Twenty years ago, she had driven to the desert for him. He had found her, in their apartment, mailed her a letter asking her to meet him in Las Vegas if she could.
I am going to be in Las Vegas for one week. Can you come and meet me? I will be at this hotel. Ask for me at the front desk. Please do not let anyone know.
She planned to introduce him to Margot, six years old then. She didn’t understand what he had been doing in Vegas, or why, but she remembered their trip there together a long time ago, when they had gorged themselves on American food at the buffets, gambled on penny slots until the crack of dawn, made love in the dim light of the sun still rising, and slept soundly until lunch.
Mina had packed up the car with her daughter, who sat in the back by herself, unaware. She had no idea what to tell Margot and decided to not say a word about Mr. Kim, in case, for whatever reason, he either didn’t show up, or he had changed or didn’t want to have anything to do with them, or perhaps the correspondence had all been a terrible mistake.
That had been the first and last time she had ever driven on the freeway. She drove below the limit. Despite the cars around her honking, all she could remember was not the dry arid landscape and the fear that she should’ve felt driving alone for such a long distance, but the way her heart throbbed in her throat thinking about Mr. Kim, their time together in bed or on the Ferris wheel, and the pleasure, the joy she had felt around him for the first time since her husband and daughter had died.
But he never showed up. The hotel where they were supposed to meet didn’t recognize his name. She hadn’t heard from him since.
Until now. Chewing her fingernails, she dialed the long-distance number on the note that he had slipped under the door. What had overcome her? Perhaps at the end of his life and toward the end of hers, she needed to hear his voice again. She needed to know that their time together was not an illusion that she had tucked somewhere inside of her brain. She needed to know that it was all, in some way, real.
“I didn’t think you’d call.” His voice, worn and raspy, startled her.
Did she dial the wrong number?
“Hello?” he asked.
She remained silent.
“Mrs. Lee?”
She placed the receiver down on her lap, contemplating if she should hang up the phone. She couldn’t stand to be reminded of the life that she had lived without him, yet she couldn’t bear to let him go again. She hated the universe, even God, right now. Why couldn’t He make life simple and clean? Hadn’t she suffered enough? Enough, she wanted to scream.
“Mrs. Lee?” She could still hear his voice, muffled on her lap.
Trembling, she lifted the receiver to her ear again. “Yes?”
“Can we talk? I can help you, I think. I can help you.”
“How did you get my number?” she asked. “How did you find me?”
“The house that you used to live in? The landlady who died, her kids? I called them. You bought a store from them, right? They had your new address, your number.”
“Why would they have—”
“I told them I was dying, that I wanted to reach you, that I could help you before—”
“I don’t want your help.”
“I know that—you probably wondered all these years.”
“What about Vegas?” Her voice cracked. “What about then?”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. We were...so young then.” He cleared his throat. “I was—I was in Chicago at the time. There was a conference in Vegas. I worked for my cousin’s import business.” He sighed. “But my wife—”
“I don’t want to know,” she said. Her heart raced.
Breathing deeply, he said, “Okay. But I can help you, before it’s too late. Your parents. What if they are still alive?”
Your parents. She almost dropped the receiver.
“I don’t care anymore,” she said, her voice rising. “I’ve already moved on. What if they’re dead? What is the point?”
“I can help you find them. I have someone, an investigator in Seoul that I use.”
“I don’t want to know.” She hung up the phone. “Don’t you think if I would’ve wanted to know, I would’ve tried myself,” she said out loud to no one but herself. “I would’ve stayed in Korea and waited like your mom. Why would I want to know them now? For what? So I can bury them, visit their graves? What is the point?” Tears streamed down her face. She wanted to throttle someone. She wanted to throttle the universe.
The phone rang.
“What?” she asked, relieved that he had called back.
“Meet me,” he said. “Why don’t we go somewhere?”
She breathed hard through her mouth.
“We can talk. That is it. I promise... I’ll be there. It’s different this time.”
* * *
She didn’t want to ride in his car, nor did they want to be seen in Koreatown together, so she agreed to meet at the end of the pier on Sunday night. Of course, she knew that he had chosen the place not for its seclusion, but because of the memories aroused by the air, the salt of the ocean, the lust of the carnival lights, and the rough wood boards that squeaked beneath her feet, providing the illusion of walking out on water.
She didn’t know if she would even recognize him and kept thinking to run away before it was too late, before he would pull her in like the waves, out into the ocean again. She had agreed that she would only meet him if he did not ever bring up the past, if he did not ever bring up where he had gone, what had become of his life since he had left LA, how long he had been living in the area, why he never made it to Vegas—especially his wife. She didn’t want to hear any of it. All she wanted to know was what he could offer her now, what he knew or could know, and how he knew it.
As she walked closer to the end of the pier, the screams on the roller coaster whooshed by, and she stared up at the Ferris wheel, flashing red and white. Tears filled her eyes. She hadn’t expected to cry. She hadn’t been to this pier for years. Her daughter would sometimes come on her own, but Mina refused to step foot again in this place, where she had let herself feel again. And here she was once more, overcome with an emotion that made her mouth dry, hungry for the sweet burn of the hot chocolate she could smell by memory, the first time she had had hot chocolate in her life. She thought for a second she must turn around, or jump off the side of the pier, amid the jostle of bodies around her, the street musicians. The water was calling her name.
But before she knew it, she had reached the end of the pier. Underneath the white glow of a tall lamp, a man sat on the bench, shriveled in a large black wool coat. She walked closer to him. He turned around and she, alarmed and desperately, sadly happy, caught a glimpse of his face. The world tilted beneath her feet. They bowed their heads at each other.
She could collapse, but she gripped the back of the bench as quickly as she could. She sat two feet away from him as if they were strangers.
She crossed her arms in front of her belly, ashamed of her body, and wept.
She could sense him trying not to look at her, although he wanted to comfort her. He reached into his coat pocket and offered her a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes at only the corners to not disturb her eyeliner, the makeup she wore. The tears, springing from her heart’s heaviness, the heaviness of a lifetime, almost seventy years, streamed down her face, and she didn’t care if anyone could see her.
She faced the ocean. The moon glowed, shimmering on its surface. She couldn’t glance at him again. She couldn’t see his face.
“You’re still cute,” he said.
Surprised, she couldn’t help but smile.
“You’re still pretty,” he said. “I don’t know if you’re nice anymore, though.”
She laughed, gently dabbing her cheeks with his handkerchief. “Why should I be?” she asked.
“You are right about that.”
He sighed. “I’m so sorry for...everything.”
A tightening in her throat. She fell silent for a while. From the corner of her eyes, she watched him cross and uncross his legs. The water lapped the pillars beneath them. She tried not to shiver or appear cold in front of him.
Finally, she asked, “Did you ever find your father?”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “But it turns out, he died...a long time ago.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, I found out that he died shortly after we left him in the North. A bomb had been dropped near our house.”
Mina gasped and closed her eyes momentarily.
“I never had the heart to tell my mother that,” he said. “I always thought it’d be best to...let her wait it out. So...she died thinking that he might still be alive somewhere, or maybe she would meet him in heaven. But I couldn’t let her know that she had waited all those years for him...for nothing. That would’ve broken her heart, more than anything else, don’t you think?”
She could feel him watching her. For a second, she glanced back. The sight of him, old and small in his long coat, pained her. She remembered his arms, how she loved his arms, and she could see that he had grown thin, wasting away. She could hardly recognize him except for the softness of his eyes beneath his curved brows, the gentle line of his lips.
He cleared his throat. “Do you...do you want to know the truth? About your parents?”
Your parents. The words stung, stirring the ashes inside her heart. “I don’t think the truth matters anymore.”
“How is that?”
She held back tears. “Like for your mother. Why would the truth have mattered to her? Why would the truth matter now?”
“Because you have time.”
“There’s hardly any time.” She wanted to say, I’m almost seventy. What time do I have left? She wiped her eyes with the soft white handkerchief balled up in her fist.
“You still have time.”
How did we measure what we had left? Not in days or years for Mina, but with what strength remained. His days were numbered. He had said the cancer would overtake him before the end of the year. She wanted to hold him, but didn’t know how, after all this time had passed. Their bodies had changed so much. She could hardly recognize themselves under the weight of all the years—twenty-six of them—and what time could do to the body and the heart.
He placed his face into his hands, shaking.
“What is worse than the truth is where your mind goes,” he said. “How it wanders, how it refuses to let go. The things you imagine that could’ve happened. At least you have an answer. At least you can stop thinking at night. My mother was at the point where there was no more moving forward—all she had left were her dreams to keep her alive. You still have time. You still have so many years left, but also, no one has enough time. I just wish... I wish I had come here sooner. I could’ve tried to help you earlier, but...life...”
“You didn’t know.”
Of course, she couldn’t tell him now about Margot. What would be the point? Judging by the gold band on his finger, he was married now, might have kids of his own. The idea of Margot might shatter him. She would keep him from that knowledge, as he had protected his mother before her death. She would spare him.
And for Margot to have a father now, how could that help her, when he was on his way out of this world? She couldn’t trade the grief of not having a father for the grief of one dying. At least she had gotten used to the former, a familiar sadness rather than something frightening and unknown. Mina would spare them both. And she would allow him back into her life on her own terms.
Mina stared out into the wide ocean of obsidian, scintillating under the white moonlight. Once, behind them, they had ridden the Ferris wheel in a riot of light flashing in the still blue glow of night. Back then, every delicious second mattered. Every single breath.
Margot
Winter 2014
AFTER MARGOT HAD gone through the contents of the safety-deposit box on Monday night, she resisted the temptation to rush to Mrs. Baek’s apartment and sleeplessly waited until the morning. Only Mrs. Baek could help her understand the photograph from the safety-deposit box—her mother, a woman in her late thirties with a husband and child in Korea. Where was the other family, the pigtailed daughter in the red T-shirt and leggings?
But yesterday, when Margot knocked at Mrs. Baek’s door, no one answered. And now, Wednesday, Christmas Eve, Margot had only one place left to search.
Margot and Miguel drove past houses decorated with holiday string lights and plastic Santas to her mother’s church, which would be having separate services in Spanish, Korean, and English. Afterward, they’d have dinner at a Oaxacan restaurant that neither of them had been to but had heard good things about—rich red and black moles and live music in an oilcloth setting.
Despite the circumstances, both of them felt the need to do something for Christmas. In a place as warm and bone-dry as Los Angeles, the holiday season still seemed chilly, especially at night, when locals donned boots and down jackets and sweaters. And the festivities provided at least a hearth of togetherness and activity—shopping, cooking, the resurrection of plastic trees, the ribbons, the lights. The smell of pozole and birria, meats long-simmered in chilies and herbs, and traces of Korean food with its piquant kimchi and stews and bulgogi filled the hallways of her apartment building. Christmas cacti decorated drab balconies in fuchsias. Supermarket poinsettias flourished, brazen and flaming red. The children off from school ran around at all hours.
Outside of Margot’s car, men on bicycles zoomed by in traffic; commuters chatted at the bus stop, plastic bags bulging with groceries; street vendors sold everything from oranges and peeled mangoes served on a stick to shiny boom boxes and soft polyester blankets printed with teddy bears and cartoon hearts.
“Do you think it might be time to call Officer Choi again?” Miguel asked, sitting in the passenger seat. “I mean, we know what we know about Mr. Park, right? He’s been stalking Mrs. Baek. He was apparently at your mom’s apartment.”
“I would think that if Mrs. Baek wanted the police involved, she would’ve called them already,” Margot said. “She might be scared that he’d retaliate somehow.”
“But he already could’ve hurt your mom. Isn’t that enough for us all to be scared?”
“We don’t know that for certain yet. I just hope Mrs. Baek’s at church tonight. If we see her, we could let her know that the landlord saw Mr. Park at my mom’s apartment. I don’t even have to mention what the waitress told me about him buying the restaurant and stalking Mrs. Baek, right? I’ll ask her about Mr. Park, if I can call the police. I just don’t want to do anything that could harm her.” She sighed. “I wish—I wish this wasn’t happening all at once. I feel like I’m falling behind, like I’m not fast enough. I’ll never be—”
“You were sick last week,” Miguel said. “Your mom died. You just figured out the identity of your dad. This would be too much for literally anyone.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“It’s a miracle that you’re still standing after all you’ve been through. You’re tough.”
It was the first time anyone had told her that, and she believed him. She had always thought of herself as sensitive, fearful, even passive at times, but he was right. She had gotten her strength from her mother. Her mother was bold—moving to this country where she didn’t know the language and laws, falling in love, raising a daughter by herself.
And in these past few weeks, Margot alone had knocked on unknown doors, sold her mother’s store, stood up to a police officer—actions she couldn’t have imagined doing even a month ago. Her life had seemed so banal back then: managing to avoid Jonathan, her coworker with whom she had that relationship last year, sorting years of paperwork in her boss’s office, scrolling through endless dating profiles online, editing and obsessively adjusting clip art in a prog
ram newsletter. Now she was driving around the city, searching for the truth of herself, the truth of her mother, of whether she was murdered.
“So when I got sick last week?” Margot said. “I have a sneaking suspicion... I know this sounds really paranoid, but it’s almost like that guy—the driver, the hot one?—it’s almost like he poisoned me. That tea didn’t taste right.”
Miguel covered his mouth in shock. “I swear to God, I was thinking the same thing when you told me. But I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Shit. You can’t trust people who are that good-looking.”
“Do you plan on calling her, too?” Miguel asked. “Mrs. Kim? I mean, I know this could all be separate, but... I guess, if you wanted more info on your dad? Or are you too creeped out?”
“I’ll call her. I was thinking after the holidays, let her settle down a little.” Margot sighed. “For now, I think it’s best that we find Mrs. Baek. She’s the only one who could know about my mom’s other family, the husband and daughter. And I’m afraid that because of Mr. Park, she might disappear or go somewhere else.”
After circling the block a few times, they nudged their way into a tiny parking spot, questionably close to a defunct-looking hydrant. Walking up the front steps of the Spanish-style church, they went inside to see it was completely full of families dressed in their best. Heads bowed, everyone listened as the Irish priest, speaking Korean, led them in prayer.
At the rear of the church, Margot and Miguel wedged themselves between strangers and leaned against the cold walls. The smell of incense, old paper, and dust intermingled with the personal fragrances, the perfumes around them—a heady mix of florals, evergreen, and spice. This devotion to the senses, to the sounds of scripture and song, the fragments of color that could barely be seen from the stained glass windows at night, coalesced in this space where ritual and practice among strangers created a community. This was why her mother had returned here each Sunday, because she could insert herself and, without a word or even a glance, belong.
The Last Story of Mina Lee Page 24