Fox Girl (21 page)

Lobetto's mother screamed and swooped to whack me on the head. I dropped into the slime at my feet and dizzily looked at the octopus eye staring back at me. The streamer of its purple stomach looked almost like tentacles. My vision blurred and the tentacles squirmed toward my knee.

“What's the matter with you?” Lobetto's mother shrieked. She pulled at my elbow, perhaps suddenly worried she had gone too far. “I didn't hit you that hard,” she stammered. “It was just a tap, really.”

“I'm just so tired,” I said. Then I threw up.

Lobetto's mother dropped my arm. “You stupid, stupid girl,” she wailed.

“I'll clean it up.” I wiped my chin and only succeeded in smearing either octopus blood or vomit across my face.

“You won't trap my son,” she said. She shook her head and her whole body quivered.

I couldn't follow her train of thought. I thought of fishing, bait, nets, and baskets that tricked octopus into getting caught. “I said I would clean up this mess,” I snapped. “Just be still.” All I wanted was for her to shut up so I could rest my brain.

“Damn right you're going to clean up your mess,” Lobetto's mother said. She kicked the slimy entrails out the door. “And I'm not talking about this crap.”

I fumbled to my feet. “Then what are you talking about? You're always griping about something,” I complained, yawning. I nearly gagged as the smell of fish and vomit burned my throat.

“I'm talking about why you're so tired, why you're so fat, why you're so much stupider than usual.” Her voice scratched at my ears.

I folded my arms over my head to muffle her noise. “I'm tired because I've been working, something you keep nagging me about.”

“You were tired when you woke up this morning,” she said. “I thought you were just lazy—which you are—but now I know. You can't hide it anymore.” She looked at my stomach, where the button to my jeans skirt had popped open. “I've been there myself; you think I don't recognize the signs?”

“Shit,” I said, splaying my hands against my stomach and trying to remember when I had last bled.

“Didn't anyone teach you about protection when you started in this business?” Lobetto's mother scolded. “That's one of the first things every girl in America Town should learn.”

“I . . . I . . . what?” Choking, I struggled to my feet.

“When can you fix this?” Lobetto's mother demanded.

“Fix it?” I still couldn't think straight.

“Are you as stupid as you look?” She marched up to me. For the first time, I realized I was taller than her; she had to look up to meet my eyes. “You need to do it soon.”

“Do it?” I echoed, then shook my head when I realized what she meant. Most of the girls in the clubs had had abortions, some as many as six or seven times. They got pregnant with each GI boyfriend, but when the GI left town without marrying them, they got an abortion and started all over again. But I didn't want this child for bait; I wanted it for myself. Suddenly, savagely, I wanted it. “I'm going to keep this baby,” I told Lobetto's mother.

“Why? You think you can hook a GI into marriage?” she taunted. “That's what I did.” She reached up and grabbed me by the shoulders. “But you know what? It didn't matter. In the end, he still left me with a brat to take care of.”

I gasped. I had never heard her speak this way about Lobetto before, would never have guessed she felt this way since she doted on him, spoiling him rotten.

She dropped her hands. “Don't think I don't love Lobetto,” she said. “He's all I have left. But I'm telling you for your own good: get rid of it.”

I stepped away from Lobetto's mother and narrowed my eyes at her. “Since when have you cared about my own good? You're just worried I'll mess up any plans Lobetto has.”

Lobetto's mother scowled. “I'm warning you,” she said. “Throw it away before it drags you down. Before it drags us all down.”

I smiled. “This baby is not a piece of trash,” I said. “This baby is mine.”

“Then God help you,” Lobetto's mother said, eyeing my hands still protecting my belly, “And God help it if it's a girl.” “A drink to your son.” Lobetto filled our glasses with warm beer. He and his mother slurped their drinks, but I only pretended to swallow. The smell curled and kicked in my stomach.

“How are you going to take care of him?” his mother asked me. Her tone was polite, but her heavy-lidded eyes were mocking. “Where are you going to live?”

I smiled despite my dislike of her, a vision for a new life forming in my mind. “I'd like to get a place in the country. Move out of America Town.”

“What a great idea,” said his mother.

I looked up, wary of her support.

“But, tell me: outside of America Town, where else in Korea could your child, your little GI baby, fit in?” She bared her pointy teeth in what was supposed to be a smile.

Lobetto pushed away from the table. “Stop, Mother.”

“Stop what?” His mother batted her eyelashes. “I'm just making conversation.”

“Then stop making conversation,” Lobetto ordered. “Leave her alone. She hasn't been feeling well.”

His mother sniffed. “I don't see why you should care. You're off to meet your father in America any day now.”

Lobetto sighed. “Don't worry, Mother. I won't forget about you.”

“Of course you will, dear.” His mother took another sip of beer. “That's the way it is with children.” She raised her brow at me. “You'll see.”

 

Lobetto stopped asking me to work. I should have been suspicious. Instead of urging me to make money until I began to show, he insisted I rest and asked his mother to take care of me.

To further ensure the health of my baby, Lobetto brought home American pills. “‘One a Day,' it says,” Lobetto instructed, shaking the bottle. “Take one every morning.”

“Lobetto, thank you.” My eyes teared at the unexpected kindness.

He shrugged. “No big deal. Leftovers from the PX.” He wiped a tear from my cheek. “Now the baby will grow big as a GI.”

I opened the bottle and sniffed. The smell reminded me of Chinatown herbs. I groaned when my stomach rolled, but tried to joke: “I don't want to have to push a GI out from between my legs.”

Lobetto scowled. “Don't talk like that anymore,” he scolded. You're going to be a mother.”

“I just meant I don't want the baby to grow too big,” I said.

“But the baby should be big,” Lobetto answered. “He's an American, isn't he?”

I frowned. “No. He—or she—is Korean.”

Lobetto raised his brows, then handed the bottle to his mother. “These are called vitamins,” he explained. “Make sure she takes one every morning.”

And though his mother smiled at him, nodding her compliance, when she brought me the vitamins along with my morning soup and fruit, I'd hear her grumble: “When I was pregnant, I didn't have special medicine, and my baby turned out fine.”

I assumed the tea his mother prepared for me was also Lobetto's idea, but that was something I later discovered she had thought of on her own. Every morning, after my fruit and vitamin, she carried a cup of tea into Lobetto's tent. Crouching beside me, she'd wait and watch me struggle to force down the bitter tea. When the scent and taste would make me gag, I would push it away. “I can't finish,” I'd gasp.

Lobetto's mother would shove the cup back into my hands. This will make you feel better.”

“It's the tea that makes me sick,” I pouted, feeling like a child.

“It's for your own good,” she'd say, goading me until I choked it down.

One morning, five weeks after I realized I was pregnant, I drank the tea and couldn't hold back the nausea. I threw up, my stomach cramping, emptying itself until I spit up only yellow bile. Still my stomach cramped. I curled in on myself, taking the shape of the fetus within me. “Help me,” I cried as I reached for Lobetto's mother. I grasped her knees and, looking into her face, saw that she looked neither scared nor surprised.

I gritted my teeth at another wave of pain and crossed my legs to try to hold back the thick tide of brine and blood gushing down my thighs. “You did this!” I howled at Lobetto's mother. “You made this happen!”

Lobetto's mother didn't answer, didn't even look at me as she pulled the blanket from the wall. She wiped the blood from my body, then covered me as I cried. When I woke the next morning, she was still sitting beside me, quiet and stern.

“You did this,” I croaked. “You killed my baby.”

She remained silent, but she reached over to massage my belly.

I shoved her away, kicking even though I felt cramps and blood. “Lobetto will hate you for this as much as I do,” I lashed out, ranting. “He will finally know what a monster you are.”

“It wasn't the tea,” she murmured. She dropped the bottle of vitamins onto my belly and stood to go.

Grabbing the pills, I shrieked, “Are you saying this is what killed my baby?” I felt dizzy, flooded with hatred for Lobetto, for his mother, for myself for not guarding against their gifts.

“No,” Lobetto's mother snapped. “That's not what I'm saying.” As she held the flap open she paused, trying to gentle her tongue. “Sometimes these things happen for no reason. It really is for the best.”

“It was you!” I screamed. “It was you!” over and over until the words became meaningless and I no longer knew if I believed them myself. When I couldn't squeeze any more sound from my throat, I wrapped my arms around my belly, protecting the child that was no longer there.

Immersed in the dark and dank of Lobetto's tent, I felt close to my child. In my half-sleep, I could almost imagine her in there with me—twins in the womb rather than mother and child. Off and on I slept, for days and weeks, unsure of the boundaries of time, space, self. In that dimness, I felt I could call her back into my body.

When Lobetto tried to crawl into the tent, I ignored him and lay still, afraid that any movement, any acknowledgment of the outside world would threaten my concentration, breaking my link with the baby. But when Lobetto touched my feet, I kicked him away, hating his intrusion and his betrayal. And each time he spoke, he killed my child all over again.

“Get up,” he'd growl. “Get out. Get back to work.” And I could feel the baby's quick skitter away from me.

“Shut up,” I'd howl, lashing out with tongue and feet. “You're scaring her away.”

Jumping back from my kicks, he said, “Losing that baby must have scrambled your brain. My mother said you might feel strange for a while.”

I lunged at him. “I will kill your mother,” I snarled. “You tell her I'm going to kill her. And then I'm going to kill you.”

“Fuck,” Lobetto said, backing away. “You are messed up.” Later I discovered that Lobetto found some job for his mother on Cheju Island. He was worried enough about my threats that he settled for only a portion of his usual cut in order to get her out of the apartment.

With each of his visits, I could feel the baby shrivel into herself, becoming a black dot that would disappear if I blinked. It took a lot of concentration to coax her to emerge again.

I was coaxing my child back to life, nudging the nub of her body to sprout legs and arms, fingers and toes when Lobetto threw back the covers of the tent and said, “She's in there!”

The light shattered my child's body and I squeezed my eyes closed against the shock of light and pain. “Get the fuck away,” I said, and was surprised to taste the salt of my own tears. I turned my face into the mattress.

“Move, Lobetto,” I heard Sookie scold, her voice loud and grating. “Phew, it stinks in here.”

“I'm going,” Lobetto grumbled.

“Take her with you,” I yelled into the mattress, refusing to flip over to face Sookie.

“Whah, whah, whah,” Sookie blabbed. “I can't understand a word you're saying. At least sit up so I can see you.”

“No,” I mumbled, my mouth tasting the cotton beneath me.

Sookie knocked on my head. “Where is Hyun Jin? Hyun Jin, are you in there? Hi, hi! I'm back from Monkey House hell!”

I wanted to sleep. I could feel the baby hovering at the edge of that dark unconscious. I held my breath, hoping Sookie would give up and go away.

She didn't. Instead she jumped on my back, smashing the air out of my body.

“Great, you're back,” I said, coughing.

“I brought you a present,” she sang. Something thumped onto the mattress next to my ear.