Chapter 1 - Madness
2295 Words
Emily
November, Freshman Year
My dad likes to think I have Asperger’s. You’d think he never went to medical school for at least two years by the way he haphazardly diagnoses just like that. It’s probably just right that he never finished, but that’s a cruel thing to even think, I guess, – even worse than his insistence to ignore who I am. Yes, it’s just hard for him to fully acknowledge his daughter.
Appa’s parents pressured him into taking on the family business. It’s not like it’s so different, I could almost hear my grandmother saying the words, except it would be in Korean. I don’t speak the language and barely understand the words, but Jason does. When he took Modern Languages in college, everyone was distraught. The hockey didn’t help, either. What happened to Business courses? Medicine?
“It’s a white guy’s game,” Appa complained during one family dinner almost three years ago when it dawned on him that Jason was serious about the sport. He was already a junior in college and had been playing for years, and our dad acted as if he just found out. Sheesh.
“I’m half-white,” Jason joked, but only got glared at by both our parents. I couldn’t really help him. I thought it was ridiculous that he, Lance, and Hans all had to be playing the same game. Haven’t they had enough playing since they could run and walk?
The family business is selling medical supplies. There’s the pharmacy, too. It’s all about medicine. So, it should be just right for Dad who took a General Science course as his pre-med.
Sigh.
My grandparents never really listen to Dad, who wanted something different.
But then again, he gave up too easily.
Now, he’s passing on his dream to me. I’m drowning in pre-med classes, the reward for graduating from high school early. But the difference between me and my dad is that I don’t know what I want and I like the idea of annihilating subjects that are supposed to be hard. So, I let myself be swayed, like one of those fun kinetic sculptures with metal that move and change shape with the wind. Or desert sands. During a freaking sandstorm.
“Don’t go back to that apartment again, Emily,” Mom says as she gives herself one last once-over on her compact mirror. Her fingertips explore her face. She’s more likely looking for signs of acne, supposedly side effects of her meds. I don’t see anything, just that small tic on the side of her face. It’s barely there. You’ll only see it when you know where to look.
After her compact is shoved inside her pale pink Hermes bag, she finger-combs her brown hair and adjusts her wire-framed glasses. Outside, she’s the picture of perfection. Solid. Smart. Only the last word is accurate while the rest is an illusion. Her last manic episode has Jason reeling and doing badly on the ice. He’s doing better now, playing for Boston, but for a time, we all thought he would be traded. It’s bad enough for him that he’s been separated from his asshole best friend, but to be considered a failure on his first few NHL games? That sent him to the dark side – so dark I thought he would be having an episode like Mom.
“Well, I already turned eighteen. I shouldn’t be here. I should be living in my own apartment, or something.” I wave vaguely to my right. I miss Celeste, Bianca and Hayley. We’re not touchy-feely, huggy-kissy, or anything like that. I’m just comfortable around them. They let me sit quietly, when I don’t feel like talking. I listen to their stories, wonder about how some people my age are actually worrying about what to put on the dinner table. It’s a foreign and fascinating concept, better than the conversation I always overhear at my old private high school.
Clothes. Brands. Boys and their cars. Nannies. Drivers.
I don’t drive, by the way. My medication often puts my life on hold.
“Eighteen? Aren’t you seventeen, honey?” She truly sounds surprised. I’m not. I’m not surprised that she’s surprised. Ugh.
“Seriously, mom? You don’t know how old I am? You just threw me a debutante’s ball last month on my birthday.”
“You know full well that some debs are younger than eighteen, “ she mutters. “and your brother stayed at home -.”
“For parties, mom. To show off the house. But he had an apartment right next to Lance’s. I want one, too.”
“You’re a girl,” she says, putting one hand on her hip as she narrows her eyes at me suspiciously. “Who’s been spending a lot of time with those older ones. What have they been teaching you?”
“Mom, it’s the twenty-first century,” I remind her. “I also have a perfect GPA and some bonus points from my Chemistry professor. So, I have extra points lying about. Also, I may be young but I’m not easily influenced. You know that.”
She gives an almost imperceptible nod, a tiny sign that my mom knows me even a little. It’s pretty hard to be influenced when you’re a walking zombie.
“I think I agree with your Grandma Soomin that we should start setting you up with someone.”
Typical of my mom, the idea springs from nowhere. But I know her. The idea may be random, but it may stick. Oh God, it just may.
“You got to be kidding, Mom.”
Fear courses through me. Depending on her mood, she just may marry me off to a guy she thinks is the most reliable. Or, she can send me to a convent to become a nun.
“Viktor Anderson,” she says triumphantly. “He’s already in med school. Your dad would love him.”
“I’m eighteen, Mom. I’m old enough to live in my own apartment, but I’m still too young to be thinking of marriage.”
After all, I won’t be able to drink glasses of alcohol while waiting for an absentee husband who’s probably banging his secretary or tending to little kids with terrible behavior like the boys I grew up with.
“And s*x. No s*x. Emily, nope!”
I groan. It’s not like I’m planning to have s*x right now. I haven’t found anyone interesting enough to lose my virginity to. I’m not a romantic by heart. So, I don’t have illusions that I’ll marry the guy I give my V-card to. Not that I’m going to tell Mom that!
“For the sake of argument, again, we are in the 21st century and I’m pretty sure, disgusting as it is, that Jason has been around,” I say, trying not to barf. “Equal opportunity says I can do it, too, but I won’t not because you said I can’t but that I don’t want to.”
My mom sighs heavily. I know she finds the whole idea of either of her babies with anyone icky, not that I blame her. It. Is. Icky. The biology of it confounds me. Even the Kama Sutra of it has my eyes widening like saucers. Celeste laughed at me when I holed up in her apartment so I can check out that filthy book I asked Hayley to order online. I paid her of course.
“So, my own apartment? You didn’t give me a gift yet for my eighteenth. Since I don’t drive, it’s best if I take one near the campus. One of those with laundry services and a cafe on the first floor.”
“I didn’t?”
I wait. She’s very forgetful. She tilts her head to one side, and gives me a look. Her brows pinch as she tries to conjure memories of my birthday. I stay put, keeping my poker face. My family knows my poker face, a.k.a what others see as my resting b***h face, a.k.a, my rich b***h face.
“Nope,” I lie, my chest bubbling with mirth. She bought me a whole wardrobe I don’t know what to do with. Those clothes don’t count. They don’t even have to spend money on cars for me. Jason had his fill when he was my age. I deserve this apartment.
“Okay,” she says, fumbling for her phone. At least she knows her PIN. She trusts only Jason with the numbers. She needs someone to ask if she forgets. “There. I sent your account enough money for deposit and rent for the rest of the school year.”
I stay put because that’s what I do. I don’t jump up and down for joy, but I’m so close. So close.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, giving her a quick hug and a peck on her cheek. She smells like her old favorite, Chanel no. 5.
“Pick a house in a good neighborhood, Emily. Near the campus. Or near here.”
“That was the plan, Mom.”
She goes out to her car where her driver waits. Dad is more like still at the pharmacy, supervising. I’m off to find myself a nice apartment. Mom’s already in her car when I hear her scream, “Emily Strauss Park!”
She finally remembers, and I call for an Uber to pick me up. It’s time to escape.
**
2 weeks later
My parents finally get over the fact their precious daughter is living on her own. During the first week, my dad called me at random hours while my mom would simply arrive unannounced.
I had nothing to hide. So, I welcomed the calls and the visits with the open arms my cold heart could muster. Mom got coffee and a nice sandwich the last time she visited. My cookbook was working overtime. The Kama Sutra flew under the couch when she came over the first time.
“You need a roommate, Emily.”
“That was what I was trying to say when I was at Celeste’s apartment a few times.”
“A few times?” she snorted. “All the time, sweetie. You were there all the time. It wasn’t a good neighborhood.”
“That’s why you had Hans come and get me sometimes?” I thought of my self-proclaimed babysitter with less annoyance than I expected.
“And Felipe,” she admitted, nodding her head. Felipe is some kind of private detective or bodyguard, or both.
By the second week, they got tired. They still sent texts. I didn’t really have friends beyond Celeste and Hayley so I actually missed my parents. When I hear a knock on the door, I actually run to open it. Why didn’t the reception announce this caller? Well, it’s probably my mom, whose face would be forever ingrained in the minds of the security officers and the receptionists.
Except – it isn’t.
“Hans? What are you doing here?” My heart is racing. After all, I ran. But there is also something different about him today. Same wavy blond hair. Same blue eyes. My eyes linger to parts of him I never really looked at – the muscular chest straining through his white shirt and the biceps he sometimes used to carry me after I had a fainting spell. It must be my apartment – being an adult and all – that’s making me notice all six feet one of him.
“Do I need a reason?” As usual, he acts as if he owns any place I’m in. He walks straight inside. “I find out our little girl is now grown up and living in her own apartment. This I had to see!”
Our little girl.
Something clenches in my chest. I fold my arms across my chest and squint at him.
“Why didn’t the receptionist call?”
“They know me. They know your mom, the whole family.”
I ponder the implication.
“You’re not my family, Hans Blom. You know that.”
“Don’t be mean. Lance and Jason are not here anymore. We should be friends. We’re the only two left.”
“Oh, come on, Hans. You have a lot of friends! Go with them.”
“Nope. Staying here,” he says, taking over my couch. He stretches his arms and basically just takes all the space. I thank whoever is looking out for me that the Kama Sutra is forever locked in my drawer after Mom’s first visit.
“Are you hiding from someone?” Nobody takes me for a fool. I’m not calling for help right now, his favorite damsel in distress.
“Uh.” He clears his throat. “Yeah.”
“Who?”
“My girlfriend.”
Ah. Okay.
“I mean, she thinks I’m her boyfriend. I’m not. Believe me, Ems.”
What can I say about these hockey players? All of them w***e around too much.
“You got to be f*****g kidding me, Hans,” I grumble as I plop myself on the love seat.
It’s madness but I let him stay to watch TV while I read some book that barely registers, anyway. I probably don’t hate him, but there’s something about the way he treats me I don’t like. Everyone loves Hans Blom. Maybe that’s why I don’t like him. I put my headset on and listen to music, trying to sound him and the TV out. He looks at me. His mouth moves, but I just stare at him. He flings his arms in frustration and stops trying to tell me
whatever it was he wanted to say.
- Writer
