The Revisionists (15 page)

While feeding one of the babies, she glanced at Hyun Ki’s cup to see if he needed more tea, and she saw that he was watching her. He’d been doing that lately. She looked back at the baby.

Hyun Ki left his plate on the table and walked out, off to the embassy. She cleared his plate and noticed he’d left the file there. The characters typed on the page weren’t Korean; they were probably English. Before she could decide whether it was worth the effort to chase him down and tell him he’d forgotten it, he was there in the doorway, staring at her in an altogether different way than he had before.

She backed away and he stepped forward, closed the file folder, and picked it up. “You are not to look at my things. I thought I made that clear.”

“Yes, of course.” She looked away, at the babies, and grabbed one of their spoons as if for protection. It was so absurdly easy to offend these people. She held her breath and fed one of the babies, and the diplomat silently left.

Soon she could hear the rubber gripping of Sang Hee’s crutches as the mistress slowly made her way to the kitchen.

“Stop shoveling the food into them,” she said. “My God, are you trying to drown them? That’s how they do it in Indonesia? No wonder so many of your babies die.”

Sari clutched the plastic spoon an extra second before extending it to a gaping mouth. The twins gazed at her longingly, four brown eyes, two pates of dark hair tousled this way and that, two frowns surrounded by lips caked with sweet potato and carrot.

From behind Sari, Sang Hee sneezed, and the babies startled, then stared up like they’d never seen her before.

Washing the babies’ bowls and spoons in the sink, Sari looked out the kitchen window. She could see the small yard and the backs of the houses on the next street. Oak branches shook off red and gold leaves, casting sharp autumn shadows on the lawn. A cardinal alighted on a wooden picnic table the family never used, twitching his crown.

Sari had been in Washington for seven weeks and had spent fewer than six hours out of the house. She had been permitted out once to rake leaves and help Sang Hee garden in the back, twice to shop for warmer clothing at Marshalls (with Sang Hee as an escort), and, now that Sang Hee was hobbling on crutches, once to buy groceries alone. She had overheard the master and mistress discussing the possibility of grocery trips the night before they sent her—Sang Hee had been concerned about Sari’s being unchaperoned and had asked her husband to accompany her, but he’d been insulted by the idea of running a domestic errand.
Don’t worry about her,
he’d said.
What will she do, run away? Where would she go?
They had taken her passport, after all, and she spoke no English.

Just as Sari was wondering if she should wake Hana, the young girl walked into the kitchen, wearing only a pink nightie.

“Good morning,” Sari said.

Hana didn’t respond; she’d learned that from her mother.

“You know you need to wear something warmer in the morning. You’ll catch cold.”

“I can wear what I want.” But if her mother saw Hana like this, Sari would receive a tongue-lashing, or worse.

She gently took one of Hana’s hands. “You won’t be happy if you’re sick all week. Come, let’s find something warm.” Hana yanked her hand away, but she followed and didn’t talk back.

On the way to the stairs they saw Sang Hee sitting in the parlor, her fingers viciously poking at her laptop. She was writing a book, she had told Sari. Sari had asked what it was about and was told, “Things you wouldn’t understand.” Sari wondered what a mind like Sang Hee’s saw fit to share with the world through writing.

Hana’s room was a yellow zoo of stuffed animals. The girl sifted through her bureau until she found something that met with both her approval and Sari’s. Unlike Sang Hee’s hair, Hana’s was straight and long, hanging well past her shoulders. Sang Hee was her
omma
now but she hadn’t always been, Hana had explained once. Her first
omma
had gone to the land of ghosts when Hana was still a baby, and then
appa
had married Sang Hee, so Sang Hee was now her
omma.
This had been news to Sari. Perhaps it explained Sang Hee’s distance around the girl, her seeming inability to play with her the way a mother should. But then again, Sang Hee was equally cold with the twins, her own flesh and blood—she never sang to them, seldom held them. Sometimes she would speak affectionately to them, coo at them, but then something would pass over her face, a sudden shadow, and she would hand the babies back to the maid and leave the room.
The woman is cursed,
Sari had thought the first time she saw this.
There is something wrong with her; I need to make sure the curse doesn’t wander over to me as well.
She worried about the babies. They were probably doomed.

Hana liked Sari to comb her hair as she stood in front of the mirror and imagined herself a princess, or a movie star, or a president. She had said she was going to be all of these things when she grew up, and Sari never knew how to respond. Such confidence. To imagine the world as a series of banquets to which one is always invited. And to be right.

The previous night, Sari had spoken to her own mother while she was sleeping. Her mother had not come in days, and Sari was beginning to worry she had done something to offend her, had dreamed unclean thoughts that pushed her away. But while she was dreaming about being in Java, the background suddenly turned to sand and fell away, the grains cascading down, and all was dark except for her mother’s unmistakable form in the middle.

Well,
she said simply.
Are you doing better, daughter?

Sari thought about this.
Yes, Mother.

Don’t lie.

I didn’t think it was a lie, Mother. I wanted it to be true.

Do you think I liked working for those Chinese people?
she asked.
I hated their filthy shop. No matter how many times I cleaned it, it was still filthy. The Mings were not charming people, Sari, but neither were they terrible employers. I managed.

And died for them, Sari almost said, but she kept it to herself.

Yes, so I did,
her mother said. Sari had forgotten that here her mother could hear her thoughts.
They aren’t the ones who killed me, of course. Don’t forget that.

Yes, Mother.

Listen: You had the wrong expectations when these people invited you here. You thought working in America would be different from working in Korea, but that house
is
Korea.

It’s worse than Korea. I could come and go in Korea. I knew other Indonesians in Korea. I could quit my employer if I needed to in Korea.

True. But you took the job, so you have to get through it. His appointment is only two years.

Her mother’s face was no more wrinkled than the last day she had seen her; in death she did not age. But it had been so many years now (Sari had no photographs of her) that she wondered if she had the face right at all.

I met a man yesterday. A white man who spoke Bahasa.

I know, child. I was there with you.

I want to try talking to him again.

Are you asking my permission? You don’t need that.

If Sang Hee were to find out, she’d never let me out of the house again.

True. You need to be careful. And you need to be quick; her ankle will heal eventually, and she won’t need to send you out anymore.

I know. I think I’ll call him tomorrow, after everyone is asleep.

I’ll try to watch Sang Hee for you. I’ll let you know if she’s spying.

Thank you. I wish sometimes her ankle would never heal.

Her mother issued a mischievous smile that Sari had never seen on her face before.
I’ll see what I can do.

Sang Hee usually typed on her laptop until lunch, in the parlor or in her bedroom. Then she would leave to visit with other diplomats’ wives or to get a manicure and shop. If she came home early enough, she would sit in front of the television and watch DVDs of Korean soap operas that she had someone mail to her.

At eight thirty each morning a man in a Lincoln Town Car pulled up in front of the house, and a woman got out of it and took Hana to preschool.

Later that morning Sari was in the kitchen warming bottles; the twins were napping, and Sang Hee was upstairs showering. Sari hesitated, then picked up the phone. She’d been afraid the slip of paper with Leo’s name and number would be discovered, so she had memorized the number and thrown the paper out the SUV window on the way home that night.

It rang five times, then his recorded voice said something in English. The machine beeped at her, and she hung up. He must be at work during the day; she should have expected that. She returned to the bottles and ran hot water over them, wondering what she would say if she reached him.

The first few days had been so strange, passing in a blur of jet lag and sleeplessness, that Sari barely noticed the restrictions they placed on her. The fourteenth day had come and gone, and so had a few more, when she finally asked about money. Wasn’t she supposed to be paid every two weeks?

“Don’t trouble me with your complaints,” Sang Hee had said. Sari had just finished feeding Seung in his high chair while Jung entertained himself with plastic blocks on the kitchen floor. Sari stood to address Sang Hee. This was before her mistress had broken her ankle, and she was wearing sweat clothes, having returned from a jog through a park Sari had never seen.

“I’m sorry, but it’s been more than two weeks, ma’am,” she said. She hated conversations like this but had learned to stand up for herself through her other bad jobs in Seoul.

“We’ll pay you when we pay you,” Sang Hee said, then took a long drink of water. “Are you implying we’re cheating you? Is that what you’re saying to me?”

Sari considered for a moment. Seung coughed in a small orange burst, then smiled even as his eyes watered.

“No, ma’am. But I do worry about my sisters in Korea, and I was planning to send some money to them. So if I could—”

She had been looking at one of the babies while she spoke, so she didn’t know what happened at first, only that she had to blink and gasp, and she was wet. Water ran down her face, soaking her shirt. Sang Hee’s glass was empty.

Then Sang Hee put her glass down and slapped Sari’s face. Sari gasped again; her hand covered her cheek. Only later would she wonder,
How did she know it would hurt so much worse on a wet cheek?

“Shut up! If it’s so important, I’ll talk to my husband about it. I’ll tell him you think we’re cheating you. I’m sure he’ll love to hear what you think of him. And I don’t want to see you wearing those tight pants anymore, always bending over for things around him. Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

She didn’t respond, just kept her hand on her cheek to ward off another blow. The babies were staring but seemed not to have formed an opinion yet.

“There’s water on the floor,” Sang Hee said as she left the room. “Get the mop.”

Two days after that incident, Sari had accidentally knocked over a glass vase she’d been dusting. Sang Hee had rushed in at the sound. Sari was kneeling on the floor, trying to pick up the pieces, when Sang Hee started cursing and hitting her. The first blow landed on her shoulder, startling her more than hurting her, but the next one found her neck. She hunched defensively and slipped on the hardwood floor, gashing her knee on one of the shards of glass. Sang Hee was strong for such a small woman. Sari was too stunned to even say
Stop.
Sang Hee finally decided Sari had been punished sufficiently, and she left the room, telling Sari to clean her mess.

She was slapped other times, once for spilling some juice on the newspaper Sang Hee had been reading, once when Sang Hee declared that one of her blouses had been destroyed in the laundry, other times for indiscretions Sari couldn’t remember. She was more and more nervous in the mistress’s presence, making mistakes, becoming clumsy, inviting the attacks.

Sang Hee got at least one manicure a week, sometimes more. Her nails were always new colors, always shining, her skin smelling of mangoes or strawberry or lavender. It took a while for Sari to see that the hands themselves were calloused and scarred. A line ran across the knuckles of her right hand, and her left pinkie finger didn’t seem to straighten all the way. She sometimes wore thin blue or white gloves around the house, something Sari had initially thought was an odd stylistic affectation, but now she wondered.

Sari had no one to explain her situation to or ask for advice. Time passed and her mood darkened.

She could fight back, of course, but she worried about what would happen. Sang Hee reminded her that they had her papers, that she had even less status here in America than she did in Korea, where she’d been a reviled “guest worker.” Sang Hee dropped hints that if they weren’t pleased with their servant’s work, she could be sent back to Indonesia, or even to some sort of detention camp. As could her two sisters.

Two nights after meeting Leo, Sari put Hana to bed. Sang Hee was upstairs writing, and Hyun Ki was working late, as he often did.

Hana pulled the covers to her neck, her fingertips slowly peeking out like worms after rain. “Tell me a story.”

“All right,” Sari said, willing her voice not to sound tired. Sang Hee sometimes stood outside the door to listen, so she could not afford to be short with the girl.

“A story about the ocean.”

Lately Hana’s requests had become distressingly specific, flitting about in accordance with her whims. Sari had been asked to tell a story about a butterfly and a monkey, a story about a little boy with a kite and a panda bear, a story about a comet and ice cream. In these brief, soft minutes illuminated only by the night-light, Sari’s storytelling skills were taxed as much as the rest of her was during the day.