Page 3 of Perfect Happiness

Jiyoo batted her eyes as she finally let the tears flow. She wasn’t sure if she believed her ears. Had Mother really just said, “Come here”? At times like this, “Come here” was more terrifying than “Go away.”

“Jiyoo Cha,” Mother said again.

Jiyoo was still not used to this name. Father’s last name was Seo. So, naturally, everyone, Grandma, Auntie, even her stepfather, called her “Jiyoo Seo.”

But recently Mother would refer to Jiyoo using stepfather’s last name.

She told Jiyoo she would go by this name next year when she entered elementary school.

Jiyoo needed to practice, Mother explained.

She needed to practice answering when Mother called her by what would soon become her new name.

Jiyoo walked over to Mother and stood in front of her.

“Jiyoo Cha,” Mother said again.

“Yes?” Jiyoo said reluctantly.

“Look at Mommy.” Her voice was now somewhat softer. Jiyoo raised her head.

“Why did Mommy get angry?”

Jiyoo knew the answer. How could she not? Mother always pointed it out to her. “Because I startled you.”

Mother extended her hand and touched the left side of Jiyoo’s jaw. It was Jiyoo’s right side that had been struck with the hair dryer.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little,” Jiyoo said before quickly adding, “But I’m fine now.”

Mother opened her arms toward Jiyoo. “Come here, my daughter.”

Jiyoo reluctantly entered Mother’s embrace. She could feel the sensation of Mother’s round, subtle, exposed breasts on her shoulder. She could also hear a heart pounding loudly, the way a rabid dog would bark. But she couldn’t tell if it was hers or Mother’s.

“Forget about dreams,” Mother muttered as she rubbed Jiyoo’s back with the tips of her fingers. “What’s important is that I love you more than anything else in the world.”

It sounded like Mother was talking to herself. Her words were as cold and distant as the wind that swept across the wetlands every day. Tears started to flow from Jiyoo’s eyes again, tickling her eyelashes.

“Do you understand?” Mother said as she held Jiyoo in front of her and looked her in the eye. At times like this, “Do you understand?” wasn’t really a question. It was Mother’s way of sending a message—a message that it was time to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Jiyoo said. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

Mother collected her hair behind her shoulders and sat up. Her breasts were tight and puffed out, like a pair of cocked pistols. Jiyoo glanced furtively to the side of the sofa. She was thinking about whether she should bring Mother her clothes or keep pretending she hadn’t noticed.

“I have something to tell you,” Mother said. She seemed like she was done talking about her hand. “Your father left yesterday.”

Mother’s eyes looked glazed over as she said this. Her eyes were directed at Jiyoo, but her attention was elsewhere. Jiyoo knew this look well.

“He told me to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t keep his promise.”

Jiyoo had already figured this out. She also had a hunch about why Mother wasn’t in a good mood.

She must have had a fight with Father last night.

Like they always did when they used to live together.

Mother believed that Jiyoo didn’t remember those times.

She was only half right. Although Jiyoo didn’t remember everything, there were a few fragments of memories that remained.

Like the vivid images from that night Mother cut her wrist with a kitchen knife.

That night, Mother and Father were having another fight.

She wailed and screamed and threw things at him.

Jiyoo hid under the kitchen table. She covered both ears to block out the screaming and closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see this person she didn’t recognize, all the while wishing desperately for the fight to be over.

Ever since then, the images from that day would from time to time find Jiyoo in her dreams. Mother sprawled out on the kitchen floor, her hand covered in blood, the kitchen knife at Jiyoo’s feet, Father’s hands as he wrapped Mother’s wrist in a towel, and the blood vessels popping out of his forehead.

Most vivid of all was the memory of waiting for Mother in the emergency room with Father.

Jiyoo figured something similar had happened last night.

But something seemed different. Of course, Mother had bandages on her hand again.

But this time, Father hadn’t taken her to the emergency room.

He had left even though Mother was bleeding.

Or was that really what happened? There was a whispering voice somewhere deep inside Jiyoo’s head that said otherwise, but Jiyoo didn’t want to hear it.

Instead, she waited for Mother to explain.

“Father won’t be coming back anymore.”

Jiyoo felt the tips of her dangling fingers twitch slightly.

Anymore? She wanted to ask what Mother meant by this, but she resisted the urge.

Mother had said so, and that was that. Asking wasn’t going to bring Father back.

Nor did Jiyoo have the courage to ask why he left.

After all, more important than Father’s absence was Mother’s feelings—at least to Jiyoo they were.

“I don’t mind,” Jiyoo said, finding a safe thing to say. “I can play with you, Mother.”

“No. Mommy has something to do. You go play in your room.”

“You want me to play in my room?” Jiyoo asked, not sure if she understood.

Jiyoo’s mother only stared back at her. This meant yes.

It also meant not to come back down until she gave Jiyoo permission.

In other words, she wouldn’t be going to the Half Moon Marsh today.

Jiyoo wanted to go, even if she had to go by herself.

She wanted to know why the loons had been so noisy last night.

“All day?”

“You can handle it, can’t you?” Mother asked.

Good daughters never say no to their mother. That was Mother’s Rule Number One.

“Yes,” Jiyoo replied.

“Do you have anything else you want to ask?”

Jiyoo could hear a voice in her ear saying, It’s better not to. So Jiyoo said no.

“Good. Then you know what you need to do now, right?”

“Go upstairs, get dressed, wash my face, and make my bed.”

Jiyoo gave an answer she knew her mother would like.

“Good. I will bring you breakfast in thirty.”

Breakfast? In my room? Jiyoo was about to ask Mother before shutting her mouth. Mother had never brought breakfast up to Jiyoo’s room before. Jiyoo thought this strange, but she tried not to let it bother her. All she wanted to do right now was escape Mother’s gaze as soon as possible.

“Okay. I’ll finish everything before you come upstairs.”

Jiyoo turned toward the living room door. Mother bent over and picked up the hair dryer that had dropped to the floor. The whirring started up again. When Jiyoo reached the threshold, her toe hit something. It was the nozzle to the hair dryer.

Jiyoo ever so slightly turned her chin to look back over her shoulder.

The hair dryer was by itself blowing hot air across the floor.

Mother, on the other hand, was on her knees, apparently looking for something underneath the sofa.

Jiyoo slid the hair dryer nozzle across the floor, which might have been the thing Mother was looking for.

But Jiyoo didn’t slide it toward Mother.

She slid it toward the kitchen table. The nozzle slid under the table like a speeding bullet.

It let out a scratching sound as it skidded across the floor, but it seemed like Mother hadn’t heard it.

If she had, she would have asked about it.

Jiyoo left the living room. She tiptoed up the stairs like a ballerina and then disappeared into her room.

*

That day was unbearably long. Jiyoo felt like she was trapped, not on the second floor, but in time.

Only after eating, going to the bathroom, perching on the windowsill and staring down at the wetlands, reading all of Frozen II: A New Destiny which Stepfather had bought for her, and glancing at her Snow White clock more than one hundred times did the sun finally set.

Even though she couldn’t make out the hands of the clock in the dark room, she knew it had just turned ten because the train of dwarves inside the clock made ten passes.

Jiyoo sat up in her bed. She leaned up against the headboard and listened to the sounds of night coming in through the window—branches from the maple tree in the front yard bumping up against one another, a faint breeze caressing the reeds, the barking of the dog from the neighbors down the road.

The night was placid, boring, and bright.

Lying on the moonlit windowsill was a tray with a bowl of goulash on rice, silverware, and a cup of water. Mother had brought it up an hour ago. It felt like she had barely remembered Jiyoo’s dinner.

When she brought the food, Jiyoo was lying on her bed pretending to be asleep. Without turning on the lights, Mother came into the room, laid down the tray, and then left. Jiyoo didn’t touch the goulash. But it wasn’t because it tasted bad.

Mother was as good at making goulash as she was making duck feed.

And Jiyoo knew exactly how she made it. Mother would stir-fry large chunks of beef with onion, add water and bring it to a boil, add goulash seasoning, paprika powder, and potatoes, then boil it all down until the meat was tender.

One pot was enough to last days. Just like seaweed soup, the longer you boiled it, the richer the flavor. At least, that’s what Mother said.

Apparently, Mother learned how to make goulash from her Hungarian roommate while studying in Russia. Stepfather’s opinion was that, of the dishes Mother cooked, this was one of the “acceptable” ones.