Who had left the bag for her?
She didn’t see Mr. Kim for the rest of the day.
As she stood in front of the stop watching the bus approach, she recognized the driver, the woman with the round face and neat bob. The bus slid a few feet past her with a rush of hot air, kicking up dust and leaves, before it halted to a dramatic stop.
Showing her bus pass, Mina asked, “You all...right?” The words surprised her as if they had fallen out of her mouth.
The driver laughed to herself. “Eh. I’m all right. You?”
The exchange calmed Mina. She spent so much of her day ignored, an anonymous face behind a cash register, a person who handled items and money, scanned, punched in numbers.
As she sat on the bench seat, she held the bag of groceries with the fruit and the ramen close to her. She closed her eyes, repeating the words in her mind, You all right? Are you all right?
* * *
In the kitchen, beneath the glow of a single overhead light, yellow and soft, Mina stared at the shiny green apple, the perfection, the evenness of its skin. And without thinking, she grabbed a knife, winding away its flesh, an undressing. She remembered how, after dinner, she would arrange the slices on a plate for her daughter, who with her small hands and mouth would take her time eating each piece. The bright fruit would fade into brown. So much like everything in nature. The color of the fallen leaves that had died, curled on the grass, sweeping the surfaces of their tombstones in the wind.
Mina dropped the knife in the sink, steadying herself on the counter.
She bit into the half-peeled fruit. She filled a pot with water.
Sitting in the breakfast nook, she slurped on the long ramen noodles, comforted by the salty broth, which soothed her even on a hot day with the air stagnant and dense. She parted the curtains and opened the window next to the nook, staring out through the security bars into the darkness. Would she ever forget her husband, her daughter? Would they wait for her? Remember her in heaven? What was the point? She wondered but felt numb from all the crying. She remembered Mr. Kim and imagined how her face must’ve looked to him, red and swollen.
She cleared the table, washed her dishes, and wiped down all the surfaces, trying to keep the kitchen as clean and tidy as possible. The landlady wasn’t neat herself, often leaving food out accidentally or forgetting to clean up spills on the stove. But Mina wanted everything to be as clean as this old kitchen, with the grease on the walls and the broken cabinet doors, could possibly be.
She reached her arms above her head to stretch before lying down in bed, where she stared at the ceiling. She remembered when she had gotten the news that her husband and daughter had been killed in a terrible accident, when the police officers had arrived at her apartment door. All she could imagine was the horror of their excruciating pain. The red blood seeping from their bodies onto the street.
What had she been doing that day at home? She must’ve been cooking or cleaning. Or had she been watching television? Was it Sunday or Saturday? She didn’t know. Wearing an apron, she had opened the door, and seeing the men in uniform, her heart fell to the floor. She wanted to scream but couldn’t. Instead, crying, she had fallen, knees and palms on the ground, begging this life for mercy.
Margot
Fall 2014
DOWN RESIDENTIAL ROADS, mostly free of pedestrians at night with an occasional family walking or children playing on the sidewalk, Margot and Miguel drove to Hanok House. Mrs. Baek had said, Your mother used to bring you to the restaurant that I worked at, Hanok House. Do you remember? It looked like an old traditional house, lots of wood everywhere.
There was no reason not to believe what Mrs. Baek had claimed about her mother—connecting her mother’s recent grief to the death of a lover, the man in the obituary. But Margot still wanted to scope the place out, where she and her mother spent time, a place that both her mother and Mrs. Baek had left behind. And besides, after all she and Miguel had been through these past several days, they needed a feast to reward themselves.
Koreatown, like many ethnic enclaves in major cities, had been changing slowly. White people who had once fled now edged their way back—particularly youth hungry for cheaper rent with access to supermarkets, bars, and restaurants. Yet when areas “improved,” did the lives within them get better also, or were they pushed away to somewhere cheaper to make room for the droves, the new blood? Soon developers would follow to demolish and build over the place, rebranding the symbols and the signs of the people who lived there (the “kitschy” culture and the “foreign” architecture, the novelty of foods once deemed disgusting). Would her mom have been one of those priced-out people, too? Or would she have clung stubbornly, maybe even found a second job so that she could stay in Koreatown? With her limited English and inability to drive on the freeway, the choices would be slim.
In a brave mood, Margot had once asked her mother in the best Korean she could over the phone, “Why don’t you go back to Korea? Why do you live here?” She had always wondered why her mother had chosen this life, which couldn’t be easier than living in Korea where she would at least speak the same language, possess the same cultural understanding and history as everyone else. Even though Margot knew very little about her mother’s Korean life—that she was an orphan who mostly worked in clothing factories from her teens through her twenties, eventually learning to design clothes—she couldn’t understand why she would rather be in a country where she had so little power, such few rights.
Her mother had paused for a long while.
“I would be too far away from you,” her mother had said.
Margot pulled into the narrow, one-way parking lot of Hanok House, a stand-alone restaurant in the style of a traditional Korean residence with rustic wood shutters and a sloped, gray-tiled roof. She had never been to Korea herself, and although she knew its cities were full of skyscrapers and electronic screens, she often imagined the homes to still look this way—charming, earthy, and functional.
“Did you ever hear back from Officer Choi?” Miguel asked.
“No, not yet.” Margot sighed, pulling the key out of the ignition. “Mind if I give him another try now before dinner? Maybe he’s still at work.”
“No worries. I’ll be managing my prolific Grindr.”
Margot laughed while pressing the police officer’s number.
“Hey, Margot,” he answered. “Sorry I didn’t return your call today. Mondays are the worst.”
“No problem. Any thoughts on the landlord? The yelling from my mom’s apartment?”
“I thought it was interesting. I mean, he wasn’t certain where the yelling was coming from and on what day, right?”
“He thought it was my mother. There aren’t a lot of Koreans left in the building. He wasn’t certain, but it seemed odd to me since my mother wasn’t particularly noisy—especially after I moved out for college. Anyway, it seemed suspicious enough for him to bring it up, don’t you think?”
“Hmm. I can stop by. I’ll try to talk to him this week, see if I can get any more details.”
“That would be great,” she said, heart quickening. “Also, before you hang up—I know this might sound weird, but last night, I was going through my mother’s apartment and found this obituary she had saved. It was from the Korean newspaper back in October. So today I went to the swap meet where my mom worked to see if any of the other store owners had seen anything suspicious around the weekend she died. One of my mother’s friends, a woman named Mrs. Baek, said that the man in the obituary was...a man that my mom was seeing over the summer. They were dating and...he was married, so she didn’t tell anyone.”
“And you didn’t know about this guy?”
“No.”
“But he’s dead now, right? Since October, almost two months ago?”
“Correct,” she said. “I don’t know if you could do this or if it’s related to my
mom’s death, but is there any way you could find out some more information on him? His name was Chang-hee Kim. I think he lived in Calabasas.”
“I could look into it...but let me first talk to the landlord, okay? I’ll try to get over there this week.” He paused. “But if her boyfriend died back in October, I’m not sure what that would have to do with your mother’s death.”
“What about his wife? He was having an affair with my mom.”
“Hmm, that’s a good point. I can look into it.”
“Great, thanks. I would...almost want to talk to her myself? Is there a way to get her phone number or address? I tried googling his name, but—”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“To be honest...your mother’s death was an accident. There’s not much we can do unless something substantial happens, some revelation, or we find out for whatever reason that your mother’s death is connected to some other activity.”
“What?”
“And what if Mr. Kim’s wife doesn’t know about the affair? What if you revealed the affair to his widow by contacting her? You have no proof that she was involved in your mother’s death, so how would we get any information from her without revealing that her husband was cheating on her? There’s a chance she doesn’t know, right?”
“I suppose so, but—”
“How would you find out whether or not she knows? You couldn’t. You’d have to ask her outright, and there would be no reason to ask her about your mom if her husband wasn’t cheating in her mind. There’s no real other connection. She’s a widow. It’d be—”
“I still think we should—”
“I know this is a lot, Margot. You’re...finding out a lot of things about your mother, things that she kept from you for a reason, right? Sometimes those things are hard to accept, and you want them to be connected to the hardest fact of all—that she’s gone. I get that.”
“You can believe whatever you want, Officer Choi.” Her voice rose. She could feel Miguel’s eyes on her. “But I absolutely refuse to settle for anything but the truth. I need to know what happened that night and why—”
“Margot—”
“You might think we’re some kind of burden on your workload, but my mother worked her ass off, and she paid taxes like everyone else. She was an honest person. She was kind.” Her voice cracked. “Maybe she wasn’t a perfect mother or person, but she tried her best to do what was right for me and for everyone else—except herself. People like my mother hold up this sham as much as you.”
“Yikes,” Miguel whispered.
“That’s not it, Margot. That’s not what—”
“She deserved to live like everyone else. You of all people should know better. ‘To protect and to serve’?”
Margot’s ears pulsed. Tears filled her eyes. She could hear both Officer Choi and Miguel breathing, startled by her voice. Now was the last chance to stand up for her mother, whom she had been ashamed of for so long. She tried to muffle her crying.
“I’ll try to get you some more information, Margot,” Officer Choi said, resigned. “I’ll talk to the landlord. I’ll see what I can find out about Mr. Kim.” He paused. “I know you don’t think I do, but I understand more than you would know. I get it. I’m just trying to be realistic here. I am sorry about your loss.”
“Lord,” Miguel said after she hung up the phone.
“Am I crazy?” She wiped the sweat from her forehead, catching her breath.
“Honestly, I think you are right. Everyone else has lost it, Margot.” He turned his head as if just noticing the sky—a smoldering tangerine and hot-pink fire. “The world is fucked. But we deserve the truth.” He unbuckled his seat belt. “Can we eat now?”
Margot and Miguel exited the car under the last of the day’s light. She took a deep breath. She always loved seeing Los Angeles plated in gold by a receding sun, the outlines of palm trees. For a few quiet moments, you might hear birdsong instead of car honks and alarms and trick yourself into believing it was paradise.
Entering the restaurant, she could smell the meat grilling over the gas burners—fat sizzling while flames licked sesame, soy sauce, sugar, onion, and garlic. Nothing could quite connect people like food.
The hostess seated them at a table of glazed wood with raw edges. After ordering beef short ribs and pork belly, Margot showed the waitress—a thin middle-aged woman with pale powdered skin and a short bob, tidy black apron and skirt—the framed image of her and her mother on the day of Margot’s high school graduation, the most recent photo that Margot could find. “Do you know this woman?”
“Yes, I think so,” the waitress said. “But from a long time ago.”
“Do you mean years?”
“Let me ask the owner.”
She fetched an older Korean man in his seventies, with bright silver hair and dressed in an olive green sweater-vest and khakis. A gold watch glinted. With new dentures, he smiled like a false sun.
“We’re just wondering if you knew my mother.” Margot handed him the photo.
He nodded, lifting his brows. “Looks familiar.” His eyes then considered Margot a shade too long.
She made an effort not to turn her gaze away. She immediately didn’t like him and she wanted him to know it.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Margot asked.
He scratched his head. “I don’t know. So many customers.” His nostrils flared. “All look almost same.” He grinned—those Paul-Bunyan-statue teeth, cold and white, clinical. “Almost same. Excuse me.” Bowing his head, he turned to another table where he greeted a group of boisterous guests—regulars or friends.
“That was shady,” Miguel said.
“Maybe he’s just confused.”
“He doesn’t seem that old.”
The waitress returned with a tray full of banchan, small white plates glowing.
Margot decided to switch tactics. “Do you remember a woman named Mrs. Baek? She used to work here. Red lipstick?”
The waitress smirked. “Oh, yes, very red.”
“When did she stop working here?” Margot asked.
The waitress glanced behind her shoulder. “Earlier this year. Spring, I think.”
After switching on the tabletop grill’s gas burner with a click and a hiss, the waitress hurried away, empty tray in hand. Around the low blue fire, they munched on banchan—seaweed salad, mak kimchi and kkakdugi, lightly pickled mu, seasoned spinach, potato salad. A feast for the senses.
“Well,” Margot said. “At least we know Mrs. Baek was telling the truth about opening her store in March.”
Elbows on the table, Miguel played with his chopsticks as if pinching the air in front of his face. “After the riots, what did your mom do?”
“What do you mean?” Margot tasted the kkakdugi, perfectly crunchy and a little sweet. Her face tingled, hot from the flames in the center of the table.
“Your mom stopped talking with Mrs. Baek then. She was busy. But it seems kind of pivotal, right? That they stopped talking, and now suddenly, just this year, they became friends again? Seems coincidental.”
“After the riots, I think my mom worked at some fast-food restaurants. She took on random jobs until she could save enough—a couple years later—to start a business again.” The seasoned spinach smelled of fresh sesame oil, which melted in her mouth. “I just remember it was very rough. She was able to save some of the merchandise and hangers and stuff from her old store, and we lived with those clothes in boxes in the apartment since we didn’t have any place to store it. We ate government food—like canned pork, powdered milk. The Salvation Army gave us toothbrushes.”
She tasted the seaweed salad, one of her favorites, which suppressed some of the sadness she could feel rising inside of her. Its delicate gelatinous acidity, its brininess satisfie
d her. How she yearned for the ocean right now. As a teenager, she would ride the bus on her own to the beach and spend hours walking or sitting on a bench, reading and watching the water. “It was hard. It was really hard back then.”
The waitress returned to the table with a platter full of raw meat—the marinated short ribs and pork—to grill. Soy sauce and sugar, ginger and garlic caramelized, dripping fat into the fire. With an intense feeling of gratitude, Margot moved the galbi and slices of pork belly to keep them from sticking to the grill. How joyful, how abundant life could sometimes be—despite the disappointments, the tragedy. Every meal, even a somber one like this, was a celebration of what we had left, what remained on this earth to taste and feel and see.
She imagined her mother at the Grand Canyon, the dark shadows pressed against red-and sand-colored rock striated over billions of years by wind and water. She thought of Las Vegas, her mother’s hands gripping the steering wheel, the open windows, and the fine powder that caked their faces and arms.
“During that time was when my mother drove us to Vegas.”
“Vegas? I thought your mom didn’t go anywhere?”
“It was just once. I was probably about six years old. She had never driven on the freeway before, I don’t think. She was really slow.” Margot laughed. “I’m surprised we were never pulled over. Anyway, we were supposed to meet up with someone there. I think this was right before my mother opened her new store, the last one, in the swap meet.”
“Interesting.” He finished the last of the seaweed salad. “I guess it could’ve been anyone that she was meeting up with? She didn’t have any family, though, right?”
“No,” Margot said. “But...I don’t think any of this has to do with Mrs. Baek. I mean, I believe Mrs. Baek now, but it is odd that my mother would’ve just cut her off that way, right?”
“Well, it probably wasn’t intentional,” Miguel said. “Sometimes people grow apart, or maybe your mom just didn’t have time for friends—only church and you, I guess. She was trying to survive, right?”
The Last Story of Mina Lee Page 9