Suki Kim - The Interpreter

The only regular interaction between the sisters concerned chores, as though they were two strangers with one thing in common—the house rules. Grace, being older, was in charge of most housework, while Suzy helped with whatever was left unfinished: vacuuming, dusting, taking out trash, preparing rice. Grace was quick with everything. The house was spotlessly clean by the time she stood at the door in a skirt too short for a fifteen-year-old, telling Suzy, “The rice is rinsed. Stick it in the cooker in ten minutes. The rooms are vacuumed; make sure you put away the vacuum cleaner in the broom closet. Tell them that I’ve gone to the AP-English study group.” That was the extent of their conversation. Sometimes, in the morning, Suzy would ask her where she had gone on the previous evening. “The study group,” Grace would snap before walking out the door.

Then there was the interpreting. Neither of her parents had spoken much English, which meant that they relied on the girls to break the language barrier. But almost always the job fell on Grace, because she was the older one, and smarter. Grace, since she was little, had to pore over a letter from the bank trying to make sense of words like “APR” or “Balance Transfers,” or call Con Edison’s 800 number for a payment extension. Suzy would sit by her side, scared and anxious. There was something daunting about undertaking what should have been delegated to an adult. Not only was it nearly impossible to understand the customer-service representatives, but often they would not release information unless it was the account holder calling. Grace would plead, to no avail, that her parents were at work and that they did not speak the language. Sometimes Mom and Dad would sit by the phone, dictating exactly what Grace should say. But often such demands did not work, because their request was so anachronistic that it defied translation. After all, their understanding of such transactions was steeped in Korean ways. Finally, Dad would scream at Grace, “Tell them no late fee, they’ll get their money by next week!” Then Grace would look helpless as she repeated, “But he said that the balance was due last week, so next week will be considered late!” At those times, Dad never seemed grateful for Grace’s instant interpreting service. He seemed frustrated, even suspicious. He was certain that if he could speak the language he would resolve all matters with a quick phone call. He seemed to resent Grace for relating to him what he did not want to hear, that the debts must be paid instantly, because that’s what most of those calls were about—money owed in one form or another. But most of all, he seemed angry at his own powerlessness. The ordeal of having to rely on his young daughter for such basic functions humiliated him. He never seemed to forget that humiliation.

Their parents’ lack of English and the family’s constant relocation only made things worse. There were always red-stamped notices in their mailbox. Once or twice a month, Grace skipped school to accompany Mom and Dad to the Department of Motor Vehicles or an insurance company or some other bureaucratic nightmare. They were often gone all day. Afterward, their parents went back to work while Grace returned home alone. Suzy would often notice the red in Grace’s eyes, as though she’d cried all the way. Almost always, upon arriving home, Grace would confine herself to the upper bunk without speaking to Suzy. Or she would stay out and come home much later. Curiously, on those nights, Dad never said anything. He pretended not to notice that Grace was missing at the dinner table. Suzy never asked Grace about the exact nature of those interpreting tasks—because they seemed so scary to little Suzy, and because Suzy felt guilty for letting Grace do all the work.

“You know, I sometimes wonder…” Caleb’s voice turns suddenly low, almost flat, the way it gets when he is serious.

Suzy keeps her eyes on the cigarette burning in the ashtray. The red wine, the plate of cheese, the smoke slowly rising.

“I wonder… why you never talk about your parents.” Caleb is cautious, uncertain if he should bring it up at all.

She had told him about her parents once, briefly. But that was it. Nothing more. No heartfelt anecdotes, no tearful monologues. Suzy avoided the topic, and he had never asked. Instead, Caleb would chatter on about his parents, his lovers, his uncertain careers, and Suzy would laugh. They have grown comfortable with that.

“ My parents —I never think about them.”

Suzy holds the cigarette between her index and middle fingers without actually bringing it to her mouth. She is hesitant. She is not sure what else to say, although Caleb is quiet, listening.

She recalls how she had abandoned them in their final years. She recalls the last time she saw them and how Dad had called her a whore, just once, but it was enough to slash her. She makes up little stories in her head about how happy the family would have been had she not run off with Damian, had her parents not been at the store on that final morning, had her sister forgiven her. Yet she cannot remember the sound of Dad’s laugh. She never longs for Mom’s Nina Ricci perfume. She never craves the empty late afternoons when Grace had gone out and her parents were still not home from work. She can barely picture her parents’ faces in daylight; she rarely saw them before dark.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Suzy lets out a small sigh, so thin that it sounds like a gasp. “I can’t stand myself for letting them go that way. I blame Damian. I blame myself for choosing Damian. But at the end of it all, they’re not here. I can’t stop thinking about it. That they’re gone, that they disappeared while I wasn’t even looking, while I hadn’t yet had a chance to solve anything, solve me, solve Damian, solve why I had to run away all those years. I thought I was the one leaving them, but parents, they always have the last word, don’t they? Still, I never think about them. Not really. What I’m not sure of is if I miss them. I’m not sure if I can honestly say that. I’m not sure if guilt has much to do with love.” Suzy is glad that there is a cigarette. She is glad that she is not here alone. “I’m a horrible person, aren’t I?”

Caleb does not respond. He is playing with the plate of cheese, separating the mozzarella into little braids, making the holes in the Swiss bigger. Finally, he piles the bits of blue cheese into a little heart shape before pushing the plate toward Suzy.

“Sagittarius? In two weeks, the 24th?” Caleb’s eyes are on her now. Soft eyes. He wants to say something clever, something that will ease the moment. “The stars are in your favor, darling, you can’t be horrible. Nope, they won’t let you.”

The night is deeper. The wine bottle is nearly empty. The heart-shaped blue cheese looks ruffled and strange, like the map of the universe on the Grand Central ceiling. It feels good to be with Caleb.

“So you think Michael’s lying to me?”

“Absolutely.”

“What a scum.”

“What a two-timing bastard!”

They both start laughing when the phone starts ringing. Four times. Exactly. Then the click. Suzy is almost relieved. Whoever has been waiting. Whoever is still watching. Whoever is not letting go.

MICHAEL, IT CAN ONLY BE MICHAEL at this time of the morning. The phone is an alarm. Seven a.m. Probably lunchtime wherever he is. A miracle that he’s even waited until now. He probably thought to let her sleep a little. He is being considerate.

“So where were you yesterday?”

He is not happy, Suzy can tell. His voice is tight. Something’s up. He never gets so tense unless it has to do with his work, the nature of which Suzy barely understands.

“The case took longer than usual. I was stuck at the DA’s office.” Balancing the receiver between her right ear and her shoulder, Suzy opens the refrigerator and takes out the Brita pitcher to fill a glass. Her head sways with pins and needles. The wine last night took its toll. They had opened another bottle after the first one. She vaguely recalls Caleb urging, Why not, drink it up before thirty! He kept pouring more, and Suzy kept giggling, emptying each glass much more quickly than she should have.