Our daily domestic routine had slowly circled around her, bringing her in to become one of us. Moni constantly poked food into her mouth with chopsticks, to the point where Marlow would simply turn her head for the next bite. An elderly Korean woman was now attached to her as if a thread connected them.
Dad stayed busy at the university, grading papers in his office when he was home. But I would see his hand on Marlow’s head at the end of the night, a soft pat—the lost puppy we had let stay with us for shelter. His eyes studied her as he asked Mom the same questions. “How were the girls? Were they good for you today? Did Halmoni get a break?”
I could see Mom ever so slightly bend to our new clan, the repetition and cycle of each day swaying her toward a reticent acceptance. Each morning she’d get us out of bed, help us each struggle with the toothbrush, do extra loads of laundry, and make an extra plate of food at dinner. This, too, was becoming part of her system, her makeup, her household habitat, whether she wanted it to or not.
It was hard going anywhere without comments from strangers. Strangers would look back at Marlow as she passed, her striking features an open invitation to marvel and ask questions, as if she were giving permission by her appearance alone. I would secretly feel defensive, wanting to shield her from these voyeurs.
“Your daughter is beautiful,” a woman said to us at the grocery store, pointedly looking at Marlow. I sat crouched inside the cart, clutching a box of Fruit Loops in front of my chest, shielding myself from any confusion. Of course, she wasn’t talking about me.
Mom opened her mouth to correct her. But this time . . . this time she said nothing. Her hands stayed poised on the green rubber handle of the cart. Her shoulders dropped and the lines around her mouth hardened. She averted her eyes from Marlow’s upward gaze and pushed forward.
Only Mom was good at ignoring Marlow.
When Marlow asked a question or looked at you, there was no disregarding her. She overwhelmed with a heaviness that dripped like syrup, coating you inward. Her light, honey-colored eyes watched you with wonder and a possessiveness that made you feel wanted. That you mattered to her. That you mattered at all . . .
Moni called for us a second time.
I clutched Marlow’s hand and pulled her out of my room.
“Moni wants us,” I said, bending down to her ear.
“But the new neighbors—”
“They’re not going anywhere.”
We found Moni downstairs in the kitchen. She looked up from tying a bow out of stiff, plasticky pink ribbon.
“What you girls doing?” she asked, tying the bow tighter.
“Watching the new neighbors,” I said.
She held up a round plastic container, the pink ribbon lopsided on top, and placed it in my hands. It felt warm and smelled of garlic.
“This is for new neighbor. Come on. We go say hello.”
“What? They just got here.” I flattened my hands out underneath the container.
“Yes. Welcome gift.”
Marlow poked at the container. “What’s a welcome gift?”
Moni rushed us all forward at the front door. For such a small woman, she had immense strength and forcefulness. “Don’t you know what welcome means?”
“And why are you bringing them that?”
“In Korea you show respect to a new neighbor. You welcome them with a gift,” she said in Korean, practically shushing Marlow as if she had said something bad.
With all the time she had spent with Moni, Marlow had quickly picked up on some of the language, furthering their bond, a taut and tightening rope.
We followed Moni, little ducklings in a line, as she walked hurriedly—there was never any time to waste.
The red-haired woman we saw earlier from upstairs poked her head out from behind the large yellow moving truck. Her brow furrowed as she stepped onto the lawn with a wide gait. She was sweating despite the chilly April weather.
“Hello. Can I help you?” she asked with solid, separated words.
Moni smiled pleasantly and bowed her head slightly as she pushed me closer. “Give to her,” she whispered loudly.
I wiggled forward and held up the container. “Welcome to our neighborhood,” I said ceremoniously. “We live there.” I pointed to our blue house with dark shutters.
She squinted with one eye and looked up.
“Ahh. I see. And what’s that you got?”
“I am the grandmother,” Moni said, smiling and patting me. “I cook some food for you. Please enjoy. Welcome.”
“Smells wonderful.” She held the container up to her nose. “My name is Clara Ada Yates. But you can call me Ada.”
“My name Young-Mi. But everyone call me Halmoni.”
“Where does a name like that come from?” Ada asked. She had a gruff and brash voice that did not pause for anything.
“Korea.”
“My younger brother fought over there. But he’s no longer with us.”
Moni lowered her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“Ahh. I never liked him. He was an alcoholic. Beat his wife.”
