby?”
My stomach clenches. “Yes, sir?”
“What is your mother saying I won’t like?”
Blue eyes fix on me, and I wonder how he can make me feel so cold with just a look.
“We had an art assignment at school. My teacher sent home a note.”
His brow lowers, and my frozen insides splinter in painful shards. “A reprimand?”
“A recommendation.” I speak fast. “She wants me to take this art program. I told her I wasn’t interested.”
He goes to the letter my mother left on the table and scans it even faster than she did. “Art.” His perfectly straight nose curls. “What gets into these teachers? What kind of job would you get with a degree in art?”
Swallowing the pain in my throat, I nod. “I know, right?” My voice sounds too small.
“What’s this?” He reads out loud. “See portrait. What portrait?”
“It’s nothing.” I stand, collecting my plate. The last thing I want is to continue this conversation.
“Ruby Banks, what portrait?”
Depositing my plate in the kitchen, I go to where I left my school things in the mud room. My art folder is in the back of the long cubby behind my raincoat. I take it out and carry it slowly to the dining room where he now sits at the head of the table, holding his scotch.
My mother stands behind his right shoulder, and a steaming fresh plate is in front of him.
“It’s nothing, really.” I hold out the brown folder.
He takes it, and my breath stills.
My stomach is sick.
