Face Time (17 page)

“I changed my mind. We’re leaving in a week for a wedding trip to the Bahamas. It’ll be a private ceremony. Just the two of us.”

“Wait. I’m not invited?” My mouth falls open as she shakes her head. Who gets married and doesn’t invite her own daughter, her own daughter who lives with her? Throwing off the cover, I turn from her and press my hand to my chest. I’m not even sure if my heart is still beating.

“No. Aunt Sally will not be there either.”

“Mom…” I rub my face with a huff, raising my eyes briefly to the ceiling for heavenly guidance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Laura, language.”

“Don’t ‘language’ me. I’m thirty-two. What the hell is going on with you?”

“I don’t expect you to understand, Laura, and I would be grateful if you didn’t give me a hard time over this.”

“What does Aunt Sally think?”

“She’s supportive and happy for me. I thought you would be, too.”

“Mom, I came home five years ago to help you get over a nervous breakdown, your second one. Then Dad dies and you become this completely other person I don’t even recognize anymore. Are you still seeing your therapist?”

My chest tightens. Has Richard been taking advantage of my mom? I shake my head. No. If anything, my mom has been taking advantage of him, and he’s probably grateful for all the attention. I’ve only met Richard twice. He’s a nice guy, handsome and rich, but he’s socially awkward. His wife died ten years ago, and they never had kids. During dinners and outings, he keeps quiet, and my mother does most of the talking. The exact opposite of Dad.

Her mouth pinches together. “I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me right now. I am not your child.”

“Are you still seeing your therapist, Mom?”

“No, I haven’t gone back to Dr. Sommers in over a year. I found my freedom once your father was gone. I don’t need to sit in a chair and wonder what happened to my life now.”

As fucked up as it is, she’s right. All of her breakdowns revolved around my father, the way he ignored her, the way he cheated on her for over fifteen years, the way he became angry and unhappy once David was dead. With him gone, she’s been happier, but she’s also been more distant and critical of me than ever, even embarrassed by me. Is she trying to pretend I don’t exist?

When I don’t respond for several seconds, Mom nods her head and stands up. No hugs. No smiles.

“This summer I’ll be selling this apartment. You will have to find your own place to live.”

My heart does stop this time, and I have to catch my breath to get it beating again.

“Wait…” I reach out to her to get her to face me. “I can’t live in this city on my salary. Why would you sell the place? Richard has more than enough money, and you still have all the money you made on the house and the insurance.”

She folds her arms across her dress shirt. “I’m cutting the apron strings, Laura. You’ll have to figure out your own life, by yourself.”

“You’re cutting
me
off? This is bullshit! I left my life in New Orleans to come back here, be berated and put down by Dad, and help take care of you. I haven’t dated in two years because you’ve been living with me. And you want to throw me out now?”

“Richard and I spoke about this. You’re far too dependent on me. I’m sure you’ll land on your feet.” She opens the door to leave. “You always do.”

“Wait!” I call out, and my mouth works to talk but nothing comes out. I stare hard into her eyes, and they’re cold and hard, determined. I don’t know this person, at all.

“You’re joking, right?” I’m waiting for her to say she’s kidding. It’s a ruse. It’s all a bad joke.

She places her hand on the doorjamb. “You haven’t told Lee about your past yet?”

Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I press my lips together for a moment to control them. “No. Of course not.”

“Once you do, it’ll be over. You had better think about where you’d like to move to.”

She walks away, and I hear her slip on her shoes before the door to the apartment opens and closes behind her.

What the fuck just happened? Did my own mother, the one I’ve been taking care of for the past five years, just cut me out of her life? My own father left me to die in New Orleans, broke with no food or shelter, and when I survived, he took advantage of my love for my mom to invite me home to this life that was a hundred time better than what I was living. Now, my mother has turned on me as well.

All because David died and I lost my mind with grief.

“Fine!” I yell at the door as hot tears flow down my cheeks. I jump up and start shuffling through the dirty clothes on my floor, flinging them around, looking for I don’t know what. Fine. I don’t think I can change her mind. I have a month, maybe, to figure things out. This is Chelsea and my beautiful apartment will sell in a New York minute once it’s on the market. Remembering her dig at Lee, though, halts me, and my belly clenches so I climb back in bed and curl into a ball. I need to talk to him sooner rather than later, confess about my past, and see what he says. I should figure out if we have something real before packing my bags.

I reach over to disconnect my iPhone from the charger and the screen comes to life with a series of texts that arrived while I was sleeping.

Lee Park

To Laura. From Lee.

I grab my glasses from my dresser and stare at the photos Lee sent me. He didn’t give me any descriptions except to preface them with that text, as if they are a gift from him to me.
 

The first photo is of a street food vendor in some sort of large, white marble plaza. The buildings surrounding the plaza are English colonial with a hint of Indian influence, and the cart is piled three tiers high with fried goods, breads, samosas, a plate of bright green chilies, and steam wafting from the back. The hawker — a young man in a button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up — is serving a woman in a sari a bag full of food. My stomach starts to rumble.

The second photo is of two women in saris — one wearing pink and purple, the other brown with zigzag stripes — carrying a load of merchandise in a bag between them while men and women pass them on the sidewalk. The street is hot and dusty, and the storefronts behind them are piled on either side with empty boxes and signs in Sanskrit (or Hindi? I don’t know).

The third photo is especially interesting because it’s posed. Two Indian men — one much older and thin with a white beard and a younger man in his thirties — are standing in a fabric shop. I get the impression they’re tailors by the measuring tapes draped over their necks, and the younger man clutches chalk in his right hand. The fabric behind them is all dark wools and lighter cottons. Maybe this is where Lee goes to get suits made? A lot of executives get clothes made in India, and I bet Lee does this too.

And finally the fourth photo makes me laugh out loud. This is the India I hear a lot about: bustling traffic and two men walking three cows down the middle of a street while everyone gives them a wide berth. I try to imagine this scene on Sixth Avenue with yellow taxi cabs veering around steers with huge horns. Yeah, that cow would be dead within three blocks.

Laura Merchant

I hope I’m not bothering you at work, but I love the photos. Keep ‘em coming.

I look at them all again with my heart breaking in my chest. Lee thinks he’s found the perfect girl, that I’m some fun and flirtatious woman who’s just had a string of bad luck to end up living with her mother. What is he going to say when I tell him the whole truth?
 

I select all the photos and save them to an album entitled “To Laura From Lee” before switching over to my texts with Justin.

Laura Merchant

Are you up? I need to talk.

Justin
 
Taylor

I’m up. Leaving for work. What’s going on?

Laura Merchant

My mother is marrying Richard and she wants to sell the apartment.

Told me to get ready to move out.

I’m not even invited to the wedding.

Justin Taylor

What the fuck?

Laura Merchant

That’s what I said.

She said that once I tell Lee about my past it’ll be over.

That she’s selling the apartment and “cutting the apron strings.”

Justin Taylor

That’s bullshit!

Laura Merchant

Right. That’s also what I said.

Justin Taylor

Is she sane? I’m asking in all honesty.

Laura Merchant

I don’t know. She’s been off the meds now for two years.

Hasn’t seen her therapist in a year.

She’s rational.

And I’m ok with her getting married, but the rest is crazy.

Justin Taylor

I don’t know what to tell you.

I’m sorry.

Laura Merchant

I’m sorry too. After all I’ve been through, after all the hard work I put in.

Justin Taylor

She doesn’t deserve a daughter like you.

Laura Merchant

Thanks.

Justin Taylor

Meet me for drinks after work. Blue Bar.

Laura Merchant

Ok.

I stare at Justin’s texts and wish I could talk to Lee about this, but it’s late in the work day in Mumbai. I can’t drop something this heavy on him when he’s dealing with his clients. We’ve talked about so much over FaceTime and text. I know what kind of soy milk he likes and that he folds his clothes neatly before putting them away in his dresser at home. I can close my eyes and hear his voice, see his face. But we’ve never once spoken about my time in Asia and what happened to me when I came home. We’ve never once talked about sex, though we’ve flirted and the sexual tension has been high. We’re close but so far from each other.

I glance at the clock and wipe the tears from my face. I’m late for work.

When I’m in Mumbai, my firm puts me up in the Sahara Star, a huge, modern hotel west of the airport. I like the place well enough even if it is overly extravagant for me. My room is spacious with a brand-new bed that always threatens to swallow me whole, a dresser, a desk, a table, and a luxurious bath. I know lots of people who travel in India and stay in hostels so I consider myself lucky, but my conscience nags at me. I wanted to be a lawyer to help people, not make tons of money, wear the nicest suits, and stay in five star hotels around the world. But I took the job because I was the head of my class and I was still a failure to my mother. Fuck that. I got away.
 

Taking the job in Seoul was the right decision at the time. I’ve made enough money to pay off my loans (my father helped too without letting my mother know), and I have a savings account that I can be proud of. I don’t have to do this job forever.

As I lace up my shoes, I repeat, “I don’t have to do this job forever” in my head. Laura changes everything. I suddenly care more about what she thinks than any other person on this earth. I texted with her yesterday after sending her photos of India, and she said something was going on with her mom. I can’t stop thinking about her, wondering what she’s doing and how she’s managing her mother and herself at the same time.

I need this run.

It’s 5:45am, the perfect time to run in Mumbai. I have my iPhone, my running shorts and shirt, and a small squeeze bag of bottled water ready to go. The traffic at this time of day is low, and the air is clearer than it will be after work. The majority of the city cows are still asleep and hopefully I can avoid stray dogs. Stray dogs in India are a runner’s worst nightmare. If you see one, you need to slow down so they won’t chase you. Luckily, the first time I came here, I had drinks with a colleague who clued me into this otherwise I would have been Lee-dogmeat. But it’s hard sometimes, when you’re in a really good groove, to see the dogs ahead of time and force yourself to slow down. Those mongrels screw with my rhythm.

The doorman at the hotel opens the door for me, and I walk to Nehru Road, stretching my legs and upper body, before choosing a running playlist on my iPhone and attaching it to my armband. When I run in India, I only wear one earbud so I can listen for cars or motorcycles. It’s best if I make it back to my hotel in one piece.
 

I pick up the pace on Nehru Road, my feet pounding the pavement as I hurtle past apartment buildings, my path shaded by palm trees. A bus putters on the curb ahead of me, and a few people are waiting along the dirt’s edge, reading newspapers and fanning themselves. I blow by them and several heads turn to follow me. I might be the only Korean they ever see, and I’m running, which is also a strange pastime in most of India.

Running helps me clear my head. My therapy, just like Laura. A run outside gives me a chance to enjoy my surroundings, zone out, and not pay attention to anything but my legs and lungs. I can do this when I run in the States and most of Asia, but here, I can’t unless I take transportation down to Marine Drive in the south of the city where there are more pedestrians and less traffic (and dogs).
 

My brain is everywhere this morning. I’m watching the cars zip past me, I’m running around people crossing the streets, and I’m wondering what Laura is doing right now. I wish she was here. What would it be like to have her travel with me? Would that be awkward or would we love being together?

Crossing over Shraddhanand Road, I only have another block before the train tracks. I try to avoid the street that runs parallel to the tracks because it’s crowded with people and rickshaws, vendors selling fruits, and commuters with their briefcases. After a block, I zig to the right in order to get to the pedestrian overpass that goes over the tracks. Crowds are on the stairs already, so I have to slow down. I pick up my pace along the bridge and down the stairs on the other side.
 

I hook left and run along Church Road which is the last quiet stretch of space before I hit Swami Vivekanand Road. S.V. Road is a nightmare during the day with two huge lanes of traffic in either direction and hawkers sandwiched into every available slot, but now the street is relatively uninhabited. I’m starting to drip sweat, the sun prickling the top of my head and possibly cooking my brain. The temperature hasn’t been less than 100ºF since I arrived. I cross the street and run on the side closest to the airstrip located here. This area is known as The Flying Club, and small planes and helicopters fly in and out of Juhu Airport all day long.