Til Death Do Us Part

39

“So where do I start. Don’t you have customers at all?” I ask, changing the subject, and wave my hand around airily. She’s been closing shop and spending hours with me, which seems a little counterproductive for a business. Mainly as she works here alone. Judging by the lack of people in the street outside, I don’t think she turned away any customers by not being here. It grates on my Vice President Park self to see something run this poorly.

“I told you. It’s off-season. Locals don’t really eat here, so I have to make all my money in peak and make it last. I sell some jarred cold dishes on my online shop, like marinated soy crab, but not so much. This town is only good when we have visitors, and the rest of the time, we have to find other means of getting by.”

“Why stay here if it’s this desolate? You can only make money half the year?” It sounds like my idea of hell, and I curse at my inability to access the millions of dollars in my bank accounts that I haven’t dared confess to her I have. It seems a little like rubbing it in her face when she uses duct tape to keep her rucksack in one piece.

“I like it. I came from a pretty messed-up background with no stability, and my kid died when she was two. I needed somewhere pressure-free to go and find a reason not to end it all. This island is like a healing balm and resembled nothing in my past to give me bad memories.”

“Your kid…. ?” The words catch in my throat, and my heart somersaults. Pain splicing me, and I turn my head to see the sadness in her eyes. A mirror of how I feel anytime I think of Tia. It’s another layer to things that make me connect to her, and I so badly want to hug her all of a sudden. We share so many scars that it feels like I found someone I could honestly talk to.

“Hmmm. She ran out of my front yard and got hit by a car. One second of careless parenting where I took my eye off the ball, and my kid isn’t here anymore.” Her voice trembles, even though she states it so matter of factly, but she swallows it down and shakes it off. “She would be four now.”

The same age as Tia would have been, and my eyes wash with intense sorrow, and I have to turn my back on her to blink it away. Churning up inside at what she said and sympathizing with the sense of loss and guilt for letting down our babies and not protecting them.

“I’m sorry.” The vibration of emotion in my voice matches hers, and there’s a long silent moment between us before I feel her tap me on the shoulder, and I jump. Unaware she had even walked over to me. She doesn’t seem to linger in the past of hurtful memories the way I do, and she’s already bright-eyed and back to being invasive. I wonder if this is how it is when you face your grief and learn how to process it healthily.

“You talk about her in your sleep, you know.” She says it softly, but it side-swipes me.

“Huh?” my eyes widen, trying to pull out of my brain who she’s referring to as I blink at her in question.

My mom? Mother? Claire? I don’t even know as I don’t remember my dreams most of the time. Besides the nightmares since the accident, I don’t think I dream about anything else.

“I’m guessing she’s your daughter…. You call her Tia. You tell her you're sorry and that you love her and miss her. YOU call yourself mommy.”

It knocks me for six like a sucker punch, and a weird breathy shocked noise escapes me that sounds like a laugh or a cough. I blanche at her, numbed instantly by this revelation. I can’t believe she got that much from me dreaming, and I’m stupid enough to say things out loud in front of complete strangers.

“I didn’t know how to ask you.” She seems awkward suddenly, and I look away and push my hair back to try and control the inner war kicking off inside of me at being disarmed this way. It’s the last thing I expected when I’m over here trying to conceal my real identity.

“Yeah, she died. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to look at the kitchen and see what this place is like.” I answer coldly, deflecting, and don’t wait, but instead march off towards what I assume is the adjoining door. Brushing her off, closing up, and putting the wall back in place. It’s a hard habit to kill, and it’s as natural as breathing.

“And Jyeon?” She follows me, annoyingly so, and I trip over the threshold at the mere mention of his name, stomach tensing, and I almost curse out loud at her. Rattled at hearing it from someone else’s mouth. She has the ability to fly kick you in the face without even exerting any kind of effort.

“No one. I mean…. no one important anymore.” I snap at her, my hands trembling, and look around the steel and wood interior of a bog-standard café kitchen, looking for something to distract her. Grappling with myself to find something to change the subject and her dog-like latch on it.

“He doesn’t sound like he’s no one. You call for him. I mean, you’re practically running away and have the good old ‘f**k off’ aura on again. That’s a good pointer that he’s a very sensitive subject.” She points out, relentless in her pursuit no matter where I walk in this tiny claustrophobic space, and after doing one round of the countertops, I end up back facing her at the door. This tiny little body of invasive annoyance. Fuming that I can’t outrun her and hate how smug she looks because she knew that already.

“You said you wouldn’t ask questions or probe. This is asking a question and f*****g probing.” I bark at her. My temper is simmering but not with anger. It’s this blast of pain and suffering I didn’t expect to come at me so easily at just hearing his name. I’m taking it out on her because I don’t know how to put it back inside, and lately, I have been s**t at trying to control my emotions. It feels like some epic fallout or aftershock of my accident, and the cold indifference of before is hard to bring back. Sohla Park is not as good at what she used to be, all because of one little swim in the freezing sea.

“Hmmm, I did. I also told you I was a nosy b***h, though.” She smiles, her little cheeky ‘you know you love me’ face that she pulls out of her ass anytime she gets me this worked up, and I wipe my face before even realizing it's because I’m crying. Silent tears escape all by themselves, and I hate all these after symptoms of near-death experience.

“You’re infuriating.” I sniff it out, feeling stupid at snapping at her when she’s looking at me this way, and guilt soars up from somewhere inside. I’m a bag of conflicting feelings and messed-up emotions since I was scraped off that road, and this wench adds to the weight it brings me. It’s like she wants me to break all the way.

“We have a lot of work to do on you, puppy.” She pats both my cheeks at once, and I slap them away, scowling at her handsy and cutesy response to me having another mental breakdown over the slightest thing. She is a pain in the ass.

“Why don’t you just kick me out and tell me to go home. It’ll be easier on you and me.” I blurt out, furiously wiping the continued wash of tears off my cheeks, and I don’t even know what I’m crying for.

“Yahhhh, what do you take me for? There’s only room in here for one heartless crazy woman, and it’s not me. I need a dishwasher. I have sensitive skin, and I like them done by hand …..see, I have to keep you.” She winks, pats me on the head, and slides by to head for the refrigerator as though she didn’t just reduce me to tears. “Ice cream? It’s Ben and Jerry’s! I only buy the real stuff!” She ignores my sour face and pulls out two flavors before rifling in a drawer for spoons. She’s like a whirlwind that blows in, rattles your brain around, and then wooshes out to observe the chaos she stirred up.

I can’t believe I thought of her like Yoonie at first when she’s nothing like him. The sweetness and cute look, yeah, but she’s a little devil who pushes you and drills into your hard outer shell to suck at your softer inner core with her persistence and eternal optimism.

Despite myself, I laugh. A c***k in the ice maiden routine at something that isn’t even that funny. This is the magic of Greta though. She’s goofy and bold. She has zero boundaries, but her heart is pure and kind, and everything she does is for the benefit of those around her. She takes my b***h mode with a pinch of salt, and she is not afraid of me. She challenges me right to my face and gives zero shits about it. Not like all those OLO employees who quaked in fear and always shrivelled with intimidation.

“I’ve never washed a dish in my life, so I won’t apologize if I break any or make a mess. I’ve never cooked, cleaned, or done anything domestic. I can’t even use a microwave. So good luck with me being your staff.” I admit, turning and heading for a stool at the counter where she stays perched with no intention of coming to me and gratefully taking a spoon. Pointing out, I will be a burden and probably a cranky one with it.

“I knew it!” She exclaims and gives herself a high five in mid-air as though she broke some fantastic code. “Famous!! ….. I got your number, gurly.” She winks at me and then smacks me on the forehead with her ice-cream-covered cutlery.