Yolk(33)

“I’m fine,” I tell her, sick with guilt.

“So this weekend?” Mom asks my sister.

“Yeah.”

I watch June intently. She’s stopped blinking, which means she’s lying. I’m willing to bet there’s no business trip to Dallas. She’s just going because she wants to. Which she can because she’s so stinking rich.

“Friday to Sunday,” she says. “I miss you guys.”

“Maybe you can bring something back to Jayne, some myulchi or something for soups,” says Mom to June, while looking at me. With her glasses on she appears older.

“Thanks, Umma.”

June has cancer! I want to scream into the phone.

“Maybe I’ll see you before my fiftieth birthday,” she says. Mom knows how to lay it on. She’s not turning fifty for another three years. “Did I ever tell you girls the dream I had before my birthday last year?” Mom’s partial to the notion that she’s more than slightly clairvoyant. “It was beautiful. I was swimming in the most clear, placid water and the temperature was exactly the same as my skin. Like a bath. And in the sky was this white dragon. Coiled across the horizon and then whipping toward me. It had green, green eyes. I was filled with so much joy. You couldn’t ask for a more auspicious dream.”

She says this as if it’s Korean tradition that the mother has an auspicious dream before her own birthday and not the birth of a child.

“Do they have Catholic churches where you two live?” she asks. I have a feeling Mom thinks me and June are neighbors.

“Of course,” says June. “It’s, like, all Irish and Italians.”

“Well, not as good as our church,” says Mom. “It’ll be good to go together, June. You have so much to be thankful for. We all pray for you girls so much.”

When we hang up, I slap June’s arm. “What the hell?”

“What?” June slaps me back.

“Why are you going home all of a sudden? I know you don’t have a business trip.”

“Who the fuck cares?” she says. “I just…” She looks around my house. “I want to go home.”

“Yeah, but you have a home.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve got against Texas,” she says. “But I like it at Mom’s. It’s chill.”

It’s funny. Even though our parents are together, it’ll always be Mom’s house.

“I’m tired,” she says, and swallows. “I want to see Mom and Dad before all this shit goes down. I want the feeling of being in San Antonio, where people search for fucks to give about emerging markets, how fat my bonus is going to be, or what my bowl order is at fucking Sweetgreen. I’m wrecked. I just want to eat those little anchovies fried in garlic and that potato thing she makes with a mandoline. I want soup with every meal, and I want my mom to buy me shit at Costco.”

“Our Mom,” I correct her saltily, thinking about her clear soup with the oxtail and the turnip.

“Whatever. I’ve known her longer,” says June, scrolling through her phone for flights.

“I fucking knew you didn’t have a business trip. Liar.”

She shrugs, ignoring me. She’s not even going to Orbitz or anything, but going straight to the commercial airline app like some kind of millionaire.

When she clears her throat repeatedly, basically right in my ear, I want to punch her in the face. If I were June, I’d be so nice to my little sister. June is such a shitty older sister. She’s more of a shitty older sister than she is a good daughter. I know it’s a bonus that she gets to be mean to me and suck up to Mom at the same time.

If Mom’s dead baby were here, she and I would be best friends. We’d never put up with this shit. June would choke with jealousy. My middle sister would be Mom’s favorite because she was sick as an infant and then June would finally know how it felt to be left out.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I blurt once June’s entering her credit card security code.

Finally, she puts her phone down and smiles triumphantly. “You know what? I don’t fucking care,” she says. “No offense, but I wouldn’t mind not thinking about you for a few days either.”

“Thanks a lot.” I sniff. “I’m the only one who cooks or cleans. I washed all of your linens, had to practically run that shit twice with extra hot water and rinse. Maybe I’m tired too. I don’t want to think about you, either.”

“Well, then it’s perfect,” she says, putting her phone away. “Quality time apart.”

I can’t believe she’d leave me at a time like this.

“Serves me right for buying you that wine opener.” I also bought her some kitchen towels. They were on sale, but they have really cute taxicabs on them. I know it’s not unreasonable that she’s sick and wants to go home, but I still feel like she’s going home at me.

“You’re the one who doesn’t visit,” she says. “Such a fucking drama queen. New York would still be here when you got back.”

“Well, I can’t afford it,” I tell her. “It’s like four hundred and fifty bucks around the holidays.”

It’s not as if I didn’t look it up last year.

“Oh my God,” says June, sticking her tongue out on “God” and rolling her eyes. “If you want to come, I’ll buy you a ticket—just fucking tell me one way or another.”