by Naomi Foyle
Beside Mee Hee, Su Jin set down her tea cup with a clatter. “I wish we could watch TV, not just DVDs” she complained to the table. “The gardener said there’s no radio or Internet because of the mountains. And we’re not allowed to go to the shop to buy magazines.”
“You just got here!” Older Sister cut in. “Why do you want to walk twenty miles to read some trash?”
“I wanted to read about our countrymen in the World Cup,” Su Jin hissed. “The gardener said South Korea reached the quarter-final—against Brazil. They lost, but they played with honor. And the England-America semi-final was on television last night. That was a historic occasion.”
Older Sister snorted. “Since when do you care about England and America?”
“We are citizens of the world now,” Su Jin hissed. “Or at least some of us think we are.”
“Shhh.” Mee Hee hushed her friend. “Here they are.”
Dr. Tae Sun and Dr. Dong Sun had entered the room. Their peas-in-a-pod faces were both pale and drawn. They’d been working so hard, Mee Hee thought; perhaps they hadn’t slept well? The brothers took their seats and the breakfast began, but it was not the chatty meal of the day before. The doctors were silent, and the women spoke quietly to their housemates, not happily across the tables to each other.
Finally, as the cooks cleared the dirty plates away, Su Jin lifted her teacup. “I wish to propose a toast to our football team in London,” she said loudly. “To the Red Devils, who do both North and South Korea proud in every international competition.”
The doctors exchanged glances. Dr. Tae Sun cleared his throat, but Dr. Dong Sun rose to his feet. “To the Red Devils. And to Mee Hee and the Flower Committee. The room looks beautiful.”
Mee Hee ducked her head as her sisters applauded.
“We did it together, for Dr. Kim,” she stammered. But her voice was lost in the growl of a car engine and the sharp crunch of gravel outside.
“Sisters!” Dr. Dong Sun rubbed his hands together and stood up. “She’s here. Quick, let’s form a half-circle in front of the door. Come, there’s plenty of room.”
Mee Hee felt so light and tingly she thought she might float up into the rafters. She held her breath as footsteps sounded on the wooden entranceway and bit her lip as the carved doors swung open. She wanted desperately to stare, but that would have been dreadfully rude, so like everyone else, she bowed her head and peeked through her lashes at the small woman in a green silk dress who entered the room.
Just a fluttery glimpse of the doctor revealed that she was far more beautiful than her image on the DVDs, or even in the photo. She was as glamorous and poised as a woman in her prime, as delightful and sparkling as a young girl, and as wise and loving as a grandmother. Now, before Mee Hee could sneak a sideways look at Su Jin, Dr. Kim was flowing like a mountain stream into the Meeting Hall. She paused in front of the crescent of women, letting out a sigh of approval that brushed Mee Hee’s heart like a breeze against a chime.
Beginning, as was right, with Older Sister, the doctor greeted each woman with a low bow and a few words of welcome. She knew everyone’s names, and the names of their home villages. She took each Sister’s hands between her own and thanked her gravely for coming to Kyonggi-do. When she came at last to Mee Hee, though, she stopped for a long time, her soulful dark eyes searching Mee Hee’s face.
Mee Hee’s heart beat rapidly. Was she not right? Did she not belong here after all?
“Lee Mee Hee,” Dr. Kim said at last, her voice as rich and supple as warm milk. “You are the one from my mother’s village.”
“I didn’t know—” Mee Hee lowered her head and tried to focus on her own clasped hands. Was it true? Was this honor truly hers?
“Dr. Che came twice for you. Please, tell me: do I look like anyone you know?”
Mee Hee raised her chin, blinking back tears. With the greatest of difficulty, she forced herself to look directly into Dr. Kim’s inquiring face.
The doctor’s skin was so refined, her mouth so perfectly painted, her hair so immaculately arranged, it was impossible to imagine her family being farmers or shopkeepers, people who spent all day sweating in the sun or crabbily counting goods in dark storehouses. But her soft, sad eyes were filled with a longing Mee Hee knew only too well. It was the blood-longing, the sorrow felt by all those who had family somewhere in the South. The hard war that had driven so many from their homes was decades ago now, but no matter how many new babies came, the blood-longing never left the eyes of the old people who had lost brothers or sisters, cousins or children to the South.
Swallowing hard, she lowered her eyes again and said, “Perhaps you are descended from the Kims who ran the schoolhouse. I know they had a girl. Kim Hyun Woo, the man who is perhaps your uncle, he spoke often of his older sister, Kim Young Mi, thinking she must have done well for herself in the South. She was so beautiful and intelligent, he always said. Yes, perhaps you are the descendant of the teachers. They are a very good family. You have a yangban look about you. I think that must be so.”
Afraid, she raised her eyes again. Doctor Kim’s face was lighting up slowly from within. One solitary tear slipped down her cheek like a pearl, gleaming as if warmed by her longing. And with the tear, some of the terrible yearning in her eyes was also slipping away. Mee Hee could see there was a new clearness in her gaze, the clearness of new knowledge that she, Mee Hee, had given. For a moment, as their eyes met, Mee Hee dared to imagine that perhaps she and Dr. Kim might one day come to feel like real sisters . . . be there for each other, provide comfort, and share secrets, and Su Jin too . . .
But no, what was she thinking? She bowed, trying to make herself as small as possible, but Dr. Kim reached for her hands and kissed them and clasped Mee Hee’s hands to her blouse. Mee Hee’s heart cried out in her chest.
Then Doctor Kim released her and stepped back, speaking loudly for the benefit of all the women, “My mother’s name was indeed Kim Young Mi, and now I know my uncle’s name as well. Thank you, Lee Mee Hee. I am forever in your debt. I only wish I could affirm my uncle’s dreams about his sister, but my mother did not survive the long march to the South. She died on the road, shortly after I was born. I was taken by the Red Cross and was fortunate to grow up in America, free from hardship and hunger, but thirsty always for knowledge of my birth family. Kim Hyun Woo? He is living still?”
Doctor Kim was addressing her again. Mee Hee straightened her back and tried to speak as calmly and clearly as possible. “Kim Hyun Woo is old and very thin and weak, because he gives most of his food to the young ones, but he is hardy like a weed. Even though his own son died without giving him grandchildren, he says we must not let the ordeal of life defeat us. He still plays baduk every Sunday in the village square, and he teaches the older boys as well. He is famous for his laughter when he wins, and when he loses too. The magpie, they call him, because his good humor brings us luck.” Choking on emotion, Mee Hee stopped.
At the top of the line Older Sister was sobbing noisily, while many of the other women were wiping their eyes.
Dr. Kim, however, remained still. “You have my bottomless gratitude, Lee Mee Hee,” she said, in a voice that everyone could hear.
As Dr. Kim turned to greet Younger Sister, at last, Mee Hee felt her toes leave the ground. Floating on a hazy carpet of light, she realized that she would die for this woman.
But she didn’t have to die. She had to give birth.
22 / Womb Raider
It was two days after the World Cup bombing, and the center of Seoul had been cordoned off by the police for a massive peace rally. Jin Sok had insisted Sydney come and march with him and his friends, so she went along, holding hands with the Korean models, chanting slogans and keeping an eye out for Damien Meadows. Da Mi was driving back from meeting the North Korean surrogate mothers in the mountains, but she’d called twice to see how Sydney was. She’d also suggested the rally might flush Damien out of hiding. But if it had, Sydney didn’t see him in the heaving se
a of people, flags and banners. At least the real Hugh Grant hadn’t been at the football game like so many other celebs.
Da Mi had arranged to take her out for iced coffee in Apkuchong after the rally, so Jin Sok dropped her off in his location van, promising to see her again soon.
Da Mi was waiting in the elegant French café; she rose to give Sydney a hug as she entered. “Darling, how are you?”
Sydney plopped herself down on a seat. “I dunno—I didn’t see Damien. And some of the people on the rally were saying Britain wants to bomb North Korea now.” Her lower lip began to tremble. “I’m scared, Da Mi.”
Da Mi squeezed her hand. “I know, darling. Lots of people are. But you’re perfectly safe in Seoul. North Korea only ever uses its nuclear facilities as bargaining chips—it’s a complicated game of bluff with the Americans. I very much doubt they sold raw uranium to the terrorists—and even if they had, North Korea’s weapons-grade plants are far too close to Seoul to be targeted by the West.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s far more likely Great Britain will step up its campaign in Pakistan, where the terrorists were probably trained. Though,” she continued sternly, “if they keep targeting Muslim countries and religious leaders, and continue to kill civilians with their callous and bungled operations, the British Armed Forces will unfortunately make future attacks on the West more likely, not less. But darling, do you want a flavor in your frappé?”
“More attacks?” Sydney wailed. “But the whole world will be radiated. We’ll all die of cancer, Da Mi.”
Da Mi was speaking in Korean to the waitress. She turned back to Sydney and stroked her hand. “No, no, darling. Honestly, future attacks won’t be nuclear—snukes are the gold dust of terrorist weapons; it’s almost impossible to obtain the raw uranium to make them. And Britain won’t be in a hurry to escalate a nuclear war. No, this bombing is their equivalent of the World Trade Center demolition: a powerful statement by those who are, nevertheless, ultimately powerless to affect the course of history.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, Sydney, never mind the fear mongers on the march; we have to stay calm and prepare for a new kind of future. Yes, it’s turbulent right now, but both the Mayan and the Hindu calendars predicted that this would be an epoch of seismic transitions. A five-thousand-year-long age of militarism is coming to an end. Alpha males will fight tooth and claw to maintain their power, but like the dinosaurs, this macho posturing is doomed to extinction. Humanity is finally outgrowing violence, and the forces of peace and cooperation will at last prevail.”
“I dunno, Da Mi.” Sydney sniffled, “aren’t we just getting way better at blowing each other up? Maybe this really is the end of the world, like all those Lucifer’s Hammer people keep saying.”
As the waitress set their coffees down, Da Mi smiled at her, then said, “Sydney, did you know that before the Mayan Great Day of Creation, human beings didn’t make weapons?”
Sydney frowned. “No.”
“It’s true. In all the early settlements and towns—Çatal Hüyük, the Orkneys, Knossos, Hussuna—we find ample evidence of cooking, playing, agriculture, worship, but no artifacts of war. There’s nothing inevitable about killing each other.”
Sydney struggled to follow Da Mi’s argument. “But before, you said we were aggressive because of our brains?”
“Yes, that’s correct, I did. Our hormones and our serotonin levels certainly have a profound effect on our behavior. But equally, our environment and our social conditioning affect our hormone production levels—you might even say that our violent, competitive global economy forces us to be aggressive and fearful and jealous in order to survive. That’s why I’ve insisted that the Peonies grow up in a mountain village, governed by the principles of mutual aid and respect for all creation.” Sydney opened her mouth to say that she knew the Peonies would be perfect, it was the rest of us who—, but the Scientist raised her palm and swept on. “Sydney, I have dedicated my professional life to the goal of advancing human evolution at all levels—physical, social and spiritual—and if there’s one thing the Mayan prophecies and my own Korean heritage have taught me, it’s that right now we need to go back to the ancestors in order to move forward. We need to live and work together in small groups, but in ways that are globally connected with others. Lucifer’s Hammer isn’t a meteor; it isn’t even this bombing: it’s a metaphor, a symbol representing our last chance to stand together and work cooperatively again. I’m not afraid, because I know that the Hammer is knocking some sense into us all at last. Look at how the whole world has joined together in sympathy and support for London right now.”
Da Mi was so smart, Sydney thought; she knew all about history as well as genes. Sydney couldn’t begin to argue with her. It was just hard to see a nuclear terrorist attack as a step on the way to world peace. Sydney gazed around the café. To the background noise of tinkling coffee spoons and the trippy sound of a French pop song, people were staring at the plasma-screen TV replay footage of the Wembley detonation. There was the pink and orange stadium all lit up for the evening game, then, with first one terrible white flash, then another, it was sucked up into two towering mushroom clouds that filled the screen and smothered the night sky.
Sydney couldn’t look at the next images, the survivors. She pushed away her coffee. “I’m sorry Da Mi. I guess I know what you’re saying, but still, everything’s a total nightmare right now. How can people just sit and eat while that’s on TV?”
“Koreans have just watched Japan endure Fukushima, and many of them remember Hiroshima. To them a nuclear bomb is not unthinkable. Sydney,” Da Mi said firmly, “life goes on, and we must all do what we can to make it better for future generations. And you and I are creating the Peonies, yes?”
Sydney fell silent. That was true, and if Da Mi was right, it was super-important. At the very least, it was something she had promised to do, a steady, secure job in a world where nowhere was safe anymore. “Yes,” she said, in a small voice, and then, in a rush, “You know I’d never let you down, Da Mi.”
“I know, sweetheart—so you must stay strong and have fun finding Damien Meadows. I’m sure he’ll appreciate a new friend right now. Now here.” Da Mi took a paper bag out of her purse. “I want you to try this special ddok. It’s filled with honey-syrup.”
Sydney took a piece of the doughy rice cake. It was chewy, and filled with delicious runny honey.
“Ummm,” she gurgled.
“Do you like it? Oh good; have another piece. Now, darling, when does your next period start? We need to get that ultrasound done.”
A week later Sydney started bleeding. She called Da Mi right away, then rang off and skipped to the bathroom to shave her legs, wax her bikini line and think about what to wear to the lab. Perhaps an A-line linen skirt and her new Calvin Klein panties? That would look professional. Fingers crossed, her ovaries would also look good, then she could donate on Day Fourteen. Luckily, because her eggs were going to be frozen she wouldn’t have to take the ovulation suppressants and stimulants normal egg donors had to inject to synchronize cycles with their recipients. Instead, on Day Twelve and Thirteen, Da Mi would dose her up with fertility hormones and her ovaries would then make loads of eggs which would be sucked out of her by a long needle. It would only take twenty minutes. Then, once she’d found Hugh Grunt and got the eggs fertilized, Da Mi would do her genetic mojo on the blastocysts—whatever a blastocyst was—in time to implant them on December twenty-first.
The ultrasound room smelled like her mother’s favorite air-freshener: antiseptic pine needles. And the bed had stirrups. Great. She should have worn jodhpurs.
“I’m sorry it’s so clinical.” Da Mi spoke in Korean to a young nurse, who pressed a button on an iPod in the corner. Traditional flute music wafted across the room as Da Mi and the nurse stepped outside and Sydney slipped off her sandals, skirt and panties and climbed up onto the bed. Lying on a thick white towel, she pulled a sheet acro
ss her stomach. Da Mi rejoined her and turned the ultrasound monitor so Sydney could see it. At the foot of the bed, the nurse greased up something; Da Mi called it a “transducer.”
Sydney opened her legs.
The plastic wand nudged into her, a cool, foreign presence, provoking just a hint of “ouch.” Then Da Mi was pointing out her uterus on the screen and she was lost in the grainy wonder of the lopsided cushion inside her, that spermatozoan Shangri-La where, she could proudly say, no cum had ever been. Well, except for pre-cum maybe.
The transducer shifted position and the Koreans started cooing at the screen.
“Fantastic.” Da Mi patted her hand. “A healthy endometrial lining in the womb, and at least twenty antral follicles between the two ovaries. You are a very fertile young lady, Sydney.”
“Really? Maybe I should get a hormone patch.”
The scientist smiled. “We’ll provide you with the very latest in birth control, never fear. But for the next two weeks you shouldn’t take any chances: condoms can break, and if you were to require an abortion, it would hold us up at least two months, not to mention the distress you might be caused.”
“Don’t worry, Da Mi”—Sydney crossed her fingers—“can’t you see the dust-bunnies up there? I’ve got way better things to think about right now than men.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, she reasoned as the nurse removed the transducer. She didn’t know if Jae Ho would ever come over again.
“Still, people, especially Westerners, will be having a lot of panic sex right now. It always happens after a disaster. I’d prefer you didn’t visit the nightclubs until we harvest the eggs, darling. We can look for Damien Meadows again after your hormones have calmed down.”
