Even though I was ambivalent about finding my birth mother, I had filled out the forms for MotherFinders at Mindy’s urging, and because she paid the exorbitant fee. I figured that if the service did unearth the woman who had cast me from her womb, I could always decide not to meet her. As if in answer to my lack of enthusiasm, my case languished while Mindy’s moved forward. When Miss Cho had emailed me just a few days before I was to arrive in Seoul, asking me to meet with her, I figured it was just a courtesy on her part, since she knew I was going to be in Seoul anyway and since MotherFinders was making a mint off the Stamwells.
Miss Cho met me at the front desk with a sympathetic grimace. “Miss Pearl, I am afraid we have hit a dead end in our investigations. Yours is a most unusual case, for it seems that the information that should have been filed with the various agencies, both Korean and adoptive, are quite simply not there.”
“Oh.” I tried to crumple my face into the look of pained disappointment that Miss Cho clearly expected. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, quite sure. I have never seen anything like it before.” She nervously fingered a delicate filigree cross that she wore around her neck. “About 18 percent of our adoptees have to be told that their mothers cannot be located, but we have never before encountered a situation where the paperwork is simply not there. The only thing we have—and please do not get your hopes up—is an address that your birth mother left as her place of residence. It is in Itaewon, an area that has gone through many changes since 1983.” She handed over an envelope that she had been clutching in her hand. The paper was damp from her fingertips. “The address is written there, in both Korean and English.”
Two women came into the office, the younger one with piercings studding her face like some sort of weird acne, a dagger tattooed on her neck, and ratty purple hair that might have been a wig. Miss Cho passed a critical eye over them as the older one announced who they were. The receptionist, with the bulging, sprung-out eyes of blepharoplasty, greeted them breathlessly, asking how their flight over was and if they were satisfied with their hotel.
I sighed. “Well, you did your best.”
Clearly expecting a more dramatic reaction from me, Miss Cho blinked in surprise. Of a different generation, she had not had eye surgery. “Yes, we did. And your contract with us, I am sure you will recall, says that your fee is nonrefundable.”
“I do recall,” I agreed eagerly. It was worth $500 of Mindy’s money to know that there was no way to trace my birth mother, that she’d remain the stranger that she always wanted to be to me. “Totally understood.”
“Mmm, yes, but MotherFinders would like to offer you the complimentary services of one of our guides. He can take you to the address in Itaewon and tell you some of the history of the area—what kind of people lived there, what kind of a neighborhood it was.” She flashed me a tight smile, meant to be sympathetic. “So you can get some idea of your roots.”
“Oh, that is not necessary…” I protested, but Miss Cho was already beckoning someone over.
“Please meet Harrison,” Miss Cho introduced him, speaking quickly now. “He will escort you to the address in Itaewon.” She leaned back on her heels, as if anxious to retreat from the scene of a horrific accident. “Normally we charge extra for a guide, but in your case, there will be no fee.” Extending an arm to the goggle-eyed receptionist, she hastily recited her final lines: “Please sign the final documents with Miss Ri. Thank you, Miss Pearl, and best of luck to you.”
A swift double peck of a bow and then she was gone.
I turned to the man who stood with polite deference at my elbow. He was, quite simply, gorgeous. Every feature was perfectly chiseled and in complete harmony with the other features. His forehead was high but obscured by feathered bangs that were brushed forward; nose delicately molded; lips prominent, with pillowy contours and a slight, delicious upswirling at the ends; chin gently bifurcated with a hint of a dimple. His eyebrows were heavy, with a wild furring from the point of their arched apexes to the outer tips. He did not shave them, as other Korean pretty boys did, and it was this flaw that perfected the beauty.
“Hello, Miss Pearl, my name is Harrison.” He smiled warmly at me, revealing perfectly aligned teeth, white as virgin snow. “It’s nice to meet you.” He held out a hand, fingers tapering delicately into squared tips, nails buffed to a shine. “I look forward to serving you.”
I put my hand limply in his, and he squeezed it softly. He was looking carefully at me, and I felt his eyes lingering on my nose. More than my thin face, brown hair, or freckles, it’s my nose that most betrays the miscegenation. It is long, but unlike the classic Korean nose, it has a crook high at the top, from which it is a precipitous drop down to the tip, which then curls inward, as if suddenly embarrassed by all the commotion it has caused.
“Uh, you know, I really don’t need your assistance,” I stammered, wishing I had thought to touch up my lipstick before coming in.
A small laugh like the tinkle of a wind chime in a light spring breeze blew softly from his lips. “Please, it is my pleasure.” He put a hand at my back and directed me toward the receptionist. “Let’s take care of that paperwork now.”
The receptionist looked up at us, or rather at him, batting her false eyelashes with strobe-like rapidity. She pushed the paperwork my way while the two of them bantered in Korean. Without reading the text, I quickly signed my name.
“Look”—I turned to Harrison and then quickly averted my gaze from his luminous face to his earlobe, which was just as exquisitely formed as the rest of him—“I really appreciate this show of good faith by MotherFinders, but it’s not necessary. I don’t need to go to this address. I’m just here to support a friend, really, whose mother has been found. We’re here for the reunion, and so I have plenty to do.”
Directing me toward the door, he shone his movie-star smile full force on me. “Please, it’s a free service. Just relax, and we’ll have fun together. I’ve really been looking forward to it.”
He drove his car, an Audi, with insolent aggressiveness through the clogged arteries of Gwanghwamun. Everything about Mother-Finders was plush, from the heavy linen weave of its stationery to the towering arrangements of tropical flowers that perfumed the air of the reception area, but I was surprised that mere factotums would apparently be sharing so freely in the profits. Not only was he driving a powerful sports car, but he also sported a chunky TAG Heuer watch, a pink Lacoste button-down, and Gucci loafers. Maybe they were all knockoffs, since we were in the land of the fake label, sidewalks lined with vendors offering Dunhill cigarette lighters, Chanel sunglasses, and Longines scarves. I myself had a new Louis Vuitton purse cradled in my lap. Still, I thought as I stroked the leather seat, as far as I knew the Koreans had not counterfeited luxury sports cars yet. I guess no one ever went broke underestimating the need of adoptees to find their roots, I thought as the glassy canyons of downtown gave way to squatter, more prosaic concrete buildings.
“Itaewon”—he nodded at the chaotic world outside the car—“is a favorite hangout of the army guys. And expats and tourists. It’s like being in LA or something, not Seoul. Is that where you’re from? LA?”
“No, I’m from the Washington, DC, area. Except actually I live in Japan now. So I guess I’m more of a nomad than anything.” I almost asked him if he had ever lived in LA or the US, which would explain why he spoke English so well. But I didn’t want him to think I was too interested. As it was, I was afraid that I’d have a hard time getting rid of him.
Inching into a tight parking space with expert twirls of the steering wheel, he announced, “Well, here we are. This is not the same building that was here in 1983.”
We both peered up at an ugly concrete building that reared into the air like a dead tree trunk.
“OK, that’s nice,” I said cheerily. “I’m ready to go back now.”
He giggled. “You are very funny, Lisa. I can call you Lisa, can’t I? Now that we’re here, we might as well take a loo
k.”
He hopped out of the car and came over to my side to open the door, offering me his hand to pull me out of the low-slung seat. His skin was soft, more sensuous even than the creaminess of the leather interior.
Still holding my hand, but lightly, as if cradling a chick that fell out of its nest, he turned to gaze upon the generic urban hulk of the building. “So, according to my research, this street was filled with wooden buildings that were mostly family-run businesses—tailors, restaurants, souvenir shops for the army boys.” He let go of my hand to flick a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. “Records show there were several businesses operating out of the address. It was likely a large building, taking up more ground space than this one, but only two stories high.” He lit his cigarette with a slim gold lighter.
“And what were the businesses?” I don’t know why I asked; I didn’t really want to know the answer. Like asking the name of an unfaithful partner’s lover: knowledge that would not uplift or improve me in any way.
“A souvenir shop and an antiques shop upstairs, and on the bottom a tailor and a”—he sharply inhaled—“bar.”
I sucked on a cheek, chewing at the inside of my lip before sensing Harrison’s interest in the gesture. I popped my cheek back out.
“Perhaps she worked there,” he said, smoke streaming from his flared nostrils, the insides of which shone pink like the enameled lining of a seashell. “At the bar.”
I nodded. Among the long ladder of placards advertising the building’s occupants, I noticed one in katakana. From habit, I slowly deciphered it: MA-SA-JI.
“You know what, Harrison? I have to confess to you, I am kind of happy that they didn’t find my birth mother, because I’m afraid she might not be a nice person. My friend Mindy, who’s coming to meet her birth mother, she’s a very nice person, so I’m sure her mother will be too. But me?” I shook my head skeptically.
He squinted at me through the smoke coiling from the cigarette that dangled from his mouth, then slapped his thigh and began to laugh with a mirth all out of proportion to the moment, shaking his head at me in amusement. “Oh, Lisa,” he hooted, dropping his cigarette butt, “I am just coming to understand that you are a real joker.” He waggled a finger at me as I crushed out his cigarette with my shoe. “Oh, I know your kind, you bet I do.”
Still chuckling, he inspected the signs of the different businesses that occupied the building, so I did as well. Some were in hangul, some in English, some both. SOOKIE’S MODA FASHION SHOP. SLOPPYS BURGERS. KIM CHUNG-MIN, DDS. FAME LEATHER GOODS. HOLLYWOOD LOUNGE.
Harrison tapped a shiny fingernail on a discreet black sign that was etched in gold, HONEY DO GENTLEMEN’S BAR, gilded bubbles floating around the words. “I think I’ve been in this bar,” he said wonderingly. “Yes. It was very nice. Nice atmosphere. Makes you feel relaxed. Even though it says ‘gentlemen,’ it’s for ladies too.”
As Harrison pushed his empty bowl away and softly burped into a loosely curled fist, I asked, “Your name isn’t really Harrison, is it?”
“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”
I waited for him to volunteer his real name, but he didn’t. So I asked, “What is your real name?” I was often asked the exact same question, and it annoyed the hell out of me, both because Lisa Pearl was my real name and because I was forced to admit that I did have another name, a foreign name given to me at birth.
I’m pretty sure it annoyed the hell out of him too. He paused before answering. “It’s Ji Hoon.”
I tried it out. “Ji Hoon. That’s nice. Do you mind if I call you Ji Hoon?”
“No, not at all.” He shrugged. “They ask us to use English names at MotherFinders, and so I picked Harrison.”
“After Harrison Ford?” I hazarded.
He nodded glumly, staring past me at a poster of a man determinedly chugging a quart bottle of OB beer, sweat beading his brow from the effort. “I like movies.”
Because I seemed to have offended him, I cast about for something complimentary that didn’t involve his beauty. “Your English is excellent. Did you study in America?”
“Oh, really?” His bushy eyebrows perked up a little. “Thank you. I was fortunate enough to have a really good tutor, an American man, Mr. Smith.”
Kyu Bok emerged from the kitchen to clear our bowls. “Min Hee?” he asked with a wistful tone.
I felt my cheeks splotch with heat. “Min Hee, she, uh, she and I, uh… She’s busy today.”
I looked helplessly at Ji Hoon, who obligingly said something in Korean to Kyu Bok. Kyu Bok grinned, looking at me with raised eyebrows as if we were sharing a good joke. His wife dropped some dishes in the sink with a loud clatter, and he disappeared into the steam, their barbed voices tangling together as they bickered at each other.
Groaning, I dropped my head in my hands. “I’m ready to go to your friend’s apartment now, Ji Hoon.”
Ji Hoon insisted on paying, and as he settled the bill with Kyu Bok, Kyu Bok’s wife emerged from the misty recesses of the kitchen and, arms folded over a teddy bear picking daisies in a meadow, blinked belligerently at me through the fringe of permed hair that wilted over her forehead like a freshly used mop. Ji Hoon took hold of my rolling suitcase and preceded me toward the door.
“Go back to where you came from,” Kyu Bok’s wife spat at me. “Go home!”
“Wha…?” I stopped my weary drift toward the door. “Since when did you speak English?”
Waving her thin arms as if to waft me out the door like a pesky fly, she screamed, “Go home and don’t come back.”
I looked in shock at Kyu Bok, who was tucking Ji Hoon’s money into the cash register. He did not meet my eyes, but intently began to stack coins into tidy columns in the money drawer.
Ji Hoon tugged at my arm, pulling me out the door. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Go home!” The wife’s shrieking followed us down the street.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“Don’t pay her any attention. Some Korean people are crazy.” Ji Hoon shook his head mournfully.
“I had no idea she spoke English!” I stammered. “This whole time, while Kyu Bok and I were trying to communicate, she could have translated! Fucking bitch!”
We rounded the corner onto the wide avenue, back in the other Seoul, where people with necks twisted to their cell phones rushed toward important business meetings, the subway shuddered underneath our feet, and shopgirls in neat uniforms waited at doors with hands folded precisely together in front of them. Ji Hoon seemed to relax a little. He pulled out a cigarette. “Some people are uncomfortable in the presence of Korean adoptees. They think of it as a national shame.” He paused, his lighter poised in the air, cigarette waggling in his mouth as he finished his thought. “Especially women feel this way. Maybe she gave up a baby herself, who knows?”
That stopped me in my tracks. That woman could be my mother! Mindy’s mother! Except no, Mindy’s birth mother was right now dressed in her best hanbok, sipping tea with Mindy and her parents, holding Mindy’s hand and tearfully explaining just why she had to give up her precious baby daughter.
Chapter 3
“It’s hard for people who have a mother and a father to understand. Adoption was like the plague… it is a terrible feeling to know my natural mother didn’t want me.”
–Dave Thomas
“Make yourself at home,” Ji Hoon said, wheeling my suitcase into the cupboard-sized apartment that was bereft of furniture save for the kitchen cabinets, a tray table, and a three-legged stool. Nothing on the walls, no plants, no decoration of any kind.
“Here is the bedding.” He slid open a closet door. “You know how to use Korean beds?” He squinted at me anxiously.
“Yeah.” I began to pull the folded-up mattress off the shelf.
“No, no.” He laughed softly. “Don’t set it out until you are ready to go to sleep.”
“I am ready to go to sleep,” I said, nudging him out of the way so I could maneuv
er the mattress onto the floor. “Where are the sheets?”
Ji Hoon extracted a sheet from the bottom shelf and helped to tuck the mattress into the elasticized corners, allowing me a glimpse of his underwear, the elastic band of which declared in bold block letters JUICY FRUITS. I flopped facedown onto the mattress, mumbling as if already half asleep, “I’m exhausted. I promise I’ll call as soon as I wake up.” I closed my eyes and tried to fake a light snore. Finally, after much too long, he left, softly locking the door behind him. Just to be safe, I waited a few minutes before slithering silently across the floor to fish my phone out of my faux Louis Vuitton handbag, the zipper already giving me trouble. Checking the time, I saw that I was in danger of waking my mother but dialed the number anyway, hoping she was just coming in from catering a late-night event. To my relief, she answered on the second ring. “Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to sound cheery. “Did I wake you?”
“Lisa! I was just thinking about you!” Her voice was like the bread she loved to bake, soft and warm, a little crackled at the surface. “No, you didn’t wake me. I just got home from an over-the-top bar mitzvah party. You should have seen it! It was a Hawaiian beach theme, with real sand, potted palm trees, orchid leis, and a DJ who was flown in from Honolulu.”
I cradled the phone against my ear, wishing it were my mom’s cheek. “How’s Scott?”
“Fine. Training for another marathon, so he’s being really boring, not drinking wine and going to bed at nine so he can be up for five A.M. runs. But, Lisa, how did the meeting with Mindy’s birth mother go? I’ve been thinking about it all day long.”
My fingers crept to the hollow of my throat, where the yin-yang pendant nestled. I slid it back and forth along its short silver chain as I sputtered, “I don’t know. We had a fight, Mom. She basically told me she was sick of me, that I was an embarrassment, and to go away and never come back. She pretty much broke up with me. Our friendship is over.”
Famous Adopted People Page 4
