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dull blade like all its predecessors. Tonight when she cuts the stringy meat of the
squid, I know the knife will struggle like an old man's dentures trying to tear off
a strip of rubber band. I offered to buy Mom some decent chef's knives - she so
adores cooking. I said, Mom, use them for now, and when Sandy comes home I
could always hold them for you.
She said, No, don't spend your money. I'm so clumsy, what if I cut my fingers
with one of those sharp things?
Mom went on in Korean, I saw this infomercial once that showcased a
chef's knife that can cut through metal pipes. Imagine, she said. Metal pipes. Who
would want a knife like that at home?
My mom has a small flower shop down on Reseda. She could slice
thorns off of a dozen long-stem roses in 45 seconds flat. With a razor so thin that
when you hold it, it becomes an extension of your skin.
On Sundays, Mom and I drive to Long Beach to visit my sister. I'm not
sure exactly whereabouts La Montana is on the map of Long Beach, but it's surely
not by the beach because there's no sea breeze, just a faint smell of toxins from
the factories and warehouses nearby. On Sundays there's only one on-duty front
office staff and it's a different person each time. Some days we're allowed some
privacy out in the nicer gazebo outside the main gate, and some days we're told,
No, Sandy has no level 2 privilege; she can't leave the premise.
She's not going anywhere, I say. I point and say, See, we're going to
that gazebo, right there, on hospital grounds.
The staff shrugs and says, Hospital policy.
I once lost an umbrella on one of these Sunday visits. It was a windy
rainy day and the wind tugged at the umbrella like a suction machine. This
umbrella, before it flew away, bent itself like a bowl, inside out. It landed on the
other side of the gate, many yards out of reach. I couldn't get it because the gate
was locked. The on-duty behind the counter said, I have no coverage. You have to
wait. When I was finally let out, the umbrella was gone. For some reason, being
on this side of the gate would always remind me of that flipped-out umbrella.
I have nothing to do during these two-hour visits, so I usually starve
myself before coming here. But when we're locked inside the gate, eating's not
easy. In the inner courtyard, there are some random park benches and a lone
gazebo. This particular gazebo is filthy with age old crumbs and cigarette butts
smoked to the filters. But it's to this gazebo we would go. Mom tries to make
nice by spreading her plastic table cloth on the filmy table and setting it with her
fancy cookery. I look around, hoping we won't be bothered.
During their smoke break, the patients come out. Some of them moon­
walk to our table and stare. One would point and sa� What's that? Kimchee? It's
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