She means Richard. She’d never insult him outright, but she calls him that to register her general disapproval of his mannerisms, rudeness, and dislike of kimchi, ignoring the fact that I am as American as he is.
To be fair to Richard, Korean culture has a lot of ways to be unintentionally rude if you haven’t grown up in it. To be fair to my mom, he never made the effort to learn. And to be fair to me, he’s done a lot of not-very-nice things that she knows nothing about, which is why I let her get away with her ongoing little slight.
I shake my head. “My own conclusion based on my own behavior.”
“Not my daughter,” she says stoutly, looking ready for war. “If you made a mistake, then fix it. Did you hurt someone? Then apologize. Did you steal something? Return it. Break something? Replace it.”
She makes it sound easy, but I can’t figure out exactly what wrong I’ve committed. I didn’t cheat on my husband; he gave his permission. I haven’t misled Ian or promised him anything I don’t intend to deliver. I just know that something doesn’t fit anymore, like there’s a rock in my shoe. And I’m pretty sure I’m the one that put it there.
“Make it right,” Eomma urges. “That will take the weight off your shoulders.”
“I’ll try.” I sigh. “Can we talk about something else?”
“I collected ten pounds of persimmons from my tree yesterday,” she brags. “Just from the lower branches.” She ducks out of frame and returns withtwo perfect Fuyu specimens, holding them so close to her camera that they go out of focus.
“Beautiful.” The crunchy, sweet type is my favorite. My mouth waters, remembering how she always got a big box of them in the fall when she lived here in Oregon, saying they soothed her homesickness. She’d sit at the kitchen table and peel and slice them for my lunch box in the morning while I ate breakfast, slipping me an extra slice to nibble on the way to school.
I really miss my mom. Almost as much as I miss my kids.
On screen, she pares the skin from the persimmons as she fills me in on her neighborhood gossip, and I fill her in on Trashleigh’s latest attempts to get me fired from the bookstore. I even mention Ian in passing, letting her know that I’m going to a friend’s brother’s baby shower.
“They’re wulvers,” I say casually. “Should be interesting.”
“I don’t understand giving gifts before a baby is born,” she gripes good-naturedly, the same as she would if I were talking about a human family.
“It’s just to help them prepare. They’re having four pups, so they need all the help they can get!” My hand slips to my lower belly. I hope I don’t have a litter that big.
“Do you have to bring four gifts? What a racket.” She pulls a face that lets me know she’s joking and pops a persimmon slice in her mouth. I have to laugh. She’s such a shit-talker in her own way, even though she’s also the most generous person I know. If she got invited to a baby shower for quadruplets, she’d probably offer to cater it.
“I miss you. Maybe you should visit when the girls come home in January. Stay a few weeks.” I’ll need her even more than usual then, when I’m recovering from the birth and my heart is shredded.
She frowns. “The American won’t like having me in his house that long.”
“It’s my house, too. I want you to come. I’ll pay for the ticket,” I add impulsively, even though it will stretch my little bookstore budget to the limit. I’m sure I can pick up extra hours before the holidays. Before my belly gets too huge, anyway.
She frowns. “It’s too much.”
“It would be a big help to me,” I wheedle, knowing she can’t resist doing favors. “I want to clean out the closets. Donate all the outgrown kid things. It will be too much work for me alone.”
She hums, and I know I’ve got her. “I’ll think about it.”
“I love you, Eomma. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She clucks her tongue, embarrassed by my frank expression, and changes the topic. I know she loves me just as much, even though she doesn’t say it back this time. She says it in other ways. Like calling every week without fail. Organizing closets. Peeling persimmons.
Chapter 19
Ian
Istill don’t know where Julia lives. I mean, I know she lives in the same cul-de-sac as her friends, but I don’t know which house is hers.
If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. But I can’t help scanning the other homes, wondering which is hers, while I’m waiting at Heidi and Nicole’s door after I knock. Is it the one with the pile of raked leaves in the driveway? The one with the giant spiderweb Halloween decoration blinking orange and purple in the gathering dusk? The one withcheerful flowers under the glow of the porchlight? I bet it’s the flowers. She seems like someone who would always have flowers.
Shit, should I have brought her flowers?
Julia answers the door and takes my breath away, as usual. Her hair is swept up into a cute bun, and she’s wearing a dark green dress with a cardigan over it. She has a heavy cardboard box in her arms, so I can’t hug her, damn it.
“Hi, pretty girl. Let me carry that.” I take it from her, and she gives me a shy smile. “What is this? You didn’t need to bring anything. I baked a couple pies and wrapped the boatload of books for the pups.” I leave off the part where I put her name on the card, a little worried I might have crossed the line.
