in the Cheongju area; some of them further out in Daejeon.
My mother brings kimchi and dumpling sauce to the table and indicates for us to sit down. Miho says thank you softly and Sujin echoes her.
“She has gotten much prettier,” says Mrs. Youngja to my mother.
“Such style,” says Mrs. Sukhyang.
“It’s Gangnam style,” they chortle together.
“When are you girls leaving?” asks Mrs. Youngja.
“The day after tomorrow,” says Sujin.
“What? That’s so soon! Well, there isn’t any time, then,” says Mrs. Sukhyang. “You better ask Ara quick.”
“Ask her what?” Sujin says. The women look at her and I know what they are thinking—how forward, such bad manners, must be the orphanage. My skin tingles but Sujin winks at me.
My mother looks pained but seems to make up her mind. It can’t be all that serious if she is going to tell me in front of a kitchen full of people.
“How is the salon job going?” she asks me slowly.
“It’s going great,” pipes Sujin. “Ara can cut my hair with her eyes closed now. She has so many regulars that they have to call at least a week in advance for an appointment. So many rich ladies who all want her to give them digital perms. They love talking to her. They say she is very soothing.”
“Is that right?” asks my mother, smiling with pride. I am about to shrug, but Sujin jabs me under the table, so I grimace and nod instead.
What did you want to talk to me about? I write.
My mother takes the notepad and holds it closer to see, and then takes a breath. “Now that you are home, I just want you to set aside some time,” she says. “You’re getting older, and so many of your friends are marrying.”
What are you talking about? I write furiously. No one is getting married. Don’t you ever see the news? It’s a national problem.
She waits for me to finish writing, and then reads what I wrote.
“Well, here everyone is getting married. You know Hyehwa? From the bakery?”
Hyehwa had been my year in high school. Sujin and I both nod.
“She’s getting married next month! I see her every week when we get our bread. Maybe you can stop by and tell her congratulations in person while you are here.”
I had thought that my parents would have given up by now on their mute, wayward, idol-obsessed daughter. Hyehwa had always been a goody two-shoes in school. Maybe Sujin pushed her around a few times, I don’t remember. I glance at Sujin, but she is looking very innocent as she spoons more broth from her bowl.
“Moon the hairdresser is looking for an assistant,” says my mother abruptly. “Do you remember him?”
Of course I knew him—shaggy Mr. Moon, who had a beard and a raspy voice. I’d swept floors for him for a summer in high school and babysat his son sometimes. He had given me free hair tint samples that I had passed to Sujin.
They must be doing well if he needs an assistant, I write. His wife and her twin sister also worked in the salon, I remember. But my mother couldn’t possibly be thinking that I would come work for Mr. Moon’s tiny little shop back home.
“His wife left,” she says. “Her sister too. They went back to Daejeon.”
Well that is sad, I write.
“His son really liked you,” she says.
The beady-eyed Moon baby definitely had not liked me. He had shrieked his head off whenever I took him for a walk in the stroller.
“We were talking about you, and he remembers you warmly,” says my mother. The other two women are watching me with owlish eyes. “He asks about you quite often.”
“He is a good man, that Moon,” says Mrs. Sukhyang, nodding. “He was too good for that tramp of a wife of his.”
Sujin and I exchange amused glances, but Miho leans forward.