CHAPTER 25
Christmas at my parent's isn't dissimilar to Thanksgiving, except for the lone white faux Christmas tree standing starkly against the wall by the fireplace in the fancy living room.
There's no decorations on it, just a black, ultra-modern artist's representation of an angel on top, with presents wrapped in glossy black and matte charcoal paper beneath it to be opened after we eat.
True to form, my mother’s mouth never stops flapping with the same year-end questions, exactly like last December and the one before that, as far back as I can remember:
How much did you make this year?
When will you end your obsession with the gym?
When are you going to get married? With the unspoken caveat of it better be to a woman I approve of.
In stark contrast, you’ve got a better chance of finding a snowball in hell than getting any kind of reaction out of my father. He's there, and he's not a door mat, he just doesn't say anything unless there's a point to it. I guess that's where I get it from.
One is too much, the other is not enough.
In hindsight, it really was kind of cruel of me to throw Carey in the deep end at Thanksgiving.
The soju definitely helped, but that was all for my benefit.
In general I need to be buzzed to deal with my mother, though a simple buzz was never going to suffice when it came to my growing attraction to him.
This time around, however, I refused the liquor.
I don't want to be clouded. I don't want to cover up.
I want to experience life again. And seeing Carey lap everything up—keeping my mother on her toes, and even getting Appa to crack a smile—makes me tingle inside like I never have before.
I think it's pride.
He’s fucking thriving.
The second we walked through the door my mother presented him with his own pair of slippers. She took Eden's from the family shelf and put them with the guest's before telling Carey exactly where to place his when we leave.
The way he said thank you in Korean and twisted his fingers together with nervous joy as she spoke made me want to take his hand so badly, to squeeze it in mine and soak up his happiness.
I wanted to wrap my arm around him, kiss him, and make a joke about his brother that only we could hear, but my mother stole him from me and she doesn't even know it.
As soon as his feet slid into those plush slippers Omma hasn't stopped fawning over him. She whisked him away to the kitchen, sat him down on a stool at the island, and ran through everything on the menu—offering him alternatives that have never been on the table for me. She complimented his outfit and stroked his face with the back of her hand as she praised the smoothness of his skin. I’m certain he's just a Jintae surrogate to help her through the holidays, but Carey doesn't seem to mind.
It's symbiotic. Omma needs a son willing to let her dote on them, and he gets to learn what it feels like to have a mother make you the center of attention.
Whilst seeing him happy does fill me with a wholeness I forgot existed, it comes at a cost.
Since the front door closed, I’ve been separated from him.
We only just tore the wall down, now there’s a literal table between us, laden with food and set for six.
No one has mentioned that fact, either. Carey and I just did our job setting the places with what my mother supplied, both of us also hoping Jintae or Eden will show up unannounced.
At my mother’s direction we took our seats across from each other and it felt like the scene from that movie where the table stretches out until the other side of it is so far away you have to yell to talk to each other.
Omma keeps passing Carey things with overzealous enthusiasm.
She watches every mouthful he takes.
He nods in approval of her Japchae as he chews and she’s instantly on her feet, bowl in hand, serving chopsticks at the ready.
“Omma, would you sit down. He can feed himself.”
She jerks her arm in my direction like I’m the crazy one. “Have some more.” She piles another mound of glassy Japchae noodles in front of him. “I made it with chicken this time.”
He looks at me; his face glowing, then turns to my mother. “Thank you, Eomeonim. This is the best meal I’ve ever had.” His pronunciation isn't great, but he's trying.
She waves off the compliment. “Here, have some beef, too,” she says, adding barbecued strips to his plate.
“I’m serious. If you keep feeding me like this, I’ll never leave.”
Her lips press tightly together as she reigns in her expression. “It’s nothing special. If you want my best, you should come at Luna New Year.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Has Tek-ah not told you that you’re welcome anytime?”
Carey rests his chin on his fist and stares straight at me. “No. He hasn’t.”
“That’s because he doesn’t like visiting me. I have to cook him all this steak just to get him to come.”
I huff and mutter, "Please," under my breath because I hate when she does this; places it all on me when she’s the one who slaved for hours to make more food than necessary because she needed to feel important.
Carey taps my foot beneath the table. I raise my eyes but keep my head bowed. He gives me a soft, kind smile, and I kick his foot back to his side and load my mouth with jeon pancake so I don’t grin like a fool.
“Have you called your brother?” My mother starts her next line of questions.
“Mmhmm,” Carey mumbles around more noodles.
“And your parents?”
He shakes his head.
“Did you not want to go home for Christmas?” She’s starting to pry.
I answer for him. “You know what Lotte and Brian are like.”
She swivels towards me. “But he is not Eden.”
“You’re asking too many questions.”
“It’s fine. Really.” Carey’s foot is back against mine. “I was meant to fly back to San Diego but I left it too late to buy a ticket, so they were too expensive.”
It’s a lie for my mother that relaxes her in a way I should have expected.
Her mind is only focused on one thing, and the son who actually bothered to show up could leave and it would make no difference.
With her hand over her heart she says, “Your mother must feel better knowing where you are. If you call her I know she’d be happy to hear from you. ”
“Lotte isn’t you, Omma.”
She reaches across the table to place her hand on Carey’s. “She’d love to hear from you.”
I put my chopsticks down and press them flat against the placemat with my hand. “Did she tell you that?”
“A mother knows.”
My fingers slowly wrap back around the chopsticks until I’m gripping them in my fist, rage welling inside me.
I want Carey's touch.
I want his arms around me.
I want that magic he has to pour all over me and bring me back down. But right now, that would be selfish. Right now, my mother needs to shut the fuck up.
For years Omma was Eden’s shoulder to cry on when his mother didn’t call on his birthday. When she sent no gifts at Christmas. When she didn’t acknowledge his existence once in the past seventeen years.
Does she honestly believe that after disowning one son that Lotte would become mother of the year?
At twenty-one-years-old would Carey have spent the last three years living overseas if Casa Novak was a happy fucking home?
Carey is an amazing man in spite of Lotte and Brian.
He’s kind, and loving, and he doesn’t need to hear this shit.
“He’s not Jintae.”
“Wootek.” My father’s voice is a stern growl from my other side. A warning not to push. But I’m not a kid. I don’t need to run away like my brother did.
“He’s not Jintae,” I repeat, my tone matching my Appa's. “Whether Carey decides to call his parents is none of your business. And trying to force him to do it won’t make Jintae walk through the door.”
Omma withdraws her hand, straightens out in her seat, and runs her palms over the front of her Hanbok, positioning the bow perfectly like that’s enough to negate what she just said. “You should call your brother,” she says, turning it on me, whilst holding a bowl of kimchi like a peace offering.
“I do. And I text every day. He’s chosen not to contact any of us, and we need to respect that.”
Ignoring my words, she takes some kimchi and puts it on my plate. “You could call me more.”
Why do I keep coming back here?
Why is this hold she has on me—formed by disappointment and expectation—too strong for me to break free of?
I said I wanted to feel, but not like this.
Carey has brought me so much joy this past week and she's tearing it away from me one tongue lash at a time.
I sigh and hold my words because Carey needs this more than my mother needs to know I'm two seconds away from taking him by the hand and walking straight back out the way we came and never looking back. “You always call me before I get the chance to.”
“Yes, but you never tell me about your life.” With her cheek in her palm she leans back in Carey’s direction. “I’m starting to think he’s hiding a secret life from me.”
She's doing it again; spouting bullshit like a fountain.
Carey’s eyes drift towards me and the corner of his mouth turns up just enough to know I’m in trouble.
He copies my mother and leans towards her. “He’s just so busy, Eomeonim…”
I’m so fucked.
“…He rarely gets a chance to catch his breath…”
Carey’s socked foot rubs against my ankle.
“…He’s like a machine that never stops…”
It travels to the other side to wrap around my achilles.
“…I have to be at the shop full-time, now.”
I shift in my seat.
I want to pull away but I'm so starved for him. For a person who has to touch people for a living, the past few days my hands have never been so busy.
Carey's toes swirl over my shin then draw a line up the inside of my calf.
Popping a piece of barbeque steak in his mouth he takes the opportunity to stare at me.
It’s only for a second, but it’s a stare nonetheless.
It’s deep, and suggestive, and only for me.
It reminds me of how good his mouth feels, of the showers we've shared, and how we fucked on the couch by the front window before leaving my house this morning.