She wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the day. Suna took him cool drinks, kneeling beside him, holding a straw up to his lips as he took long sips. I heard Uhmma calling Mrs. Kim, her voice high and soft in a singsong of flattery.
Aii, Mrs. Kim, I hate to trouble you at such a busy time, but you always have the best advice. That husband of mine, he has no sense. He hurt his back again. . . . Yes, it is very bad. He cannot even walk. . . . Yes, we will come over. Are you sure you have time? . . . If you insist, she said.
I dug my nails into my palm, trying to hold back the sickness that overwhelmed my body. I avoided Uhmma in the hopes that somehow, she would not take me with her. I stayed up front, pretending to be memorizing more vocabulary words in between customers, but each time I opened the prep books, I thought I could see traces of his fingerprints all over the pages. His fingers were always stained with blue ink. With each blue smudge, I exhaled loudly to keep from feeling the nausea, to hold back the images that surfaced with every blink. Jonathon groping at my shirt. The oily sheen on his skin as he bent down to kiss me. I had not spoken to him or returned his calls in two weeks. Not since the time I had left his house after a “study session” and I had washed my skin until it was raw. And still the sharp musk stench of his body would not come off my skin. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t go on pretending, no matter what was at stake.
I spent the rest of the day at the register, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows. I watched the lunch crowds swarm into the parking lot and then recede by late afternoon. The hot Santa Ana winds picked up the litter in the parking lot and swirled it around, lifting it up in a dance. The walls of the dry cleaners radiated heat. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, under my arms, between my fingers.
Some of the customers spoke of a fire in the mountains. Started by arsonists, they said. “It’s this heat. It gets inside your head, makes you do crazy things,” a woman said to her husband.
“Not the heat,” he muttered. “It’s the wind.”
The Santa Ana winds, hot and dry as an open oven, blazed down with the force of the sun from the high desert mountains. Blowing in fierce gusts, offering no relief, coating our bodies with dust and ill wishes. The wind blew in between cracks and stirred up the history of all that was meant to stay hidden.
suna
SUNA WATCHES HER FATHER sleeping, the angles of his face softened by dreams. Though his skin is wrinkled, it still bears the marks of his youth. She can remember as a child being fascinated by his scars. Tracing the large craters on his cheeks with her small fingers. Pressing her thumb into the deep impressions along his chin and jawline. She remembers the way her father sat so patiently as she examined him, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with the Korean newspaper spread out in front of him.
The acne scars are now withering into lines of old age. Her father has never been a young man, but lately the years seem not to creep, but stampede across his face and his body. She has never questioned the way he looks, but as she grows older, she begins to notice the way other people look at him or rather avoid looking at him. Some begin a conversation staring into his eyes but end up curiously roaming the planes of his face. Others prefer to gaze over his shoulder or keep their eyes on an object. It is only in those moments that she turns away from her father. So that she will not have to bear witness to how others perceive him. For no matter how much she loves him, she cannot help but feel the prickling heat of shame every time someone stares or pointedly looks away. Ashamed to be his daughter, ashamed for feeling that way, but mostly, ashamed for acting like her mother.
Suna had always believed it had been because her mother was so busy, but now she recognizes the way her mother walks ten steps ahead of him, even at church, avoiding any association until it is time to leave. How her mother flinches when he touches her. The easy manner her mother employs when redirecting conversations away from him. Suna fiddles with her hearing aid. She recognizes all those signs.
mina
MINA, UHMMA CALLED OUT. Mina, get ready to go, she said.
Where are we going? I asked, playing dumb. What about Apa and Suna?
Uhmma reached up and pulled off the handkerchief that held back her dyed black hair.
We will take them home and then we must go and talk to Mrs. Kim, Uhmma said.
I stayed rooted to my stool. Why? I asked. Did you not say that Mrs. Kim was very busy with Jonathon’s preparations for college?
Uhmma snapped, Do you think I want to bother Mrs. Kim? She is being generous enough to help us. If that man had not caused all this trouble . . .
Uhmma paused in her tirade to take in my outfit. She squinted slightly before reaching up to the buttons that controlled the conveyor belt. The plastic-shrouded clothes shook and moved along the belt until Uhmma released the button. She flipped through a few of the dresses, picked one out, checked the tag and held it up against me.
No, Uhmma, I protested, shoving the dress away.
Uhmma shoved the dress back toward me. Stop it, Mina. Put it on. You look like a prostitute in those shorts and tank top.
I took a deep breath and turned away from her.
Mina-ya, Uhmma said, her tone softer,
