“My parents moved to the US from South Korea so my father could get his PhD in linguistics,” Sam continues undeterred. “Like the good, healthy, horny young people that they were, my parents quickly and easily conceived Hannah, their firstborn, who grew into a smart and hardworking little girl, every immigrant parent’s dream.” This line gets a lot of hoots and hollers. I’m pretty sure the crowd’s enthusiasm is for the horny parents, not the hardworking little girl.
“When she started kindergarten, Hannah jumped out of bed every morning, eager to go to school and learn. But one day a couple months into the school year, Hannah complained of a stomachache and refused to leave her bed. The next day, Hannah did the same thing. My mom was baffled.”
Even though most people at the party have heard this story countless times, they’re quiet, paying close attention, listening as if they didn’t already know the ending. That’s the power of my brother’s personality.
“Finally, my mom forced Hannah to go to school, and then she hid in the bushes during recess to see what would happen. And there she was, Hannah, their perfect daughter, sitting by herself on the playground bench, the only Asian child in a sea of white faces.” I look around at Sam and Beth’s friends, the sea of white faces, and wonder if any of them see the irony. I’m sure Sam doesn’t.
“My mom decided then and there she would have another child so Hannah wouldn’t be so lonely. Only this time, it wasn’t as easy for the young couple, and it took them several years of concerted fucking to conceive me.” More hoots and hollers confirm it’s the horny parents and not the hardworking little girl who are the crowd-pleasers.
“So, in honor of your fortieth birthday, my dear big sister and lifelong friend, the pride of my parents and the precious diamond of the Min family, I present to you this modest token of my affection, my adoration and my appreciation.” Sam hands me an instantly recognizable Tiffany blue gift bag to a chorus of oohs and aahs. Inside is a small velvet-lined box containing the most beautiful diamond stud earrings. I stand on my tippy-toes to hug Sam, who wraps his strong arms around me, and it feels like home. I take in a deep breath of Sam’s familiar woodsy cologne. His friends and family all applaud.
It’s the happiest moment of my life.
* * *
Welcome to Alderson, West Virginia, reads the sign at the town’s border, Voted Best Fourth of July Celebration. Sam drives the car along the riverbank and across a stone bridge, past a patchy green field with a lonely brown mare and along a gently curving driveway marked by a government-issued sign that announces you’re entering a federal prison camp.
It’s almost 5:00 p.m., and the Alderson Prison parking lot is empty. We shouldn’t have stopped for lunch on the road. The letter from the Bureau of Prisons made it clear Beth had to self-surrender during business hours today or risk additional punishment. There’s a black cast-iron call box next to the single-arm gate, and Sam lifts the receiver.
“Do you remember the code to dial?” Sam asks. Beth gives a mild shrug. I reach into my purse—a well-worn leather satchel found among my mom’s things after she died—and begin to sort through a thick sheaf of papers when a white sedan approaches from the opposite direction, exiting the prison through another single-arm gate.
“Is she self-surrendering?” a Tipper Gore look-alike asks. She points to me sitting in the back seat. Sam and Beth don’t say anything.
“No, I’m not the one. She is.” I gesture toward Beth, feeling like a narc.
“Okay,” Tipper replies, “dial 313 and tell them the name of the inmate. Then pull over into the parking lot, and they’ll be out to get you.” With that, she drives away.
Sam does as he’s told. We wait in the parking lot for what feels like a lifetime before a white van drives up. The three of us get out of the car.
“You the one self-surrendering?” the guard asks, looking at me.
“No,” I say quickly. My voice is louder this time.
“I’m the one,” Beth says. “I’m the one self-surrendering.” The guard ogles Beth up and down.
“You’ll have to leave that behind,” the guard says. She points to Beth’s right hand. Beth is still wearing the ring Sam got her for their fifth anniversary—everyone in the family calls it her Bling Ring—comprised of five rows of pavé diamonds in a platinum setting. Beth never wears a ring on her left hand. “I like to keep people guessing,” she always says.
“My lawyer said I could wear my wedding band,” Beth protests.
I stifle a groan. If you had read the Alderson inmate orientation handbook that I emailed you, you would know about the Bureau of Prisons’s jewelry policy—“Inmates may have a plain wedding band and an appropriate religious medallion and chain without stones.” The Bling Ring is anything but plain.
“Here, take this,” I say. I unclasp the thin chain around my neck, pull the simple gold ring off and hand it to Beth.
“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Beth says. “That belonged to your mother.”
“It’s okay, she’d have wanted you to have it,” I say. I’m lying. My mother died years before Sam met Beth, but she wouldn’t have liked her. Beth is too American, too materialistic and too domineering for my traditional Korean mother—not to mention too felonious.
“It doesn’t fit,” Beth says. She passes the simple band back to me. “Anyway, I’m afraid I might lose it.” I return the ring to the gold chain, and Beth passes me her Bling Ring, which I slip onto my finger. The weight of the diamonds feels surprisingly nice.
“Okay, that’s enough. You’re already late. Time to say goodbye,” the guard barks. We stand there awkwardly, not sure what to do next.
“I don’t know what to say, Hannah,” Beth murmurs. She takes a step forward and hugs me hard. I can feel Beth’s heart beating against my chest. “Thank you for coming all this way. I’m glad Sam won’t have to drive all the way home by himself. Be sure to take good care of the girls.”
Beth releases me and turns to Sam. She holds his hands and leans her head into his broad shoulder. Sam buries his face in her thick hair.
“I’m so sorry, Beth,” he whispers.
“Stop it,” Beth says.
“It should be me.”
“What’s done is done.”
Sam lifts his head, and Beth kisses him lightly on the lips.
“Just don’t screw up again,” Beth says. Then she pushes him away.
Beth looks pale as she gets into the white van. I watch as the van makes its way through the one-armed gate and into the prison compound. I linger until the van is no longer visible, but Sam just climbs back into his car. He seems eager to get away from Alderson as fast as possible.