by Min Jin Lee
They were all gone. Casey stood there on the empty sidewalk with Jay.
The picture of the night with those girls came upon her again; and as before, she felt truncated—no arms, no body. Her quiet sobbing wouldn’t end, no matter how many breaths she took.
Jay held Ella’s tissue against his nose, the bloodstained paper shadowing his long face. He felt terrible, and having seen the rebuke in Casey’s friend’s face, he felt confirmed as a louse.
“If you really want me to go, I’ll go, but I came by to apologize. I’ve been trying to see you for almost two months now. Your sister wouldn’t tell me where you were because you wouldn’t let her. I. . . I’ve been so worried. When you left, you looked—” And Jay stammered, “And I love you, Casey. . . I know—I know I hurt you. I am sorry.”
How was he saying all this? Casey wondered, shaking her head. “I never imagined that you could, that you were even capable, interested in such—”
“I’m not,” he nearly shouted. “It isn’t what you think. I love you, Casey.”
“Your mother broke her promise.” It was too hard to hear Jay talk about love. “She promised not to.” Casey looked at his face, and seeing him with the tissue wadded up his nose, she said, “Jay. You look ridiculous.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t think it’s broken,” he said, sounding nasal, and they both laughed out loud.
Mary Ellen hadn’t told him where she was. It had been Ted, and that morning when Jay had gone to Ella’s apartment to bring over a four-page letter saying how sorry he was, the doorman had mentioned that it wouldn’t be long before they came back because Miss Shim and her friend Casey had gone to church, pointing to the block-long city college building. The services would let out in ten minutes, the doorman said. So Jay had gone to the church and waited for her to come out.
When they reached Jay’s apartment, he unlocked his dead bolt, and Casey followed him in. She’d been letting him talk while they walked to his place, and she’d said almost nothing. She marched into the kitchen to grab garbage bags that she’d bought and felt entitled to, and as Jay continued to explain himself, she selected her novels and compact discs from the shelves in his black glass entertainment unit. She listened to him tell his whole story without interrupting his flow. He was the English major and she was the econ girl—always, she had admired his beautiful diction, but for the first time, she noticed that he sounded priggish and show-offy. When he was done, she said, “I don’t give a goddamn shit if some sorority girls wanted to bang you. Frankly. I just don’t give a flying fuck. You think I can’t get laid whenever I want? Fuck you. I’m done. You’re done. You can take your Trenton-converted-Princeton ass and shove it.”
Jay raised his eyebrows. It was going to be harder to recover than he’d thought.
Casey went to the linen closet and pulled out two towels of hers, then headed to the bathroom. All of her things in the medicine cabinet were as she’d left them. Jay came and sat on the covered toilet and watched her take away her whitening toothpaste, perfume, and cinnamon floss. The middle glass shelf was now empty.
From the mirrored bathroom wall, he checked his nose. It was no longer bleeding.
Half jokingly, he muttered, “I thought Christians were supposed to forgive and all that.” From her chilled expression, he instantly regretted what he’d just said. “I mean, I know you’re an agnostic and. . . I was just kidding.”
Casey was more angry than she thought humanly possible. “Why do atheists constantly harp on Christian hypocrisies? Why don’t you fucking dodgers just get your own set of beliefs to critique yourselves against? I never said I was a good person or a good Christian, Jay. I never even acted like I was. I just fucking went to church this morning, for chrissakes. We’re all fucking imperfect, you motherfucker. That’s the whole absurd point of salvation through grace. I don’t even know if I believe this. Got it, genius?” For the moment, he’d become the dumbest person alive.
“I wasn’t calling you a hypocr—” Jay stopped himself. “I didn’t really mean anything by that.”
“‘That’ being what? Fucking two girls or prodding me to do the Jesus thing and forgive your sorry ass?” Casey walked swiftly to the bedroom and pulled out the top two drawers, where she kept her lingerie and clothes. Nothing had been touched, and she stuffed the contents into the garbage bag. She stiffened her back, focusing on the rolled-up balls of socks and tights. She had missed her things.
Jay came up from behind and put his arms around her. Casey dropped her head to her chest, her chin touching her collarbone, and she breathed in. Paco Rabanne—it was the aftershave she’d bought him for his birthday. She turned around, not knowing if she’d slap him or walk away and never see him again—his soft cheeks, the ocean-colored eyes with their sparkle of black and gold, and the slight droop of his lower lids. She could imagine his face when he grew older, the receding hairline, the pouches under his eyes that would certainly grow heavier, even the blond hairs that would surely sprout from his ears. He’d resemble one of her history professors at Princeton. And at one point, she had loved that about him. His face over the years had become familiar to her—with all its expressions she found so dear; he was her lover and kin—like an older brother, a young uncle, a cousin, and a husband.
He kissed her on the mouth, and she did not pull away.
At four-thirty in the morning, she carried three half-filled garbage bags down to the lobby, where the doorman hailed her a taxi. Casey gave the doorman a buck for his service and spent eight dollars on her fare. At Ella’s, she took a shower, then went to work. It was Monday again.
12 LOSS
DOUGLAS SHIM WAS NOT THE TYPE of man to hold back his praise. He had always admired her singing. Nor was he shy. At Manhattan Eye, Ear & Throat, where he was a surgeon director, Dr. Shim was known for his practical jokes, his wry sense of humor, and his unconscious out-of-tune whistling. But there was something about Leah Han that made him uneasy about approaching her.
It was not one of the Sundays when Leah and her husband served on the hospitality committee, which Douglas chaired. If her solo had coincided with a committee visit, Douglas would’ve told her how much he’d enjoyed her singing in her husband’s presence. It was a curious position to be in—that is, being an attractive widower and talking to married women, especially at church, and especially with Leah.
The Christmas Eve services had just ended, and the congregants were moving about the church basement, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups and eating Entenmann’s doughnuts bought day old from the bakery outlet. Leah was headed to the choir room to change out of her robe, and Douglas raised his hand. Leah Han was known to him as Deaconess Cho—by her church title and, following Korean custom, her maiden name. She stopped and bowed her head to him slightly.
“Deaconess Cho.” He smiled. “‘How Great Thou Art’ is a beautiful song.” Only at church did Douglas speak his native language, and speaking Korean for only a few hours each Sunday reminded him of its formality—in its age and gender specificity—in direct contrast with the casualness of spoken English.
Leah blinked and smiled at the doctor. Elder Shim’s beak nose and triangular chin were not considered by Koreans to be desirable features, but his intelligent and amiable manner softened the angles of his face. Her husband was more classically handsome than Elder Shim, but Leah liked how the doctor was always so quick to smile, showing his neat row of white teeth—the reward for a lifetime of eschewing coffee and cigarettes.
Douglas folded his arms—the position he took for making a medical diagnosis. “That song was a great favorite of my father’s.” He focused on the pretty deaconess, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But in your case, the song itself doesn’t really matter. You’re the only real singer we’ve got.”
Leah laughed in surprise, suppressing her guilty pleasure at the sharpness of his comment. She found herself reddening, embarrassed by the attention she’d craved; she tucked her h
ands and arms deep inside the billowy sleeves of her choir robe, her hands clutching her bare white elbows. Her long, elegant neck dipped, and the color in her face made her look alive and young.
Douglas tried to think of something else to say to make her stay a little longer. He liked looking at her up close. Hundreds of parishioners circled about, but Douglas sought to carve out this private moment with her. From his pew at church, he often stared at her hands, her fingers lean and strong like a pianist’s. Her physical hesitations—the apparent nervousness—appealed to him strongly; she was quiet but vibrant in her feeling. And when she sang, his heart clutched at her sound. In her yellow robe with its black sleeve stripes and trim, she resembled a monarch butterfly—fluttering and resisting flight. At this proximity, her skin was the color of light cream, and there were no lines in her face. Her figure was still girlish.
“Casey must have told you,” Douglas said. He would talk to her about Ella’s wedding. That would be a safe topic.
“Hmm?” Leah looked at him, not knowing what to say.
“The wedding? Did Casey. . . ?”
Leah shook her head slowly, still saying nothing. How could she tell him that she hadn’t spoken to her own daughter in six months?
It was clear that she was puzzled. “We sent you the invitation for Ella’s wedding. I think Ella mailed it on Thursday, or was it Monday?” He was not good with dates. His office manager governed his schedule in a way that he could just show up and not have to recall very much of life’s logistics.
Leah finally spoke. “Oh, I didn’t know. That’s so nice for Ella. And you. You must be so pleased. Congratulations.”
Douglas waved this off. “No. It’s so nice of your daughter to help Ella so much. How proud you must be of her. She’s a wonderful—”
Leah frowned, denying the compliment as politely as she could. It wasn’t appropriate to agree with another person’s flattering assessment of your child. But why was he saying this?
“She seems to like her job,” Douglas said.
“Have you seen her recently?” Leah asked, trying to sound calm.
“Yes,” Douglas exclaimed. “She didn’t tell you?”
Leah shook her head, hoping that the elder would believe that Casey could forget to mention something like that.
“I had dinner with Casey and Ella the other night. Tuesday?” Douglas made a face, unsure of the date. “Anyway, it was after we went to visit the wedding hall. Ted—” He stopped himself. “My future son-in-law. . .”
Leah nodded vigorously, wanting him to continue.
“He works with Casey. At Kearn Davis.”
She’d heard of it.
“I don’t think they work together, but I think they’re in the same building.”
“How?” she asked. How did this come to be?
“Ted helped Casey get an interview. She didn’t say?” Douglas managed to sound as if he weren’t judging her.
Leah cast her eyes down, pretending she’d forgotten—to make it her fault for not having said something earlier. This was in Leah’s nature, to take the blame for things. “That was so kind of your daughter. To ask. To ask her fiancé to help Casey. That was so good. Thank you for helping my daughter,” she said. In all the years she’d known the doctor, this was their longest conversation.
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do anything. And knowing Ted. . .” Douglas paused, trying to think of the right way to speak of his daughter’s future husband. “I don’t think he would’ve gotten Casey an interview unless she was more than qualified.”
The doctor did not like the groom. Leah could see that.
“Are you cold?” he asked her. The deaconess was hugging herself; her hands and arms were hidden inside her sleeves.
Leah withdrew her hands, feeling self-conscious and childish. She was bewildered by this news. Casey had phoned a few times to say she was fine—this was what Tina had said. When pressed, Tina had said, her voice full of resentment, “Casey’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”
Douglas observed the deaconess’s silence as if she were a patient coming by for an initial consultation. A patient told you things about herself more by the way she sat and in the way she looked at you than by what she verbalized. That was Bedside Manner 101. It was important to know this, because patients lied. Nearly always because they were ashamed. You had to look at a patient’s face, her eyes, the way her eyelids twitched or didn’t. Her hands and mouth revealed things, too. Your diagnosis depended on it and, consequently, the patient’s health. Leah’s face looked calm enough, but her dark eyes expressed tremendous anxiety. She hadn’t known that her daughter was Ella’s bridesmaid. How was that? he wondered. Why?
“Have you seen Casey’s dress?” Douglas asked, watching her.
Leah shook her head no, feeling even more upset but not knowing why exactly.
“It’s very pretty. Ella chose the dress, and Casey picked the color. It’s the color of persimmons.”
Leah could imagine Casey in a flame orange dress.
Encouraged by her smile, he said, “In the courtyard of my father’s house, there was a grove of very old persimmon trees. It bore a great deal of fruit. Just delicious. I can still taste them.” He closed his eyes, and his mouth watered. “After the season ended, the cook used to dry the fruit and make this drink, you know. . .” Douglas tapped his head to jog his memory. “It’s got cinnamon, and it’s very cold. My mother used to love it.”
She knew the drink he was speaking of. It had been a long time since she’d tasted it.
“Do you like persimmons?”
“Yes. The small flat ones.” Leah’s eyes grew wet, and she blinked back her tears.
He nodded in sympathy, believing that she’d been moved by a memory of their homeland. Food could do that, he thought. He also found comfort in knowing that they liked the same kind of fruit. But that didn’t mean anything, he chided himself. How silly even to notice. Douglas had a strong wish to touch her. If she were a patient, he would be allowed to put his hands on her face.
“You know, ever since Ella was little, she’s admired your daughter. She’s so happy that Casey is going to be her bridesmaid. You can’t imagine how much.”
Leah tried to look pleased. She’d always liked Elder Shim, felt safe in his company, but suddenly she wanted to flee. None of this was his fault. He was the father of a girl getting married. He had every right to be happy.
“Excuse me. . .” Leah bowed. “My husband is waiting.” She bowed again.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “of course. Good-bye, then.” Douglas felt like a fool. She was married. A deaconess. He shook his head briskly, as if he could cast off his feelings this way. Why did he never feel anything like this—a kind of stirring in himself—for any of the number of single women he was constantly being asked to meet? Then he marched to the cloakroom to retrieve his overcoat and muffler.
Two weeks later, Leah lied to her husband, saying she had a hair appointment. Ten days had already passed since she’d received Ella’s wedding invitation, but it had taken as many days for her to come up with that alibi. She was headed, on foot, to the return address printed on the invitation envelope, guessing correctly that this was where Ella lived. On the way, she bought a large bouquet of white chrysanthemums and ilex branches.
A uniformed doorman stood in front of Ella’s building, and in the lobby, a man in a suit and necktie sat at the concierge desk. He directed Leah to the modern leather armchairs, and she sat down—afraid to touch the magazines on the glass coffee table. Her shoulders were curved with worry; the invitation envelope and flowers rested on her lap. In the space between the chairs, she tucked away her leather purse, one of the first gifts her husband had ever bought for her. They’d been walking along the market in Myeongdong when a bag hawker called out to them. Joseph had asked her which one she liked. All her life, she’d carried bags made of heavy string and tarpaulin. After looking over the stall, she’d chosen a leather bag—square, without any trimm
ing, and cheap. Joseph had studied it, then put it back on its hook, and Leah had felt ashamed at having chosen something so costly. But to her shock, he’d told the hawker to pull down another bag—similar in style and the most expensive one there. She’d protested, saying she couldn’t possibly accept it. No one had ever bought her a present before. When she’d gotten it home, her brothers had teased her for days because she wouldn’t let the bottom of the bag touch the ground. The bag, now over two decades old, still worked fine, so she couldn’t throw it away or buy a new one. Its size was ideal for holding her Bible and hymnal, as well as her choral music and Joseph’s newspapers. But against the backdrop of the pristine Upper East Side lobby of a luxury condominium, the bag was more a shabby briefcase than a lady’s handbag. Leah picked it up again from the floor, sorry for such a thing that had served her so faithfully; then she laid it next to her on the chair, covering it with her woolen scarf.
The concierge called out to her, “Madam, Miss Shim asked you to go up. She’s on twelve. Twelve G.”
When the elevator doors opened, she spotted Ella standing in front of her apartment. As soon as Ella saw her, she bowed deep from the waist, the way she’d greet her father’s guests at his home. Using flawless Korean, Ella invited Deaconess Cho in, accepting the flowers from her hand and thanking her.
Leah ducked into the apartment and sat on the edge of an ottoman. Right away, she pulled out the Bible from her purse. Without removing her coat or gloves, she bent her head in prayer. Her lips moved, but she made no sound. She thanked God for her safe arrival and prayed for knowledge about her daughter.
Casey’s mother was enacting the ritual that the others had done at her father’s house. The Korean Christians would dash into the living room, sit, shut their eyes, and mumble prayers of thanksgiving. Ella was used to this practice of devotion; it was as natural to her as taking off her shoes upon entering the house or floating pine seeds into her father’s ginseng tea after adding his two teaspoons of honey. From her blue-and-white sofa, she would wait for Deaconess Cho to tell her why she had come.
