Queen's Luxury Spa

Abstract

Queen's Luxury Spa Ji Hyun Joo (bio) Unbeknownst to Mother, I plan to live with her indefinitely. I moved in with her, occupying the futon in her newly purchased one-bedroom apartment, after my divorce was finalized a week ago. Of course, Mother doesn't know about the divorce because she doesn't know that I was married. Before you envision a scrappy wedding at some chapel in Vegas with the names of the bride and groom written in chalk, I assure you that wasn't the case at all. I married a man I had dated for two years in an intimate barn ceremony in New Jersey, surrounded by our friends and his family. We were married for six months before he filed for divorce. The reason I didn't tell Mother about the marriage is simple: she is firmly against my marrying anyone who's not Korean. Mother is narrow-minded in this way. During the course of the divorce, I lost the apartment, got fired from my copywriting job, had two bouts of the stomach flu, and accumulated a ghastly amount in overdraft fees. Eventually, I got my head together and decided to come back home to collect myself. When I informed Mother I was going to be staying with her for a few weeks, she lingered in her silence for so long I had to ask if she was still on the line. Then she cleared her throat and stated that it's been three years since I'd seen her or been back home. When she's not playfully berating me, she lists facts. Mother speaks in code, a language I've studied arduously between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. It's my job to read between the lines and find the messages hidden deep within these bare facts. In this case it meant that she welcomed me into her home with open arms. The sudden announcement of my descent into Koreatown, Los Angeles, did raise two questions, "What about your job? Did something happen to your apartment?" I reassured her that I'm simply using up my vacation days and that the apartment is in fine condition. I plan to take the next two weeks to come up with another lie to extend my stay. Mother is not one to fact-check. For the first four years after I moved across the country to New York for college, she took time out in her workday to call and ask if I'd eaten breakfast. She didn't ask about any other aspects of my life, but I decoded that breakfast meant: how are you? I was accustomed to not revealing much information about myself to Mother, so I kept the conversations brief and to the point, "Yes, I had cereal." As I remained many states away from her, visiting her less and less, she distanced herself, calling me once every other week to ask if I'd eaten breakfast. [End Page 83] Mother now lives on the second floor of a garden-style apartment complex. When I arrived, I was shocked at how pristine it was. Other than having her body scrubbed at the bathhouse on Saturday mornings, Mother rarely did anything nice for herself, so I assumed she had purchased a run-down property she would have to fix up. The bushes outside are manicured into perfect squares while vibrant tulips surround a welcome sign. There are bits of marble placed throughout the apartment to give it a touch of luxury. Mother, however, has not changed. She still wears sweatpants that sag at the knees and a Cornell University sweater that's severely frayed at the neck. I've told Mother that I would order another for her online if she threw that one out, but she stated it was the sole item she purchased that one time she visited me on the East Coast. My Ivy League education automatically makes me appear trustworthy and responsible. I'd like to think it balances out the sloppy mess I'm finding myself in now. If Mother knew the whole story, I'm almost sure she'd agree. ______ Mother is...