No, I don’t. That’s the problem.
Forty-Eight
On a cold day in late November, I arrive home to Hana napping on the couch. I move quietly to let her sleep as I make some tea and check the secret email. I do it every day and can’t tell if it’s a punishment or reward.
Ari—the tour is complete and it was breathtaking and exhausting. Now I have time to think about what might have been and what I could have done different. I have too much time.
I wonder if I should write back. He must see that the messages are being read, but he never mentions it.
A knock at the door disturbs my thoughts. Hana must have ordered takeout. I check the peephole.
Dear God. Hana’s mom stands peering at the door, holding a covered dish. I muffle a groan. Talking to Mrs. Choi can be difficult even on a good day, and today was mediocre at best.
I slide on my socks across the wood floor. “Hana.”
She throws an arm over her face. “Sleeping.”
“Your mother is here.”
This gets her eyes open. “What?”
“Your mom is outside the door.” There’s another knock, and we share a look.
Hana’s lips go thin. “I was over there yesterday.”
“We can pretend we’re not home.”
To my surprise, Hana sits up. “You know what? No.” She throws the blanket on the floor, strides over to the door, and flings it open.
“Why did you take so long?” Mrs. Choi marches to the kitchen, where she uncovers her dish. The rich smell of kimchi fried rice spills out.
Hana remains at the door. “Eomma, I told you when I left your house that we have food.”
“You have bad food,” she corrects. “Good food equals good thoughts.”
Hana looks like she’s going to explode, so I step in to give her a moment. “Hi, Mrs. Choi. I was about to cook, but we can keep this for later.”
“The Chinese don’t know good food,” she says as if this is canon.
Hana comes into the kitchen. “I said to please call before you come over. I might be busy.”
Mrs. Choi scoffs. “Too busy for your eomma?” She looks through our cabinet and flicks her finger at the hot chocolate. “You shouldn’t drink that. No wonder Mrs. Lee’s boy didn’t like you. You need to try harder.”
For the first time in my life, I witness Hana Choi rendered speechless. She stares at her mother as if ticking off the ladder of lines the woman has crossed. She can’t say it because that’s her mom standing there, interfering but still family. Hana glances over at me, and I nod at her. I’m here for her, however she handles this.
That must be what she needs, because when she turns back to her mother, her head is high.
“Eomma,” she says. “You weren’t invited over.”
Mrs. Choi doesn’t even look up from where she’s hunting in a drawer for chopsticks. “I don’t need an invitation. We’re family.”
“You do.” She takes a breath. “Please leave and call to ask if you can come next time.”
This is a night of firsts, because now it’s Mrs. Choi’s turn to bewithout words. She looks to me as if for confirmation, but I keep my face a rock. Then her mouth opens and closes like a fish.
“You don’t want your terrible mother here? You’re ashamed of me? Keeping secrets?”
Hana doesn’t move. “I love you, but I need you to listen to me. I’ve asked you a dozen times to not talk about my love life or how I look or what I eat. I don’t want you to come over uninvited. From now on, when those things happen, I’m going to leave or ask you to leave.”
