Fox Girl (27 page)

On the day Apple killed her baby, there was so much steam in the bathhouse you couldn't even see your hand in front of your face. Because of the steam, it was a while before the crowd of women realized that something was wrong with Apple. She was holding her boy, rocking and crying, rocking and crying, while his head swayed under the hot water.

“One less,” my father's wife had commented when she looked over, dismissing the turmoil. She tried to pull me away, but I couldn't stop staring at the small body, cradled so tenderly in his mother's arms.

“She loved him very much,” I whispered again.

“She loved herself more, I guess,” Sookie said. She looked at me, then at Myu Myu before turning back to her gossip column. “Doesn't it always come down to that, in the end?”

 

Yoon sent the visa papers to Club Foxa, and whatever I made performing was funneled through the club as down payment for my new life. My body continued to work the routine of stripping and honeymooning at the club, but my mind whirled through the details of leaving: pictures for the passport application; birth documentation; student records; interview responses; and mostly, the problem of Myu Myu.

Afraid of revealing my plans before they were set, I avoided talking to Sookie and Lobetto as much as possible during this time. When I did speak with Sookie, I would contrive to mention our childhood, how much we loved each other, how sisters should never abandon each other in time of need. “And after all, we are also mothers together,” I told her once.

Sookie grimaced. “What are you talking about?” Her eyes darted past me, scouting the bar for Joes who showed up for the early evening happy hour. In truth, it was always happy hour at Foxa; the prices for drinks or women never went up or down.

I forced myself to smile, to be patient. “In a way,” I explained, “Myu Myu is a daughter to both of us.”

“Whatever you say,” Sookie answered, shrugging. She had spotted a shy ugly and, having scooted off her bar stool, was already moving toward him.

Perhaps, looking back, I should have paid more attention to Sookie. I should have noticed how preoccupied she was, how she almost doubled her work in the backbooths and the alley-ways. I should have noticed, too, how she was suddenly on better terms with Bar Mama, apparently more willing to line her pockets. I assumed they had worked out an under-the-table agreement that benefitted both of them: Sookie working Foxa without hassle; Bar Mama getting double commission off the same set of registration papers—two of us for the price of one. In truth, Sookie
had
worked out a deal, and if I hadn't been so distracted with plotting my own strategy, I might have realized that she had her own secrets to hide.

 

The night before my interview in Seoul, I dressed in a plain shirt and long gray skirt reminiscent of my school uniform. I braided my hair and scrubbed my face free of the makeup I had worn the night before. The birthmark gleamed, a dark sea in the landscape of my face. Yoon had laughed when she realized that the birthmark would be my best proof of morality—they would not think I was pretty enough to be a prostitute. “Don't hide it,” Yoon had told me. “Make sure you expose that side of your face as much as possible.”

In contrast to my outfit, I dressed Myu Myu in her fanciest clothes. Even though it was warm, I layered her silk
hanbok
and her embroidered Western-style dress over her nightgown. I tucked an envelope of money into her clothes, against her chest. Rising to leave, I thought of one more thing. I knelt back down and reached under Lobetto's mattress and pulled out a stack of photos. I flipped through them and found one of Sookie and me, our faces tilted toward each other. A little blurred, my birthmark seems a trick of the light, an illusion of shadow. I placed a finger over the photograph, covering half of both Sookie and myself. Searching for similarities, I compared our faces feature by feature, piece by piece.

Then I held the photograph next to Myu Myu, wanting to be able to see what part of the baby was Sookie, what was me, what was neither, what was both of us. I saw Myu Myu only as herself. I folded the picture until it was small enough to slip into the money envelope. That way, she would have something to remember me, her second mother, by.

I planned to leave Myu Myu with Kitchen Auntie, catch the train to Seoul, and stay there until I left for America. I reasoned that Kitchen Auntie, though she acted gruff, loved the baby and would make sure she was cared for. She could watch Myu Myu at night, since she was already doing so anyway, and when I told her Sookie was the baby's first mother, she would force Sookie to take responsibility during the day. The money in the envelope would be payment enough until I was able to send more from Hawai‘i.

Entering the kitchen door of Foxa, I hurried to Myu Myu's box. I held her close, letting myself nuzzle her, soak in her scent. “Bye-bye, my sweetheart,” I murmured into Myu Myu's neck. I rubbed my teeth against her skin, tickling and tasting. “My little rice cake.”

Kitchen Auntie, who was soaking cabbage leaves in brine, looked up from the sink at Myu Myu's laughter. Frowning, she scanned my outfit, my hair, my face. “You come to work dressed like a missionary?” she scolded, flapping one of her hands, reddened from the salt water, at me. “How much money you going to make like that?”

I nestled Myu Myu into the box. “I have my reasons,” I said, stroking Myu's hair, her cheeks, her fingers that grabbed mine.

“Something for your show tonight?” Kitchen Auntie guffawed. Then, with a swift intake of breath, she knew. “Don't you dare leave that child here,” she said.

I loosened my finger from Myu Myu's grip and turned to face Kitchen Auntie. I made my face, my voice, my heart hard. “I need to go to Seoul for a few days.”

Kitchen Auntie slapped at the sink full of water and cabbage. Water sloshed onto the floor and across her blouse. “Shit,” she swore. Patting at her clothes with her equally wet hands, Kitchen Auntie rushed to Myu Myu's box. “Take her with you.” She grabbed Myu and tried to push her into my arms. “You're her mama.”

Squirming, Myu protested the wet and rough handling. Her arms flailed and she yowled, opening and closing her hands, as she looked at me.

I backed away, refusing to acknowledge the baby's cries. “No,” I told Kitchen Auntie. “I can't.”

Kitchen Auntie continued to push, thrusting Myu Myu at me. “I'm not stupid. Yoon's been here before, taking girls with her.” She scowled. “Good for you, but don't leave the baby with me. I'm too old for this.”

I crossed my arms. “I'll make it worth your while—”

“No.” Kitchen Auntie shook Myu in front of my face, making her scream louder.

“I'll send you money from—” I yelled.

“No,” Kitchen Auntie yelled back. “You're the mother.”

I pushed Myu Myu away, hard enough to make Kitchen Auntie stagger back a few steps. “I'm not,” I screamed. “Sookie is! She'll take the baby when I'm gone.”

Kitchen Auntie scowled like she didn't believe me, then whirled out of the kitchen. “Sookie,” I heard her calling, “Sookie!”

I opened the back door to leave, but Kitchen Auntie hurried back, the baby tucked under one arm, dragging Sookie, who was too shocked to balk, with the other. “Stop!” she bellowed at me. Turning to Sookie, she demanded: “You the baby's mother?”

Sookie frowned at me—eyes flicking a quick question at my clothes—then glanced dismissively at the baby. “No,” she smirked. Prying her arm from Kitchen Auntie's claws, she turned to leave.

“I knew it!” Kitchen Auntie crowed.

“Sookie!” I yelped, scrambling to catch her. “Wait.”

She stilled, looking at my hand clutching her shoulder, her brow raised in question.

“I have a chance to get out of America Town,” I said, words tumbling out in a rush. “Now it's your turn to take care of the baby—your own flesh and blood. You need to be a mother. You need to—”

“I need to be a mother?” she snarled, trying to shake me off. “Me? I never needed it and never wanted it! You're the one—you were always the one—so don't you try to dump this kid on me now!”

“One of you needs to be the mother,” Kitchen Auntie grumbled. She had finally begun rocking Myu, trying to quiet her. “One of you take her so I can finish making kimchee.”

I hurried on, ignoring her: “I'd pay you. You wouldn't have to work here or anywhere—”

“Stop it!” Sookie screeched. “I'm not staying behind! I won't be pushed aside by you or anyone else! I saw what was going on so I talked to Yoon, too. You think you're the only one she wanted? I paid to make sure I was one of the girls she picked.” She whirled on Kitchen Auntie, wrenching Myu Myu from her arms. “I knew this child should have died inside me.”

Startled, Myu started squalling again as Sookie stormed to the sink. Sookie shook her like a rag doll. “Shut up! Shut up!” she raged. Her head whipping back and forth, Myu stuttered into silence.

I howled, long and wordless, and leapt forward to rescue Myu Myu.

After a sharp look at me, eyes wild and fierce, Sookie plunged Myu Myu into the sink, shoving her head under the leaves of cabbage that floated at the top of the water. “It'll be better for everybody.” Sookie panted. “You'll thank me later.”

Scratching at Sookie's arms, I called Myu's name, over and over, while her belly skimmed the surface, buoyant in the salted water, and her arms and legs lashing out, struggling through the pickling vegetables to grasp air. She squinted, blinked, opened her eyes wide, black marbles in the murky water.

I slapped Sookie, pulled her arms and her hair, screamed at her to stop. “Help me!” I shrieked at Kitchen Auntie, but she stood, rooted in shock, her hands covering her mouth.

“How dare you try and force this on me!” Sookie gritted her teeth and pushed harder, stiffening her arms. I could see the muscles of her arms strain, the veins in her hand popping blue, as she wrestled with the baby's surprising, slippery strength.

Wrestling past Sookie's arms, I reached for Myu Myu. Her body slid against my fingers as Sookie elbowed me in the ribs. “You're fucking crazy!” I snarled.

“I'm fighting for my life,” gasped Sookie.

I clawed at her hands. Myu's mouth parted, a silent mew that propelled a cluster of bubbles into the black seaweed of her hair and the white limbs of the cabbage. “Sookie,” I sobbed, “I'll take her back. I'll leave her with Lobetto.”

“Lobetto!” Sookie spat. “She's better off dead than growing up as another black mutt in America Town.”

Letting go of my hold on Myu Myu, I punched Sookie in the head. She stumbled forward, bellowing, and pressed Myu Myu deeper into the water. I bit her in the arm. When she reared back in anger and pain, I scooped the baby out of the water.

Myu Myu sputtered, retching water, her harsh gasps racking the sudden silence of the kitchen. I rocked her, cooing, and backed slowly toward the door, keeping an eye on Sookie.

Sookie stood, head bowed, hugging herself. I had bitten through skin; the water dripping off her elbows was tinged with blood. She was breathing almost as hard as Myu; I realized with a start she was crying. “That baby is yours,” she croaked. “She's dead to me.”

“Get out.”

Glancing away from Sookie, I saw Kitchen Auntie, ashen under the bright pink of her blush, swaying in front of the stove. For the first time, I saw her as the old woman she was, feeble and broken. “Get out,” she repeated, her voice shaking.

I couldn't tell if she was talking to me or to Sookie or to both of us, but I clutched Myu Myu to my chest and rushed out the door. I knew if we stayed—at Foxa, in America Town, in Korea—Myu Myu would die.

I had prepared, going over the questions and answers regarding family, schooling, and employment Yoon had me memorize for the interview. I thought I knew what to expect. But the American who greeted me at the door spoke Korean, not English. “Please, sit,” he said, pointing to the chair in front of his desk.

Disconcerted by his unexpected language, I took a moment to decipher his words. I stared at his mouth as it repeated, “sit,” and then moved woodenly toward the chair across from him. Settling Myu Myu into my lap, I perched on the edge of the seat.

“Thank you,” I murmured. Breathing deeply, I glanced down to reorganize my thoughts, and out of habit, licked my palm to smooth Myu's curls.

The interviewer's eyes followed my hand, scanning Myu's face. Tilting his head, puzzled, he asked the first question I had no memorized answer for: “Yours?”

I almost jumped from the chair. Instead, I forced a smile. “No, no.” I chuckled and shifted to attempt to hide the way Myu Myu clung to me like a baby monkey. “I'm only a student . . . her
nanny,
” I added, testing the American word.