Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(75)

“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.