Yolk(73)

Park Helena, who I’ve always liked, waves. She doesn’t do the Korean compliment roundhouse, where the nicety detonates into an insult a half second later. These mom proxies remind me of those fishes that bloom around you and eat the dead skin cells on your feet. Patrick’s Mom was never among the nudgier women. She didn’t sing or play golf. In fact, I can’t remember talking to either of his parents beyond a perfunctory hello.

June punches my leg in solidarity when she sits next to me. The familiar chirp of KakaoTalk rings through the hubbub. The organist plays the first few notes of the opening hymn.

Mom enters to take her place, followed by Dad. As choir leader, she wears a gold-and-white sash on her robe. The priest is the only other member of the congregation with a sash. His features a slightly thicker gold border, which probably hasn’t escaped Mom’s notice.

Mom turns around to thrust a worn pleather-bound hymnal into June’s hand. We hear another KakaoTalk chirp. There’s another. And another. People check their phones self-consciously. It’s always old people who fail to keep their phones on silent while upbraiding us for our attention spans.

The first hymn begins.

I stare at the water stain and wonder what games Patrick played in his head while he was trapped in here with me.

As if sensing that I’m not contemplating spiritual redemption, Mom spins around and conducts directly at me and June. We can actually feel the whoosh of air from Mom’s enrobed arms flapping. June’s better at fake-singing than I am. She gives great, big spirit face. Boisterous on the first syllable, then letting the phrasing peter out. I barely move my lips. June elbows me again, harder. Her eyes light up as she pops her chin on the chorus. She’s so close to cracking up.

Our mother smiles and mouths with the exaggeration of a stage mom. She frowns, then smiles brightly, pointing at her mouth, instructing me to smile.

The song ends just as I find the right verse.

I can’t bring myself to take Communion even as my face burns when I have to get up to let people pass.

Afterward, we make our way over to the gym. June and I walk behind Mom. The sky is purple.

Before we burst through the double doors of the gym, Mom turns around and loops my hair around my ear. I wait for the barb. How the pants are a little tight across my thighs or that I need to brush my hair, but it doesn’t come. Instead she smiles and squeezes my arm affectionately.

I pocket this moment for myself. This memory alone makes the trip just about worth it.





chapter 33


We hear another Kakao chirp.

The gym already smells like the dankest Korean food, all garlic and fermented fish guts. Mom rushes ahead into the kitchen behind the row of folding tables arranged with large aluminum trays and Sternos burning beneath them.

I watch as she slings a navy apron around her neck and pulls on disposable plastic gloves. She flips her hair coquettishly to show off her necklace. The ladies admire it while Mom tilts her head this way and that, making them laugh. Then they return to serving banchan, scooping the fiery red vegetables and marinated meat with their hands, keeping the portions modest so everyone will be fed. Everything smells incredible.

Park Helena comes in behind us. We both bow deeply. “It’s so good to see you girls,” she says to us, eyes crinkling in a warm smile.

“You too.” I realize I mean it. It’s good to be back. Following June’s advice, I’m smiling compulsorily, trying not to internalize anything, and it’s working. It’s like an instant lobotomy.

“Especially you, Jayne.” Helena squeezes my elbow. “You should come home more often. Your mother’s been relentless all week. She raided my freezer for my homemade dumplings, radish kimchi from Oh Theresa. She’s been bending our ears and showing off for days how both of her girls are coming in from New York. She’s so proud of you two. It’s just a shame she never gets to see you.”

“I’m here all the time,” interjects June.

Helena laughs. “And we’re all so lucky for it. You always did take such good care of your little sister.” She pats June on the shoulder. “How’s work? Your parents couldn’t be prouder.”

“It’s fantastic,” says June. “Challenging yet rewarding. A wonderful growth opportunity.”

They talk about her son at Wharton, about all his scholarships. My eyes glaze.

“You girls should eat,” says Helena, before crossing the room to talk to the priest, who’s seated at a long card table with the rest of the men.

“I think if Mom ever said she was proud to my face my head would explode,” I tell June while we watch a flock of women descend on the priest to offer food. “Like, there would be blood pouring out of my ear and shards of skull and hair everywhere.”

June rolls her eyes. “It’s Mom. What do you expect?”

I look over at Mom again, heaping piles of food onto her plate. Suddenly, I can’t bear to see her.

“I’m not hungry,” I whisper before turning on my heel and walking back into the evening air.

The pea gravel that lines the parking lot crunches under my borrowed heels.

I watch a junky white hatchback pull up to the gas station across the street, taillights glowing red. Two girls hop out, wearing short skirts and tights and oversize, candy-colored hoodies. They both have scrunchies in their hair. I used to fantasize every Saturday about how my friends would come get me at church. Central to this fantasy was that it would be in front of everyone and that all the church kids would see how cool I actually was. How totally I didn’t need them. How they’d been wrong to ignore me and leave me out of their games.