The Last Story of Mina Lee

by Nancy Jooyoun Kim

  “Mr. Park?” Mina sighed. “Nothing to my knowledge. After I had Margot, I left. I never wanted to think about him again.”

  “His name was Mr. Park?”

  “Yes, why?” Mina noticed the quickening of Mrs. Baek’s breath. “Are you okay?”

  “I just realized something, that’s all. I need some water.” Mrs. Baek rushed toward the kitchen. Mina heard her grab a glass from the drying rack and fill it from the tap. A moan of sadness escaped Mrs. Baek’s mouth.

  Mina found her slumped down on the laminate floor, leaning on the cabinets, and Mina was struck with the feeling of staring at a version of herself. How many times had she leaned on those cabinets alone?

  “Unnie,” Mina said, bending down to the ground beside Mrs. Baek. “What’s wrong?”

  Covering her face, Mrs. Baek wept. Mina had never seen Mrs. Baek cry before, and she had the sudden urge to hold her, to wipe the tears from her face.

  “Unnie.” Mina gently helped Mrs. Baek to her feet. “Unnie, please have a seat. Sit in the living room.”

  Mrs. Baek rested again on the couch, leaning forward with her head in her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Mina said. “I’m sorry if I said something, I’m sorry if I said—”

  “No. It’s not you.” Mrs. Baek shook her head.

  Mina grabbed a roll of toilet paper from the restroom and handed it to Mrs. Baek.

  “I just—I just realized something,” Mrs. Baek said. Terrified, nostrils flaring, she looked into Mina’s eyes. “Mr. Park.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think he’s the same man who’s been following me.” She breathed through her mouth.

  “Following you?”

  Mrs. Baek nodded. “He’s been making my life hell. When you said that he owned the supermarket, I realized that the man—the man who’s been following me, he’s the same Mr. Park. He told me about it, the supermarkets that he owned.” Her voice grew hoarse. “For whatever reason, I couldn’t connect that with where you had worked—back when you first came to America.” Tears streamed down her face. “I never connected that until now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you just hate how small this world is?” Mrs. Baek asked with a depth of sorrow that Mina had never seen in her eyes. Her red lipstick had been smeared to the right of her mouth. Mina had the urge to erase it from her cheek with her thumb. She knew exactly what Mrs. Baek meant.

  “He bought Hanok House, you know?” Mrs. Baek said. “That’s why I left.”

  Mina gasped. “Mr. Park? I thought... Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t realize, I hadn’t made the connection—”

  “No.” Mina shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell me that someone was following you?”

  “I couldn’t. I figured it’d be best to not involve anyone else. I didn’t want you, or anyone, to worry. Or what if—what if he retaliated against me if I did, or if someone else called the police? I thought I could deal with this on my own.” She blew her nose. “I’ve been through worse.”

  “Does he know where you live?”

  “I moved after I quit the restaurant. I had to change my number, too, earlier this year. I’ve been hiding. I can’t walk around the park or the lake anymore. I drive far—all the way down Wilshire—to go to the pharmacy. I go to the grocery store during off hours. I’m always looking in the mirror behind me.” Her eyes opened wide. “I don’t even know why... It’s like he only wants me because I rejected him, because I said no.”

  Mina closed her eyes, remembering the fear on Lupe’s face, how Mina had the gun in her purse at the supermarket the next day, how she could’ve killed him before she quit. She could’ve finished him back then.

  She went into her bedroom, where she switched on the light. Trembling, muscles tense, she retrieved the gun holster, which she had recently moved to the drawer beside her bed. She had never intended to use it, but in the dark aftermath of Mr. Kim’s death, she had become fascinated with its power, its smell of brown leather, the way it felt in her hands. She could hear nothing but her own breath.

  On the tour bus back from the Grand Canyon, the sides of their bodies pressed against each other, their fingers laced, Mr. Kim had asked, “What did you do with the gun?”

  “I still have it,” she said, heart racing. “I never knew how to get rid of it.”

  He nodded, staring ahead at the back of the seats in front of them. “Do you know how to use it?”

  “No, I don’t. I always thought I could figure it out myself if I needed to.”

  “You might want to take it to a shop and get it cleaned, checked out one day. Just in case. I could help you do that. I could show you how to use it.”

  Now in her hands, the gleaming brown leather appeared made for a man—belt hooped, redolent of cowboys, the West. Although still strange and foreign to her touch, the gun animated her with thoughts of revenge. She could be anyone she wanted to be with this gun. She could be young and powerful again. In this country, it was easier to harm someone else than to stay alive. It was easier to take a life than to have one. Was she finally an American?

  Mina remembered the tenderness with which Mrs. Baek fed her on that night years ago, before Mr. Kim had called, leaving her in the morning. That night, she had dragged herself to her room where she lay down and wept.

  Sorry to wake you up, Mrs. Baek said. I have your porridge.

  Mina had tried to stand in time to meet Mrs. Baek. But her arms collapsed beneath her.

  Here, take a bite, she said, holding the spoon up to Mina’s mouth.

  Turning toward the bedroom door, Mina noticed on her dresser the last printed photograph she had taken with Margot, the one of them together at her high-school graduation. How proud and terrified Mina had been that day, knowing that Margot would soon be on her own—all the way in Seattle. These past eight years, they had rarely taken any pictures since all of their time together had been working at the swap meet over the holidays. Maybe this year, they would not only pose at her store, but she would ask that Margot have the image printed and mailed to her once she returned to Seattle. Mina missed having something physical to hold.

  She entered the living room with the holster in her hand.

  At the sight of the gun, Mrs. Baek gasped, jumping to her feet from the sofa. The broken Virgin Mary, which she had been contemplating, fell to the rug. “What are you doing with that?” she asked. Her eyes were white. “Put that away.” Her voice rose. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Mrs. Baek seemed to be talking through water, gulping for air. The holster grew heavy in Mina’s hand. A bomb whistled in her head. Her ears rang. She could smell the sulfurous earth, the blood that dripped down the head of the man, a stranger who carried her on his shoulders, the flash of red. Mrs. Baek’s lipstick was still streaked on her cheek.

  “He’s still the same,” Mina said.

  “Mina,” Mrs. Baek said. “Mina, please put that away.” Mrs. Baek closed her eyes, mouth trembling.

  “Who knows how many people he has hurt?” Something jostled inside of her like an earthquake. Her voice was the glasses rattling in the cabinets. “You need this now, unnie. To protect yourself. I want you to protect yourself. Don’t you think you should protect yourself?”

  She couldn’t lose one more person in this life.

  The acid rose in her throat. A long trail of ants devoured a snail that had been smashed outside of Lupe’s apartment. The spoon at her mouth. Back then, she had imagined the thrill of killing Mr. Park. She had imagined cornering him at the supermarket. She could’ve ended him in front of everyone. Who knew how many he had terrorized? How many he had cannibalized for his own gain? How many of them had he hurt? How many more lives could he ruin? She needed Mrs. Baek to save herself.

  The lust of the carnival lights flashing. The salt air and the smell of hot choc
olate on the breath. She and Mr. Kim rising. A stage. But they didn’t need an audience.

  And then again underneath the white glare of a lamp, they sat on that bench at the end of the pier, like strangers. The moon glowed, shimmering on the water’s surface, and she realized that life beneath a certain light—despite its sadness, its tragedies, its disappointments—was often still stirring, arousing the germ of a fresh seedling that might, with enough warmth, unfurl, like the tips of Mr. Kim’s fingers as he dropped the change in her hand.

  Holding the gun holster still, Mina said, “It’s loaded.” It was the fall, nearly one month before winter. But her hands trembled like a branch pushing the green buds out of the flesh, offering itself to the world. Together, they could finish him. “Let me show you how it works.”

  Margot

  Winter 2014—2015

  OUTSIDE OF MRS. BAEK’S DOOR, Margot stood to the side of the fisheye, heart in her throat. Christmas Eve revelers in the next apartment laughed, blasting banda music. Sweat glided down her face, neck, and back. She knocked again, this time with more force, as if pounding on a drum. Paint flecked onto the floor. In the basement of the church, Mrs. Baek had said to Mr. Park, I’ll kill you.

  Margot and Miguel had wasted nearly fifteen minutes finding a spot for their car. The evening—its voluptuous mix of sermon and song, smoke and incense, houses netted by string lights—felt urgent as if an exit had been closing, trapping Margot in the dark.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Baek yelled from a distance inside the apartment. Her voice grew closer, asking again, “Who is it?”

  Margot sighed with relief. Mrs. Baek was home. Mr. Park hadn’t followed her.

  “UPS,” Miguel said, startling Margot. “I need your signature.”

  “Leave it at the door.”

  “I need you to sign this.”

  “How come I can’t see you?”

  The lock unlatched. The door cracked open.

  Margot pushed herself into the apartment as Mrs. Baek screamed, stumbling backward toward the coffee table, revealing a long beige slip under the same gray dove-colored robe. Margot sprung forward to help. Shooing her away, Mrs. Baek wrapped the thick fleece around her body, tightened the belt at her waist, and groaned.

  “You hurt me.” She clutched her hand and wrung it with the other. She had removed her lipstick, mouth still flushed, but her eyebrows, the dark crescents, remained intact.

  “Sorry,” Margot said, catching her breath. Miguel shut the door behind them.

  “I can’t—I can’t do this right now,” Mrs. Baek said, squeezing her hands together, knuckles whitening.

  Two olive-colored suitcases were splayed open on the floor, filled with shoes, clothes, and books. The apartment still smelled of paper and ink and dust, but the stacks of newspapers and novels had disappeared. Only the furniture and some miscellaneous items—a CD boom box, the flat-screen television, empty glass vases—remained.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Margot asked.

  “None of your business.”

  Miguel stood by the door and shrugged, unsure of what to do next.

  “If you’re going to leave,” Margot went on, “could I ask you some questions first?”

  “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Can I contact you?” Margot asked.

  “She’s dead.” Mrs. Baek’s face grew glossy and red as she shook her head. Tendons in her neck pulsed. “What does any of this matter to you?”

  “I found a safety-deposit box.” The ache in Margot’s chest, the mortar. “Some photos, photos of another family.” Tears gathered in her eyes. The apartment blurred. “My mother with another family—a husband, a child—in Korea.” She couldn’t believe those words: another family. How could her mother have kept this information from her? Why didn’t her mother tell her about this family, or her father’s obituary in the drawer? Could the past have hurt that much?

  Mrs. Baek winced from the pain of her hand. “Hold on.” In the kitchen, she opened the freezer with a suctioning sound. She returned, plopping her body down on the hunter green couch with a bag of frozen peas and carrots for her hand.

  Margot half sat on the arm at the opposite end. Miguel waited by the door, swaying a little to the Christmas music playing through the walls of the neighboring apartment.

  “There was another family,” Margot said. “Before me. Do you know anything about them? There’s a photo.” She wiped her eyes with a sleeve. “A husband, a little girl. It must have been in the seventies, or the early eighties—before she came to America.”

  “It makes sense.” Mrs. Baek sighed, closing her eyes. “She never wanted to talk about the past. I always figured it was because...she was an orphan, the war.” She opened her eyes again and looked at Margot. “But she mentioned a husband once, that he died in an accident.”

  “What?”

  “That’s all that I know. I didn’t press it any further than that. She only brought it up once.”

  “Do you think that she could still be alive? The daughter?”

  “I—I wouldn’t know.” Mrs. Baek rubbed between her brows. “Were there any papers? With the photo?”

  Margot nodded yes.

  “The only thing I know about—you promise to leave me alone after this, right? She found some papers. Your father helped her. He worked with an investigator. He helped her find some information on her parents, the ones she had been separated from in the war.”

  “What? Her parents?” Margot asked, breathless. Her mother had never spoken of them, as if she had given up. But she hadn’t. She had found them after all.

  “Her mother survived, I think,” Mrs. Baek said. “Your mother had these papers. That’s all I know, okay? Were they in the safety-deposit box?”

  Margot nodded, remembering the pages of Korean words, illegible, inside that manila envelope—forms, documents, handwritten notes.

  “So, she had another family,” Mrs. Baek said to herself. “A husband and a child in Korea. That makes sense.” She tossed the frozen peas and carrots onto the coffee table and squeezed her fingers as if they still ached.

  Margot rose from the couch to find something for Mrs. Baek’s hand. In the narrow kitchen, which jittered under the fluorescent light and smelled faintly of bleach, she filled a plastic bag on the counter with ice cubes from the freezer, empty except for some dumplings and stiff gulbi. As she walked by the round dining table beside the kitchen, she noticed a red satchel had been tipped over, exposing its contents—a passport, lipstick, pens, a wallet.

  Margot picked up the passport. Neither she nor her mother ever had one of their own. Mrs. Baek half smiled in the photo. The name read Margaret Johnson.

  “Who’s Margaret Johnson?” Margot asked.

  “None of your business,” Mrs. Baek said, lunging toward Margot. “Get away from there.” Miguel came forward from the entryway and grabbed Mrs. Baek’s arm. “Get away from that bag.” Her eyes flared.

  “Margaret Johnson,” Margot repeated in a low voice. “But...isn’t your last name Baek? And your first name is Margaret?”

  She snatched the passport out of Margot’s hand. “It’s my legal name. I never liked the name Margaret, but my husband thought it was a good name... Margaret like Margaret Thatcher.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes, but... I always liked the name Margot.” Her eyes softened. “I helped pick your name, you know. I guess you wouldn’t remember.”

  Margot shook her head. The irony of being named by a woman who had been named by a man. How many names could one person have? And why did she now refer to herself as Mrs. Baek? Was it her maiden name? Or a fake? Could she have been hiding from someone else besides Mr. Park?

  “Remember, we lived together in the same house when your mother first moved to America. I had... I had just left my husband in Texas.”

  The Southern twang.
Another life entirely. Almost another country.

  Margot sat with her elbows on the dining table, forehead pressed into her palms. “What happened? You just didn’t get along with your husband?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “He was the worst kind of person.”

  “And Mr. Park? We overheard you fighting with him. At church,” Miguel said.

  Mrs. Baek gasped, stunned.

  “Has he been following you?” Margot asked. “Why did you—why did you meet him down there?”

  Mrs. Baek burst into tears, covering her face with her hand. “You were there?” she asked.

  “Yes, we heard everything,” Margot lied.

  “I wanted to tell him once and for all to leave me alone.” She gathered herself, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “I didn’t think I’d be...in any danger at church. I didn’t even think he had my number. I changed it. But during the service, I got a message from him, letting me know that he was there, that he wanted to talk to me.”

  “Is that why you closed the store? Is that why you’re leaving?” Margot asked.

  Mrs. Baek nodded.

  “Was my mother with Mr. Park?” Margot asked. “On the night that she died? Do you think it could’ve been Mr. Park who pushed her? He seems like—”

  “No, no.” Mrs. Baek coughed.

  Margot steeled herself. “The landlord of my building said that he had seen you—and Mr. Park following you—at the apartment, my mother’s apartment. He couldn’t remember when. In September or October.”

  “What?” She opened her eyes wide.

  “So Mr. Park knew where she lived,” Margot said, voice rising. “Was she with Mr. Park? Do you think she could’ve been with Mr. Park on the night that she died?”

  “No. No.” Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “I don’t think she was alone that night. He heard yelling, the landlord thought he had heard her fighting with someone.” Margot’s heart raced. “Could he have pushed her?”

  A grimace of pain appeared on Mrs. Baek’s face, shattered.