If I Had Your Face(46)

My throat constricting, I look at Sujin and Miho sharply, and so do Mrs. Youngja and Mrs. Sukhyang. The girls haven’t heard that reference, or that tone, in a long time.

“I grew up there too,” says Miho steadily. The women cluck in sympathy—“motherless poor things” is the prevailing sentiment. But we all know that the minute we leave the kitchen, that sympathy will be undercut by something else. I’m sorry, I telegraph to Sujin, who blinks rapidly to say it’s fine and I’m not to worry about it.

“Come, come, you need to eat after such a long journey,” says Mrs. Sukhyang. She opens the lid of one of the pots on the stove and carefully drops in the dumplings.

“They live in Gangnam, you know,” Mrs. Youngja says knowingly to Mrs. Sukhyang. Without holiday traffic, it is barely two hours away by bus, but I know that neither of them has been anywhere near where we live now. All of their children live in the Cheongju area; some of them further out in Daejeon.

My mother brings kimchi and dumpling sauce to the table and indicates for us to sit down. Miho says thank you softly and Sujin echoes her.

“She has gotten much prettier,” says Mrs. Youngja to my mother.

“Such style,” says Mrs. Sukhyang.

“It’s Gangnam style,” they chortle together.

“When are you girls leaving?” asks Mrs. Youngja.

“The day after tomorrow,” says Sujin.

“What? That’s so soon! Well, there isn’t any time, then,” says Mrs. Sukhyang. “You better ask Ara quick.”

“Ask her what?” Sujin says. The women look at her and I know what they are thinking—how forward, such bad manners, must be the orphanage. My skin tingles but Sujin winks at me.

My mother looks pained but seems to make up her mind. It can’t be all that serious if she is going to tell me in front of a kitchen full of people.

“How is the salon job going?” she asks me slowly.

“It’s going great,” pipes Sujin. “Ara can cut my hair with her eyes closed now. She has so many regulars that they have to call at least a week in advance for an appointment. So many rich ladies who all want her to give them digital perms. They love talking to her. They say she is very soothing.”

“Is that right?” asks my mother, smiling with pride. I am about to shrug, but Sujin jabs me under the table, so I grimace and nod instead.

What did you want to talk to me about? I write.

My mother takes the notepad and holds it closer to see, and then takes a breath. “Now that you are home, I just want you to set aside some time,” she says. “You’re getting older, and so many of your friends are marrying.”

What are you talking about? I write furiously. No one is getting married. Don’t you ever see the news? It’s a national problem.

She waits for me to finish writing, and then reads what I wrote.

“Well, here everyone is getting married. You know Hyehwa? From the bakery?”

Hyehwa had been my year in high school. Sujin and I both nod.

“She’s getting married next month! I see her every week when we get our bread. Maybe you can stop by and tell her congratulations in person while you are here.”

I had thought that my parents would have given up by now on their mute, wayward, idol-obsessed daughter. Hyehwa had always been a goody two-shoes in school. Maybe Sujin pushed her around a few times, I don’t remember. I glance at Sujin, but she is looking very innocent as she spoons more broth from her bowl.

“Moon the hairdresser is looking for an assistant,” says my mother abruptly. “Do you remember him?”

Of course I knew him—shaggy Mr. Moon, who had a beard and a raspy voice. I’d swept floors for him for a summer in high school and babysat his son sometimes. He had given me free hair tint samples that I had passed to Sujin.

They must be doing well if he needs an assistant, I write. His wife and her twin sister also worked in the salon, I remember. But my mother couldn’t possibly be thinking that I would come work for Mr. Moon’s tiny little shop back home.

“His wife left,” she says. “Her sister too. They went back to Daejeon.”

Well that is sad, I write.

“His son really liked you,” she says.

The beady-eyed Moon baby definitely had not liked me. He had shrieked his head off whenever I took him for a walk in the stroller.

“We were talking about you, and he remembers you warmly,” says my mother. The other two women are watching me with owlish eyes. “He asks about you quite often.”

“He is a good man, that Moon,” says Mrs. Sukhyang, nodding. “He was too good for that tramp of a wife of his.”

Sujin and I exchange amused glances, but Miho leans forward.

“How old is he?” she asks.

“Oh, in his prime,” says Mrs. Youngja. “I saw him helping the herbal medicine doctor move in enormous medicine cabinets the other day. Moon was just carrying them on his bare shoulders as if they were small sacks of rice!”

“I wonder if he would be able to match her Gangnam salary though,” Miho says gravely, not looking at me.

“Salary?” sputters Mrs. Sukhyang. “It’s not about the money.” She stops, posed. “It’s about what kind of man would appreciate pink hair!” she says triumphantly.

“You have to be practical, Ara,” says my mother, staring at me. “He would like to meet you while you are here.”