Uhmma paused in midslurp of her stew. Mina, Uhmma said. Mina, are you listening to me?
Yes, Uhmma, I said and buried my head deeper into my bowl of je-geh.
Then what did I just ask you to do?
I held still. Probably something ridiculous, I thought and took another sip of my stew, the red chili oil coating the back of my spoon, my lips. Something as ridiculous as making us eat this hot stew that was supposed to make us somehow cooler in this ridiculous heat.
I felt Suna glance up from her task, her eyes studying my face.
What did I just say, Uhmma asked again.
I stared at Uhmma sideways. Directed my answer to her mole. I do not remember.
You were not listening, Uhmma said, leaning forward.
“Whatever,” I mumbled under my breath.
Do I have to remind you how much I have had to sacrifice? Uhmma asked over her bowl, her words and the steam mingling into a fiery breath. All of it for you! Everything I do is for your benefit and you treat me as though I were some maid. Here to serve you. Who makes your food, makes sure you have enough clothes to wear? Who makes sure you have all the books you need? Who has to handle all the responsibilities at the cleaners? Uhmma paused, turned her head to the side, took in a breath to continue her tirade, only her eyes fell upon Suna.
Suna, who sat frozen in her seat, every line in her body rigid and tense. Except for her hand. Like a toy doll with only one function, she moved her chopsticks through the stew, fishing out each and every piece of mushroom. Her concentration, her need to cleanse from her bowl all that was wrong blinded her to the hand. Uhmma’s hand. A white claw slashed through the air and smashed against the side of the bowl.
The crimson bolt stained the collar of Suna’s shirt, traveled along the crease of her nose, ran down her neck.
Uhmma slouched over the table, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.
Why do you have to make it so hard? Uhmma asked.
suna
SUNA KICKS THE SHEETS off the bed and lies perfectly still, willing a breeze to float over her body. She hears the light rhythmic breathing of Mina sleeping in the bed across from her. There is faint pulsing heat at the base of her neck from where the hot stew splashed her. She gingerly touches her skin, pressing down lightly. If only she could tell her mother that she had been listening. To the stories and descriptions that had been told so many times, she had memorized them by heart. Like fairy tales. Suna loves to imagine that someday her grandparents will come and save her family. Finally give her mother the life she has always wanted. This is a recurring fantasy that Suna likes to play with in her mind. As though unlocking a forbidden box. She secretly opens the box when no one is looking, when she needs to pretend that everything will be better. Sitting at the dinner table, picking out the mushrooms from her soup, she imagined her grandparents in Korea eating mushrooms like her mother. Such earthy, slimy things. She remembers learning about them in science. How they are called fungus and like to grow in dark, damp places. Like a festering secret. She stares up at the ceiling and imagines her grandparents walking into the apartment, their arms loaded with gifts.
Uhmma’s face, as though appearing from a dream, steps into the room, a white washcloth in her hand. She steps quickly, quietly across the room and comes to sit on Suna’s bed. Uhmma brings her finger to her lips and then points to Mina sleeping. Suna nods. Uhmma gently places the cool wet washcloth on Suna’s burn, patting it in place with the palm of her hand. The dark puffy skin around Uhmma’s eyes makes her look tired. Old.
Before Suna can reach for her, Uhmma is gone. Across the room, quietly closing the door behind her. And when Suna blinks, she believes for a moment that it must have been a dream. A ghost. Except for the cool weight of the washcloth on her chest. Suna falls asleep holding the cloth as though it were her heart.
mina
IT WAS THE SOUND of his voice that I heard first. Slow, raspy, the softest lilt on certain consonants. Suna and I stood near the back door of the dry cleaners, looking at each other, our eyebrows raised, wondering who was inside with Uhmma and Apa. We walked toward the voices near the pressing machines.
“This one. Some time.” Apa struggled to find the right English word. “Yes. Stuck. Stuck. Pull down like this.”
Uhmma stood off to one side, a hand at her waist. We came to stand next to her. Apa and a young man were bent over, fixing the shirt press. They straightened up as we approached.
“Moon,” Suna blurted out and then clamped her hand over her mouth, shaking her head as though she, too, understood she had momentarily lost her mind.
He was taller than Apa, but he wasn’t so tall that Apa had to tilt his head back to look into his eyes. The baseball cap that he wore, the brim casting a shadow over his eyes, was faded and worn, the Padres logo barely visible. For a second I tried to place him at my school, but the way he returned my gaze before lowering his eyes, the slightest show of stubble on his chin and upper lip, the dark tan along his neck and forearms, I knew there was no way he was in school now.
Apa waved us over. Mina-ya, Suna-ya, come here.
Uhmma blocked our path. No, she
