Spotlight: Relative Strangers by A. H. Kim
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Amelia Bae-Wood’s life is falling apart. Unemployed, newly single and completely broke—for reasons she hasn’t told anyone yet—she finds herself hitchhiking across California to deal with the fallout of her mother’s eviction from the family estate. Amelia needs somewhere to live and time to figure out what to do with the rest of her life, so moving with her mother and sister to Arcadia, the cancer retreat center where her sister volunteers, seems like as good an idea as any.
Amelia’s sister, Eleanor, has too much on her plate, including being caught up in a court battle with a man who claims to be their half brother from Seoul and their late father’s only son—a secret love child from his Korean youth—who’s fighting for a piece of everything that belongs to the Bae-Wood women. And when Amelia adds herself to Eleanor’s list of problems, Eleanor must figure out what to hold on to—and when to let go—before things start to unravel.
A witty, wry and enormously entertaining retelling, the sisters’ journey of self-discovery as they reshape their lives gives this classic tale a modern, feminist twist, as it touches on themes of blended families, race, class and wealth.
Excerpt
They’re throwing Mom out of the house. It would be nice if you could come home to support her.
Typical Eleanor. Her email is so straightforward and simple. But I’m her younger sister and only sibling. Over the years, I’ve practically earned a Ph.D. in Eleanor Bae-Wood passive-aggressive psychology. There’s nothing straightforward or simple about her.
Let me translate.
They (the heartless judge and money-grubbing lawyers) are throwing Mom (our poor widowed mother, whom you’ve pretty much ignored for the past twenty years) out of the house. It would be nice (I know you’re a “free spirit” and all, but grown-ups sometimes do things they don’t want to do) if you could come home to support her (and think about someone besides yourself for once).
I’d like to think I would have complied with Eleanor’s request even if I hadn’t hit rock bottom in my own life, but I can’t be sure. My recent brush with the law had depleted my already anemic bank account, and the Buddhist monastery I’d been hiding out in was ready to kick me to the curb. Whatever the reason— my daughterly duty or my debt-riddled desperation—there was something about Eleanor’s email that convinced me to return home.
I’ll be there in a couple days, I emailed back.
That was a week ago.
Now, I’m hunkered down in a Starbucks on El Camino Real having spent my last five dollars on a white chocolate mocha. I know Eleanor would say that’s too much to spend on a medium-sized nonalcoholic beverage, but I needed the free electricity and Wi-Fi.
Also, they’re so yummy.
My cell phone’s been out of juice ever since I crossed the Oregon border into California over four days ago. As soon I plug my phone into the Starbucks outlet and the Apple icon glows back to life, I see a torrent of texts from my sister.
Amelia, have you left yet? I thought you said you’d be here in a couple days.
Ames, the sheriff is telling us we need to get out—where are you???
If you need money, I can wire it to you. Just tell me where.
Honey, I’m getting worried. Are you OK? Pls text ASAP. OK, I’m guessing your phone’s not working. Mom and I are heading out now. I’m leaving a note on the gate and hope you’ll get here soon.
The five stages of grief, all in one text string.
It took me six sweltering days of hitchhiking to get myself from the outskirts of Portland, Oregon to my parents’ majestic estate in Atherton, California. When I finally arrived, there was a lockbox and legal notice on the wrought-iron security gate along with a note from Eleanor:
Ames,
I’m sorry we had to leave without you, but the sheriff ran out of patience. My friend Leo offered to let us stay at the Master’s Cottage in Arcadia. Just keep taking 1 North until you see the signs for the center. If you reach Bodega Bay, you’ve gone too far. Cell reception is bad up there, so call the main line if you need help. It would be nice if you could join us.
Assuming you’re still alive. ~ E
No translation needed.
So, what exactly is Arcadia? I check Wikipedia. “Arcadia: an administrative unit of Greece. In literature, refers to a Utopian view of pastoralism and harmony with nature. May also refer to Arcadia (video game), Arcadia (sexual dysfunction medication), or Arcadia (cancer retreat center in Northern California).”
According to Google Maps, the Arcadia Cancer Retreat Center is over ninety miles away from my current location. The red locator dot appears along the Pacific coastline in rural Marin County, north of Point Reyes Station. I click the public transportation icon. No route available. By foot? About twenty-eight hours, including walking across the Golden Gate Bridge. I glance down at my fawn-brown suede gladiator sandals. These boots weren’t made for walking.
I try a few online searches—”free shuttles to Marin,” “South Bay to North Bay public transit,” “desperately seeking ride to Arcadia”—but the results are worthless. I wonder if I might be able to convince one of the well-heeled Starbucks patrons to give me a lift, but everyone seems heavily invested in their screens.
My only option seems to be to hitchhike…again. A hard knot forms in my stomach just thinking about it. Most of the drivers who picked me up on the road were creeps at best. How much longer until my luck runs out and I get a ride from a true psycho?
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About the Author
A.H. Kim (Ann) was born in South Korea and immigrated to the U.S. as a young child. Ann was educated at Harvard College and Berkeley Law. Prior to becoming a novelist, Ann practiced corporate law for many years and served as chief of staff to the CEO and as head of investor relations at a Fortune 200 company.Ann is the proud mother of two sons, a longtime cancer survivor, and community volunteer. After many years living in the Bay Area, Ann and her husband now call Ann Arbor home.
