Frankly in Love (21 page)

“I mean, I guess we find out where we got in soon enough,” says Joy. “School’s basically over. Only thing left to do is have fun in the meantime, right?”

“That’s the only thing to do,” says Ella. “We have to just be open to whatever may happen in college, so that we can grow as individual people.”

Joy glances at me, I glance back, and we squeeze hands under the table. There will come a day—super, super soon—when I will give Joy one last dip before she twirls away to the other side of the country.

“I’ve been trying not to think about it, to be honest,” says Joy.

“Me and Ella will be at UCLA together,” says John, all bright and clueless. John and Ella’s first choice is nearby UCLA, and no doubt they’ll both get in.

“John,” says Ella, and throws a chastising look.

John opens his mouth to speak, but there’s a weird outcry from the grown-ups’ table nearby. It’s Dad.

“I never taking single loan,” shouts Dad. “Not even dollar, not even penny.”

Joy squeezes my hand and whispers. “Is he drunk?”

“Probably,” I say. I look closer. “Actually, no, he hasn’t touched his beer.”

The whole room falls silent.

“Mr. Li,” says Joy’s dad gently in his excellent English, “you have to understand, my businesses rely on leverage because of high up-front costs. That’s just life in the professional services industry.”

“I’m not be caring what is leverage or whatever,” says Dad, still loud. “Only thing you making is debt. You not making real money. This house not real. Bank owning.”

“What the fuck is going on?” I whisper to Joy.

“I have no idea,” says Joy.

I see Mom grasp Dad’s upper arm. “Daddy, stop it.”

But Dad shakes her off. He aims a finger at Joy’s dad. “Don’t criticizing me. I’m totally pay off my house. No debt, nothing. I’m working hard every day. You say my business not safe, somebody shooting me, I’m stupid?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Mr. Li,” says Joy’s dad. “It was a bad joke.”

“
씨발 이거 완전히 병신같은 새끼네
,” says Dad, his voice rising. “Somebody sue you, you go bankrupt. Nobody suing me. I making all the time cash only. Nobody suing me. I am okay.”

I can see Joy’s dad’s face twist darkly. Dad’s just called him a stupid fucker. In front of guests. In his own house.

“
오~ 그렇게 다 아는
사람이 사는게 겨우 그 정도야
?” says Joy’s dad. I’m not sure what that means. “No one will sue you because you have nothing to win. No one wants your tiny old house. No one wants your dirty broken car. That car is one month of my mortgage. That’s it,
이 새끼야
.”

Both men stand. I can’t catch any of this next part. My head’s spinning too fast to even really hear any of it.

“
너는 지금 선배한테
그딴 식으로 말해
?” says Dad. “
그것도 내 마누라랑 식구들 앞에서
?”

“
여긴 내
집이야. 내 가족이고. 내가 당신을 여기 초대한거야. 당신이 예의에 맞게
굴어야지
,” says Joy’s dad.

“
내가 니 선배야. 나한테 예의를 지켜야 하는건 너야
.”

“
그냥 실없는 농담이었고 아차 싶어서 사과했잖아. 그런데 당신 열등감때문에 그걸
가지고 계속 물고 늘어지는 거잖아. 그건 당신 문제지 내 문제가
아니야
.”

“
제발 그만
,” says Mom.

“
상종할 가치도 없어
,” says Joy’s mom.

“
그게 무슨 뜻이에요
?” says my mom, incredulous.

“
알지 모르겠는데, 씨발 지금 여기는 미국이야
,” says Joy’s dad. “
당신이 말하는 선배니 후배니
하는거 여기서는 상관없다고
.”

“
니가 나보다 잘난거 같냐
?”

“
암 당연히 내가
낫지. 너보다 집도 좋아. 차도 좋아. 심지어 차도 두대야
!”

“
우리
딸은 대학다녀. 그거 한두푼 드는거 아니다. 우리 아들도 곧 스탠포드
대학에 갈꺼야. 나는 중요한데다 내 돈 쓰지 누구처럼 집이니 차니
쓸데 없는데 안써
,” says Dad.

“
학비 못대줘서 당신 아들 스탠포드 못갈꺼잖아. 뭐
어차피 갈 실력도 안되지만
,” says Joy’s dad.

Something in Dad suddenly hardens and dies.

“
그래 당신이 나보다 미국엔 먼저 왔어
,” says Joy’s dad. “
그래서 뭐. 한국에서도 가난했고 여기서도 깜둥이나 멕시칸 같은 못사는 애들
상대로 술이나 팔잖아. 아들도 당신이랑 똑같이 끝날꺼야. 우리 딸은 안그럴
꺼지만
.”

“Dad?” says Joy.

Joy’s dad ignores her. “
그리고 말이야, 우린 서울출신이야. 미국에 오지만 않았어도 당신
같은 시골 무지랭이랑은 상종도 안했어. 미국만 아니었어도 당신 아들 같은
놈이 어딜 감히 우리 딸을 만나. 아 뭐 그래. 지금은
지들끼리 잘 지내라 그래. 그래도 우리 딸은 더 낳은 사람
찾아갈꺼야. 당신 아들
?
방탄조끼나 사 입혀
.”

Dad breathes in and out.

“We going now,” says Dad.

I have two hands on a wheel.

Tilt the wheel counterclockwise, and my body shifts right.

Tilt the wheel clockwise, my body shifts left.

My right foot rests on something that pushes down. When it does, I press back into my seat.

Before me is a black-and-orange-and-gray freeway dotted with pairs of red lights.

I am driving an automobile. A strong flat belt rests snug across my chest and lap. Two bright lamps help me see ahead in the dark.

Must be a new moon tonight, because I can’t find any big white disc in the sky like normal. I drive in the dark and follow the lines before me.

My father, whom I call Dad, sits next to me.

My mother, whom I call Mom, sits in the seat behind him. She slips a new paper to-go cup into a cylindrical hole in the center arm of the front seat. Dad hands it back.

“I’m no drinking nothing,” he says with disgust. “I’m not be intoxicated.”

It’s the first words anyone has said for a few long minutes.

“Dad,” I say.

His voice rises. “I’m very clear mental awareness having now.”

“Dad, what—”

“I’m not accepting no nothing that man’s house,” says Dad. “No food, no drink, nothing.”

“Dad,” I bark. This seems to dislodge Dad out of whatever state he’s in. “What the hell happened back there?”

After Dad said,
We going now,
he grabbed his jacket, grabbed his wife (whom I call Mom), and grabbed his son (whom I call me). He pointed at our shoes in the foyer:
put these on right now.

“Frank?” was all Joy could say. She looked terrified. I could see her six-year-old self in her eyes, and I know she could see mine, too. Something tectonic was happening. The earth was shifting and splitting apart.

All I could do was shrug in a wild panic. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll text you.”

And in a silent scramble we Lis went outside and into the car, like some family of lowlifes discreetly fleeing a bloodless crime.

And now I’m driving. Our car hurtles just ahead of a lightning-fast fracture unzipping the asphalt in great chunks.

“Dad?” I say.

Dad says nothing. In the rearview mirror, I can see Mom carefully unrolling the lip of the to-go cup and peeling it
apart until it becomes its raw components again: a flat collar of card stock; a die-cut moon circle that she crushes in her palm.

“Dad?” I say.

“He son of bitch,” says Dad finally.

“Daddy, stop it,” says Mom from the back.

“You have to tell me what happened,” I say.

“You trusting nobody,” says Dad to no one. “Only you trusting family. Friend? No. Nothing.”

I look to the rearview mirror for help. “Mom. Give me something here.”

“Daddy, Mr. Song make bad joke,” says Mom, ignoring me. “Why you get so mad?”

“He reveal true nature, shedding skin like serpent,” says Dad. “Bible say, ‘Woe to those who scheme iniquity.’”

“Bible say you have to forgive,” says Mom.

“God forgiving him, go ahead,” says Dad. “Not my problem.”

There’s a chevron of yellow-and-black barrels coming up, and I’m tempted to drive straight into them. Why can’t I get a goddamn explanation?

“Mom,” I say through my teeth. “What. Happened.”

“Aigu,” says Mom. She sighs, like
Where to begin?

“Mr. Song,” says Mom. “He making fun of Daddy, is worth it you getting shot in same place you make no money? He saying he going to give nice Daddy bulletproof vest for Christmas, Gucci brand.”

Dad scoffs silently to himself.

“Well, that’s a shitty joke,” I say.

“Don’t using bad word,” says Dad absently, out of parental reflex.

“Daddy say don’t making fun, I working hard,” says Mom. “Mr. Song, he apologize! But Daddy keep going! He say Mr. Song business is fake, not good business, only debt he making.”

I’m confused. “Huh?”

“Why you keep going mad, Daddy?” says Mom.

“Mr. Song,” says Dad with theatrical calm, “he taking loan, okay? So many loan. Every day he working, office furniture business, every day he must be pay debt so many people. Maybe he miss one day? Oh boy. Whole of business collapse. So-called
house of cards
. You knowing that expression,
house of cards
?”

“I know
house of cards
, Dad.”

This still isn’t explaining why they blew up at each other. I ask Dad gingerly, as if talking to a bomb.

“So you’re saying you’re mad at Mr. Song because he’s . . . over-leveraged?”

“No,” says Dad. “Mr. Song pretending he superior to us. But my situation? I’m no debt having. I’m free man. I’m not be owing nobody no nothing. Mr. Song, forever in financial bondage. So he making fun our family.”

“Because he’s jealous of our security?” I say.

“No,” says Mom from the back. “Mr. Song look down on us because we are from Gwangju countryside. Mr. and Mrs. Song are from Seoul. You know Seoul Gangnam neighborhood? Rich area. We same class during university, but always they treat us like lower-class student.”

“Wait, so have they always made fun of you guys?” I say.

“Aigu, always they talk-talk-talk, make fun my accent. Daddy accent too.” And Mom laughs. If you didn’t know Mom, you’d think she was being a complete dick, but I know she’s laughing only because she’s nervous.

My mind zooms way out.

I examine all the Gatherings we’ve had over the years. All the parents, gabbing it up downstairs like they were having the greatest party in the world while we Limbos lazed about upstairs.

But in reality Mom-n-Dad were being needled the whole time? Putting up with mean little jokes, none ever big enough to ruin the evening? Just sucking up and putting up?

I had no idea. None of the Limbos did. I always thought of them being all in this Great American Adventure together, where just being Korean in a new country was enough to call each other family.

Now I wonder: what other dramas were happening with our parents, right under our noses?

Of course they would never tell us about them. Their job was to provide for us, and our job was to study. They would never want to distract us with their bullshit.

I understand that. I really do. But I want the bullshit. The bullshit makes me see the parents, every Gathering, in a totally new light. Suddenly I’m dying to learn who these parents really are. Because that’s what kids do, isn’t it? Watch their parents. Learn. See what parts of you came from them.

Right here in the car as the orange streetlamps above rapidly go
sunrisesunsetsunrisesunset
, I regard Mom-n-Dad with
fresh eyes as if they were characters in a story. I see them as twangy bumpkins in some rural high school. As new lovers in a big-city university in Seoul. As a young couple in a new country. As husband-n-wife.

“So you’re going to say you’re sorry, right?” I say to Dad, with a lilt of hope.

But Dad remains firm. “I’m not any wrongdoing having. Mr. Song must be apologizing me first.”

“Daddy, Bible say—” says Mom.

“He saying very bad thing to you, too,” says Dad.

“Me?” I say. “What did he say about me?”

“Aigu, never mind,” says Mom.

“He saying more better you buying bulletproof vest too,” says Dad.

I squint with confusion. Joy’s dad was talking shit about me too?

“I’m not be associating no more Song family,” says Dad. “Everybody knowing they wrongdoing having. Mrs. Song knowing it. Joy knowing it.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Wait. Dad.”

Dad says nothing.

I flick a lever, tic-tic-tic, and take our exit.

“Dad, are you saying you don’t want
me
to associate with Joy?”

“I am free man,” says Dad. “You free too. You going your own way.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me to see Joy because of your own bullshit with Mr. Song?”

“Frankie-ya, calm down,” says Mom.

“You own-your-way you going,” says Dad. “I’m not be stop you. You make your own decision, making own consequence, okay? You understand what I’m saying?”

“No, I don’t understand what you’re saying,” I say.

“Frankie, slow down,” says Mom.

“I don’t get what’s happening right now,” I say. “Are you or aren’t you saying I am no longer allowed to see Joy?”

“You own-your-way you must be going,” says Dad quietly.

I’ve almost gone completely insane at this point.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” I say. “You wanted me to date a Korean girl. I dated a Korean girl. I gave you exactly what you wanted. Now you’re saying it’s the wrong fucking Korean girl?”

“Frankie, don’t using bad word like that,” says Mom.

“Slow down,” says Dad.

“No, really,” I say. “Which girl do you want me to be with? Just tell me. Okay? Pick the hair you want, the big eyes you want, all that shit. Go ahead.”

“Why you shouting?” says Mom.

“I don’t fucking get you guys,” I shout.

“Frankie,” says Dad.

“I take one wrong step, I make one wrong move, you gonna disown me too?” I say. “I can’t win.”

“Frankie, stop it,” says Mom.

“Are you?” I say. “Did you seriously come all the way here to this country, raise two kids, just to not fucking talk to them again ever?”

We hit a pothole. I want to hit all the potholes until this stupid car shakes apart. Dad makes a sound, like this burble, and when I glance at him, I see him wincing.

“Frankie, drive careful,” says Dad. “Please.”

My rage pauses at the word
please
. Dad never says
please
.

Dad looks sick with fear.

“Mommy,” says Dad. “Gimme cup, cup, cup.”

Mom glances at the wax paper collar and the crushed moon circle. “No more cup, Daddy,” says Mom. She’s gripping both Dad’s seat back and mine.

“Frankie, stop,” cries Mom. “Stopstopstop.”

I stop the car. Thankfully we’re on a long stretch of empty unlit road, because when Dad kicks the door open to throw up on the ground, there are no passing cars to see it.

“Are you drunk?” I say, even though I already know he’s not. Mostly I ask out of sheer confusion.

I look at Mom, but she doesn’t answer. Neither does Dad. He simply shuts the door.

“I am okay,” says Dad. “Going home now, Frankie.”

We arrive at our house. It abuts a cinder-block wall separating it from the nearby freeway. I park in our oil-stained driveway flanked by brown stubble lawn. They say immigrants bring their aesthetic with them wherever they go, and now I know it’s true. Our house would probably look like a mansion to Korean country kids from the eighties.

I step out of the car and help Mom lead Dad into the house.

“Did you eat something funny?” I say.

“I am okay,” is all Dad will say.

I want to punch him, but he suddenly looks like a single punch would kill him.

We make it into the house.

“I go lying down,” says Dad, and slowly vanishes upstairs.

I hear him settle into bed, and the house becomes silent. It’s just me and Mom, standing among all the shoes in our foyer.

“Mom, what’s going on?” I say. It’s almost a whisper.

“He is okay,” says Mom. She blinks. A tear hangs from her eyelash.

“Mom, is Dad okay?”

“Go sleep,” says Mom. “We talking later.”

“Mom.”

“Don’t worry about anything,” says Mom. “We talking later. We are okay.”

“What is this
we
?”

“Go sleep, Frankie,” is all Mom will say. She ascends the stairs, leaving me alone.

When I finally begin to drift off in bed, I dream a cool hand is on my forehead. Is it Joy’s? I open my eyes.

It’s not a dream. There is indeed a cool hand on my forehead. It belongs to Mom.

Mom’s sitting on my bed in the dark in her sweatsuit pajamas, touching my forehead. Not checking for fever or anything. Just resting it there.

My heart surges with sudden tenderness. Countless times has she come in to touch my forehead while I was half asleep.
Me, her boy, busily evolving while I slumbered to gradually grow taller, stronger, to grow up and away from her no matter what she thought or wanted.

Two bright lines flash in the dark. They are the twin streaks of her tears.

“Mom,” I say without moving.

“Daddy feel so sad,” says Mom.

“I’m sorry I lost it,” I murmur. “I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”

“It’s okay. Daddy love you so much.”

The tenderness inside me contracts into fear. We never say these kinds of words.

“Is Dad okay?”

“They checking bullet injury, they scanning whole Daddy’s chest with CT scan, PET scan, something like that.”

I can only watch as Mom blinks fresh wet tracks down her cheeks. I’ve seen Mom cry only a few times. She has the scariest way of crying. No sobbing or sniffling. Just silent tears, like her eyes have a leak that will not stop.

“Doctor say lung is okay, bullet injury is okay, but whole of torso, little bump they finding,” says Mom. “So many little bump. He say like Christmas tree. Doctor like you, he Korean yisei, second generation, speak only English.”

“What are you talking about, Mom?” I say it so quiet, so scared.

“I asking him, what is so many tiny-tiny bump everywhere? Doctor say is small-cell carcinoma. I asking him, what it is, carcinoma?”

I can’t say the word.

“Doctor say Daddy better start the chemo right away, so Daddy start right away.”

Cancer.

“At the first time, Daddy doing okay, no symptom at all.”

Cancer.

“But second time, Daddy getting sicker, sicker, sicker. Lose appetite.”

Cancer.

“I making vegetable juice and Chinese medicine, hanyak. Maybe it’s helping, I hope so. I hope so.”

And Mom just runs out of things to say.

The heat from my forehead has made her hand hot and moist, so she switches to the other one.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say.

“He didn’t want you have to worry,” says Mom.

“What do you mean? Mom, I need to know these things.”

“If you worry, causing stress.”

“When did you find out?”

“If you worry, hurt the SAT score.”

“You found out that long ago? Jesus, Mom.”