The Interpreter (12 page)

Authors: Suki Kim

BOOK: The Interpreter

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“Are you one of her students?” Suzy stoops a little to face her.
“No, not anymore,” the girl answers, lowering her gaze as though she is not used to making eye contact with an adult. Her jeans are belted too high, definitely no hip-huggers. No piercing in her ears. No makeup whatsoever. A true FOB. There were girls like this even back in Suzy’s school days. They spoke very little English and only hung out with each other. They carried Hello Kitty bags and kept photos of Korean pop stars in their wallets. They looked frightened when white boys spoke to them and avoided girls like Suzy and Grace, whom they secretly called Twinkie.

“But you know where she might be?”

The girl nods, still without looking up. She seems suspicious of Suzy. Why wouldn’t she be? Here’s an adult who spent the better part of the morning throwing up in the school toilet. In the world of teenagers, just being an adult is reason enough for suspicion. To appease her, Suzy asks softly, “So is Miss Park a good teacher? Do students like her?” She is not sure why she wants to know, but she does. Grace’s life. This bashful teenager in front of her. This first-floor ladies’ room. This concrete building filled with ebullient sixteen-year-olds. This suburban town half an hour away from Port Authority.

“Yes,” the girl answers with surprising eagerness. Then, as if suddenly aware of her own voice, she drops her gaze and mumbles, “They said I’m ready to quit ESL, but Ms. Park lets me sit in her class sometimes. She says it’ll get rid of my headache.”

“A headache?”

“Ms. Park says that so much English all day is what’s giving me a headache.”

A strange thing for an ESL teacher to say. Suzy has never quite thought of it that way—the English language being a headache-inducer. She wonders if such a reaction might also happen at depositions. She wonders if her translation sometimes sends the witness home with a migraine. Then she realizes that
her own headache has faded. She probably threw up all the alcohol. Her stomach must be spotlessly clean, emptied.

“Can you show me to her class?”

The girl nods again, leading the way. The classroom is on the third floor. The stairs are steep and wide, the way they often are in old buildings. The students obviously get enough exercise, walking up and down between classes. The second bell must not have rung yet. Kids are rushing from lockers to classes, some grumpy and morose, some clapping high fives with dramatic facial expressions. Those are the popular kids, Suzy can tell. The ones who are not afraid to be seen, the ones used to being seen.

Neither Suzy nor Grace had known such teenage years. Theirs was the darkness surrounding home, the brooding silence before a storm. Suzy is not sure if her parents had always been so uninterested in each other, or if they just ran out of things to say over the years. It did not help that they were always tired. By the time they came home, around nine or ten, they had been working for over twelve hours. By rule, Suzy and Grace would have to sit at the table while they ate, although almost always both girls had already eaten. Often Dad burst into a rage, the violent, vicious thrashing of words. He would lash out at whoever happened to be near. Sometimes he would grumble about the
kimchi
being too sour, the rice not cooked enough, the anchovies too salty. He would take a bite and make a face, and then storm out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. Sometimes he would scream at both Suzy and Grace for sitting there like idiots while he slaved all day to put food on the table. Mom would never say anything back. She would sit there and finish her rice to the bottom of the bowl, and then get up to clear the dishes. She would never ask Suzy or Grace for help. She would never apologize for Dad’s moods. She would pretend that nothing had happened. Then, finally, she would turn to both and say, “Go finish your homework and get to bed, it’s a school
night.” Suzy can still hear Mom.
It’s a school night
. She would say it sometimes even on weekends. Both her parents often worked seven days a week. They rarely had weekends.

With each job, with each endless hour they labored at dry cleaners, liquor stores, fruit-and-vegetable markets, nail salons, delis, truck-delivery service, car service, they seemed to have lost something of themselves, a sort of language with which they had communicated with each other and their daughters. Sure, it could have been the claustrophobia of immigrant life, being stuck in Korean enclaves that remained ignorant of English-speaking America. But there was something deeper. Something terrible that seemed to have haunted both. Something resembling fear that stirred Dad’s rage and Mom’s pointed absence, and always the two girls were made to sit and watch. Everything always came to the same end. The reason was Korea. The final answer was Korea. All of their discontent, their misery, their endless wanderings through the slums of outer New York happened only because they had left their country. The girls were bad girls because they spoke English, rather than their native Korean. The houses they kept moving through were temporary shelters with torn mattresses on the floor, because America could never be home. But of course her parents had no intention of returning to Korea. It was an excuse, Suzy thought. Korea was a crutch. It was what they used to keep the girls on their own terms.

Yet the one thing both Suzy and Grace so desperately wanted was to be American girls, full-fledged American darlings, more golden than the girl next door, even cheerier than the prom queen, definitely sweeter than all-American sweethearts. Far, far away from their parents’ Korea, which stuck to them like an ugly tattoo.

How misguided such a dream: neither even made it to the prom. Dad would never have allowed it, but it did not matter
really, for the girls were always new in their high school and had hardly any friends. No boy would have asked Suzy, and the ones Grace knew would have laughed at the idea. Besides, a prom was a luxury at the sort of schools to which they transferred. Most kids came from immigrant homes. No boy could dish out a hundred bucks for a night. No girl looked good in ruffled dresses. Pink satin was for white girls. A limousine? Why hire one when your father’s the cabbie? A prom belonged in those Molly Ringwald movies, in which the prettiest girl, pretending to be a geek, ends up winning the rich, handsome, sensitive football captain for the last dance. High schools, as Suzy knew, had nothing to do with sweet sixteen. You were lucky if you didn’t get mugged on the way to the locker. You were lucky if you didn’t get frisked by the policeman at the gate ready to crack down on drug gangs. The golden girl, the girl next door, the all-American sweetheart didn’t get made in the gutters of Queens.

“Here we are.” The girl turns around, stopping abruptly in the middle of the hallway.

“The prom … when’s your prom?” Suzy blurts out, then quickly regrets it, realizing that this might be too far-fetched for the girl.

“Prom?” asks the girl, her eyes widening.

“No, never mind,” mutters Suzy, finding herself before Grace’s classroom.

It is hard to believe that Grace must be inside. It suddenly occurs to Suzy that she might be too early. 8:50 a.m., not the best time for a surprise visit. But, then, it might even work to her advantage. Grace would have to greet her politely, first thing in the morning, showing up before her entire class. But it would not be fair to walk in on her like that, nor would it be wise. Instead, Suzy suggests, “Could you ask Miss Park to come outside? Tell her someone’s here to see her.” The girl is still vexed by Suzy’s question about the prom but seems relieved that the
subject is being dropped. Before disappearing inside, she turns around once, as if making sure Suzy is still there.

A few minutes later, the door opens to reveal the girl, followed by an older woman. Short-waisted and blotchy-skinned, she reminds Suzy of Michael’s secretary, Sandy. Although Suzy has never seen Sandy in person, she imagines Sandy to have a similar look, the nervous look of a woman who’s been on her own too long.

“May I help you? I’m Ms. Goldman,” she says, peering at Suzy as if searching for a clue.

“I’m here to see … Grace Park. Is she not available?” Suzy stammers, barely hiding her disappointment, and a tinge of relief.

“Miss Park, well, she’s not here today.” Ms. Goldman glares at the little girl, as if shooing her away. The girl turns bright red, embarrassed for overstaying her welcome. Then she makes a slight bow in Suzy’s direction and slouches down the hall, glancing back a few times.

“I’m a family member. Is she ill?” Strange that she should say “family member” instead of “sister.” But Suzy cannot bring up the word “sister” with this woman who seems irrelevant, too irrelevant to be standing in Grace’s place.

“Family? I didn’t realize Miss Park had any family.” Ms. Goldman raises an eyebrow, sizing up Suzy. “She’s not ill. She’s gone on vacation.” Obviously Ms. Goldman does not notice the resemblance, unlike Bob out in Montauk. Perhaps Grace was right. Perhaps it is only white men who can’t tell one Asian girl from another. But Suzy is used to this look, this subtle look of disappointment. Often it came from other Korean women.
Sisters?
They would repeat, scanning Suzy once more, as if they felt sorry for the sibling who fared so poorly, by comparison, in looks.

“A vacation? Did she say for how long?” It is as if Grace knew Suzy was coming, and had slipped away just in time.

“Two weeks, although … well …” Ms. Goldman is about to say something but quickly changes her mind.

“I’ve sort of fallen out of touch with her because … I’ve been away. Do you know where I can find her?” Suzy puts on an apologetic smile. People are suckers for family values. They don’t like to hear about a sibling falling-out. They want reconciliation, and if it takes a slight breach of promise, oh well, it’s all for the good of getting a family back together.

But Ms. Goldman is not so easy. She is not moved by Suzy’s smile, and instead dismisses her with a firm note: “No, I have no idea. I must go back inside now. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

And just like that, Suzy is left standing alone in the hallway. Teachers, that’s what she remembers about them. Never answer questions that matter; never give anything away unless they have to. Perhaps Grace had warned her. Perhaps the whole school is hiding Grace from Suzy.

With students gone, the hallway is endless. Eerily quiet, except for the occasional murmur and laughter from classrooms. She would now have to try the administrative office, which is located at the east end of the first floor. Its formidable door opens to a reception area, and another door farther back which leads to the principal’s office. The haphazard state of the desk indicates that someone has only just stepped out. The carpeted sofa feels more plushy than it looks. Suzy is tempted to stretch out, eyeing the stack of newspapers and magazines on the table.
The Jersey Journal, Education Today, Child Psychology
, some of them dating back to the previous summer. There couldn’t be a duller selection. Resting her head on the cushion, she is about to recline when she notices an odd one sticking out. It is barely a newspaper. A slim volume entitled
1.5 Generation
, which is just a bunch
of legal-sized sheets stapled together. The first page reveals “A letter from the editor” that ends with an exaggerated signature. Across the top runs, “A Quarterly of News, Arts, Ideas and Colleges: published by the Asian American Student Union.” It is an amateurish rendition of an alternative weekly. Its format is familiar, down to the last page filled with ads from local Korean restaurants and tuxedo rentals—not surprising, considering more than 30 percent of the student body is Korean. The 1.5 generation—the immigrants caught between the first and the second generations. They used to call Suzy that too. But it never sounded right. “1.5” still meant real Koreans, she thought. Ones who were born and raised in Korea long enough; ones whose fluent English will never forget its Korean accent; ones who, without a second thought, would root for the Korean team if the two countries were to ever meet for the World Cup. It’s these kids who proudly call themselves 1.5 and brandish the word “multicultural” with the surest sense of allegiance. Definitely not Suzy, who has never even made the proper minority.

It is then that her eyes stop at the photo under a column called “Locker Talk,” whose caption reads, “Check it out, BMW M5! Is this dude rich enough for Miss Park?” A gossip page in which recognizable names are highlighted with photos to match. The photo reveals a car parked in a lot; if there’s a man inside, it is impossible to tell. Suzy quickly scans the article, searching for the corresponding paragraph, but the rest is the student stuff: who’s going out with whom, who was at whose slumber party, who’s likely to end up at Harvard on early decision. No more mention of Grace. No explanation of the car or the man.

“May I help you?”

Behind the reception desk sits a thirty-something redhead in a pink sweater set, holding a cup of coffee. Odd that Suzy did not even hear her come in. Which door did she appear from?

“Hi, I’m here to inquire about Miss Park,” says Suzy, rising from the sofa while discreetly shoving the quarterly in her bag.

“Yes?” Her lips curl up in a simper. She is a natural. The sort of face any school would be glad to have.

“Miss Grace Park, she teaches ESL.”

“Yes?” The parrot smile. The woman is custom-made.

“Do you have a number where she can be reached?”

“Have you tried her class?”

“Excuse me?”