Please Look After Mom

by Kyung-Sook Shin

  I have a pretty good memory, don’t I?

  It’s not a question of memory, though, because it was an unforgettable day. For me, it was that kind of day. As you were leaving the house at dawn, you saw me and asked, “Mom, do you want to come?”

  “Where?”

  “Where your second son went to school.”

  “Why? It’s not even your school.”

  “There’s a funeral, Mom.”

  “Well … why would I go there?”

  You stared at me and were about to close the door behind you, but you came back in. I was folding your newborn niece’s diapers, and you yanked them out of my hands. “Come with me!”

  “It’s almost time for breakfast. I have to make seaweed soup for your sister-in-law.”

  “Will she die if she doesn’t eat seaweed soup for one day?” you asked harshly, uncharacteristically, and forced me to change my clothes. “I just want to go with you, Mom. Come on!”

  I liked those words. I still remember the tone of your voice as you, a college student, told me, who had never gone near a school, to come to school with you because “I just want to go with you, Mom.”

  That was the first time I saw so many people gathered like that. What was the name of that young man, who’d died after being hit by tear-gas pellets, who was only twenty years old? I asked you many times and you told me many times, but it’s hard to remember. Who was that young man who caused so many people to gather? How could there be so many people? I followed you in the funeral procession to City Hall, and I looked for you and grabbed your hand again and again, afraid I might lose you. You told me, “Mom! If we lose sight of each other, don’t walk around. Just stand still. Then we’ll be able to find each other.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t remember that till now. I should have remembered it when I couldn’t get on the subway car with your father in Seoul Station.

  Honey, you gave me so many good memories like that. The songs you sang as you walked along holding my hand, the sound of all those people shouting the same chant—I couldn’t understand it or follow it, but it was the first time I went to a plaza. I was proud of you for taking me there. You didn’t seem like just my daughter. You looked very different from how you were at home—you were like a fierce falcon. I felt for the first time how resolute your lips were, and how firm your voice was. My love, my daughter. Every time I went to Seoul after that, you took me out, apart from the rest of the family, to the theater or to the royal tombs. You took me to a bookstore that sold music and put headphones over my ears. I learned through you that there was a place like Kwanghwamun in this Seoul, that there was something called City Hall Plaza, that there were movies and music in this world. I thought you would live a life different from the others. Since you were the only child who was free from poverty, all I wanted was for you to be free from everything. And with that freedom, you often showed me another world, so I wanted you to be even freer. I wanted you to be so free that you would live your life for other people.

  I think I’ll go now.

  But, oh …

  The baby looks sleepy. He’s drooling and his eyes are half closed. Now that the two older children are at school, the house is quiet. But what is this? The house is a complete mess. My goodness, I’ve never seen such a messy house. I want to tidy it up for you … but now I can’t. My daughter is drifting off as she gets the baby to sleep. Yes, you must be so tired. My baby is sleeping, curled around her baby. It’s in the middle of winter, so why are you sweating so much? My love, my daughter. Please relax your face. You’ll get wrinkles if you sleep with such a weary expression. Your youthful face is now gone. Your small, crescent-moon-like eyes have become smaller. Now, even when you smile, the cuteness of your youth is gone. Since I’ve lived to see you with wrinkles like this, I can’t say my life has been short. Still, dear, I never could have guessed that you would be living like this, with three babies. You were so different from your emotional sister, who got angry quickly and cried and got sullen and turned blue in the face if things didn’t work out her way. You created a schedule and you tried to follow it like you’d planned. When you said to me, “I didn’t know, Mom, that I would have three kids, but when I became pregnant, I had to have the baby,” you were so foreign to me. I thought your sister might be the one to have a lot of children. You never get angry. Of all my children, you are the only one who knows how to say things calmly, point by point, even to someone who is extremely angry. So that’s why I thought you would weigh whether to have a child, and have only one. You never begged for anything, unlike your sister, who threw tantrums asking for a desk like the one your brothers had. I would ask you what you were doing as you bent over the floor, and you would say, “I’m doing my math homework.” Your sister never even looked at a math book, but you were very good at it. You were the child with amazing concentration when it came to solving problems. When you came up with an answer, you would grin happily.

  But you won’t be able to find the answer to why this happened to me. That’s why you must be in pain. Because of your three children, you can’t go looking for me like you want to. You can only call your sister every evening and say, “Sister, was there any news about Mom today?” My love, my daughter. Because of your children, you couldn’t look for me as much as you wanted to and couldn’t weep as much as you pleased. I couldn’t do for you as much as I wanted to recently, but I thought about you a lot when my mind was clear. About you, about how you have to raise three children, including the baby, who is just learning to walk, about your life. I felt regretful that the only thing I could do for you was to make kimchi and send some to you. My heart broke that time when you came to visit with the baby and said, with a smile, as you took your shoes off, “Oh, Mom, look, I’ve put on mismatched socks.” How busy you must be if you, who have always been so neat, can’t find the time to find a pair of matching socks. Sometimes when my mind was clear I thought of the things I had to do for you and your children. And it gave me the will to keep living … but then things turned out like this.

  I want to take off these blue plastic sandals—the heels are all worn down. And my dusty summer clothes. Now I want to get away from this unkempt way I look; I can’t even recognize myself. My head feels like it’s about to crack open. Now, dear. Raise your head a bit. I want to hold you. I’m going to go now. Lie down, put your head on my lap for a little while. Rest a bit. Don’t be sad for me. I was happy so many days of my life because I had you.

  Oh, you’re here.

  · · ·

  When I went to your house in Komso, the wooden gate facing the beach was broken and the bedroom door was locked; it must have been empty for a long time. Why did you lock the bedroom like that but leave the kitchen door wide open? The ocean wind had banged the wooden door open and shut so many times that it was half shattered.

  But why are you in the hospital? And what is the doctor doing? He’s not making you better, he keeps asking you silly questions. He keeps asking you your name. Why is he doing that? And why aren’t you telling him your name? All you have to say is “Lee Eun-gyu,” so why are you not answering, making him ask again and again? Really, why is the doctor doing that? Now he’s holding a toy boat and asking, “Do you know what this is?” Is this a joke? It’s a boat! What does he mean, “Do you know what this is?” But the strangest thing is you. Why aren’t you answering? Oh, you really don’t know? You mean you have forgotten what your name is? You don’t know what that toy boat is? Really?

  The doctor is asking again: “Your age?”

  “One hundred!”

  “No, please tell me how old you are.”

  “Two hundred!”

  You’re really being grumpy. Why do you say you are two hundred years old? You’re five years younger than me, so that makes you … The doctor asks your name again.

  “Shin Gu!”

  “Please think carefully.”

  “Baek Il Sup!”

  The actor Shin Gu? The television actor Baek Il Sup? Are
you talking about the Shin Gu and Baek Il Sup that I like?

  “Please don’t do that, think and tell us what it is.”

  You’re sniffling. What is going on? Why are you here, and why are you being asked these silly questions? Why are you crying, unable to answer these easy questions? I’ve never seen you cry before. I was always the one who cried. You saw me cry so many times, but this is the first time I’m seeing you cry.

  “Now, please tell me your name again!”

  You’re quiet.

  “One more time!”

  “Park So-nyo!”

  That’s not your name, that’s mine. I remember the day you asked me what my name was. You’re paved in my heart like an old road. Like the pebbles in a pebble field, dirt in dirt, dust in dust, cobwebs in cobwebs. I was young then. I don’t think I ever thought I was in my youth when I was living it, but if I think about when I first met you, I can see my youthful face. One late afternoon, I was walking home from the mill on the new avenue, kicking up dust, my nickel basin filled with flour resting on my head. My youthful footsteps were quick. I was on my way home to make dough out of the flour and cook dough-flake soup to feed the children. The mill was four or five ri away, across the bridge. My forehead was sweaty from the flour-filled nickel basin on my head. You passed by me on a bicycle, then stopped along the road and called, “Excuse me.”

  I kept walking, looking straight ahead. My breast was about to pop out of my chogori, which I was wearing with baggy pants.

  “Put down that basin and give it to me. I’ll carry it for you on my bicycle.”

  “How can I trust a stranger passing by and give this to you?” I said, but my youthful steps slowed. Actually, the basin was so heavy that my head felt like it would get crushed. I’d made a cushion out of a towel and put it under the basin, but I still felt as if my forehead and the bridge of my nose were going to collapse.

  “I’m not carrying anything on my bike anyway. Where do you live?”

  “In the village across the bridge …”

  “There’s a shop at the entrance to the village, right? I’ll leave it there for you. So give it here and walk more freely. It looks so heavy, and here I am on a bicycle, carrying nothing on it. If you just put that basin down, you’ll be able to walk faster and get home quicker.”

  I looked at you as you got off your bicycle, and I bit down on the end of the towel hanging by my face, the towel I’d placed on my head under the basin. Compared with Hyong-chol’s father, you were plain-looking, both then and now. You were pale, like you had never worked a day in your life, and your long horselike face and drooping eyes weren’t all that handsome. Your thick, straight eyebrows made you look honest. Your mouth made you seem respectable and trustworthy. Your eyes, gazing at me quietly, were familiar, as if I’d seen them somewhere before. When I didn’t immediately give you the basin and instead studied your face, you turned to get back on your bicycle. “I don’t have a hidden motive. I just wanted to help out because it looked so heavy. I can’t force you to let me help you if you don’t want me to.” You placed a foot on the sturdy pedal of your bicycle. That was when I hurriedly thanked you and handed over the basin from my head. I watched as you undid the thick rubber ties on the back of the bicycle and secured the basin with them.

  “So I’ll leave it at the shop!”

  You raced down the avenue—you, a man I’d just met, carrying my children’s food. I took off the towel wrapped around my head and slapped the dust off my pants and watched you and your bicycle disappear. Dust rose and clouded you and your bicycle, so I rubbed my eyes and watched you get smaller. I felt relieved, the weight on my head gone. I walked along the avenue, swinging my arms lightly. A pleasant breeze passed through my clothes. When was the last time I’d walked alone, with nothing in my hands, on my head, or on my back? I looked up at the birds flying in the dusky sky, hummed a song I used to sing with my mother when I was young, and headed to the shop. I looked for the basin from far away. I looked at the door of the shop as I approached it, but the basin that should have been by the door wasn’t there. Suddenly my heart started beating fast. I walked faster. I was afraid to ask the woman at the shop, “Did anyone leave a basin for me?” If you had, I would have seen it already, but I couldn’t find it. My towel in my hand, I ran toward the shopkeeper, who stared at me, wondering what was going on. I realized it only then: you had stolen my children’s dinner from me. Tears filled my eyes. Why did I give my basin to a man I’d never seen before, trusting you? What was I thinking? Why did I do that? I can still feel that dread, when my momentary nervousness at seeing your bicycle disappear became reality. I couldn’t go home empty-handed like that. I had to find that basin with flour, no matter what. I remembered the scraping noise I’d heard that morning when I scooped up grain in the shed for breakfast. I couldn’t give up when I knew there was enough flour in that basin for ten days’ worth of meals. I just kept walking, looking for you and your bicycle, though you must have sped past the shop. I went on and on, asking whoever I met whether they’d seen someone who looked like you. Your identity was revealed quickly. That was how careless you were. You didn’t even live far away. When I found out that you lived in the village that had a tile-roofed house, about five ri past our village, before the road reached town, I started running. I would be able to bring back all of the flour in the basin if I reached you before you used it.

  When I discovered your bicycle in front of a run-down house at the foot of a hill between paddies, down the road from the entrance to your village, I ran into your house, screaming, “Ahhhh!” And then I saw it all. Your elderly mother sitting on the old porch, with her sunken eyes. Your three-year-old sucking on his finger. And your wife in the middle of a difficult birth. I’d come to retrieve the basin you’d stolen from me. Instead, I grabbed a pot off the wall in the dark and narrow kitchen. I heated water in it. I pushed you aside, since you didn’t know what to do and were just hovering next to your wife, and I grabbed her hand. I’d never met her before, but I shouted at her, “Push! Push harder!” I don’t know how much time passed until we heard the baby’s cry. Your house didn’t have a single strand of seaweed to make seaweed soup for your wife. Your elderly mother was blind and seemed already to be on her way over to the other world. I delivered the baby and scooped some flour from my basin and made dough for dough-flake soup and ladled it into a few bowls and put some broth into the room where the baby’s mother was. How many decades ago was it when I put the basin back on my head and came home? Is that man next to you the baby who was born that day? He’s sponging your hand. He gets you to turn over and sponges your back. It’s been a long time. Your taut neck is now wrinkly. Your thick eyebrows are no longer, and I don’t recognize your mouth. Instead of the doctor, it is now your son who says, “Father! What’s your name? Do you know what your name is?”

  “Park So-nyo.”

  No, that’s my name.

  “Who’s Park So-nyo, Father?”

  I’m curious about that, too. What am I to you? Who am I to you?

  Seven or eight days after I met you, your situation weighing on my mind, I took a strand of seaweed and stopped by your house, but only the newborn was there, not your wife. You told me that your wife had suffered from three days of high fever after the birth, and finally left this world; she was so malnourished that she couldn’t make it through childbirth. Your blind mother was sitting on the old porch, and it wasn’t clear whether she knew what was going on. And the three-year-old. I suppose that man by your sickbed could be the three-year-old, not the baby.

  I don’t know who I was to you, but you were my lifelong friend. Who would have known that we would be friends all these years? The first time we met, you made me feel so despondent by stealing the basin with the flour I needed to feed my children. Our children wouldn’t understand us. It would be easier for them to understand that hundreds of thousands of people died in the war than to understand you and me.

  Even though I knew that your wife was gone, I
couldn’t just leave, so I soaked in water the seaweed I’d brought. I made dough from the remaining flour I’d given you the other day and made dough-flake soup with seaweed; I put a bowl for each person on the table and was about to leave, but stopped to put the newborn to my breast. It was a time when I didn’t have enough milk for my own daughter. You were going around the village with the baby and feeding him donated breast milk. Life is sometimes amazingly fragile, but some lives are frighteningly strong. My elder daughter says that when you mow down weeds with a tractor, the weeds cling to the wheels of the tractor and spread seeds, to breed even at the moment they’re being cut. Your baby latched on ferociously. He suckled so hard that I felt I would be sucked in, so I slapped the baby’s bottom, which still had traces of redness from his birth. When that didn’t work, I had to force him off. A baby who’s lost its mother as soon as it’s born intuitively doesn’t want to let go when it’s near a nipple. I laid the baby down and turned to go, and you asked me what my name was. You were the first person since I got married to ask me my name. Suddenly shy, I ducked my head.