She swivels towards me. “But he is not Eden.”
“You’re asking too many questions.”
“It’s fine. Really.” Carey’s foot is back against mine. “I was meant to fly back to San Diego but I left it too late to buy a ticket, so they were too expensive.”
It’s a lie for my mother that relaxes her in a way I should have expected. Her mind is only focused on one thing, and the son who actually bothered to show up could leave and it would make no difference. With her hand over her heart she says, “Your mother must feel better knowing where you are. If you call her I know she’d be happy to hear from you.”
“Lotte isn’t you, Omma.”
She reaches across the table to place her hand on Carey’s. “She’d love to hear from you.”
I put my chopsticks down and press them flat against the placemat with my hand. “Did she tell you that?”
“A mother knows.”
My fingers slowly wrap back around the chopsticks until I’m gripping them in my fist, rage welling inside me.
I want Carey's touch.
I want his arms around me.
I want that magic he has to pour all over me and bring me back down. But right now, that would be selfish.Right now,my mother needs to shut the fuck up.
For years Omma was Eden’s shoulder to cry on when his mother didn’t call on his birthday. When she sent no gifts at Christmas. When she didn’t acknowledge his existence once in the past seventeen years.
Does she honestly believe that after disowning one son that Lotte would become mother of the year?
At twenty-one-years-old would Carey have spent the last three years living overseas if Casa Novak was a happy fucking home?
Carey is an amazing man in spite of Lotte and Brian.
He’s kind, and loving, and he doesn’t need to hear this shit.
“He’s not Jintae.”
“Wootek.” My father’s voice is a stern growl from my other side. A warning not to push. But I’m not a kid. I don’t need to run away like my brother did.
“He’s not Jintae,” I repeat, my tone matching my Appa's. “Whether Carey decides to call his parents is none of your business. And trying to force him to do it won’t make Jintae walk through the door.”
Omma withdraws her hand, straightens out in her seat, and runs her palms over the front of her Hanbok, positioning thebow perfectly like that’s enough to negate what she just said. “You should call your brother,” she says, turning it on me, whilst holding a bowl of kimchi like a peace offering.
“I do. And I text every day. He’s chosen not to contactanyof us, and we need to respect that.”
Ignoring my words, she takes some kimchi and puts it on my plate. “You could call me more.”
Why do I keep coming back here?
Why is this hold she has on me—formed by disappointment and expectation—too strong for me to break free of?
I said I wanted to feel, but not like this.
Carey has brought me so much joy this past week and she's tearing it away from me one tongue lash at a time.
I sigh and hold my words because Carey needs this more than my mother needs to know I'm two seconds away from taking him by the hand and walking straight back out the way we came and never looking back. “You always call me before I get the chance to.”
“Yes, but you never tell me about your life.” With her cheek in her palm she leans back in Carey’s direction. “I’m starting to think he’s hiding a secret life from me.”
She's doing it again; spouting bullshit like a fountain.
