The Last Story of Mina Lee

by Nancy Jooyoun Kim

  He sighed. “Yes, I think you should.”

  “I can’t. I can’t ever go back.” Her lips trembled. She couldn’t hold in her tears anymore.

  “I think you should pretend that...you weren’t there. You have no idea what happened. Did he see you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “That’s good.” He paused. “I think it’s better if you pretend nothing happened so that he doesn’t think you were there, right?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You have to.” His eyes glowed wet with fear or some profound resignation or both. “His face was bleeding. I probably broke his nose. I doubt he’ll be there tomorrow. If you don’t feel safe, leave, okay? But I think if you’re missing from work, everyone will assume you were involved somehow, and we don’t want that right now. We should keep you out of it. We’ll keep you out of it, okay?”

  “Why? Why should I go?”

  “You need the work for now.” His voice cracked. “We can all find different jobs later, but you need the work, okay? I know this is terrible. I know, but someone has to... We can’t all not go back.”

  “I know.”

  “Can you do it? Can you go back to work tomorrow?”

  Margot

  Fall 2014

  THE MORNING AFTER visiting Mrs. Baek at her apartment—the cramped living room that smelled of used bookstores and cucumber cold cream—and then riding the Ferris wheel at the pier by herself, Margot woke up early to once again drive to Calabasas, which might take almost an hour in weekday traffic.

  The question of her mother’s death zigzagged in Margot’s mind. Regardless of what Mrs. Baek had said—that she had closed her store because she had been struggling financially—her stalker, Mr. Park, with his fake smile and lingering eyes, seemed increasingly dangerous, capable of physically harming someone. But even with the yelling that the landlord had heard the night of her mother’s death, she couldn’t connect Mr. Park with her mother yet. And if she dug deeper into Mr. Park’s life, if she confronted him somehow, could she be responsible for him retaliating against Mrs. Baek and the waitress who had disclosed his behavior? These women were doing their best to navigate their own lives within circumstances driven, stories told by men. Margot also had to protect them.

  She was also still upset that, in those final months of his life, her mother had not connected her with her father, as if she had been hoarding him all to herself. Perhaps her mother had everyone’s best interest in mind, but why did her mother get to decide? And she had left unexpectedly the tangle of this net for Margot to unravel by herself.

  With her foot on the accelerator, Margot needed to know her father now.

  She wanted to know what he had done all those years after he left her mother and why he had fled Los Angeles. These were hard questions, questions she wasn’t even sure she was ready to ask out loud. But she had been presented with this rare opportunity, and in a way, she had been preparing for the answers her entire life.

  Maybe that’s what she had been doing this entire time—hardening herself for the truth. Some questions were never meant to be answered, yet ideally, pursuing them might at least shed light on how much you valued yourself, the need you might have to tell your own story, however fragmented it might be. It was okay to yearn for the impossible every now and then as long as in the yearning you discovered something about yourself.

  And she was admitting to herself now that all those years of not caring about who her father was, brushing off the idea of him, was a mask she wore to deny what she really wanted—to learn more about him and her mother, to understand her origins. Were her parents in love? Was it a one-night stand? An affair?

  How human, how beautiful even our mistakes could be.

  Once again the bronze gate had been left open. The same two cars—glistening and new—had been parked in the driveway along with a muddy landscaper truck. A weed whacker whirred in the distance.

  The creamy white two-story house appeared even more dreamlike during the day. The sun drenched the surrounding foliage in a honey-colored light, and well-fed birds flitted playfully on the dense grass. The tiered stone fountain gushed water as the palm trees rustled against each other in the breeze.

  She tapped the heavy brass door knocker, and the very handsome and chiseled man from the other night answered, wearing a soft gray cashmere sweater and perfectly fitted dark slacks. He smelled like a Dolce & Gabbana ad, and from what she could tell, had the body to match.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Her knees almost buckled beneath her from nerves. “I’m here to see Mrs. Kim?”

  “Can I ask who you are?” His brows furrowed.

  She gulped. “I’m someone from...her husband’s past.”

  “You mean a friend? Or a relative?”

  “Kind of,” she said. “Um, yeah, a relative.”

  “One moment.” He shut the door as she waited. Behind her, the landscaper dumped bare branches into the back of his truck. She waved hello at him, and he nodded back under his cap. The cold morning air smelled like fresh-cut grass.

  A minute later, Dolce & Gabbana reappeared. “Come in,” he said.

  After walking through the entryway where she left her shoes, embarrassed about the condition of her dingy socks, Margot perched herself on the edge of the ivory tufted sofa in the living room that she had peered in on the other night. The air felt impossibly crisp and clean inside the house as if she had been sealed in a vacuum of perfect temperature and humidity and light—both wondrous and eerie.

  “Can I help you?” Mrs. Kim asked as she entered. She tucked her silky black hair behind her ear, revealing a large iridescent pearl like a full moon, hypnotic and silvery. Her fingernails were shiny, oxblood-colored. She wore a voluptuous sweater, snow-white, a pair of heather gray leggings, and chic mule slippers made out of the most impractical velvet.

  “You look lovely,” Margot said out loud, involuntarily, as she stood up like a suitor in a Victorian novel.

  Mrs. Kim smiled and patted herself on the cheek, blushing as she sat on the armchair beside the sofa. “I try to take good care of my skin. Please, have a seat.” She raised her brows. “Could I offer you something to drink?”

  “Oh, no, not right now, thank you.”

  “Is there something that I can help you with? My driver mentioned that you might be related to my husband. A relative?”

  “Well, that’s one way to put it,” Margot said, realizing that her lover was the driver. She couldn’t wait to tell Miguel about this.

  “And we’ve never met? You...do look familiar.” Mrs. Kim’s face was indeed beautiful, in the most idealized Korean way—line-free and luminescent, narrow chin and jaw and nose, creased and doe-like eyes—but immobile the entire time as if she didn’t quite feel anything anymore, or as if there was a human being trapped behind the skin. She was like the perfectly constructed woman—from an alien planet, luxurious and fur-covered.

  Suddenly, Margot became very self-conscious about her socks, the lack of makeup or any color on her face, her ragged nails.

  Margot took a deep breath and began. “I don’t really know how to say this, but—”

  Mrs. Kim’s driver-slash-lover reappeared. “Would you like something to drink? I’m making myself some tea.”

  “Oh, no, no thanks,” Margot said. “Well...what kind of tea?”

  “Green tea?”

  “Sure.”

  He nodded. Mrs. Kim stared at Margot’s face as if she recognized her from somewhere.

  “So, a couple weeks ago...” Margot cleared her throat. “I found my mother’s body in her apartment in Koreatown. She was dead. And going through her things, I found your husband’s obituary in an envelope.”

  “What?” Mrs. Kim’s mouth dropped open.

  “Well, let me backtrack. I never knew my dad. I
grew up in Koreatown. My mom was working at this supermarket in the eighties, and someone she worked with got her pregnant, and he left right after. I never knew anything about him, but when I saw his picture in the obituary—”

  Mrs. Kim froze, eyes open wide.

  “And then my mother’s friend confirmed that he is my dad.”

  “What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Mina. Mina Lee.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, slapping her hand down on the cushion of her seat. Her face grew red, jaw clenched. “So, that’s who she is.”

  The driver reappeared. “Here’s your tea,” he said, handing the delicate, bone-colored cup on a saucer to Margot then exiting the room.

  An awkward pause fell before Mrs. Kim finally spoke. “My husband and I... We were not exactly...conventional.”

  “Okay.”

  “We have always been very open.”

  “You mean...”

  “Open about our relationships with others.”

  Margot almost spit the tea out of her mouth. “Like swingers?”

  “No, not like that.” She gave a small laugh. “But we were...flexible.”

  “Open relationship?”

  “Yes, basically.”

  “Wow. Modern.” Margot placed the cup and saucer on the glass coffee table next to perfectly positioned, untouched books like monuments to a very predictable taste—Richard Avedon, Chanel, and black-and-white Paris.

  “Anyway, my husband got very sick over the summer. He had cancer. And I had seen this...” her voice broke “...woman’s name that he had been calling a lot. Mina. Your...mother. I didn’t care much. So what, he’s dying. ‘Go for it. Have fun.’” Tendons pulsed in her neck. “But then after he died, I realized—” Her eyes widened. “Do you know how much he spent on that woman?”

  “My mom?”

  “Yes, your mom. Sorry. I’m sorry for your loss. I mean—” She gritted her perfect teeth. “Do you know how much he spent?”

  “No. No, I don’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about at all.” A heaviness built inside of Margot’s chest. What money? None of this made sense.

  “He hired an investigator that he had been using, for himself, to find out some things for her. I found all these receipts—”

  “What?” Margot exhaled, letting all the air out of her lungs. She had been holding her breath. She picked up the saucer and drank some of the tea that had cooled and now tasted faintly metallic. “What would she have been using this investigator for?” She shook her head. “It’s not like he spent money on her for stuff. There’s nothing of value where she lives.”

  “This investigator works with people all over Korea to find missing people, missing families, like the ones who were separated by the war. My husband found out about his own father that way.” She sighed. “Not that your mother or her family didn’t matter, but to me, she was just a stranger, see? Some random woman that he just met.”

  “Do you know what she found out? Or what specific information he would’ve—”

  “No. And I tore it all up. I didn’t want to look at it anymore.” Frustrated, Mrs. Kim pinched between her brows with her fingers.

  Margot felt a pang of remorse that she would never know what the investigator found.

  “Why would he spend so much?” Mrs. Kim asked. “But now...now it makes sense.”

  “I don’t think he knew about me.”

  “But she was someone from his past then. It was some kind of deeper relationship. Maybe he even...loved her,” she said, biting her lip as if ashamed of herself.

  Margot didn’t know what to say. “Why did you marry him?” she asked. “Did you ever love each other?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But you know, it just made the most sense. He was rich, and I wanted security. I had had my heart broken so many times before then.”

  “By other men?”

  “By all kinds of people,” she said. “I used to feel so much, you know? But feelings are dangerous.”

  “Wouldn’t life be meaningless without them?”

  “Ha, you’re very sentimental. Like your father.” Mrs. Kim nodded. “I never understood him much, to be honest. He was so different from everyone else.”

  “How?” Margot could feel the grip of her muscles loosening, relieved to learn even this tidbit about him—what they might have in common. For a few seconds, she felt less alone. It was wondrous to be like someone, to be carrying someone else in your blood and bones. People whom you might not have even met.

  “Oh, in so many ways. I can’t really talk about this right now.” Mrs. Kim wiped carefully at the inner corners of her eyes with her fingertips. “I do miss him.” She exhaled out loud. “I’m sorry, but I have this terrible headache.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No, no, that’s okay.” She shook her head. “It’s been difficult for me, now that I’m on my own.” She opened her eyes. “He took care of everything, you know? The finances, the bills. Now what? I’ll probably sell all the supermarkets, and then?”

  The driver stood by the wide doorway, waiting and watching Margot. She could feel the hair on the back of her neck rising.

  “I should sell everything and travel the world, don’t you think? I could go to Machu Picchu. I’ve always wanted to go there. Have you been?”

  “No, I’ve never been.”

  “It’s supposed to be magical.”

  “Could I—could I get your number?” Margot asked. “Maybe when things settle down, we can talk again, before you go to Machu Picchu. I’d love to learn more about him. I know that it brings up a lot, but there are still so many things I don’t know, like what he was doing all those years after he left Koreatown, why he left my mother in the first place.”

  “To be honest, there are so many things that I don’t even know about before we—before we were married. Sungmin, give her my number, okay?”

  The driver, Sungmin, nodded.

  “Thank you for visiting. What was your name again?”

  “Margot Lee.” She stood.

  “Thank you. What a lovely name,” she said. “Sungmin will walk you out.” Mrs. Kim left the room, rubbing her temples.

  Following Sungmin to the entryway and lacing on her sneakers again, Margot pulled out her phone for him to enter Mrs. Kim’s information. After he opened the door, on an impulse, Margot asked, “Do you happen to know anything about my father? When did you start working for him?”

  Sungmin shook his head. “Please leave.” He tried to smile politely. “We have a lot to get done today.”

  With his hand, he gestured like an usher toward the exit.

  Margot stood at the doorway, facing the driveway into the honey-colored morning light. She felt a hand on her shoulder and then a small shove.

  She gasped and looked back at him as the door shut. He had touched her. It had all happened so quickly she didn’t even have time to react. The tiered stone fountain gushed water indefinitely. She smelled the fresh-cut grass and the undercurrent of something foul like manure or compost in the air.

  He had pushed her. Not hard but in a way that still alarmed her with its abruptness, a hand out of nowhere. And she could still taste the tea, that metallic taste in her mouth.

  * * *

  The Virgin Mary’s face was half-smashed, revealing the creamy bone color inside. Her single dreamy eye and delicate mouth, pert and peach-colored, appeared unbothered. Beneath the drape and the folds of her sky blue cape bordered by gold, her arms stretched forward. A bare set of toes peeked out the bottom of her diaphanous white dress, like that of a Greek goddess, on top of a serpent flicking a tongue.

  Margot had been in bed for the past two days sick—dizzy, sore, and tired, immobilized yet frustrated by how much she still had left to do. She now sat on the living room couch, exhausted, contemplating the Virgin Mary
in her hand. Margot recalled how upset Mrs. Kim had been about her husband spending so much money on the investigation of her mother’s family. If she called Mrs. Kim, would she provide her with the investigator’s number so that she could figure out what kind of information he had found? Would she know enough Korean to speak with him?

  And the push, that final push on the doorstep by the driver? Why had he done that? Was it a warning? The green tea had tasted a bit metallic in her mouth. Poison seemed too far-fetched—plus she was still alive—but the timing was odd. Was this all about money? Was Mrs. Kim out for revenge?

  Should she call the police, Officer Choi again? But he had said that he didn’t think they should be contacting Mrs. Kim. And his hands were tied. He couldn’t get further involved: I don’t really see what else I can do here, Margot. As far as your mother’s death goes—which was terrible, I’m sorry—it’s an open-and-shut case. It was an accident.

  As she turned the statue in her hands, Margot inhaled through both the sadness and a grave feeling of responsibility since she had found her mother’s body two weeks ago. It was as if she was living for both of them now—thoughts spinning, heart racing wildly—but what if she never found any answers?

  Her phone rang. “How are you feeling?” Miguel asked when she picked up.

  “Better. Not dead.”

  “You’ve been working pretty hard over there. Visiting Mrs. Baek, visiting Mrs. Kim. Maybe you should relax a little.”

  “I guess now that I’m sick, I kind of have to.”

  “Could I get you something? I could drive over later tonight?”

  “No, no, thanks. If I don’t feel better by tomorrow, I’ll find a doctor. I’ll be fine.”

  After hanging up the phone, she went into her room, retrieved one of her old unused notebooks from her desk drawer, and sketched the broken Mary—fragments of her face, her toes, the serpent’s tongue at her feet. Her pencil pressed onto paper the big blue eye, thin round brow, the perfect Cupid’s bow mouth.

  It had been years since Margot had been compelled to draw. Despite her lack of technical skill, she had a way of juxtaposing images unexpectedly. She always suspected she might have a knack for something more three-dimensional, something akin to mixed media or assemblage, which required more space and would be difficult to describe. The point was that it would tell its own story, invent its own dimension and time. But all of this sounded so high-minded and ridiculous for a woman like her to pursue, a woman who had grown up poor, who had been surrounded most of her life by people struggling to keep the lights on and food on the table.