by Samuel Park
Min looked much changed—his almost adolescent gait gone, his old swagger replaced by an older man’s contemplative stillness. He’d started smoking more often, he informed her within minutes of her arrival, and each drag of his cigarette seemed like a reproach to her. Min had lost weight, and his clothes—a light brown pullover sweater with crew neck and dark brown pleated gabardine pants—hung over him like an older brother’s hand-me-downs. He seemed to her like someone who had come to life only upon her wish, but in doing so made her aware of her initial impulse—to long for him, endlessly, rather than actually have this awkward, foreign body inches away from her.
Father-in-law and the others had stayed behind in his brother’s house near the harbor; Soo-Ja and Hana alone had made the crossing in the middle of the night, knees deep into freezing lakes, past wet marshes and muddy banks, before arriving at the secluded one-room house by an abandoned potato field. The house was miles away from the main roads, in a mostly unpopulated area, and the few people who did live nearby—farmers and rice paddy workers—did not think to bother Min. Although, he told Soo-Ja in a paranoid manner, those who did pass by him acted as if they knew he was there hiding, and were careful not to get too close, keeping the river and the night between them.
Soo-Ja figured this was the worst kind of solitude, but she could see how it might become comfortable after a while. She had a vague feeling that less than an hour after their arrival, Min already wanted her and Hana to go—even though he had waited two months for this visit; even though this was the first time since getting there that he got to speak to a human being other than his uncle; even though as soon as they left, he would no doubt start missing them again. Soo-Ja felt like the two of them were bothering him, reminding him of all the things he couldn’t do. Whatever his little routines were now—counting cans by the window, doing push-ups against the floor, reading the same books over and over—they had probably become his reality, and maybe more reliable to him than this mirage of wife and daughter appearing just so it could grow fainter and disappear again.
Soo-Ja watched Min play with Hana, as she sat on his lap, her little back resting against his belly as she played with a pair of dice she’d found on the floor. Hana had a habit of biting her lower lip in intense concentration, and when she’d notice him staring at her, she’d look up and smile briefly, as if thankful for the attention, before going back to busying her hands.
The two of them did this for a while, until Hana noticed Min’s plate of food, filled with the fruits and fried meats that Soo-Ja had brought him. Hana reached for a sweet potato; it was, Soo-Ja knew, one of her daughter’s favorite things to eat. Hana dug her fingers into it clumsily, mashing it when she tried to peel the skin off. Soo-Ja thought of helping her, but she liked watching her daughter do things on her own. Hana loved to mimic. She’d pretend, for instance, to do laundry, and when her mother sat Indian-style by the water pump, Hana would do the same, rolling up her shirt to her upper arms, and wiping the imaginary sweat off her forehead.
When Hana finished peeling the sweet potato, Soo-Ja thought her daughter would eat it, but instead Hana split it into three parts. She held one piece toward her mother, one toward her father, and a small chunk for herself.
“Thank you, Hana,” said Soo-Ja, touched by her daughter’s gesture.
“Thank you, Hana,” said Min, taking his portion. He did not put the potato in his mouth; instead, he stared at it, as if staring at his daughter’s love.
Soo-Ja held back a tear, as she realized how much father and daughter missed each other. All three of them ate in silence, Soo-Ja and Min watching Hana. They appreciated the illusion of normalcy, eager to forget that they were miles and miles away from their home, in a tiny room scarcely bigger than an outhouse. Soo-Ja realized at that moment that the biggest luxury in life was the ability to make plans, to count on the future as if it were something pinned down on a map. She wanted to speak in terms of years, not days; know exactly when Min would return, when they could resume their lives. How strange, she thought, that she longed, desperately, for old routines that once drove her to tears—tiresome and dull as her days had been, their certainty had made them bearable. This was like holding your breath in a bad dream, and when you woke up, you found out you still could not breathe out.
During their days in Pusan, Min’s family stayed at Min’s uncle’s house, about a good hour away from the hiding place. Because they were cherished guests, they were given the best and largest room in the house. Soo-Ja had no idea where the uncle and his family—a wife and a five-year-old boy—slept, since she saw only two other small rooms in the house, both of which were cluttered with old furniture, worn-out bicycles, dusty boxes of rice and noodles, and a surprisingly large collection of vinyl records, along with an old Victrola.
This meant all of them—Father-in-law, Mother-in-law, Na-yeong, Chung-Ho, Du-Ho, In-Ho, Hana, and Soo-Ja—slept on the floor in one room, one next to the other, in a row of horizontal lines. This wasn’t something to argue over, or to be discussed. It was simply accepted, and many families, who could not afford to rent houses with more than one room, did this routinely, with couples and their relatives cooking and living and sleeping in the same room.
While everyone else seemed to thrive in this arrangement, Soo-Ja found the lack of privacy and solitude unbearable. It was too cold to stay outside for very long, and in other rooms, Soo-Ja felt like she got in her uncle’s way. So she had to be in the same space with Father-in-law and Mother-in-law for hours on end, and she found herself unable to hide her irritation at them. This tableau would be her life if something, God forbid, she thought, happened to Min.
As Soo-Ja played with Hana on her lap, she watched her family. In one corner, the boys played a game of baduk. In another, Mother-in-law clipped Na-yeong’s fingernails. Across from them, Father-in-law sat by himself under a window. Soo-Ja noticed that he had a strange ability to be doing nothing but making himself look busy, in the same way emperors and kings—who were just sitting most of the time—managed to as well.
“It would be a waste to come all the way here and not do some sightseeing. Tomorrow we’ll go to the Haundae Tourist Hotel. We’ll pretend to be guests, and bathe in some of their medicinal hot spring water,” said Father-in-law.
Soo-Ja looked at him in disbelief. “What about your son? You should go visit him while you’re here.”
Father-in-law waved his backscratcher at her. “Don’t tell me what I should do.”
“What you should do is go to the police and tell them what you did,” said Soo-Ja. “Tell them how you let him take the blame for you.”
“Min’s lucky he never got arrested for something or other before,” said Father-in-law. “He’s been getting in trouble since he was seven years old. I had to grease a lot of palms to keep him out of jail.”
Soo-Ja could see how much he wanted to yell at her, but something held him back. She realized then that he still had hopes that she would get her father’s money for him.
“He’s your son. You can’t put him through this,” Soo-Ja said, directing this to the others, hoping to elicit their rebellion.
“You’re trying to undo something that already happened. I go to the police and turn myself in, things would turn out ugly very quick. Why do you think the police have been so lackadaisical looking for Min? Why do you think Min is still free? They know, Soo-Ja. They know because sons have sacrificed themselves for their fathers for centuries. If anyone’s at fault here, it isn’t me, for exercising my parental privileges, but Min, for not offering himself first.”
The world, as explained by her father-in-law, felt like the narrow mazelike streets near her house that Soo-Ja used to run through as a child. You had to know where to turn, or you could get lost for days, steeped in their unspoken secrets.
“Then I will stay here with Min,” said Soo-Ja. “It’s not fair for him to endure this alone. He needs Hana and me.”
“No. You’re coming back to Daegu with us,” said Fat
her-in-law. “And you’re going to get your father to help us.”
Soo-Ja noticed that Mother-in-law had been silent through this. She had stopped dyeing her hair with henna, and the gray now crowded out the black. Her eyes—usually knowing and canny—seemed foggy and distant. So she missed Min after all, thought Soo-Ja. In her fantasies, Soo-Ja could see Min’s mother making Father-in-law magically disappear, trading him for the son she loved.
“Be sensible, Soo-Ja,” said Father-in-law gently, almost kindly. “Go talk to your father.” She finally understood his pull. After all his angry and harsh words, the mere hint of his approval could be irresistible. For all her mistrust of him, it was amazing how much she still wanted him to like her.
Nevertheless, Soo-Ja decided to stand firm. “No, I won’t bring my father into this. You’ll have to find some other way.”
Pusan reminded Soo-Ja of the years during the war, when her family had fled there to escape the communists. It also made her think of Yul, who had moved there a few months after his graduation from medical school. They hadn’t seen each other in almost four years, but for a while, he had sent her letters—not to her house, but to her parents’ house. An investor had agreed to back Yul’s medical facility, and he’d opened an office, along with another partner, in the ever-growing port city. Soo-Ja pictured him practicing medicine behind a window in a square box of a room, with a wooden plaque the size of a mailbox out front, his name carved and colored in black ink.
Soo-Ja desperately wanted to see Yul. It would be foolish to be in Pusan and not look for him. So the day before she was supposed to return to Daegu, she decided to track down his address. She got it rather quickly, just by asking the telephone operator, who told her of a Dr. Yul-Bok Kim practicing in the Suyeong-gu district, near the city’s busiest marketplace. The woman also gave Soo-Ja directions, telling her which bus stop to get off at. (“On the way back, you should try the fish market. Squid like you’ve never tasted it.”) Soo-Ja wrote down the street name on a piece of paper and stared at it for a long time.
She knew she didn’t have much time, and that she couldn’t bring Hana. She couldn’t subject her child to the ride on the bus and the walk in the cold wind. But Soo-Ja feared asking Mother-in-law to watch her, as she’d bombard her with questions. The boys she couldn’t trust, since they were rowdy and unreliable and would probably leave Hana forgotten by the side of the road, while they threw snowballs at one another. That left Na-yeong, a poised eighteen-year-old, old enough to have her own daughter now. She’d never shown much interest in Hana, preferring her Bible and hymnal books, but Soo-Ja figured she’d do her this favor.
“Where are you going?” Na-yeong asked, taking Hana’s hand as Soo-Ja offered it to her. They were standing by the front steps of the house, with everybody else scattered about.
“I have to get some of my shirts mended, I left my good ones in Daegu,” said Soo-Ja, looking down at her clothes.
“Can’t this wait until we get back? And why can’t you take Hana with you?”
“If you don’t want to watch her, just tell me, and I’ll ask Du-Ho. He seems to have more maternal feelings than you,” said Soo-Ja. She reached back for Hana, as if she were an exotic gift from abroad and Na-yeong simply too uncultured to appreciate her.
Na-yeong held on to the child. “It’s fine. Go, eonni. I’ll watch over her,” she said, calling her “older sister.”
Soo-Ja turned to Hana and kissed her head, feeling enormously guilty. It was rare for Soo-Ja to leave her behind; Hana was always beside her or strapped to her back, wherever she went. Soo-Ja looked at her daughter and waited for her to tell her not to go, to ask for her to spend the day playing with her. But of course, Hana just said, “Bye, eomma,” and focused back on the doll she had in her hands. Soo-Ja wavered a bit. Was she on a fool’s errand? But things had been set in motion now. She knew that if she didn’t go—even if it was just to see what Yul looked like now, even if it was just to gather one more memory of him to last her another four years—she would regret it, and taste that regret on the rim of every glass she drank from thereafter. Then, as Soo-Ja put on her heavy winter coat, something in Na-yeong’s demeanor made her hesitate. A sadness fell over her, like sudden hail, and Na-yeong suddenly seemed as old as Mother-in-law herself.
“Iseul never asked for a second meeting.” Na-yeong was talking, of course, about her suitor. The only one she’d ever had. Soo-Ja wasn’t sure whether she was asking her a question or stating a fact, so she simply nodded. “He barely spoke to me that day. He was too busy admiring you.”
“There’ll be other suitors, Na-yeong. You’re still very young,” Soo-Ja said gently.
“The first time is the only one that counts. Were you afraid I’d make a better match than you?”
“I can’t imagine a better match than your brother,” Soo-Ja said, not hiding her sarcasm.
“I’ve been so mad at you. And you haven’t even noticed. Could you tell I’ve been giving you the silent treatment?” Na-yeong looked terribly sad, more sad than angry, and Soo-Ja felt as if she were seeing her for the first time. Na-yeong was always so quiet that Soo-Ja had made the mistake of assuming her silence indicated a kind of nothingness, when inside her there must actually be drums and waves and peaks.
“I didn’t mean to ruin that day for you, Na-yeong.”
“Why didn’t you sing my praises to him? I’m sure he was impressed that you chose to marry into our family. Your words would have counted for a lot.”
“I’m not sure if I’m the right person to be selling other people on your family.”
“Of course not. You look down on us. You don’t think I noticed the look of disdain on your face when I met you for the first time? I’m sorry we’re not as educated as you,” said Na-yeong.
“Maybe I should stay,” Soo-Ja said. “It’s so cold, anyway.”
“No. Go,” urged Na-yeong, speaking normally again. She looked a little embarrassed by her earlier burst of emotion. She forced a smile and began toying with Hana’s hair. “I’ll take her for a walk. I saw some kids playing outside, maybe I’ll introduce her. It’ll be good for her to meet kids her own age, instead of being with adults all the time.”
Soo-Ja hesitated, and almost reached back for Hana, but she decided she’d just make the situation worse if she changed her mind. Hana, distracted by her doll, did not pay attention to their conversation. She was like a figure in the corner of a painting, placed there amid the scenery. Soo-Ja stepped back, feeling an odd sensation of being exiled. For a second, she hoped something would keep her from going to see Yul—an emergency or some urgent news—but no, the road was clear, nothing on the way, nothing to prevent her from doing this.
The doctor’s office smelled of lye and cleaning supplies. In the middle of the room, a boiler gave out heat; the few waiting patients clustered around it, all still wearing their heavy coats and jackets. Soo-Ja sat down in one of the small metal foldout chairs. She wondered if the others could read on her face her reasons for being there, and hoped that they would take her for another sick person.
Not too much later, Soo-Ja saw a nurse come out. She wore no uniform, only a red windbreaker and a mask over her mouth. Soo-Ja signaled to her, asking if the doctor would be long.
“No,” she said. “It looks like a heavy snowstorm is on its way. Even the sick are staying indoors. You said you had business with the doctor? You can speak to him as soon as this patient comes out.”
At that moment, Soo-Ja heard the door to the inner room open, and the sound of talking filled the air behind them. She looked at the nurse, who nodded brightly and said Yes, that’s the doctor. Soo-Ja turned, full of hope, her heart beating fast, expecting to see Yul, but instead she saw a man much older and shorter than him, wearing thick glasses and a long white uniform.
“Excuse me, miss.” Soo-Ja reached toward the nurse again. “But that is not Dr. Yul-Bok Kim.”
“Ah, Dr. Kim is not in today,” said the nurse, a little too loudly. “He an
d his wife are vacationing in the mountains. They ski. Do you know what skiing is?”
“Skiing?” Soo-Ja repeated weakly.
The nurse’s words echoed in her head: He and his wife… So Yul was married now. Why was it that she’d never considered that as a possibility?
“He’ll be back tomorrow, though. Are you a patient of his? What is your name?”
Soo-Ja looked at her and panicked, feeling ill.
How foolish I’ve been! What did I think was going to happen? That Yul would rescue me from my marriage? He’d probably think I was crazy for coming here.
“It’s all right. I—I’ll come back tomorrow,” said Soo-Ja, knowing she would be back in Daegu by then.
“Where were you?” Mother-in-law asked her as soon as Soo-Ja came into the courtyard. Behind her, Soo-Ja could see the sun erasing itself.
Soo-Ja looked at her, confused, noticing how Mother-in-law’s voice seemed too strident, almost hysterical. For a moment, Soo-Ja felt the odd sensation that her mother-in-law stood in her way, not letting her go find Hana.
“I was just running an errand. Didn’t Na-yeong tell you?” Soo-Ja tried to walk past her mother-in-law.
“Leaving your child with another child, what kind of thinking is that?”
Soo-Ja could hear it clearly now, the panic in Mother-in-law’s voice. Soo-Ja swallowed, feeling something hard sprout inside her lungs.
“Na-yeong is hardly a child. Where is she? Where is Hana?”
