Wait for Me Read online

  For my brother Sung An

  1976–2003

  prologue

  SHE WALKS ALONE IN the rain. The faded pink pajama bottoms and oversized T-shirt clinging to her small frame, heavy with the weight of water. Her breath breaks inside her chest in an upward heave that strangles a cry escaping from her throat. Gulps of air. Her shoulders rising and falling. How much time has passed? She presses the heel of her hand against the tears that blur her vision. Though her chest still throbs, demanding air, she begins to run again. Looks down at her feet and urges them to fly faster, skim across the pavement.

  The city, a dusty camouflage of grays punctuated with dots of colors from traffic lights and swirling neon signs, stretches awake in the early-morning drizzle. In the distance there is the slam of metal gates being pushed aside, revealing cluttered storefronts and display windows. The heartbeat of the city thickens with the heat of summer rising as steam from the streets, with the noise of cars speeding across the freeway, with the multitude of voices and languages rising up to greet each other. The day begins, yet all Suna can see is the memory of a face framed by night. A face so familiar, so loved, she can name each imperfection, each mark as though they are her own.

  Suna runs forward without a glance, without a thought. To the car rounding the curve of the freeway off-ramp. The road slick with oil and rain. She pumps her arms and wills herself into the light.

  mina

  I FOUND HER SLEEPING on the couch, her body curled to one side, her head lodged against the faded green armrest. I pushed her damp bangs off her forehead and whispered in her good ear. “Suna.”

  She stirred in her sleep, an arm flung up over her head. Her stuffed dog peeked out from under her neck.

  “Suna.” I dangled her hearing aid in front of her, letting it bump against her forehead. Her eyes remained closed. I gently shook her shoulder. “Suna, wake up.”

  Her eyes fluttered and then finally opened. She looked blankly into my face for a moment before a smile skimmed across her lips.

  “Hi, Uhn-nee,” she said and rubbed the sleep from her eyes using the back of her hand, fingers curled like a baby. If only she knew how young she looked when she did that, she would have stopped instantly. She was always protesting that she wasn’t a baby anymore, this sister of mine. Certainly a baby couldn’t start middle school. She had been certain that the summer would work magic. Make her grow in all the right places. And here it was the beginning of August and my old training bra was still in the dresser.

  Suna sat up and moved to one side so that I could sit down. I kicked out my legs to rest them on the coffee table and dropped the hearing aid into her lap. In a practiced gesture, Suna held her hair back with one hand and dropped her chin as she hooked the larger molded plastic amplifier behind her ear and inserted the smaller piece into the canal. She smoothed her hair back over her ear.

  “I’m going to chain you to your bed if you don’t stop sleepwalking,” I joked even as I thought seriously about taking her to the doctor at the clinic. The sleepwalking had been kind of funny at first, but when it didn’t stop, it started to freak me out. Sometimes if I caught her as she was getting out of bed, she seemed completely awake. Eyes open and everything.

  “Did Uhmma and Apa leave already?” Suna asked. She glanced behind her to the kitchen as though expecting them to be eating.

  “A long time ago,” I said and checked my watch. Seven a.m. “Come on.” I stood up. “It’s late. Uhmma’s gonna be pissed if we don’t hurry up.”

  A dry cleaning business set time by the rising sun. And there were never enough hands. With the business so slow the last few years, there wasn’t money to hire employees. Uhmma and Apa relied on us, and mostly me, to help out at every opportunity. Before school, after school, during vacations and summers.

  As Suna and I walked toward the car, I could almost see the tiny waves of heat trapped inside, ready to bake us alive. As soon as we opened the doors, the hot air poured out, pooling around our legs. Suna and I furiously rolled down the windows and adjusted the beach towels that kept the backs of our thighs from being scorched by the hot vinyl. I tossed my ponytail over one shoulder and jammed the key into the ignition.

  “Wait, Uhn-nee!” Suna shouted.

  I sighed and slouched in my seat. Suna closed her eyes and began to mutter, talking to the car she had named Sally. The white Nissan Sentra was older than God, but Suna believed it just needed some coaxing.

  “Okay,” Suna said after a minute.

  “Sally said she’d work for us today?” I asked and smiled.

  “I told her I’d wash her windows if she was good.” Suna quickly patted the burning-hot dashboard, then blew on her hand. She treated the car like a pet, rewarding it when everything ran smoothly, gently chiding when we had to take it in for service. It all started the day she learned that plants responded to music and talking. No matter how much I tried to reason with her, she continued talking to the car.

  I turned the ignition and held my breath. These last few days had been so odd. What with the Santa Ana winds starting up so early in the middle of summer instead of the fall, Suna sleepwalking, the washing machines breaking down. Everything felt off balance.

  Sally sputtered to life, her guttural engine barely catching. One more day. Already the sweat pooled behind my knees and trickled down my calves. I turned on the radio and eased out of the parking space, slowly driving over the three speed bumps that led out of the apartment complex, then turned onto the main street.

  El Cajon Boulevard. Six lanes of black asphalt stretching far into the horizon, shimmering with waves of heat. Strip malls lined up on either side with their garish painted signs. A song about summer came on. Something about soaking up the sun. What a joke. But I started to sing along. Loud as I could until Suna broke into laughter. It always amazed me how music could take me to another place. It didn’t matter if I was at church singing in the chorus about God or jamming to the radio or listening to my CDs. Even the most insipid song had something. A beat, a melody, that lone bass holding everything together. But when a song was right, when everything fell together, each note, each rise and dip of the voice filled me with a sense of yearning. A vastness. The sensation of flight seeping into my skin until I was skimming through the air, the music holding me aloft.

  Red light. Even this early on a summer day, the migrant workers stood on the corners, waiting for work. For a pickup truck to slow down and stop, a pale arm reaching out the window, motioning for two or three to hop in back. I didn’t understand how they could stand to be dressed in those plaid button-down long-sleeve shirts and jeans. Weren’t they dying in all those clothes? The light turned green and I sped past.

  I flipped on the right turn signal, eased the car into the parking lot of one of the strip malls. I could see Uhmma through the glass walls of the dry cleaners. She was at the front, looking through the cash register.

  “Damn.” I stepped on the brake. “What is she doing?”

  I turned the wheel too quickly, making Sally squeal in protest, and parked in the alley behind Uhmma and Apa’s van.

  Suna turned in her seat to look at me.

  I sat still for a moment and stared at the open back door of the dry cleaners. What were the chances? What was the worst Uhmma could do? There was plenty, but would she even know from looking at the receipts? I had been the only one to handle them since the beginning of summer. I cursed under my breath. I should have doctored them yesterday. It was too late now.

  “Come on,” I said, and Suna and I stepped out of the car and walked toward the dry cleaners. Even in this heat, walking into the store was like stepping from the clouds straight into hell.

  suna

  SUNA STICKS HER ARM out the window, pushing her hand through the hot air as the car spee
ds down the street. Her hand dives down, then up, down, up, a roller-coaster ride, a kite on the beach. The wind whips back her shoulder-length hair, making her smile at the way it flies around her head as though disconnected from her body. Suna hears her sister singing and though Mina is but an arm’s reach away, Mina’s voice must travel oceans before Suna can register the voice she knows like it is her own. It has always been like this. Since she was a baby. And even with the hearing aid, the sounds of the world filter into her mind tinny and light as a wind chime swinging in a breeze.

  Suna closes her eyes, tries to guess which store they are going to pass next. Tan to Tan, she whispers to herself and opens her eyes. Two stores too early. They are only at Oriental Nails II. She closes her eyes to try again. Red light. Open.

  He sits at the bus bench. Not on the seat, but on top of the backrest, his feet splayed out on the bench, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched forward, hands clasped in front. She can’t quite see his eyes, his cap is pulled down too low. But she notices a scar the size of half an orange etched just to the right of his chin. Like a crescent moon, Suna thinks.

  Moon says something out of the corner of his lips. The man next to him shakes his head no, then says something to make Moon smile, his scar flattening, stretching until it almost seems like a dimple. Maybe it is the sound of their radio or the way Suna’s arm is draped out the window, but Moon lifts his eyes. To the street. To the car. For her. Suna freezes, unable to look away. Caught in his gaze. In the lightning-flash smile breaking across his face. He nods hello. Green light.

  Suna closes her eyes and tries to recapture the moment. She holds his face like a point of light suspended against the darkness.

  From across the oceans, Suna hears her older sister’s voice, senses Mina sitting up straighter. And then he is gone. Lost to the day. Suna returns for Mina.

  mina

  I BRACED MYSELF FOR Uhmma’s anger, walking quickly through the back of the store, dodging all the plastic-wrapped clothes suspended from the conveyor belt, and headed straight for the problem.

  “Hi, Uhmma,” I said as casually as possible.

  My mother looked up from the receipts and frowned at my shorts and tank top. A lecture about the kind of clothes I was supposed to wear when I was working up front parted Uhmma’s lips, but then she changed her mind and instead waved some receipts.

  Mina, have you checked these numbers? Uhmma asked in Korean while looking over the slips.

  I placed my backpack on top of the counter and answered back in Korean, hoping to keep on Uhmma’s good side.

  Here, Uhmma, I said and took the receipts from her. I have not had a chance to go over them. They are still unorganized. I will put them in order after I study for my SATs.

  The subject of my SATs immediately turned Uhmma’s attention away from the receipts. Have you been practicing? she asked.

  I nodded and took out my practice books to show her. Uhmma glanced at the red covers and nodded.

  Remember, Mina, Uhmma started lecturing, you do not have another chance. Your senior year is very important. Mrs. Kim says that Jonathon only got into Stanford after he got a perfect score on his SAT. Which reminds me, Mrs. Kim has more books for you. From that expensive preparation class Jonathon took last summer.

  I quietly nodded, but grabbed the counter, forcing all my hatred into the wood instead of my face. Mrs. Kim could go to hell and take along her pimply son, Jonathon. I had grown to hate him as much as Uhmma idolized him.

  Jonathon and I had known each other since we were little kids and our families had met at church. Uhmma looked up to Mrs. Kim and called her older sister. It seemed like all my life everything the Kims did was perfect. Their beautiful house, their successful restaurant, the respect people showed them at church. Even after Mr. Kim passed away from a heart attack, the way Mrs. Kim continued to run their Korean restaurant and the way Jonathon had stepped up like a responsible man, taking over the books and managing the employees, was all an example for me. This was how a good, respectable family lived.

  Jonathon, unlike me, had time to himself. He managed the restaurant’s finances and helped on busy weekend nights, but he never had the daily grind because he could afford to hire people. I barely had enough time to make a few afterschool meetings for chorus and clubs, and that was only because Uhmma knew it looked good on college applications. I had long ago stopped asking to go out with school friends and they had stopped asking me to come along. Which was fine with Uhmma, since she thought my church friends were better. But even that had been taken from me. I could picture Jonathon with my old crowd of friends at church. The way he watched me as I walked across the parking lot, trying to avoid him. From the way the group whispered and cut their eyes at me, I knew he had told them things. About me. About us.

  I put away my books, placed the receipts in a manila envelope and shoved it under the counter. I turned to Uhmma and asked with dread, Do I have to pick up the books from Mrs. Kim?

  She frowned. I do not believe she has any time today. She is so busy helping Jonathon get ready for Stanford.

  Uhmma wheeled a bin of dirty clothes toward the back of the store. Mina, she called out, bring me those shirts by the sewing machine.

  Yes, Uhmma, I answered and leaned back against the counter in relief. I had been getting careless. I needed to make sure that all my numbers were in order before I left the register each day. I could just imagine how understanding Uhmma would be if I told her I had decided to pay myself for all the work I did. That I was saving it for something important. I picked up the shirts and took them to the back.

  Suna stood to one side of the machines, waiting to help load. Uhmma began sorting the clothes, looking over every inch of the garments for stains. She dropped clothes into piles depending on which stain remover she would have to apply before the washing. Suna pulled a dress from the bin and dropped it into a pile beside Uhmma. She reached in for another item. Uhmma bent down and picked up the dress that Suna had just placed there and shook her head. She shoved Suna’s hands out of the way.

  Go, Uhmma ordered. Go help Apa.

  Suna nodded, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

  Apa sat on his stool, methodically placing an ironed shirt on a stand with a hook, pulling the plastic wrap over the shirt and then holding on to the hanger as he pressed a foot pedal that lowered the stand with a loud bang. He handed the hanger to Suna, who hung it on a conveyor belt suspended from the ceiling. Apa lifted the stand back up and hung another shirt on the hook. With each bang, with each bend of his back, Apa exhaled loudly.

  Suna placed a hand on Apa’s shoulder, speaking softly in Korean. Apa, let me do this.

  Yah, Suna, I am not an old man yet, Apa said.

  Let me sit down. My legs are tired, Suna lied.

  Apa glanced at her face, worry creasing his forehead. Did you get enough sleep? You were on the couch again this morning, Suna-ya. I do not like you wandering around at night like that.

  I cannot help it, Apa. It just happens in my sleep. Suna gingerly took his elbow, trying to help him up to his feet.

  Just this time, Apa said and slowly unfurled his long frame, knees creaking, back straightening. He stood and smiled down at Suna, patting her back.

  Uhmma shook a shirt in my face. Mina! Mina!

  “What?” I said with a scowl, turning back to Uhmma.

  You are not paying attention. Uhmma waved a woman’s silk blouse in my face before throwing it into the pile with oil stains.

  If I wanted a poor job done, I would have had your sister help, she said.

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from yelling back at Uhmma’s comment. I caught Suna’s eye and made an evil face at Uhmma’s back. Suna tried to smile, but her eyes were rimmed with tears.

  Sometimes when I looked at Suna, I could feel my heart break. Suna had always been a sickly baby. Always catching one cold after another. Uhmma couldn’t stand Suna’s constant crying and need for attention. When it became too much, Uhmma walked
to her bedroom, head bowed, her hands over her ears.

  Once, I came home from school to find Suna’s small one-year-old body so tired from crying, she could barely crawl over to me. So I carried Suna as only a seven-year-old can, under her arms, her back pressed to my chest, her feet dragging along the kitchen floor. I found a bowl, poured some milk and offered it to my sister as though she were a cat. And only when she was unable to lap it up did I raise the bowl to her lips, tipping it forward, sloshing the milk against her chin. I joyfully watched her drink.

  So really, what was the use in getting angry? What did I expect from Uhmma? I went back to sorting the clothes.

  suna

  SUNA FEELS HER FATHER patting her back and turns to watch him walk slowly over to one of the broken washing machines. She turns back to covering the shirts. Mina and Uhmma continue sorting the soiled clothes, their silence punctuated with angry snips. They are always fighting. Suna quickly finishes the shirts and escapes into the forest of clothes. As she walks away, she reaches up and carefully removes her hearing aid. The hard plastic device shoved deep into her pocket.

  The shrouded pressed garments hang from a conveyor belt, their ghostly forms reminding her of the floating jellyfish she once saw at an aquarium. Suna weaves in and out of the clothes, pretending for a moment that she is underwater. A fan rustles the gossamer sheeting, sending ripples through her ocean.

  From her murky hiding place, she watches her mother waving some clothes at her sister, one slender hand on her hip. Mina unknowingly does the same. Their profiles mirror each other, same high cheekbones, angular noses, but Mina has different lips. Where her mother’s are rather thin and sharp, her sister’s are full, generous. Mina has a habit of chewing her bottom lip, and for many years, when Suna was younger, she had believed that this was the secret to her sister’s lips. So Suna copied Mina’s habit until her mother sharply reprimanded her. And then she had to resort to biting them at night before she fell asleep. Even after she realized that her lips would never resemble her sister’s, she still found herself biting the thin flesh of her lower lip when she had trouble falling asleep.