Mina Jang

Broken Clock

You are afraid of growing old. Every New Year's Eve, you and your daughter sit in front of the TV and watch the ball drop in New York City. It is never the live version, because you live on the West Coast. You always sigh and say, "Time goes by so fast." You keep looking at the TV as ads pass, but you think about something else. You think about what you as a teen thought your life would be and what it's turned out to be. Your daughter watches you while picking her nose. She hides boogers under the couch then falls asleep on your knee. You wipe the drool off her chin with the end of your sleeve.

You miss your parents, and you are afraid they will die before you can see them again. They live thirteen hours away by plane. You are so afraid, you never mention they are both over eighty. You call them every day, and you call them until they answer. You tell your father to eat his steamed broccoli, because he has diabetes. Drink bean sprout soup, or his bones will bend and break. He rants about a male celebrity who skipped military service due to health issues, and you leave him on speakerphone. Lung problems! If he was a true Korean man, he would've sucked it up. You don't give a fuck, but your father sounds healthy. Angry, but healthy. You tell your mother to quit giving money to your brother, because she's already paying for his apartment rent. He'll only call her once he's spent it all in a week. She says she will, but you know she won't. He's the youngest of three. Her baby. Her favorite. 

When your mother gets drunk on holidays and other special days, she calls you first. Like on your dad's birthday, when he turned seventy. The two of them, plus your brothers and their families, went out for galbi and six rounds of karaoke. They were walking back to their place for cake they bought from a cafe-slash-bakery when your phone rang at 4 AM. Your mother's face flashed on the home screen. "You're his only daughter," she screamed-slurred when you hit Answer. "How can you not be here for his birthday?" 

You didn't say anything. You continued folding laundry from the laundry bin. You had known this was coming. 

"Who needs a kid when they're not even here for you, huh? What kind of kid are you, huh?"

You stuffed a sock into another sock. Again. Sock into another sock. For a second there was silence from her. Only the sounds of strangers on the sidewalk and a motorcycle vrooming by. It was when you heard your mother gasp in and out, that you felt a baseball lodged in your throat. 

"Shi-hyun-ah, I really miss youuuu!" She wailed, hitting her chest with a fist. "Can't you come back home?" Someone--you weren't sure who, maybe it was your older brother--tried to pry the phone from her.

"Sorry," a deep voice said before you heard a click. At least, you thought that they said sorry. They had spoken so fast before ending the call.

You never hung up first. That was manners. You flipped your phone face-down on the ground and hunched over the laundry bin. Your shoulder blades were about to poke out of your skin. You had some saliva and snot on your upper lip. You tried folding a sports bra, but it looked sloppy, no matter the number of attempts. Your arms trembled, but it wasn't from the heater being turned off. You didn't sleep, even with your droopy eyelids. Not until you said you could. 

Your mother goes to church now. A friend invited her after she told them she was feeling lonely. You understand why, even though you don't go to church. There's something nice about letting yourself be vulnerable with other people. She's joined the choir. They hang out after practice in cramped karaoke bars. She sends you videos of her new friends--grandmas dancing under LED lights and hitting tambourines to songs about Jesus. Your mother seems happier now. That makes you relieved and a little sad.

You are a good daughter. You send your parents grand, lavish bouquets on their birthdays, and you make sure they deliver overseas in two days. You buy them gifts you would never buy for yourself, but you do not think you are a good daughter. You wish you could have been better when you were younger. In seventh grade, your mother threw out four volumes of your Slam Dunk manga collection, because your class ranking dropped from twelve to twenty. You called her a bitch. Practically spit the word out. She dared you to say it again. Bitch! You ran to your room and slammed your door shut. Locked it so she couldn't hit you with a massage stick. 

In college, you would go on so many dates. Blind dates. Double dates. Group dates. You'd curl your bangs and spray cologne on your armpits. It was fun dressing up. There were a lot of assholes though. One of them was a dental student from a Top 3 university. The two of you sat across each other at a fried chicken place after watching Aliens in theaters. He kept staring at your face as you went on about Sigourney Weaver's final action sequence. You noticed and blushed. He then pointed at your lips. You blushed even harder. Oh gosh. First base already? 

"Is there something on my mouth?" You grabbed a napkin, just in case.

"No." He squinted. "Your teeth. Are they fake?"

You let go of the napkin. 

"Excuse me?"

"Your front teeth. Are they fake?" 

They were. But why the fuck did he have to point that out? You were half-offended, half-impressed. He really is a dental student! You almost flicked a chicken bone at his stupid forehead, until you remembered he was paying for your combo meal. Free food was free food. You don't really date or search for that perfect one anymore, not after your kid were born. It tires you out, and you'd rather just adopt a puppy if you're desperate for some company. 

You act like a child sometimes. You waste small lotto money on auto car washes when you get bored. You like setting the car on neutral and reclining your seat as far as possible. Reminds you of a theme park ride. You skate on grocery carts in supermarkets. It's scary how close you get to hitting the alcohol section. You race your daughter down the stairs instead of taking the escalator. You compete with her to see who can balance a pillow on their head longer. Your child is a sore loser. She gets it from you. 

Other times though, you're superglued to your bed. The charm on your necklace tickles your neck, but you can't lift your arms. You feel so tired, the only place to turn to is sleep. Under the thick sheets, you struggle to breathe. Your kid never bothers you when you are in this state. She doesn't understand, but she knows you want to be left alone. It's quiet in your apartment as dinner time arrives. She just tip-toes around the kitchen and steps on floorboards that don't creak. 

Your daughter has come home from college for winter break. You ask her to dye your hair. Before, you would ask her to pluck any grey hairs, but there are too many now. They've invaded your roots. You'd be bald if she tried. In the bathroom, you sit on the side of the tub while she unboxes the same box of dye you buy every time. L'Oreal Paris Excellence Permanent Hair Color, Medium Maple Brown. She squeezes a tube of developer into a plastic bottle and twists the cap back on, then shakes the bottle. Your daughter has grown so much. You used to hold her foot in your hand and play with her toes. Now she massages your scalp with dye, stroking wet strands to the back where your ears won't be stained.

The bathroom stinks of factory chemicals. Your daughter turns on the air vent, and you watch her through the mirror. You are worried about her being at a college far away. She cried the first time you dropped her off at the airport. She promised she would wave to you from the escalator going up to the TSA checkpoint, but she couldn't. Her back was the last thing you saw before she disappeared around the corner. You pretended not to notice, because you remembered having to say bye to your parents at the airport. It was hard. Your father wouldn't leave the smoking zone, and your mother hugged you in front of the women's bathroom. You sucked in a breath, and the smell of her sunscreen hit. When you guys split, your mother's whole right shoulder was drenched. 

You ask your daughter if she needs to go back to campus. Stay here and study! She shrugs. You pretend to sob and dab your eyes for extra effect. She just shakes her head.

"My kid doesn't love me! What kind of kid are you, huh?" 

You really miss your child when she's away. Alone in your home, you feel you are forgetting how to speak. To get to her, you'd have to take a six-hour flight. Longer if there are layovers. All you can do is call her day after day and call her until she answers. You complain to her about your boss, and she reminds you that your boss is an old, old lady. You tell her how freezing rice can lower calories, and she  wonders where you found this information. You ask if she's made any new friends, and she always says yes. That makes you relieved and a little sad.

You plan on going back to Korea. You plan on it someday. You really do, but first you need to make sure your kid will be okay. You fought with her in the car once when she was in seventh grade, because she said she wanted to become a photographer. At a red stoplight, she glared at you through the rear-view mirror.

"Don't you want me to be happy?" 

An old man jogged down the crosswalk, holding his earphones from falling. You chewed on your lower lip. A strip of skin peeled off, like the outside layer of a grape. The light turned green.  

"I want you to be safe."

You sit on an ice cooler in the balcony of your apartment and light a cigarette. You remember the first cigarette you smoked. It was your father's. You found his stack of packs behind plastic wine cups on the top shelf of your parents' kitchen. You snuck out at night with your hands in your pockets. Crouched down in the alleyway of a convenience store and pulled out a stick. You were so nervous, you drooled all over it when you stuck it in your mouth. The paper went soggy and limp. You peeled your shirt off once you got home and buried it at the bottom of the washer. I'm never doing it again, you thought to yourself in bed. 

You've smoked so many since; you try guessing what number this cigarette is. You take your time twirling it between your fingers. Below, a car screams. E-E-E-E! Red lights flash. A door slams, and the screaming stops. Above, the moon looks like the clipped-off part of a toenail. You stare at a star that's actually a red-eye flight. You hate planes, but you'd love to take a vacation. Somewhere warm but not humid. Am I a good mom? You don't think so, but you're trying. You wonder if that's enough. 

The strap of your flip-flop breaks as you squish your stub of a cigarette. You hop back inside, sliding the mesh cover shut. Pat the walls in the dark until you make your way to your daughter's room. You fall on her bed. The mattress sinks. She wakes up and tries to push you away because you stink, but you hug her tight. She's here for just one more week. It isn't long before your daughter snores again as you take out loose bobby pins from her hair. Even though she's twenty now, she's still your baby, no matter what.