Brother's Keeper

by Julie Lee

  She gave us soap, towels, and the clothes she had packed in Abahji’s jigeh before the journey: my white blouse and long tan skirt, Youngsoo’s gray undershirt and pants. The clothes draped over our arms like old skins from a previous life. I grazed my hand over the blouse, then pressed it against my face. It smelled like the willow tree after a hard rain.

  Youngsoo and I washed our faces first, bending over the basin while trying to keep Jisoo from playing with the water. He’d slowly warmed to us, daring to touch my arm before scurrying back and sucking his thumb. Omahni used a washcloth to scrub Youngsoo’s neck. The grime fell away in sheets, turning the water gray.

  “Now off with the shirts,” Omahni said.

  “You can go first,” I said to Youngsoo, hoping I’d have some privacy once he’d finished.

  Omahni pulled the filthy shirt off over his head.

  It was then that I saw it—that we all saw it.

  Youngsoo’s rib cage stood out like ripple marks on the bottom of a sandy river. Red bumps and open sores wept from his back where he’d scratched at the lice. His chest caved in with every breath. He was white, almost colorless. He looked even worse than he had that day in the wagon.

  Omahni stopped moving. Auntie returned with a tray of tea but wouldn’t set it down. And Abahji and Uncle were suddenly standing in the open doorway. Quiet.

  Something curdled in my stomach. It was so much worse than I’d thought. A nameless fear—a kind of dread—settled over me. What if he didn’t get better? Panicked, I turned to Omahni and Abahji. “Youngsoo needs more than food and rest. He needs to see a doctor right away!”

  “Yes, we’ll call a doctor in the morning,” said Abahji gravely. He crossed the room and examined Youngsoo’s sores. A few were filled with pus.

  Omahni laid Youngsoo’s hand in hers. She looked at me. “Did you know your brother was this sick?”

  There was an edge in her voice. I stared at the floor, mute.

  Had I known he was sick? Of course. I had caught glimpses of protruding bones and reddened scabs, but we wore so many layers of clothing, and we were always walking. There was the constant cough, but I’d grown accustomed to it. Besides, I had the same itchy scabs, the same sunken belly, and a dry, tickly cough—how could we avoid them? I gnawed on my lower lip.

  Youngsoo tucked his chin and looked up at me.

  “What does it matter whether the girl knew or not?” Auntie said firmly, stepping in to save me. She set the tray of tea on the low table. “I’ll call Dr. Min first thing in the morning. He’s the best doctor in town. There are long lines to see him, but we go to the same church; I’m sure he’ll give us special attention.”

  Uncle led Omahni and Abahji by their elbows to the low table. “Try not to worry too much,” he said. “The boy’s skinny because he didn’t have enough food; he can gain the weight back. The sores are clearly from lice, which we can wash away. And his cough is probably just a bad cold; Dr. Min has medicine for that.”

  Abahji sat cross-legged on the floor, rubbing his thighs. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, unsmiling.

  “I’m sure I’m right,” Uncle said.

  Youngsoo and I finished washing in silence. Auntie poured tea for everyone. “Youngsoo, drink this. The hot water is good for you.”

  He took a sip. I thought of the time Ahjuma had given him herbal tea. Maybe this would make his color rosy again. I exhaled and accepted a cup from Auntie too, bowing.

  The tea was warm and slid down my throat. I sat on the floor, hugging the soothing cup to my chest. I looked around the room—warm wooden floors, yellow blankets folded against the wall, a pearlescent sheen on the rice paper doors. So safe and cozy. Jisoo lay curled in the corner, asleep on the floor, his head probably filled with dreams of playing and eating.

  I knew Youngsoo was sick, but he would get better in this place. He would. I couldn’t forget we were in Busan.

  “Ah, I see the warm tea is making you drowsy, Sora,” Uncle said gently.

  I tried to nod, but my eyelids drooped under the weight of the long day. In minutes, I was set adrift.…

  I was nine and freshly bathed, my tummy full of dumpling soup and rice. My new undershirt and pants had no holes and felt soft against my skin. I snuggled against the heated ondol floor, tucking my arms and legs inside a warm, white blanket. Moist air left over from steaming bowls of rice clung to the inside of our windows.

  The cold wind roared outside in the dark.

  But we nestled close to one another, all of our mats laid side by side. On this night, I got to pick my favorite spot—between Abahji and Youngsoo. A single kerosene lamp still glowed as Omahni finished rubbing apple peel on her hands to smooth out her rough skin. In the soft light, she looked luminous.

  My new schoolbooks sat on the floor beside the low dining table. The large dresser that Abahji had made stood handsomely against the mud walls. I stared up at the thatched roof and wanted to curl my arms around it all—the house, our things, my family.

  Omahni blew out the lamp.

  In an instant, I was asleep.

  Lost in visions of warm beds, clean clothes, and new schoolbooks, I couldn’t have noticed when Youngsoo fainted and collapsed on the table. Only Auntie’s droning voice drifted from far away: The children! We must get them to bed.

  thirty-nine

  January 2, 1951

  That night, I dreamed it again.

  I graduate at the top of my class.

  Clapping rises everywhere, and I have the distinct feeling of floating. Of course, Yoomee is there too, watching with envy.

  But this time, instead of a certificate, the principal hands me a worn, folded piece of paper. I open it.

  It’s the world map that I tore from Youngsoo’s history book.

  My eyes opened.

  A soft light seeped through the window. Our family had slept in the study. It was clean and bright. A tall, skinny bookshelf stood in the corner next to a low writing desk. Folded mats and blankets sat on top of a wooden chest. A woven bamboo pillow hung on the wall. The aroma of daenjang jjigae, kimchee, and squid lingered in the morning air. A silky yellow blanket covered me—I was cleaner than I’d ever been in the past two months, and the smooth fabric felt slippery against my skin.

  Just a day ago, we were sleeping in a cramped train rank with urine and death. Had it all been a bad dream? What about Youngsoo?

  My head snapped toward his direction. He’d slept on the opposite side of the room, beside Omahni—far enough away for his coughing not to have woken me. Had Omahni patted his back when he wheezed in the middle of the night? And what about a cup of water? He would’ve needed a cup of water.

  Muffled voices wafted through the sliding paper door: They’re alive? Yes, showed up last night. Oh, what a miracle!

  I got up and rubbed my eyes. Omahni and Abahji had already gone, their mats and blankets neatly folded and tucked away in the corner. I tiptoed toward Youngsoo. He was still sound asleep. I slid the door open.

  “Sora!”

  There, in the kitchen, stood a ghost of a woman and her daughter.

  “Mrs. Kim? Yoomee?” I asked, blinking.

  Mrs. Kim had chopped off all her hair, and deep lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes. She rushed to hug me, no longer smelling of honeysuckle and soap—only musty, unwashed scalp.

  “Thank God you and Youngsoo are safe! We’ve all been so worried!” she said. I hugged her back, thinking how strange it felt to see her here, in Busan. I had thought the Kims were dead.

  Yoomee stood off to the side, watching. She’d grown taller, thinner; other than her shiny hair, everything about her had dulled. I wriggled one arm away from Mrs. Kim’s embrace and extended it to her, hoping she would know from this small gesture everything that I’d seen—charred lumps with braids, blue fingers frozen stuck on ice, gifts of a wooden cart and dried anchovies—and understand how it had changed me. How it sat heavy in my throat and stayed there. How it made me miss everyone I’d ever known, even h
er. To my surprise, she tightened her fingers around my hand and held it.

  And then I knew—she’d probably seen the same, maybe even worse.

  “How long have you been in Busan?” I asked.

  “About five months.” Yoomee stared at her feet, then at the ceiling, looking nothing like she had at the church picnic when the girls called her a spoiled brat. A tear started rolling, and she wiped it.

  Mrs. Kim said, “If it weren’t for your uncle and auntie, we wouldn’t have found a place to stay. They even helped Myung-gi get a job.”

  “Myung-gi? A job?”

  “Yes, he’s fetching water and delivering it to people’s homes,” Auntie piped up. I’d hardly noticed her in the corner, cutting apples. “He even brings us a bucketful here. With so many refugees in the city, there’s high demand for water. He’s got steady business.”

  I couldn’t picture it—Myung-gi fetching water. What about his books? Was he going to school? Would he be excited to see me?

  Auntie poured a hot cup of tea. “Sora, bring this to Youngsoo; he needs to drink it. Your father is at the Gukje Market with Uncle, and your mother is out buying ingredients for Youngsoo’s rice porridge. I need your help here.”

  “Yes, you should tend to your brother,” Mrs. Kim said, putting on her coat. “We’ll stop by again soon. It’s a shame you can’t see Myung-gi today; he’s so busy working. But I know he’ll be so thrilled to see you, Sora. Your arrival here gives us all hope.”

  I smiled, holding that cup of tea to my chest, the hot ceramic warm against my heart.

  Before leaving, Yoomee turned to me. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You are?” I said, my eyes widening.

  “We all are.” She stared at her feet. “Maybe we could get together sometime. My mother taught me how to knit; I could teach you too.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’d like that.”

  Yoomee buttoned her coat, and for the first time in my life, I was sad to see her go.

  I headed back to our room. Youngsoo lay on a mat beside the pile of our coats, his breathing whistling in and out like a noisy flute. I knelt beside him.

  “You should drink this tea.” I slid my arm under his neck, raising him slightly.

  He opened his eyes and reached for the edge of the cup with dry, cracked lips.

  “Guess who was here?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I told him about Mrs. Kim’s new haircut, Myung-gi’s job fetching water, Yoomee’s same straight-across bangs. I prattled on about how strange it felt to make plans with her, as if we’d always been friends. And maybe we had been—I just didn’t know it at the time.

  “Youngsoo, I have to show you something.” I grabbed my coat from the pile and reached into the pocket. The paper map’s corners had softened and rounded, and creases along the folds nearly cut right through the sheet. I held it up for Youngsoo to see. “There,” I said, pointing to Busan. “Can you believe we made it? We’re on the coast…the very edge of the world.”

  Through wheezing breaths, Youngsoo beamed at me, a genuine glowing smile.

  “Do you know what this means?” I bit my lip, hardly believing what I was about to say—the words that he had always said aloud that I’d only silently wished. “We’re not far from Hawaii. Maybe we can sail across the ocean one day.” I was breathless. “You can go fishing in the ocean, too. Can you imagine the kinds of fish that live deep in the sea?”

  He stared out the window. Treetops swayed in the wind. Only the sound of rustling leaves settled between us.

  forty

  “Youngsoo’s cough sounds strange,” Omahni said, after she’d returned from the market. “Thank God we have a doctor coming to the house.”

  I watched her mince a mountain of carrots, onions, and zucchini for the rice porridge she was making for Youngsoo. “Yah, Sora-ya, wash the rice.”

  I poured several cups of rice and water into a bowl, then swirled and rinsed the grains. I wanted to stay with Youngsoo, but he had fallen back asleep, and I couldn’t ignore Omahni. I looked around at the stove, hooks, and ladles; the mortar and pestle on the counter; the wooden grain bin in the corner. Auntie’s kitchen looked like Omahni’s, and I felt as if I had never left home.

  Auntie sliced melon on a wooden board.

  “Sora-ya,” Omahni said. “Do you know they have a temporary school here that is not too far? You could walk there in thirty minutes. Isn’t that right, Sister-in-law?”

  Auntie nodded, chewing on a piece of the fruit.

  I stopped washing the rice.

  Had I heard Omahni correctly? Was she going to send me to school? My ears pounded, and I could hardly hear beyond my own breathing. I kept my eyes fixed on the pearly wet grains. Don’t breathe. One wrong move and everything could fall away like petals at the end of their bloom.

  Omahni didn’t look at me as she scooped the minced vegetables into a large pot. “Youngsoo has missed more than half a year of school because of this wretched war. Once he has recovered, he can resume his studies, but until then I’d like you to go to school for him.”

  It was a strange request, and I wasn’t sure I completely understood. “Go to school for him?”

  “Yes. You know, attend his third-grade class, bring home his work, and show him everything that the teacher taught during the day. There may be a small fee for tuition, but Uncle said he’ll cover it.”

  Omahni chopped the garlic—taaak, taaak, taaak. The rhythm throbbed in my temples. Go to school for him. I repeated the words inside my head. Omahni was not sending me to school for my sake, but rather, for Youngsoo’s. Something cold slithered into my stomach.

  Yet still, wasn’t this my chance to finally attend school, even if only to sit in a third-grade class? When I was in North Korea, hadn’t I been content to eavesdrop on Miss Chun’s lessons and learn from Youngsoo’s books?

  My cheeks flushed. It was as if I’d walked in a huge circle, returning to where I had started: By the river doing laundry. In the prison of my mother’s kitchen.

  “Omahni,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I don’t want to go to school.”

  A sharp pain pierced my heart. I couldn’t believe my own words. I wanted to go to school, but not like this—what Omahni suggested was too much.

  “What? You won’t go to school for your brother?” Omahni said as she stirred the sizzling vegetables in the pot. She stopped to look at me.

  “It’s not that Sora doesn’t want to help Youngsoo,” Auntie said, arranging melon slices on a plate. “Isn’t that right, dear? She’d rather stay by your side and help you in the kitchen. What a dutiful daughter.”

  I stared into the murky rice water. Once Omahni added the grains and liquid to the pot, she would have to stand there and stir it for hours to prevent everything from scorching. Had she ever made rice porridge for me? A quick radish soup, maybe, when I was nine and had drenched my nightclothes in fever. But never the loving, labored devotion of rice porridge.

  “I suppose that’s for the best,” Omahni said. She took the rice from me and dumped it into the pot, then turned her attention to the gasping fish on the cutting board. “In a few years, we’ll start meeting with the matchmaker, and you’ll need to learn so much before then.”

  “You are the best teacher, Sister-in-law,” Auntie said. “If she learns from you every day, she’ll be well prepared for her future.”

  My mind spun in confusion. Omahni was picking up where she had left off. Back to the old life. Back to tradition. Back to a lifetime ago. How could I stay by her side all day, every day? Cooking. Cleaning. Fumbling everything. Something heavy pressed down on my chest. My skin felt hot and tight, as if I’d outgrown myself.

  A sharp crack.

  Blade against wood.

  I jolted.

  Omahni chopped off the fish’s head. Its body flopped and twitched on the board. I stared at the headless fish, covered my mouth, then ran out the door.

  forty-one

  Later that afternoon, Dr. Min came to the hous
e. He walked briskly across the courtyard, wearing a black coat and felt hat. In his right hand he carried a leather case.

  I stood watching from the main room, my fingers drumming against my legs. Surely, the doctor would make my brother well again.

  But it was true that by the time Youngsoo recovered, he would have fallen behind at least a year in his studies. Maybe I was being selfish, not helping with his lessons. After all that we had been through, what wouldn’t I do for him? I rubbed my forehead.

  Abahji greeted the doctor, bowing and thanking him for coming. Politely, I lowered my head as they walked past. Dr. Min returned the greeting with a nod and a brusque smile, smoothing the thin mustache curling down on his lip.

  My parents led him into the room where Youngsoo slept, and everyone followed, including Uncle and Auntie, but when I tried to slip in, Abahji held up his hand. “It’s better if you wait here and keep an eye on Jisoo for us.” Then he slid the door shut.

  Jisoo stood beside me, gazing up with curiosity.

  “Shush,” I warned. “The doctor is here for Youngsoo.” To my surprise, Jisoo sat still.

  I listened carefully. Through the thin paper door, I heard everything: pneumonia, lungs, and fluid; instruments clacking; Omahni’s rising voice; and Abahji’s solemn questions, to which Dr. Min finally answered:

  “I’m sorry, it’s very advanced. He doesn’t have much time left.”

  I’m sorry, it’s very advanced.

  He doesn’t have much time left.

  I slid to the floor, stunned, the doctor’s words ringing in my ears. What was he saying? Youngsoo didn’t have much time left? How was this possible? He was only nine. He had a lifetime.

  Then I heard a long wail, part animal, part human. It came from Omahni.

  The door slid open. Dr. Min handed Abahji several bottles of medicine.

  “I’ll go to school for him! He won’t fall behind, I promise!” I blurted.

  Abahji acted as if he didn’t hear me, then turned away to hide his face. Without thinking, I leapt in front of him, needing to see his smiling crescent-moon eyes, to know everything would be all right. But Abahji’s face was contorted like a grotesque mask.