Chapter 19

chapter 19

“You could be twins,”says everyone when they find out that June’s name is Ji-hyun and that mine’s Ji-young. “Both your names are Ji!” As if anyone would ever name twins the same thing. Nobody would do that. Not even sadists.

Mom and Dad thought June would be easy for an American name. It’s basically a portmanteau and it’s a breeze to pronounce in Korean and easy to say in English. For June, Ji means “meaning,” or rather, “purpose.” And the Hyun means “self-evident.” It’s a strong name. No wonder she’s had Columbia banners on her wall from infancy. She’s known what she wants since in utero.

My Ji means something else. That’s a thing with certain Korean families, that siblings’ names have the same first syllable. Homonyms. My Ji’s not as good. It means “seed.” It’s diminutive. I’m a fleck, a crumb, a mote of something but not my own thing. It sort of reminds me of the way people are named in The Handmaid’s Tale. I’m Ofmyparents. Ofjune.

I’m not wild about the “Young” in my name, either. It means “petal.” Teeny and pretty and entirely inconsequential. I wish I’d been named after a war general or some kind of poison. When June and I got our green cards renewed, before we got our US passports, people couldn’t get over how close our names and social security numbers were. Someone even remarked, “Oh, you’re Ji-young and you’re younger. That’s how you remember.” As if June and I need a mnemonic device.

I march downtown from my sister’s, hugging myself, tears streaming down my face, mayhem in my heart. It’s freezing. My breath puffs out in little Miyazaki clouds with each step. With so many crews of people in matching costumes, I’ve never felt lonelier. I hadn’t known it was possible.

There’s no need for a mnemonic device to distinguish you from your sister when the difference is so apparent. With sisters, like twins, there’s always a better one. Around our house and certainly at church, June’s and my assets were public knowledge to be debated right in front of us. June’s grades. My hair. The paleness of my skin. June’s coding camps. My lissome limbs. Her accelerated math courses. With us, there was a smart one and a pretty one.

Except then I got ugly.

Or “healthy,” according to Mom’s church group, who’d gamely pat my love handles and pinch my cheeks. “It’s not the meals she eats at home that are the problem,” Mom would say in a stage whisper. “Texas sized means Texas thighs.” Once, one of the Theresas at church suggested that it could have to do with an unstable home and Mom looked as though she’d been slapped.

Sisters never stand a chance to be friends. We’re pitted against each other from the moment we’re born. A daughter is a treasure. Two is a tax. God, how they must have wanted a boy when they tried a do-over after a dead baby girl.

A thought teases and then expands, collapsing my rib cage and wrecking my heart. June wasn’t worried when she came to the restaurant to find me. She saw me cutting class on her phone and needs me as a full-time student because of my health insurance.

I rummage at the bottom of my purse for my earbuds when I hit Broadway.

Flatiron building.

Bald man with the face of a baby, dressed like a baby.

Maleficent with a cigarette.

Sexy witch mom with a despondent preteen son.

Crosswalk.

I let myself cry. My face is instantly numb from the cold.

Whatever this feeling is, I never want to feel it again.

I hate that somewhere out there, somehow, June and I are melded into one. Even on paper. That me and June are together again in this way. I may as well be the twin that’s absorbed in the womb. I’m too scared to talk about it, but sometimes I worry that I don’t exist. That I don’t count. It’s not solely that June’s superior to me in every aspect. Or that I lack conviction, which I do. It’s that I have this awful, unshakable suspicion, an itchy, terrible belief that I’m some kind of reincarnation, the recycling of my middle sister’s spirit. That I don’t have my own personality or destiny and I’m just a do-over for someone else and that’s why my life doesn’t ever feel like it fits.

My family thinks it’s a play for attention. My depression. The anxiety. Or as June put it, my “emotional” nature. Mom thinks anxiety is about as insufferably first world as it gets. Like lactose intolerance. She thinks it’s an idle mind searching for things to bitch about at the lack of famine or war. If you’ve got a full belly, you’ve lost your right to bellyache.

I’m too terrified to ask if Mom’s dead baby was called Ji-young, but I’m convinced of it. I know it’s not unheard of that people name their younger children after dead ones. Everything about my existence feels like a costume. And losing my name to June makes this wobbly feeling stronger.

It is my greatest fear to have this horrible nonexistent, disembodied feeling I carry with me realized. I brush the tears off my face and sniff hard.

I don’t know where I’m headed, but around Union Square, I weave through the road closures and find myself swayed by the current of people heading for the L train. I pull out my compact and salvage what’s left of my makeup on the subway platform. I’m a shop-worn trope. So many girls have done exactly this before me and so many more will. It’ll be fine, I tell my tear-stained self. I observe myself as though from afar. Asian girl. Hair. Decent boots. All that tristesse. It’s easier to watch myself be sad than actually feel sad.

I reline my eyes, fix my lipstick, and put away my reflection. I allow a smile to tease at my lips, summoning someone beguiling. I imagine myself in a movie. It usually helps. I glance around for any attractive people. Male, female, old, it doesn’t matter. Someone to see myself through.

I stare at the train tracks and imagine myself falling.

I want to text Jeremy but don’t. Instead I buy a pack of gum at the newsstand, pop all the pieces into my mouth, and chew big. I really need someone to look at me.

I hand over June’s ID and her credit card to a genuinely frightening Pennywise and drain my drink immediately. I also still have her house keys. Her stupid $200 “do not duplicate” house keys. I get another vodka soda. Pound it. I’m instantly drunk. I take a deep breath, praying that he’ll show. I’d almost told him to come to Léon just to see what would happen, but instead I’m in a terrible bar that’s a close second to how much trouble I can get myself into in the shortest amount of time. It doesn’t matter if he flakes, I tell myself. I’ll just pick a different one.

The bar’s a dive, but when the side door’s open it’s almost like a house party or a cookout. Last time we were here, Ivy and I started drinking at noon, and I loved how that felt. Like we were hiding in plain sight. Something in the mutuality of saying “fuck it” to the rest of the day made everyone behave appallingly.

She called the bar Tinder Live for its hookup potential, and it’s true. You can feel it. The vibe in a word? Ravenous. It reliably runs a special of Pabst Blue Ribbon with tequila shots from brands that have labels that look like Photoshop disasters. There’s one called Luxxx, which I’m pretty sure isn’t certifiably a thing unless that thing is personal lubricant.

I gaze vaguely into the space. Glazing over everyone’s eyes. Trying not to betray how desperate I am to recognize anyone. The guy to my right bumps me, not even turning around to check if he cares. He’s got this reedy voice, Hawaiian shirt opened to his midriff. “I don’t know,” he says through his retro pornstache. “Aren’t cargo pants strictly for botched-surgery Chads?”

The boy with the bowl cut next to him nods. He’s wearing cargo pants. I watch as he discreetly pulls down his shirt while listening. Tag yourself; he’s me.

There’s a spidery jitteriness in my heart. I can’t believe what happened. Fuck June. How fucking dare she.

I take another swallow of my drink to blot out the intolerable discomfort of reality.

Truth is, part of me wishes I could un-know all of this. June hit that nail on the head. I don’t want to deal. And if I hadn’t opened the envelope, I would be eating pad Thai she paid for, watching TV with her. I would feel moderately but not sincerely bad about being a mooch. I’d do her dishes. Everything would be otherwise fine.

Maybe I did know, though. On some level. June has never been this accommodating to me. Or nice. I’ve been cooking and cleaning, but old June would’ve conscripted me into all sorts of other menial tasks. I haven’t massaged her shoulders, lotioned her heels, or walked ten paces behind her holding her bag.

The Cure plays at a volume so loud, I have to squint in an attempt to dampen the noise.

I make a beeline for the smoke-filled patio, carrying my drink past the split vinyl booths, the old-school video games, and the line for the bathroom on the right, which has snaked in the narrow hallway. I try not to meet anyone’s eyes. Everyone else’s need to be seen is embarrassing to me because I so badly need the same.

Despite the chill, it smells human outside. Sour. My phone lights up in my hand. I’m here. You?

Instead of responding, I finish my drink, pulse racing. I check my reflection. I could still leave, I think. As long as he doesn’t come to search for me, I could dip out the side entrance. Even if he calls my name, I could ignore it. It’s loud enough. I slide an ice cube in my mouth and take a deep breath.

I exhale with my eyes closed, breath cool as I sigh.

I imagine myself as an entirely different person. Someone new. Someone strong. Someone whole.