A Step from Heaven (10 page)

The coffee table is overturned, Korean newspaper strewn all over the carpet. The smell of Apa's alcohol breath soaks the air.
I pick up a broken picture frame, the photo of our family at the airport in Korea slightly skewed, and set it on the couch. In the kitchen, I find an old plastic bag and fill it with some ice.

Here, Uhmma, I say and offer her the bag of ice. Uhmma takes it from me, presses it to her eye, and grimaces. I stand hovering above her, unsure of what to do, what to say, how I can help. On her lap, I notice the checkbook. Uhmma sees me staring and pushes the checkbook under her leg, out of sight.

Young Ju, go to sleep, Uhmma says.

But Uhmma, I protest.

Please, Young Ju, Uhmma begs.

I press my lips together, give Uhmma a few seconds to change her mind.

Do not speak of this to anyone, Uhmma says. Not even Gomo. Now go to sleep.

I walk back to my bedroom.

•  •  •

A rectangle. Picture frame. Doorway. Uhmma sits at Apa's card table desk, both elbows on the surface. She holds the checkbook up to her face, moving her lips, feeling her way among the numbers. She puts the checkbook down and cups her chin with one hand; the other hand punches numbers into a calculator. While she checks the numbers on the calculator against the numbers in the checkbook, Uhmma absent-mindedly rubs her thumb back and forth. Back and forth over the unfamiliar nakedness of her ring finger. The small green desk lamp on the far corner of the table throws the shadows of her face deeper, longer. Into the night.

Today we are going to church, Uhmma announces.

Joon and I look up from our breakfast bowls of rice and seaweed soup.

Church? I ask.

Uhmma sits down with her bowl of soup and nods. She says, I met the minister while I was shopping at the Korean market.

Wait, he was not one of those men who stand outside all day? I ask.

He does not stay there the whole day, Uhmma says, taking a sip of her soup.

I close my eyes. This is the man who wears his pants hitched up to his chin and a white button-down shirt. Every Friday and Saturday he stands outside with his stack of writings about what prayer and God can do to change your life. I have seen him jump over bushes to make sure someone did not leave the store without a little stapled booklet. I hate the way he smiles so big you can see his pasty pink gums.

Uhmma puts down her spoon and says, Grace Church is just starting and the minister is a very welcoming and understanding man. Uhmma picks up her spoon and takes a sip of her soup. We need some prayer in our lives, she adds.

Joon pretends he has not heard any of it. He keeps his head down and shoves more soup into his mouth.

What about Apa? I ask. Will Apa go to church too?

Uhmma shakes her head, her eyes on her soup.

I look down the hall toward the bedroom where Apa is still sleeping. More and more, instead of going to his gardening job
on Sundays, he stays home drinking beer and watching TV. Joon and I hide in our rooms reading. It's better to stay out of his sight.

All the way to church, Joon sits in the back seat with his arms crossed. Every once in a while he sighs so loud it sounds like he's trying to blow the station wagon off course. Uhmma doesn't even check the rear-view mirror. She knows that Joon, like Apa, can cast a scowl so long it shadows his entire face.

I sit in the front seat staring out the window, thinking about the time that Halmoni taught me to pray. Her hands folded on top of mine, her whispered words. Now that I'm older, I don't really believe there is someone listening to me. But Uhmma must still believe. I glance at her. Uhmma gently pats the back of her head, making sure all the strands of her braided hair are in place. When she catches me staring, she blushes and puts her hand back on the steering wheel.

Grace Church is nothing but a basement rented from the bigger church with white people upstairs. Every once in a while you can hear everyone standing up for a song. Feet shuffle so loud the ceiling sounds ready to rain. The main part of the basement is lined with hard brown foldout chairs already filled with people. Up at the front of the room a man with slicked-down hair stands at a podium surrounded by two stands of yellow and white flowers. He busily sets out some books and prepares himself for the sermon. I strain my neck to see if it's the same man who jumps over the bushes. The sharp click of high-heeled shoes rings out behind us. A woman with her hair cut short as a boy's, but lips covered in bright pink lipstick to match the pink scarf at her throat, waves to us.

Ahn-young-ha-say-yo, she says and bows. I am the minister's wife, Mrs. Kim.

Ahn-young-ha-say-yo, Uhmma says and bows back. I am Mrs. Park and these are my children, Park Young Ju and Park Joon Ho. Uhmma pushes us forward.

Ahn-young-ha-say-yo, I say and bow.

Joon mumbles something that sounds close to the formal greeting, but he does not bow. Uhmma gives Joon a hard look and then starts to pat her cheek nervously.

Mrs. Park, the minister's wife says, we are delighted that you could join us on such a fine Sunday morning. The Lord has truly blessed us today, amen.

Amen, Uhmma says shyly.

The minister's wife turns to us. Young Ju and Joon Ho, you must be very excited to meet the other children and the youth minister, Mr. Shin. She says to Uhmma, He is a most fine speaker. They will enjoy Sunday school.

We follow Mrs. Kim to a small, square room at the back of the basement. A thin man who looks young enough to be a college student leans against a desk talking in a loud, nasal voice. Uhmma bumps me forward and then waves good-bye when I turn around to give her a dirty look. They quietly close the door behind them and leave Joon and me standing there.

I scan the room, trying to find a place to sit, and notice the tall file cabinets in the corner, the phone on the desk. This room looks more like an office than a classroom. In the far back corner, at the edge of the rug, there is some space. I pull on Joon's shirt and we make our way next to two girls with the same shoulder-length black hair. They scoot over to give us more room. Joon and I sit cross-legged on the floor.

For an hour Mr. Shin uses Korean and English examples to talk about the compassion of God. Joon immediately gets bored and begins to unravel the edge of the rug. Though I try to pay attention, my eyes keep wandering over to the two girls sitting directly in front of me. They look about eleven, maybe twelve. Their matching yellow shirts and brown jumpers, not to mention the same haircut and daisy barrettes, make them look like twins. I check their hair for split ends.

When my legs begin to tingle from sitting still too long, I tap one of the twins and ask for directions to the bathroom. She whispers, “It's out in the big hall, by the front door.”

I tiptoe quietly across the large room. Uhmma sits by herself in the back row. Her head is bowed, her back rounded, shoulders slumped. For a moment, I stop walking and stare at her small, huddled form. The chorus up front sings a slow song filled with high notes that reach impossibly for the sky. Uhmma prays, though everyone else around her sings.

After the adult service ends, we meet Uhmma in the fellowship hall. Joon stands in front of the refreshment table greedily piling his square napkin with doughnuts. Uhmma walks around with the minister's wife, bowing to everyone she meets. After she makes it all the way around the room, she comes back to Joon and me.

Time to go home, Uhmma says, her face flushed pink at the top of her cheeks. She delicately tucks some stray hairs behind her ear.

Joon grabs another doughnut as we leave.

On the car ride home, Uhmma glances at me and asks, Did you like Sunday school?

I shrug.

Did you like it, Joon Ho?

The sermon was boring, Joon replies from the back. But the doughnuts were good.

Our answers do not seem to bother Uhmma. She simply says that church will get better once we know more people. Then she begins to hum. Not a song really, just a pattern of notes tied together like popcorn on string. Uhmma hums all the way past the exit to our house.

Uhmma, I remind her, you missed the exit.

I know, Uhmma says. We are not going home yet. I feel like going to the beach.

Hardly anyone goes to the beach on a breezy winter day except a few walkers. The wind whips our hair around our faces, but the bright sun keeps us warm, almost hot. Joon runs ahead, his shoes and socks already pulled off and dangling from his hands. He slip-slides through the sand, heading for the water's edge. Uhmma and I remove our shoes and step off the sidewalk. A dog in the distance barks at a seagull that has gotten too close.

Uhmma holds her high heels in one hand, her stocking feet buried in the sand. The other hand shields her eyes as she takes in the horizon. Today, Uhmma says, I feel like I can take in a full breath of air.

I nod and swirl my feet through the rough grains, enjoying the gritty tickling at the bottom of my feet.

Uhmma begins to sing the song from church, the one that reached impossibly for the sky. I listen to Uhmma sing. Her voice carries all the high notes.

It is Amanda's first party. A beach birthday party. With boys. I can't go. Uhmma and Apa do not like it that my best friend is an American, a girl who might influence me in the wrong ways. Fast American ways. Supposedly, American girls do not study, they are boy-crazy, and they do not think of anyone but themselves. Uhmma and Apa do not want me to end up like them.

But Uhmma, I beg, following her down the hall to the kitchen. It is her birthday.

No, Young Ju. You can see her at school and give her your gift then, but you do not need to go to the beach with her.

Why? I ask and slam my body into a chair. Why, Uhmma? What is so wrong with going to the beach?

Always why with you. Do not let your Apa hear those kinds of words. Already he has been complaining that you ask too many questions. Aigoo, Young Ju, we will go to the beach another time, Uhmma says. She pulls some scallions out of the refrigerator and rinses them off in the sink.

That is not the same, I cry. Amanda needs me at the party. I am her best friend!

As Uhmma carries the scallions to the cutting board near the stove, she gives me a narrow-eyed glance. This is a sore subject.

I change my tactics. Uhmma, Amanda has been so nice to me. When I missed school from that cold, she gave me all her notes from class.

That is nice, Uhmma says and chops the scallions in half.

And when it was my birthday she got me this necklace, I say and pull out from under my shirt collar my half of the
FRIENDS FOREVER
heart necklace.

Uhmma press her lips together but does not look in my direction. She lines up the halves of the scallions and starts to chop. Fine slivers of green and white circles cover the cutting board.

I slump in my seat and say, And when I did not have any lunch money, she let me borrow some from her.

What!
Uhmma stops chopping in mid-motion, knife raised in the air.

Nothing, I quickly say.

What did you say, Young Ju? Uhmma waves the knife in the air.

I scratch my cheek, look up at the ceiling, sigh. When I did not have any lunch money and we ran out of bread last week, Amanda let me borrow some money.

Young Ju, how could you do this? Uhmma cries, putting down the knife. You took money from Ah-man-dah? Uhmma asks.

Yes, I say. She is my friend and she said I could borrow it.

Now you are obligated to her. Uhmma leans her hip against the counter.

I am not obligated to her, Uhmma. I am going to pay her back.

Young Ju, have I not taught you never to take from others? Do not make yourself obligated to another person.

Uhmma, she is my friend. I stand up and wave my arms in the air. This is America. In America it is fine to borrow money from friends.

Stop that, Uhmma says. We are Korean. Do not forget.

I sit back down. Korean. Then why did we move to America?

You can go to the party, Uhmma says.

I'm so stunned I'm not sure I heard correctly. Did she say I could go?

What? I ask.

You must fulfill your obligation for inconveniencing her. Also, you will pay her back the money you borrowed. Uhmma shakes her head. Have I not taught you anything? After this, do not take anything from her. Understand?

Yes, Uhmma. I jump out of my chair to get ready for the party before she has a chance to change her mind.

As Uhmma drives toward the pier, I can see a group of kids from school in the far distance.

I turn to Uhmma. Stop, Uhmma. You can drop me off here.

The station wagon's brakes groan and then squeal in a high-pitched scream as Uhmma comes to a stop near the curb.

Uhmma squints at the kids. Are those not your friends over there?

I turn my head away from her and look out my window at the long stretch of sand. I lie softly, That is another group. You can drop me off here and I will look around for Amanda. She said they would be near the pier.

Are you sure you will be able to find them? Uhmma worries.

I open the car door and toss back, Do not worry, Uhmma, I know where to find them. Remember that Amanda is going to drop me off at home so you do not have to come back and get me.

Yes, I will remember, Uhmma says.

I step out of the car and wave good-bye. Uhmma leans across the passenger seat, giving me a finger shake. Young Ju, do not
forget to give Ah-man-dah the money you borrowed. Be a polite girl and help her parents with the party.

I hold the door, ready to slam it shut. Yes, Uhmma, I say, waving again. “Bye.”

Uhmma waves back. Have a nice time, Young Ju.

I slam the door and walk away. The station wagon sputters as Uhmma presses on the gas pedal. I know without turning around that there are dark clouds of smoke streaming from the muffler.

•  •  •

Amanda and her parents do not know where I live. We have always hung out at Amanda's house because I lied and said Uhmma and Apa owned a restaurant that kept them working long hours so there was usually no one home. Mr. Doyle, Amanda's father, drives slowly, waiting for my instructions.