“I hate humanity, too.”
“Good.” She moves over to a chair near the window. “What about Jihoon?”
“You go first.”
“Mom.”
“What happened now?” I ask.
“The usual. What am I eating. Why so much of it. Why am I traveling for work instead of settling down. When am I visiting next. Why did I leave home in the first place.”
It’s no surprise that Mama Choi has conducted boundary oversteps number 1,043,431 through 1,043,435 because the woman can be difficult. She believes the Korean—at least Busan—way of doing things is superior to all cultures at all times in all areas of competition, particularly when measured against the Chinese and absolutely against the Japanese. When she brought over gimbap and I called it Korean sushi, Mrs. Choi called me an ignorant child before deconstructing a roll to explain in detail how it differed (and was better) with regard to flavor, texture, and composition. When I told her I couldn’t eat the ham, she refused to believe it and held it to my mouth until Hana grabbed it away.
“I don’t want to talk about it now,” Hana says. “Tell me of your hatreds.”
It comes out in a rush. All the minor work irritations I can’t seem to shake off. The fight with Jihoon. Phoebe. Seeing Brittany meeting with both Meredith and Richard in the big conference room.
“That’s a lot,” Hana says finally.
“Thanks. Your turn again.”
“Don’t you want to talk about what happened? How you feel?”
I make a warding gesture at the phone. “You know how I feel about feelings.”
“You know how I feel about talking about feelings.”
She loves talking about feelings. “Guess we’re at an impasse.”
“Hold on.” She leaves the phone on the table, so I now have a great view of the ceiling, and I hear the muffled sound of her thanking the pizza delivery person.
When she comes back, Hana already has a slice hanging from her mouth like a backward tongue. Time to divert her. “What about your day?” I ask.
“Good try.” The words are muffled, and she takes the slice out of her mouth.
“You were planning to go for a walk around Stanley Park,” I say. “There’s a reason you’re holed up in your hotel besides your mom.” The pizza makes me hungry, so I go over to the kitchen. Looks like Jihoon was in the middle of cooking because there’s a sliced onion and the rice is out. I don’t have the energy to cook, so I grab some bread and stuff it in my mouth.
Hana cracks open a Diet Coke. “A guy argued with me that sexism didn’t exist. In fact, men are the ones who are discriminated against these days.”
“Did he cite his source?”
She gets another slice of pizza. “Yeah. It was the internet and his personal experience as the father of a daughter.”
“Can’t argue those.”
“Then he told me that being told to smile was helpful because women look prettier when they’re happy.”
Now we’re both laughing, even though it’s not at all funny despite being painfully hilarious. Then Hana sighs. “The worst of it is that, honest to God, one hundred percent, he didn’t get it. He insisted he didn’t need to be there because, and I quote, he ‘was a nice guy.’”
Nothing to say there. She eats more pizza, and I eat more stale bread. “Don’t worry about Jihoon,” she adds. “He can take care of himself.”
“I feel bad.”
“Did you share a feeling?” She makes exaggerated prayer hands over the pizza box.
“Shut up.”
Hana looks down. “He’s got some stuff going on, but he told me he’s going to talk to you about it. He needs time.”
