Yolk(35)

June grabs someone’s New York Times, still in its blue sleeve, which has been left on the marble shelf. “What?” she says when I shoot her a pointed look. She flashes the address label at me. “4C’s an asshole. Have you seen the way he treats his dog?”

“June.”

She rolls her eyes and puts it back. Then she reaches over and snatches the Harry & David from me. “Hey,” I protest. She smiles gummily. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll be inspired for Christmas.” She waves the rest of her mail in my face until I carry it. We know the deal—while June’s paying for everything, I have to be her rent mule. “So, I got those Delta tickets,” she says. I’m presuming the ones she’d shown me in the car. “It’s the only direct. But I sprang for Delta Comfort Plus. Even for you, you fucking freeloader.” She pushes the elevator button a trillion times as if to make it hurry.

I look through the rest of the mail while she flips through the catalog and land on a bill in a familiar envelope. I didn’t know June and I had the same health insurance. Mom once told me June’s coverage was so baller, she could get chemical peels for free.

That’s when I see. That the envelope is addressed to me.

“What the fuck is even up with these pears?” June asks, shoving the Harry & David catalog back at me. “I don’t get why they’re so expensive. Everyone knows Korean pears are superior. These ones don’t even have that white mesh protective jacket thingy.”

I’m barely listening. When we get inside, I open the envelope while June’s back is turned.

Listed are blood tests for cancer antigens.

Transvaginal ultrasound.

In-office biopsy.

“What is it?” June asks when she realizes I’m silent. I confirm the name. It’s repeated on every single page. Jayne Ji-young Baek. Jayne Ji-young Baek. Jayne Ji-young Baek. It’s the diabolical headfuck of reading your own name on a tombstone.

“Wait, what is that?” she asks again. “Did you open my mail?”

“June?” I show her the paperwork, the page after page of deductibles and explanation of benefits. “How come…?”

Her eyes widen as she snatches it from me. “Fuck,” she says, and then swallows.

“Why does this…?”

“Fuck,” she says again, this time inspecting my face.

There’s not enough air getting to my lungs. It’s the way she looks. She hasn’t blinked in a minute.

“Is everything okay?”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” she says finally.

“June.” I’m smiling again. That stupid, idiot smile. “What’s going on?” I hear the rising edge in my voice.

“Jayne, okay,” she says. And then, “Do you want to sit down?”

I shake my head.

My sister exhales noisily. “Fuck, shit. So, for the whole past year I knew something was wrong,” she says hurriedly, watching my eyes. “I could feel it. Even before they told me to get an ultrasound, I knew. They thought it was fucking polyps or cysts or endometriosis, but I knew.”

I shake my head, confused. “But why does it say my name?” I snatch the paperwork back and show her. “June, why do I have cancer?”

“I got laid off nine week ago,” she says.

“What?” I don’t understand why we’re having two separate conversations, but the fact that June could be jobless reorganizes everything I thought I knew. “Are you going to be o—”

“There was no other way,” she says. Her mouth sets. “I had no health insurance so I used yours from school. I stole your ID and…”

“What?” I keep shaking my head like a dummy. I know I’m still smiling. I look to my sister helplessly.

June pulls out her wallet from her purse and shows me an ID. It’s mine. My Texas one. “I know you have mine….”

“I never—” I start to protest. She’d asked about it, but I’d stonewalled.

“Jayne,” she cuts me off. “I know you’ve been using mine as your fake ID. I saw it in your wallet a year ago, so—I took yours. Just to fuck with you. I was going to give it back, but then I didn’t.”

She hands me the card, and I take it. I stare at my face smiling up at me. Mom hates this picture. I wore spaghetti straps that day. With my hair down, I look naked. It’s the worst ID. The hideous vertical format for Texas minors. Everyone unfailingly wanting to know why it’s not a driver’s license and why I didn’t learn.

“Nobody noticed.” She looks up at me, wide-eyed. “I changed the address for the mail because I didn’t want to scare you. I had to get the diagnostic stuff done as you so that if I needed surgery or treatment, I could do that as you as well. I had no other choice. I did my due diligence. Your deductible is huge, but I can pay that. You have to know that I did everything I could. I looked at every single angle. I gave it a lot of thought.” She tucks her hair behind her ear and chews on her lower lip.

It finally dawns on me. This isn’t a clerical hiccup. A typo that erased the two people that we were and made us one. June did this.

“I couldn’t afford to pay out-of-pocket for cancer,” she barrels on, rapping a fingernail on her kitchen counter. “It’s like twenty thousand dollars for the surgery alone. The testing and hospital…”