The Interpreter by Suki Kim

pretends that this ride will continue forever. She is on her way to see Mom and Dad. She imagines their new home, a pastel oceanfront house they have just moved into. Dad’s newest whim, the beach, the lighthouse, the moonlight, the edge of New York. “Oh, who would’ve ever thought,” Mom would say, laughing, picking up Suzy at the train station in her brand-new Jeep. Mom behind the wheel in her Christian Dior sunglasses and a sky-blue tank top with tan lines showing through its straps despite the November rain, while Dad is out fishing for fluke, which he would then get the local fishermen to fillet for sushi later. Suzy would present them with a bag of Korean groceries, which her parents would delight in opening; Montauk is not Flushing, definitely not Woodside or Jackson Heights, no Oriental goods within miles. They would gloat over a jar of kimchi , dried squid, salted pollack eggs. They would laugh like children, and Suzy would squint from so much sun in their faces. But then, always, Suzy remembers that she is nineteen still, and
college is not easy at all, and she’s come home to tell them: Dear Mom and Dad, I don’t want to stay in school anymore, I’m afraid of the rules and of breaking them all, I’m afraid of the boys who want me and the men I desire in return, I’m afraid of being stuck out there and not finding my way back unless I hide with you for a while, stay in the bedroom upstairs, and let you take care of me, I will wait for you all day while you fish, while you sunbathe, I will mop the floor and vacuum the living room and even fillet the fish if I can stay just a few nights or weeks or years until I am okay, until I can stand on my own and chase her away who stands in dark with wet hair and a cigarette, afraid of the phone that keeps ringing, until her fingers turn red from the ashes.
    The screeching of the engine signals a stop, and Suzy looks out through the rain-streaked windowpane to find one of the Hampton towns. Even in November, she can spot the white-and-khaki ensemble on the platform. This part of Long Island has nothing to do with Bayshore and its Korean immigrants. This is Ralph Lauren land, the crème de la crème of Madison Avenue. “Why call this a country? Disneyland would be more accurate!” Damian ranted as they drove across the entire coastline one summer in search of the antique shop where the missing Edo print was found. It was a research trip for the book he was working on. Suzy thought he was overreacting, but she liked that about Damian, his refusal to forgive the tiniest flaw or weakness. She believed that it was a sign of honesty, his unwillingness to compromise, his search for the ideal. She admired his intrepid pursuit of beauty, which she thought was his faith in love, the very essence of what she lacked.
    The first time they made love, Damian began with her hands.
    I’ve always believed that a woman’s hands should tell me nothing, to keep me from the rest of her, but you, yours surprise me, a sign of temper, tenacity, such long, angry fingers.
    He was running his index finger across her face. He was whispering the whole time. He kept talking, not so much to her as to himself, as though it was he who needed convincing.
    I would’ve recognized you anywhere, your sad eyes, the ones marked for tragedy, your nose is emotional, the angle tells me so, your forehead is high like mine, you’re ambitious like me, your lips are too small for your face, so imperfect and afraid, you’re a beauty full of holes.
    Suzy lay still and watched the peeling of her skin with wonder. She had just turned twenty. It seemed miraculously natural, and Damian the wrong man for the job. Afterward, she shuddered at the possible consequence of this love, if that is what it really was. She was not sure if she was frightened or excited at the prospect. Their lovemaking was an escape. It was passionate certainly, not in the usual lusty way, but with a fierce current of sadness, for they both