Yolk(64)

I’ve always associated this kind of light hoarding with being Korean. My parents’ scrupulous scraping and saving was mirrored by every other church family whose homes we visited. Their love of containers. Takeout napkins stacked and socked into holders. Kikkoman soy sauce packets were gold since Kari-Out was watered down. Both were diligently stored. Golf balls were gathered from the green, rinsed and collected. Ingenious contraptions involving clothespins and wire hangers were strung up to dry herbs, vegetables, and flowers.

So many rosaries draped throughout.

“Let’s see,” Mom says, inspecting us as she slips into house shoes. “Are you thinner or fatter?”

She reaches over and lifts my sweatshirt to peer at my midsection. I instinctively suck in my gut and shrink back.

“We’re exactly the same, Mom.” June rolls her eyes and washes her hands in the kitchen sink.

“You should have seen the way your mother started cooking when she heard you were coming, Ji-young,” says Dad, clapping me on the shoulder. “It’s all your favorites. You’d think you were getting married.”

“Nonsense,” says Mom sharply, swatting my father and putting on a green apron. “I’ve been cooking as I normally do. You’re acting as if I starve you. The way I labor over your breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You eat wonderful meals every day of your life.”

“It’s true,” he says, winking over her shoulder at me. “We’re all very lucky.”

“Did you at least make some of my favorites too?” asks June. Mom ignores her.

It’s stifling in here. And loud. Dad’s switched on the TV, a flat Samsung LED the size of a full mattress that’s set to stream Korean television from dubiously legal sites. A US golf tournament in Arizona has traveled all the way to Seoul to be commentated by Korean sportscasters to find my parents in Texas. The origin of the setup is a mystery to me. They can’t restart their router or personalize settings on their phones. June keeps their Apple IDs on a Post-it on her fridge in New York.

I watch June and Dad, framed by the pass-through. It’s as if I’m watching a television show of people watching a television show.

June looks good, I decide. Passably healthy in her trim suit. My hand travels to my stomach, gauging the way it fills my cupped palm.

I tip my suitcase over and unzip it, pulling out a light, cotton house dress. I slip into the downstairs bathroom, closing the door behind me. The light here, too, is unforgiving. I lift the hoodie over my head, turning sideways and tiptoeing to see as much of me in my tank top in the mirror. I pee, engage my core, then look at myself again. I turn to the other side to check the thickness of that arm. I’m grateful that my roomy navy smock has sleeves. I don’t show Mom my arms. I don’t remember the last time she saw my naked body.

And then I do.

Of course I do. Five years ago. My face burns at the memory of the pale-purple silk, crinkly and delicate in my hands. I was swaying side to side. I was too old to be trying on her hanbok. The dress was voluminous, like crinoline, and princessy, with trillions of gathers in the Empire-waisted pinafore. The skirt tied in the back with thin silk strings, and the jeogori—the long-sleeved bolero jacket of the formal gown—tied in front with a full, wide sash. I felt so pretty.

The door opened. I hadn’t heard them come home, hadn’t thought to lock it, and I saw the circle of her pale face in the mirror like a moon hung above my own round face. I have no idea how long she stood there, but I’ll never forget her eyes. They landed on my hands, which held the top closed because it was drawn too tight across my widening back and wouldn’t fasten over my boobs.

My hands drop. Mouth hung open. The moment seemed to smear around us, unending. I was horrified that she’d caught me doing something as silly as dress-up, so obviously pretending to be her and so obviously failing, but part of me wanted to show her. Even lit with shame, I’d held hope. In that beat when no one spoke, I allowed myself to think that my mother might say I looked lovely. That her eyes would soften when she realized how badly I wanted the dress. That I wanted anything of hers.

That’s when she slapped me. Straight across the face with no hesitation as hard as she could.

I dropped to the floor, tasting metal from the force of the fall, still looking at the scene through the glass. I held my cheek, pedaling my sock-clad feet, digging my heels into the carpet so I could get away from her. The layers of skirt crumpled beneath me, dress straps biting into my shoulders. It had to be a misunderstanding. My instinct was to tell her it was me. I heard myself whimpering. Pleading. Imploring her to see. I thought she’d be filled with gut-wrenching regret when she realized what she’d done, when she’d see who I was.

Instead she pointed at me, eyes gleaming, dark as holes.

“You girls don’t get to have everything,” she’d screamed before collapsing onto her knees, hiding her face as she bawled. I had never before seen my mother cry. “Take it off,” she pleaded into her hands, and I did. Hurriedly. Ears ringing.

My fingers were numb and alien as they fumbled with the front sash. I was trying to go fast, desperate not to tear the fabric, reaching behind me to undo the tricky knot in the back. I threw the jacket on her bed, unslung the straps of the skirt. I grabbed my sweatpants and held them against my body, hiding as much as I could. I kept my face turned away.

I left Mom in a heap. Afraid to look at her, desperate not to confront the disgust in her eyes a second time. I was sick with remorse. I was so glad June wasn’t home to see my total humiliation. I closed Mom’s bedroom door in the dark hall just in time to hear Dad close the door to his office and lock it.