“Is your professor Korean?” my father asked.
Hannah nodded. So her professor had found a bird covered in this mold; it had fallen at the foot of her tree. She picked it up: the fungus felt like moss against her hand. The bird blinked a crusted eye.
She took the bird inside and put it in a crate. She did not give it food; she did not try to wash it. She knew there was nothing to be done. Still, she wanted to keep the bird warm overnight, and to keep it company while she could.
The next morning, it was on its feet, shuffling against the edges of its box. It was agitated, but stronger than it had been the day before. So Hannah’s professor took it outside and left it where she had found it, at the foot of the tree. All day the bird knocked its mangled beak wearily against a nearby rock until the rotten parts broke off in long, painful slivers, leaving only the soft tender core.
At night, she gathered the bird and took it inside again. The next morning, the bird lay in the box and did not move. She gave it water. It slept. She thought it would die. The next day, however, it was up again, plucking out its own feathers, pulling out the stubs of its claws with its soft core of a beak.
She gave the bird more water. She gathered insects and worms. She could not bear what the bird was doing to itself. It looked like suicide. But then, Hannah said, the bird did not die. Every day her professor gave the bird water and fed it, and day by day the beak hardened. Slowly the feathers and claws grew back. Later she learned that if the bird had neglected to tear out a single feather, or left a single claw, the disease would have returned. But each rotten part of itself grew back new, and the bird lived and recovered, and flew away.
When Hannah finished this story, my mother stood up. “So,” she said. “I am glad you are here. And I am glad you have learned how difficult it is to survive.”
18.
In the coming weeks, Hannah and I took turns tending to the garden, taking walks with our parents, serving fruits and drinks to our guests. My father gave up chemotherapy and started a course of alternative treatment that involved special meals, fresh-pressed juices, and hundreds of pills. Once he started, it felt oddly as if nothing had changed from when he was receiving chemotherapy. My parents had heard stories about friends who had stayed alive this way, and it felt easy to transfer our hope from one method to the next, as if this might work for us, too. In any case, we did not talk about it very much.
Instead, my mother prepared all my father’s special juices and meals. She did our laundry, she cleaned our house. Every day at every meal, before she began to eat, she touched my father’s hand quickly, as if she wanted none of us to see. Astonishingly, my father began to seem better. He seemed to be gaining strength.
He even brought up the approaching Muju festival, which he hadn’t mentioned at all since Hannah’s arrival. I thought he’d forgotten or given it up.
“Will you go?” he asked Hannah, after describing what it was.
“Sure,” Hannah said. She grinned.
I expected my mother to protest, as she did when my father first brought it up, but she just pursed her lips and said nothing.
I turned to my father. “Maybe it’s too far: you don’t want to get worn out,” I said.
“No, I feel good,” he said. He jumped up and down. “See?”
He looked so light on his feet. “I want to see the fireflies,” he said. He smiled at me, his face hopeful and bright.
“And after the festival, I’m going to stay longer,” Hannah said. “I cleared it with school; I’m taking a leave of absence, and I can stay as long as you need me.”
“That’s great news!” My father stuck out his hand at her, beaming. “Shake,” he said.
“Can you really take that much time off school?” my mother asked.
“Sure,” Hannah said. “I’m doing great right now, it’ll be fine.”
A period of unprecedented calm followed. We filled the days with family walks and visits from friends. In the evenings we played card games and planned our trip to Muju. Hannah and I began, tentatively, to hang out. We gardened side by side; we went on hikes. We were reserved still, but more relaxed. I began to think that maybe this was just how it would be between us. That nothing was resolved, but perhaps even that was all right.
All this might have continued if it hadn’t been interrupted by my Komo’s next visit. This time she brought my cousin Keith, and together they swept into our house. He had grown into a totally different person from the boy he’d been in America: tall and lanky now with a pleasant, thoughtful face.
Hannah did not recognize them at first, and greeted our Komo the same way she greeted everyone here, with a deep, stiff bow, jerky with her hands at her sides.
“Haejin,” my aunt said. There was some quality to the way she said my sister’s name that made me look up. She came forward with both arms outstretched in a theatrical gesture.
Then Hannah knew who she was. She stepped away. “Don’t touch me,” she said, surprising us all.
My aunt shrugged, lowered her outstretched arms, and stepped around Hannah. “Don’t worry about her, my dear,” she said to my father, taking his hand. “I know how children are.”
Keith looked down. His face was quiet, thoughtful even. From what I knew of him as a child, I would have expected him to be watching with a smirk on his face. I would have thought he’d say something snide.
“When are you going to get a job, Jeehyun?” my aunt said, turning to me as we arranged ourselves at the kitchen table. “Don’t you think it’s time you supported yourself?”
“She does,” my mother said, coming in with the first tray of tea, and setting it down. “Jeehyun has always had fellowships and full scholarships for school.”
“She gets her brains from our side of the family,” my aunt replied.
My mother snorted, tried to cover it with a cough, and gave my aunt her tea.
My aunt said, “I wish that you were settled. How can your father feel easy in his mind knowing you haven’t established yourself in any way?”
This was something I had worried about. I looked up at my father, and he winked. I felt immediately better.
“It’s a tough life,” I said.
“In my time it was nothing to joke about,” my aunt said. “Two unmarried girls whiling away their time out here in the countryside when they could be making themselves useful.”
“Ah,” my mother said, coming in with the tray of honeydew, Hannah with empty hands following behind her. “You forget, we don’t believe in being useful.”
My aunt looked up at my mother, anger gathering in her face. “Yes. That’s what I came here to talk about,” she said.
“Haven’t we already had this talk?” my mother asked, sweetly. She sat down very gracefully, with great care, and folded her hands in her lap.
My aunt reached out her hands, and nodded at the fruit tray. “Let us pray,” she said. My mother did not protest, but gave my aunt her hand. I wondered if my aunt really prayed over all her snacks, or if this was meant solely for our benefit.
I was gamely reaching for Hannah’s hand when she rose from her chair. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she said.
“Haejin,” my mother said, but Hannah was already heading for the door, which she slammed behind her on the way out. There was a shocked silence, and then my aunt bowed her head again as if nothing had happened, and continued praying. I saw her fingers tighten over my father’s. When she was finished, she raised her head and looked at each of us in turn.
“Maybe I should go after Hannah,” I said to my mother in a low voice, but she shook her head.
“Let her go for now,” she said.
“It’s a shame that girl doesn’t have better manners,” my aunt said. She speared a piece of melon and put it in her mouth. “Never did.”
My parents were silent. “I think she’s all right,” I surprised myself by saying. “She’s gotten along great with everyone else until now.”
“It doesn’t matter,” my aunt co
ntinued, “I came to talk about other matters. I’ve met a minister who has offered to come out here once a week to pray for a cure for you.”
“That’s very kind of you, but it’s not necessary,” my mother said.
“It might help,” my aunt said. “Many people have been healed by faith.”
At this point, Keith sighed loudly, and I turned to him. “Would you like to go for a walk?” I said. “I don’t think we need to be here for this.”
He looked at his mother, and nodded quickly. “Yes,” he said. “Please.” So we left our parents to have their conversation about prayer and sickness and God.
When did you get to Korea?” Keith asked as we circled the pond. He still spoke English fluently, but had acquired an accent.
“Just a couple months ago,” I said. Hannah was nowhere to be seen. Where had she gone? I wondered. Perhaps she had gone up the mountain; perhaps she’d gone down the country road to look at the fields.
“Are you glad you stayed in America?” he asked. “For college and everything, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t imagine anything else. What about you?” Perhaps Gabe’s accident wouldn’t have happened if they’d stayed in America. But Keith just shrugged.
He rubbed his hand over his chin. “You know,” he said, “your father is my favorite relative. It’s too bad he’s the one who got sick. He’s the best of everyone.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously,” Keith said. “He’s a decent guy. One of the only decent guys in my family.” And he laughed. He reached down and picked up a handful of stones, flinging them one by one at the fish.
We talked then, about his move to Korea and how disorienting it had been for him. “That’s the first time I understood what you and Haejin must have gone through,” he said. I nodded, surprised to hear my sister’s name on his lips. Aside from that, though, we didn’t talk about her or about Gabe.
We paused for a moment to admire the shining surface of the pond, and just then, a beautiful long water snake slithered through the water and slid across the rocks at our feet.
“Look at that,” I said, touching Keith’s arm and pointing. He jumped.
“Don’t worry,” he said, shaking his arm as if to rid it of my touch. He picked up a stick. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh no,” I said. “Don’t.” But he had already leaped forward, and was bashing at the snake with the staff. The snake writhed under the blows, stuck between the rocks, which glistened like glass.
“Stop,” I said, and I stepped forward, but something stopped me from touching him again. “It’s bad luck,” I pleaded. All the creatures that lived on this property were our creatures. This pond, this mountain, this air were all supposed to make my father better. “Leave it alone.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let it get you.”
“Please,” I said, but maybe he misread the panic in my voice because he thrashed even more wildly at the snake until I finally couldn’t bear it. I grabbed his arm and pulled him away. The snake curled in on itself and slid backward into the water. It drifted away from us limply, its body bending in the water. It coiled and uncoiled, and it was unclear whether this was a live motion, or the water pushing against it.
I couldn’t believe that the snake had been so easily killed. I should have stopped him, I thought. I shouldn’t have let something like that happen here. I did not notice that we had begun walking toward home until we were almost back.
Inside, my father was sitting at the table, eyeing a cup suspiciously. Keith and I hesitated at the door. My aunt was watching my father intently. He picked up the cup and downed it.
“Thank you, Noonah,” he said, when he was finished.
“Remember,” my aunt said, pulling back slowly, “four people from our church were cured by this. And daily prayer.” Then she turned to us.
“Did you have a nice visit?” she asked.
Keith nodded. She smiled. She cocked her head at me. “You’re no beauty like your mother,” she remarked.
I heard my mother suck in her breath.
“It’s probably better,” my aunt continued. “Humility is important.”
“Thank you,” I said. “They tell me I look like you.”
My aunt laughed. “You’re thicker than I was at your age,” she said dismissively. “Of course I changed after I was married and never got my figure back. Not that my children ever appreciated it.” She fixed Keith in her sights. “At least not him.”
I sat with my aunt and cousin for another hour before they left. I watched their departure with relief, and went for a walk as soon as they were gone.
Our garden was the same as always, the plants a little wilted in the midday sun. I knew I should water them, but I walked past. I avoided the pond, and went to the river instead. I walked toward the mountains.
As I approached, I saw Hannah coming down the path, and I went out to meet her.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” I said. “You were smart to leave.”
She smiled a little, but she didn’t ask what had happened. Together we walked back to our house. When we entered, my parents were still seated at the table, all the uncleared tea things between them. My father was slouched in his chair.
“You sent her money for years,” my mother was saying. “Money we didn’t have, money I denied our children—”
My father sat up suddenly as we walked in, and hit the table with one hand. The little forks on the plate of fruit jangled. “Enough,” he said.
I jumped at the noise, but what frightened me was the expression on his face. It was not angry or impatient—there was no emotion in it. Just weariness and dread. “Please stop.”
That night, after everything had been cleared away and washed and put back, in the dark through the wall between our two rooms, I could hear my mother, sharp and clear, “Why should we have to see your sister? It’s not as if she ever has anything good to say to us. Even your daughter hates her.”
And then my father, blurred and indistinct, his voice pleading.
I rolled over so I was facing Hannah, but she was on her back, perfectly still, asleep. Her sleeping roll was so close to mine that I could feel the heat of her body. Her lips were slightly parted, her blanket rising and falling with her breath.
The next morning my parents were acting cold to each other, and Hannah was sullen.
“What should we do today?” I asked brightly, hoping I could cheer everyone up. Hannah flicked her eyes at me and gave the slightest shrug of her shoulders.
My parents were similarly listless, though beneath their listlessness was a lurking anger I didn’t quite understand. Hardly anyone spoke at breakfast, and even our movements were clipped and silent. It went on like that all day, as if this combination of exhaustion and wrath had been simmering under all those days of quiet in our house. It might have burned itself out if not for the appalling weather, but as the pressure grew in the air outside, my parents grew more irritable. The house already felt claustrophobic when the monsoon began in torrents, in floods, as if the sky was a bowl of overturned water.
All day it rained. The roads to our house got washed away. We were stuck in that downpour of rain together, and none of us had anything good to say. I fretted: if something happened to my father, how would we get him to a hospital? I watched my parents, I watched Hannah, I watched the rain. I remembered that my grandmother had told me that in the countryside corpses rose from the ground during monsoons.
Too many people had been improperly buried during the Korean War. Near the sites of big battles, corpses would float to the surface, released from the grip of the earth. They would float down the streams that washed away the streets. When the rains abated, someone would have to go around collecting those bodies deposited in people’s backyards, most of them just bones and skulls. In the quiet tension of our house, I almost expected such a catastrophe. I almost wanted the corpses to rise.
My parents stared moodily at the r
ain, which brought tiny frogs, hopping across the street past our house. The frogs traveled single file like they were in a miniature parade. They were as small as marbles. From a distance, they looked like blown leaves being pushed ahead by the rain. They made little paths in the mud, small roads to somewhere else. And it rained on for days.
My father became finicky. He spent more and more time in his room; he became peevish and hard to please. “I don’t have enough room in my stomach to eat as much as you feed me,” he complained.
Every day during the rains I went outside and worked in the garden to try to keep the tomatoes and other plants from washing away. Each morning the pepper plants were overturned, the tomatoes drowning. I drove the stakes back into the ground, cutting the old ties that floated in the water and tying the plants back up. As I worked, my feet sank into the mud and were held there by the weight of the earth. When I came back in, Hannah was reading on the sofa. My parents sat mutely, staring out of windows, typing on their computers. It made me impatient.
“How come this is all we ever do?” I said.
My parents kept typing on their separate laptops. Hannah kept reading. Those days, my parents stayed home and did not drive into the city. I took my notebooks into my room and worked on the floor. I wrote long notes to my advisor and received long notes back that felt like my only link to the outside world. I lived almost entirely in my own mind, and I tried to think only about my work. I was reminded how reassuring it could be to live in the world of abstract ideas: how it untethered you from the physical world, and cut you loose from reality.
When I emerged from my room, my mind was bleary and unfocused. But I noticed at mealtimes how my father ate less every day; he took his pills one by one, and grew weaker.
Finally the rains ended; not everything was ruined. The garden survived. One sunny morning, my father opened all the windows. The heat had lifted somewhat, and we went outside and walked around. Things felt better.
Forgotten Country Page 18
