If I Had Your Face(66)

She is looking at me and looking through me at the same time. I wonder why she did not tell me to close the door. My first instinct, always, is to be secretive. The fact that she is talking about cosmic events in my life in such a matter-of-fact way has me gasping for air again. But she is waiting for a reply.

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes, what?”

I plead with my eyes. Just tell me what you want me to say.

She blinks and sighs again.

“I think the most we can spare you for is three months. Let me rephrase that. We cannot spare you at all, but if you absolutely must take maternity leave, then I will leave it to your conscience. In light of this information, I trust that you would not apply for more than that. Or let me put it this way. If we do not perform well and the entire department goes, then you will have as long a maternity leave as you desire.” Her sarcasm slices the air.

“You know, in America, they have three weeks of maternity leave. Or something like that. Anyway, I am sorry the situation is what it is.” She frowns darkly, and when I don’t say anything, she waves her hand at me to leave. I stand up and bow deeply.



* * *



—

AT MY DESK for the rest of the afternoon, all I can do is stare at my screen and do mental calculations. If I have to return to work after three months, then we will have to hire an ajumma until my daughter can enter a state-run daycare, when she turns one. Perhaps I could find a cheap one for around 1.5 million won. It would only be for nine months, I tell myself. Bora probably overpays for a good one. Maybe her ajumma even speaks English.

If this job goes away, I will not be able to find another one. That I know for a fact. No one will hire me, because even this job I got through my husband’s father’s connections when he was still working. There will be no use looking for another job. And if I don’t have a job, we will not be able to pay for rent and food, let alone a baby and an apartment, on my husband’s three-million-won salary. I start hyperventilating.

“Are you all right?” Miss Jung is in the bathroom fixing her lipstick when I walk in and slump over the sink.

“I think I have to take the rest of the day off,” I say. “I am not feeling that well.”

I am giving up nine months of maternity leave. Surely Miss Chun won’t say anything about leaving a few hours earlier today. I pack up my things and go home without even calling HR about taking a half day.



* * *



—

BABY MUST HAVE FELT a jolt because she is tapping again. I am smiling and tapping back at her as I walk slowly up to my apartment. When I open the door, my husband is standing in the hallway, wearing his navy suit and looking so scared that my own surprised yelp dies on my lips.

“I thought you were coming back on Saturday,” I say, breathing hard. “You scared me!”

He doesn’t answer, but just stands there looking so nervous I become confused.

“Um, what are you doing?” I say.

“I’m not feeling well so I came home early,” he says, putting his hands into his pockets.

“Oh,” I say. “Are you sick?” I motion for him to move aside and let me enter.

“My stomach,” he says. “Just not feeling great.”

I go to put my bag down in the bedroom and then realize that his suitcase is not there. Usually when he comes back from a trip, the house looks like the aftermath of a hurricane, with dirty socks and underwear strewn all over the place. I wander back and see that it is not in the living room either, and he is still standing where he was a few seconds ago.

“Where’s your suitcase?” I ask.

He is at the kitchen table clearing away a half-eaten bowl of jjambong. He dumps the remainder of the bright orange stew into the sink.

“Your stomach hurts and you’re eating spicy stew?” I say. He still has his back turned to me at the sink. “Why didn’t you tell me you were flying back early?” Not that I actually care. I’m just confused because he’s usually overcommunicative about things like this.

He turns around slowly, drying his hands on the washcloth, while I start wiping down the table for flecks of soup.

“And you know you left your dress shoes here? Did you have to go buy some for the meetings? Didn’t you say they dress superformally there?” I ask, rinsing the washcloth in the sink next to him.

“Yes, I need those dress shoes,” he says, clearing his throat loudly. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I need them for an interview this afternoon. You’re home early.” He trails off.

“An interview?” I ask. “What kind of interview?” For a promotion? I want to ask in hope, but I force myself not to.

“It’s for this job at BPN Group,” he says.

“Why on earth would you interview there?” I ask. BPN is a third-tier conglomerate.

He stares at me again and then takes a deep breath. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says.

“Do what?” I ask.

“Listen, Wonna, why don’t you sit down?” he says. He guides me to the kitchen table and pours me some water from the refrigerator. After pouring himself another glass he starts to explain.

That he has not been on a business trip the past two times he said he was. That he actually lost his job two months ago. That he has been staying with his father when he pretended to leave so that he could apply for jobs and interviews. That he did not want to worry me in my condition, but perhaps it was for the best that I found out because he felt terrible about keeping a secret from me like this. That he was looking for a job that offered free daycare at work the way his old job had.