Miracle Creek(20)

The funny thing was, Mary hated her American name. Not always. When her mother (who’d studied English in college and still read American books) suggested “Mary” as the closest approximation of “Meh-hee,” she’d been excited to find a name with the same starting syllable as her own. On the fourteen-hour flight from Seoul to New York—her last hours as Yoo Meh-hee—she’d practiced writing her new name, filling an entire sheet with M-A-R-Ys and thinking how pretty the letters looked. After they landed, when the American immigration officer labeled her “Mary Yoo,” rolling the r in that exotic way her Korean tongue couldn’t replicate, she felt slightly glamorous and dizzy, like a butterfly newly emerged from a cocoon.

But two weeks into her new middle school in Baltimore—during roll call, when she was secretly reading letters from friends back home and she didn’t recognize her new name and didn’t answer and the kids started tittering—the newborn-butterfly feeling gave way to a sense of deep dissonance, like forcing a square into a round hole. Later, when two girls reenacted the scene for the cafeteria, the ramen-haired girl’s crescendoing repetition of her new name—“Mary Yoo? Ma-ry Yoooo? MA-REEEEE? YOOOOO?”—felt like hammer blows, her square corners shattering.

She knew, of course, that the name wasn’t to blame, that the actual problem was not knowing the language, customs, people, anything. But it was hard not to associate her new name with the new her. In Korea, as Meh-hee, she’d been a talker. She got in trouble constantly for chatting with friends and argued her way out of most punishments. The new her, Mary, was a mute math geek. A core of quiet, obedient and alone, wrapped by a carapace of low expectations. It was as if discarding her Korean name had weakened her, like cutting Samson’s hair, and the replacement came with a meek persona she didn’t recognize or like.

The first time her mother called her “Mary” was the weekend after the roll-call/cafeteria incident, during Mary’s first visit to their host family’s grocery store. The Kangs had spent two weeks training her mother, and they’d deemed her ready to take over the store’s management. Prior to the visit, Mary had envisioned a sleek supermarket—everything in America was supposed to be impressive; that was why they’d moved here—but walking from the car, Mary had to sidestep broken bottles, cigarette butts, and someone sleeping on the sidewalk under torn newspaper.

The store vestibule was like a freight elevator, in both size and looks. Thick glass separated the customers from the vault-like room containing the products, and signs lined the lazy Susan transaction window: PROTECTED BY BULLETPROOF GLASS, CUSTOMER IS KING, and OPEN 6 A.M. TO 12 A.M. 7 DAYS A WEEK. As soon as her mother unlocked the bullet-and apparently odor-proof door, Mary got a whiff of deli meat.

“Six to midnight? Every day?” Mary said before she even stepped in. Her mother gave an embarrassed smile to the Kangs and led Mary down a narrow corridor past the ice-cream cooler and deli slicer. As soon as they reached the back, Mary faced her mother. “How long have you known about this?” she said.

Her mother’s face crinkled in pain. “Meh-hee-yah, all this time, I thought they wanted me to help them, as an assistant. I only realized last night—they’re considering this their retirement. I asked if they’d hire someone to help, maybe once a week, but they said they can’t afford that, not with what they’re paying for your school.” She stepped back and opened a door to reveal a cupboard. A mattress was stuffed in, almost fully covering the concrete floor. “They set up a place for me to sleep. Not every night, just if I’m too tired to drive home.”

“So why don’t I stay here with you? I can go to school here, or maybe I can come after school and help you,” Mary said.

“No, the schools in this neighborhood are terrible. And you can’t be here at nighttime at all. It’s so dangerous, so many gangs, and…” Her mother shut her mouth and shook her head. “The Kangs can bring you for short visits on weekends, but it’s so far from their house … We can’t impose on them too much.”

“Us impose on them?” Mary said. “They’re treating you like a slave, and you’re letting them. I don’t even know why we came here. What’s so great about American schools? They’re doing math I did in fourth grade!”

“I know it’s hard now,” her mother said, “but it’s all for your future. We need to accept that, try our best.”

Mary wanted to rail against her mother for giving in, refusing to fight. She’d done the same thing in Korea, when her father first told them of his plans. Mary knew her mother hated the idea—she’d overheard their fights—but in the end, her mother had given in, the way she always did, the way she was doing now.

Mary said nothing. She stepped back and squinted to see her mother more clearly, this woman with tears pooling in the creases between her fingers, clasped together as if in prayer. She turned her back and walked away.

Mary stayed the rest of the day, while the Kangs went out to celebrate their retirement. As upset as she was with her mother, she couldn’t help but be impressed by the finesse and energy with which she ran the store. She’d been training for only two weeks, but she knew most of the customers, greeting them by name and asking after their families in English—halting and with an accent, but still, better than Mary herself could do. In many ways, she was maternal with her customers: anticipating their needs; lifting their mood with her affectionate, almost coquettish laughter; but being firm when needed, as when she reminded several customers that food stamps could not buy cigarettes. Watching her mother, it occurred to Mary: the possibility that her mother actually liked it here. Was that why they were staying? Because running a store was more fulfilling than being a mere mother to her?