“Things really haven’t been so different since they died,” he said, looking down at his empty, sticky hands. “I didn’t see them much. They always seemed to love each other more than me, were always going on romantic dates or taking trips together. I kind of felt like their third wheel, an afterthought. The house has always been quiet.” He looked at me then, only for a second. “I just see all those people in there sobbing and I’m so damn jealous.” He chewed on his lip, began shredding the napkin in front of him, and I felt something in me twist and soften—I had the same nervous habit. “Sorry,” he said. “That was fucked up.”
I noticed his shoulders then, how strong they looked, like they were made of beef and steel. I pictured trees, mountains, boulders, birds’ nests, all of the Los Angeles skyline resting upon them.
I grabbed both of his hands in mine, tight. “Do you want to come back to my place?”
* * *
—
I LOCKED THE CAT in my room and went downstairs. Mom was knitting tiny sweaters in neutral colors while Billy was in the kitchen making pajeon shaped like barnyard animals. For the past couple weeks, Mom had been teaching Billy how to make basic Korean dishes: “The baby can have your hair. He’s going to have our taste buds.”
Mom came to the United States after her mom’s brother wrote to her that he’d found the promised land: Champaign-Urbana, Illinois. He owned a convenience store and could always use more help. After months of paperwork and waiting in long lines, Mom and her family were on a fourteen-hour flight straight to Chicago.
She was seventeen when they got there—young enough to be molded, not so young that she hadn’t already begun to want certain things, big things. She worked long hours at the convenience store, and when it was slow, studied English, determined to lose her accent, dreamed of the University of Illinois. All the UI students who came in to buy candy, cigarettes, condoms, and booze seemed so attractive and happy. She became obsessed with Americanness, wanted nothing more than to be a part of the red, the white, the blue.
One of the university students came in every morning to buy a pack of Luckies and two forties. He was tall and broad and 100 percent American, always smiled at her, asked her how her day was going, remembered her name, said it with a soft Midwestern twang as he walked out of the store. At night, he’d come back, buy two more forties, and wait until closing. They’d sit on the bus bench outside, talking for hours, passing the bottle back and forth, even though Mom hated beer.
Two months later, they were moving to Los Angeles. He wanted to write movies and make millions. She wanted him and to wake up every morning, look out her window, see the Pacific Ocean. Eleven months later, I was born.
I stopped on the edge of the staircase and stared at Mom as she knitted and thought about how our house was thirty minutes from the beach.
She looked up and noticed me, smiled wide. “How are my babies doing?” Billy turned around and smiled too. They stopped what they were doing and got up to hug me. They formed a warm, loving wall around me, rubbed my belly, and whispered to it. I couldn’t hear what they were saying.
We sat down and they started talking about what they always talked about.
First, they asked how I was feeling, and after I gave my usual “Fine, good. Yeah, I’m good,” they launched into more important subjects—what gender the baby would be (they both were sure it was going to be a boy), strong manly names (John, Matthew, Jacob, other Bible men, even though we weren’t religious), color of the nursery (a classic blue or a bold red), potential godfathers and godmothers (lots of names of family members I didn’t know), should we already start saving for private school (absolutely, yes), etc.
I nodded and smiled, said “uh-huh” at the right times. I was feeling fine until Mom brought up the name “Adam,” perfect for a first child.
My face stayed normal and I managed to eat more than half my plate, but I was gone, done for; my mind was on Jenny Hauser’s ponytail.
* * *
—
HER PONYTAIL was the longest I’d ever seen on a woman her age.
Most moms in my neighborhood kept their hair short or bobbed, muted, as if to have physical proof of their seriousness, their superior mothering ability—my thank-you card is nicer than your thank-you card, don’t you dare try and sign up for more Neighborhood Watch shifts than me, this marijuana is medicinal. Jenny’s hair spilled down her back, didn’t stop until it was hovering just above her butt.
She had to be at least forty, probably closer to forty-five. Her body looked soft, once fit. Her jeans were baggy and shapeless and there was a stain on the collar of her shirt. I hoped that the stain was new. It seemed more likely that she’d been wearing the same shirt for several days. There were lines around her eyes and mouth, two deeper ones on her forehead. I wanted to touch them with my fingertips, smooth them out. When she spoke, her voice cracked on the first word, like she hadn’t said anything out loud in a while.
“Jesus Christ,” she’d said. “Your uniforms are truly terrible.”
“I know.”
“Green and orange. Like Kermit the Frog fucked a pumpkin.”
“The Hulk ate a bunch of Doritos and took a shit.”
She laughed and her eyes got squinty, crinkled at the edges. I didn’t want to smooth out all her lines. “Truly, though, thank you for this,” she said. “I can’t believe you actually came.”
The air turned thick and I found it impossible to look her in the eye. I wanted to be wearing a big jacket and a hat I could pull down low. I mumbled, “No problem,” and handed her the pizza.
I was about to turn and sprint back to my car when she said, “Oh! I have to pay you!” She slapped her forehead. “And tip you! I absolutely have to tip you. Hold on, my wallet is lying around somewhere.”
She disappeared into her house and I stood there awkwardly, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I planned on politely waiting there, staying outside, but the door hung wide open and something caught my eye.
The home’s entrance was pristine, a word I’d never used to describe anything before. An intricate Persian rug, shoes lined up evenly on both sides, a center table topped with a vase of real flowers, fancy flowers, not corner-market $9.99-for-a-dozen roses, all of this underneath a crystal chandelier—none of this was what interested me.
The front of the house may have been pristine, but just beyond, into the living room, it was chaos.
There could’ve been another beautiful rug, there could’ve just been carpet, it was impossible to tell. Clothes covered every inch of the floor. On the couch there was an empty bag of Hot Cheetos, a half-eaten salad, a tub of cream cheese. The table was crowded with magazines and paper plates covered in various pools of paint. Seven chairs looked like they’d been brought in from the dining room and were serving as easels for her paintings.