Page 17 of XOXO

The door opens.

I don’t know what I expect from meeting my grandmother in real life. My grandparents on my dad’s side of the family are a lot like my dad, sweet and funny, with a fondness for hard liquor.

I knew my mom had a strained relationship with her mother but I thought that was just because of physical distance, and my mom’s, well, personality. She doesn’t waste emotions on things that aren’t strictly beneficial to her, or me. Only my dad could bring out a different side of her.

If someone were to ask what I thought my grandmother would be like, I’d say she was probably similar to Mom—powerful, intimidating, and no-nonsense.

“Soojung-ah!” Halmeoni cries, calling my mother by her Korean name.

Mom stands stiffly as her mother throws her arms around her. She’s so tiny, she has to tiptoe in her house slippers.

She looks like the sweetest grandmother in the world.

“Come in! Come in!” She ushers us into her home, pushing aside the shoes that are laid neatly in rows by the entranceway. “And this must be Jenny.” She grabs my hands; hers are warm and soft. “So beautiful,” she says, and I feel a rush of warmthinside because no one has ever called me that before, and she sounds so sincere. “How old are you?”

“I’m seventeen years old.”

“Eomma,” Mom says. “We still have luggage outside.”

“I will call my landlord. He lives downstairs. He’ll bring it up.” She adds to me. “He always helps me with my groceries.”

She looks young for a grandmother, but that makes sense because my mom was young when she had me. She has short permed hair, shot with streaks of gray and a warm, sunny disposition. When she smiles, her eyes crinkle at the corners, and it’s the most adorable thing.

This whole time we’ve been conversing in Korean and I’m thankful that Mom forced me to stick with Korean class instead of quitting like I wanted to in second grade.

“It’s fine, Eomma,” Mom says. “Jenny’s strong.”

Mom nods at me and I race out the door to bring up the luggage while she unpacks in the only other bedroom in the apartment. It takes me four trips, but I manage to bring them all up. By the time I’m finished, Halmeoni has laid out breakfast on the small table in the kitchen. Toast slathered with butter, sunny-side-up eggs, and grilled spam. The bread for the toast must be from a bakery because it’s thick and fluffy, the eggs are cooked to perfection, and the spam is salty and sweet. The last meal I had was on the plane, and I’m starving. I inhale the food while my grandmother peels an apple next to me, nodding encouragingly.

After Mom finishes unpacking, she heads over to the small table, and I stand so she can sit on one of the two chairs.

“Can I go out and explore the neighborhood?” I ask my mom in English.

Halmeoni looks up where she’s begun peeling another apple. “Doesn’t she want to unpack?” she asks my mom.

“Jenny’s not staying,” Mom explains. “The school she’s attending has dormitories. She’s moving in the day after tomorrow.”

“Ah.” Halmeoni nods knowingly, “Chelliseuteu.”Cellist.Still holding the apple and knife, she raises two thumbs. “Meosisseo.”Very cool.

Reaching behind her, she grabs a piece of paper and writes down 1103*—the code to the keypad of the apartment—slipping it into my hands along with several man-won, roughly the equivalent of ten-dollar bills.

While I search my suitcase for my ankle boots, my grandma expresses concern about me going out into the city alone.She’s never been to Seoul. She doesn’t know the area. What if she gets lost?

“Don’t worry, Eomma,” Mom reassures her, “Jenny is very smart, and she can read and converse in Korean. She also has her cell phone.”

“Are you sure?” She sounds relieved. “She must be independent, like you.”

My mother doesn’t answer for a few seconds. “Yes, Eomeoni,” she says, finally. “Jenny’s had to grow up fast, like me.”

A look passes between them, and I edge toward the door. Whatever they need to work through, it’s better if I’m not around.

My first stop is the café across the street to load up on some caffeine. A chime twinkles when I open the door. When no one comes out to greet me, I leisurely move around the small space, which is about half the size of the foyer in Jay’s Karaoke. Natural light comes through the eastern-facing window, gilding the plethora of fresh flowers on the sill, presumably from the flower shop next door. Small personal touches make the café seem homely and pleasant. Jazz plays from a speaker in the corner.

“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone came in.” A young athletic-looking guy in an apron steps through the curtain.

Then I notice what he’s wearing. “You go to the Manhattan School of Music?” I ask in English.

He looks down at his sweatshirt, then back up at me. “Yeah,” he answers, also in English. “I’m a sophomore, studying saxophone. Why?”

---