The Ten Contracts

Trigger warning: Substance abuse, mental health, violence

***

She signed her name on the line for the fourth year in a row.

Of course, in red ink.

“Mom, you’re not supposed to write your name in red ink, remember?”

After a long sigh, she swiveled my direction to ask if I really believed in such superstitious nonsense. 

For a woman who was paranoid out of her mind when it came to most things, she appeared unfazed by the cultural taboo she had just committed.

“Well, I don’t want you to die…You should write in black ink instead,” I whisper under my breath.

It’s a Korean superstition that if you write your name in red ink, you are practically beckoning death or bad luck upon yourself.

She grunts as she hands me the now-signed contract as if to overwrite my worries.

I carefully examine the same document I hand-write every year.

“I, mommy Kim, promise to quit smoking (for real this time).”

Below this statement: her signature in red ink.

Every New Year’s wish is spent on this contract. 

Each year, I tell my mother that the only thing I desire is for this promise to be fulfilled. However, here we are, standing at year four— secondhand smoke still clouding my vision.

———————————————————————————

It’s a Korean tradition to eat “tteokguk” or rice cake soup, at the beginning of the new year. It’s always been my favorite meal, but this all changes when I find my mother hiding out in her car for a discreet smoke.

“Aiya, Gina, you know mommy tried so hard to keep her promise, but this year was really difficult, okay? Let mommy have just one more smoke…”

She closes the car door in my face.

My tteokguk is watered-down from tears and my appetite is nowhere to be found.

It’s happening again.

Salty tears streaming down my face, I recklessly shred the homemade contract to pieces and obtain new papercuts to match the ones from last year.

I knew she couldn’t keep her promise. She never does.

———————————————————————————

The years flew by as I watched “one more smoke” turn into

“One more drink,”

“One more gamble,”

“One more hour of work.”

My phrasing on the contracts eventually changed to “I promise to stop being an addict.”

I quickly learned that this was a mistake.

Coming face-to-face with the word “addict” only pushed her further into addiction, as if to occupy her mind and reassure her that she was anything but.

Our relationship deteriorated at a speed unknown to light itself, and for once, I was okay with the outcome. I was okay with saying, “I quit.”

I quit because you can’t.

You haven’t, and you won’t.

I know it, you know it, and the ten years of contracts know it too.

“You are not my daughter,” she bellowed, the pain echoing in her voice.

I did not deny her. I did not feel nor want to feel like her daughter at that moment.

———————————————————————————

“Ms. Gina Kim, can you please read line three for us?”

I am transported to a few years back, re-living a silly moment that I did not think would stick with me.

I look out amongst my fellow high school peers and wonder why I had been chosen.

Sheepishly, I recite the phrase “In vino veritas.”

“Excellent, and what does that translate to?” remarks my then-Latin teacher.

I pause, stifling the desire to snort at its ridiculous meaning.

“In wine, there is truth.”

My teacher finds herself exploring a tangent about how wine can be a truth serum and how it often leads people to unravel their most honest selves.

It seems this is not the case for everyone, I thought.

“What if honesty is not the final destination for some people?” I whisper.

My teacher’s expression of both confusion and curiosity begs what the other destination could possibly be.

Glancing up at her puzzled face, I calmly reply—

“Violence.”

———————————————————————————

The sound of drunken chaos brings me back to my senses.

Silently, I stand watching my mother flip her beloved table and fling wine bottles across the room. I began to wonder if this is what honesty was meant to look like.

Is she being honest when she says that I am not hers?

What about when she tells me to leave and never come back?

If she is being honest now, then who is she when sober?

Please, mom, you need professional help. I am not qualified for this, I am just your kid— pleads my inner voice.

She quickly spins around as if to address my conscience, “You are not mine, you are ungrateful, that’s what you are.”

After dodging several wine bottles and various other shatterable items, I manage to catch a vase thrown in my direction.

It is the vase gifted by my late grandmother—my mom’s own mother, and the sweetest little lady.

Are you watching, halmeoni? If you are, watch closely.

Ever so gently, I place the vase in a corner that is guaranteed protection from the alcoholic rage that consumes the room.

If she is willing to destroy this irreplaceable piece of halmeoni, then what regard does she have for me? 

She is not in the right state to care about my well-being, let alone her own.

Suddenly, a spark lights up in the room and a grotesque stench fills the heavy air.

Hazy, yet familiar puffs of smoke fill my vision.

I’m done. 

Without hesitation, I turned to face my mother.

“You will never see me again.” 

We’ve tried, but this isn’t working and you know it.

I quit her, cold turkey— the thing she was never able to do.

———————————————————————————

In an attempt to keep my culture alive in my own home after the grief of figuratively losing my mother, I learned to cook all the familiar dishes I missed.

Tteokkguk was surprisingly on the list of dishes I learned to cook.

It’s currently New Year’s eve about eight years after the falling out.

I still find myself eating tteokkguk, only this time it tastes different; there are no tears to water down my soup and the broth is made with the love I have given to myself.

My newfound fiancé, Daniel, joins me at the table to enjoy what is now a heartwarming meal.

However, it is not long before the peace is disturbed.

A knock at the door brings in the new year.

Wearily, I peek through the peephole to check on our uninvited guest.

My front doorstep is empty, with no figure in sight.

“Hey honey, did we order anything online that’s supposed to be delivered today?”

With a bemused gaze, my beloved fiancé shakes his head.

What the hell is it then?

Impatient, I open the door to find a manila envelope resting on the ‘Welcome’ mat.

The name of the sender is smudged and illegible, but an unfamiliar address is still clearly displayed.

I undo the metal clip of the envelope and spill its contents onto the dining room table.

Daniel cautiously picks from the pile.

Questioning as to why the contents are so mangled, he pauses to look up at me.

Tears begin to stream down my face, but I don’t bother to wipe them away.

Before me lay ten sheets of paper, tattered and taped together.

“I, mommy Kim, promise to quit smoking (for real this time).”

“I, mom, promise to quit drinking.”

“I promise to stop going to the casino.”

“I promise to end my addiction.”

“I promise to change.”

The pattern continues.

However, something seems off. I urge Daniel to research the sender's address as I assess the situation happening on our table.

Upon a closer look at the documents, I let out an abrupt, involuntary gasp.

Black ink.

All previous signatures signed in red had been scratched out and re-signed in black.

Daniel interjects my moment of shock with his findings. 

“This address is for the WalterCrest Rehabilitation Center.”

There, at the bottom of the most recent contract, was a note addressed to me.

“Gina, mommy is getting help like you suggested. I know it took a long time, but a promise is a promise. Happy New Year. Stay healthy in 2022, and don’t write in red ink like I did…it brings misfortune… as it did to us.”

2022? Why is she writing this year’s date when we are going into 2023?

My fiancé pulled a final piece of paper from the envelope.

Another one? But there were only ever ten contracts…

He recites, 

“Dear Ms. Gina Kim, 

We sincerely apologize that you are just now receiving these letters a year later. 

There is no excuse, however, it appears that the staff responsible for the WalterCrest Rehabilitation Center’s mailroom were negligent during the month of January. 

Again, this is entirely our mistake and we would like to make it up to you with six free months of our unlimited services.

Our team would also like to take a moment to send our condolences for your recent loss. Mrs. Kim will be missed dearly by everyone here at WalterCrest.

Sincerely,

Amelia Demond 

WalterCrest Rehabilitation Center.”

Bouts of sarcastic laughter escape my quivering lips.

Six free months of your services? In exchange for losing precious time?

In exchange for what I had been waiting so long for?

“What a joke,” I mumble into the now-dead air.

Cheering crowds and bursting fireworks from the television shatter the silence, attempting to counter the heaviness of the room.

The New Year’s ball has dropped.

She’s gone? Forever? I had no idea.

My mind and body crumble. I don’t know how to feel.

A confusing mixture of pain and relief runs its course through my body.

She finally kept her promise, but this time I’m the one who was too late.