by Julie Lee
Finally we reached the hill path outside the city. Morning sun filtered through the pine trees, scattering circles of light onto everyone’s bodies. Omahni squinted, a hundred tiny wrinkles on her face as if she’d run a fine-toothed comb over her skin. I didn’t dare reach for her hand, though I noticed it hanging limp, waiting for someone to hold it—Youngsoo, maybe Jisoo.
Jisoo rode on Auntie’s back, his hands clasped around her neck. He glanced at me blankly, then turned to stare at the evergreens towering overhead. I wondered if he understood all this, then remembered that he’d just turned only three. For the first time, I considered our ten-year difference—without Youngsoo to bridge the gap between us, I felt even more alone.
As we walked higher up the mountainside, the pines thickened and the sunlight could barely reach us. Omahni, stepping in and out of stray beams, disappeared for longer and longer in the shadows. The air turned bitter cold.
“Youngsoo-ya! Our Youngsoo-ya!” Omahni cried up to the sky. Auntie put her arms around her.
I watched them, dazed.
I wanted to hear his voice again, see him fishing in the river. I pictured his face—before sickness, before war—back in the beginning.
“Come, Sora-ya. You’re a noona now. Meet your new baby brother,” Abahji had said.
For days, I had been at Mr. and Mrs. Choi’s house, waiting for you to come. I ran inside our thatched-roof cottage as fast as my chubby legs could carry me.
In Abahji’s arms, swaddled in a white blanket, was the tiniest face I’d ever seen. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until you opened your eyes, and I gasped when I saw those beautiful, silvery-black pools. You looked at me as if you already knew who I was.
“He’s so cute!” I cried, reaching with clumsy hands toward your jewel eyes.
“Ah, careful, Sora-ya,” Abahji said, holding you high. “You shouldn’t touch the baby. He’s still too small.”
“I promise, I won’t touch. Let me see again,” I said.
Abahji lowered you. And I looked once more. You were the most beautiful baby in the whole world. Those cherry lips, that fuzzy hair, the little bean nose. I couldn’t resist. The tip of my lips kissed the soft top of your head.
I loved you, immediately.
The memory pressed on my bruised heart.
Along the path, camellia trees were greening. I couldn’t stand their buds—so fat and ripe and ready to bloom—as if they were rushing toward spring, toward a season Youngsoo would never see again. He would never enjoy their pretty colors.
The willow tree back home was probably still buried underneath a blanket of snow. I had the sudden urge to see our old house, the sparkling river, the schoolhouse on top of the hill.
After a long walk, we came to a clearing. Trees circled it, sheltering it the way parents watched over their children. I could see Mrs. Kim and Yoomee, dressed in white, the color of mourning. The others were strangers—Uncle and Auntie’s friends—and I wondered why they had come; they didn’t even know him. How old was he? How did he die? Was he their only son? As soon as they saw us coming, they stopped their gossiping and weeping and split apart like curtains, revealing that deep dark hole in the ground, as if it were the final act of their show.
My heart shrank back, but my legs kept walking. It was deeper than the pit in my stomach, blacker than the insides of my eyes when they were closed. Yet Abahji and Uncle lowered Youngsoo’s body into it. Inch by inch, the coffin slipped from view, and my breath quickened. I couldn’t lose sight of him. Not even for a second.
I rushed closer to the edge. And when I looked down, I could see the casket again.
The pastor stood before the grave with a straight back and a rock-steady voice, the way only a professional funeral-giver could. I thanked God that this dry-eyed man would carry us through the ceremony. He led us in several hymns, and Uncle sang extra loudly to make up for Abahji’s and Omahni’s thin tones, but even his voice wavered at the refrain: All things bright and beautiful. Then came a sermon that I couldn’t remember. Omahni tried to say a prayer, but her voice frayed after the first words, and Mrs. Kim rushed to her side. My throat thickened into a lump of clay.
Abahji stepped forward and bowed before tossing the first clump of earth over the coffin. Then the men buried Youngsoo.
My eyes stayed fixed on the pine box, watching until every bit of it disappeared under the dirt. I couldn’t believe that my little brother lay in the ground.
Everyone began leaving.
Mrs. Kim dabbed under her eyes with a handkerchief. “Sora-ya, how are you, dear?”
No one had asked me that before, and I didn’t know what to say. I was frozen until Myung-gi stepped forward and bowed to Omahni and Abahji. He had grown several inches taller, into someone leaner, more muscular. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his face had hardened. I wouldn’t have recognized him if it weren’t for the long, familiar look he gave me, full of so much kindness that I had to hide my face as it twisted into an ugly sob.
forty-six
Everyone headed down the mountain in twos, but I walked alone. With no one by my side, the wind buffeted me, and I swayed like a tree ready to snap.
We went to Uncle’s house. Auntie hurried into the kitchen, and when Omahni and Mrs. Kim followed to help, she chased them out. Omahni didn’t object. Uncle patted Abahji on the back as they settled on the floor around the low table. The rest of us joined them. We sat in painful silence, no one daring to speak first.
Finally, Abahji told Mrs. Kim that her short haircut looked nice, then broke into tears.
I listened to my father howl like a lonely wolf and thought I’d shatter into a million pieces if I stayed in that room. So I got up and walked out the front door.
In the courtyard, Myung-gi and Yoomee sat beside the row of guests’ shoes on a raised wooden platform. Yoomee held Jisoo on her lap, cuddling him like a puppy.
“I’m sorry. For everything,” she said, looking at me.
I sat beside her, wondering if Jisoo thought she was his older sister. I held my arms out to him, but he wouldn’t come. He would probably go to anyone else—even Mr. Kim—rather than to me.
Mr. Kim. Wait.
“Yoomee…where’s your father?” I asked, realizing in that instant that I hadn’t seen him since we arrived. I couldn’t remember if he had even been at the funeral.
“They took him,” Myung-gi said, talking to the ground, his hands between his knees. “The night before we left. He told us it might happen. He told us to go, no matter what. So we did. That’s why I’ve been working instead of going to school. I’m head of the house now.” He swallowed once, then slumped deep into his lanky, big-footed self, nowhere near done becoming a man.
“But we’ll see him again,” Yoomee said, sitting up straighter. “If they sent him to a labor prison, I’m sure he escaped. He’s the cleverest man alive, my father. He’ll come here, just like you did.” She stopped and bit her fingernail.
I pictured their father—like the Man Who Was Not My Uncle—with a rifle in his back. A wave of nausea hit me. What had happened to Mr. Kim? Where was he now? Was he even alive?
“I’m so sorry,” I said. But even still, to me, missing was better than dead, and I envied Yoomee for having something to hold on to. I knew that Youngsoo would never come home again.
Tiny sparrows flitted around the courtyard, and I wondered how something so frail could be alive while my brother lay cold in the earth. They danced all over the grounds, chasing each other, and I followed them with my eyes, concentrating only on their game.
“Youngsoo was a sweet boy,” Myung-gi said.
Yoomee wiped her eyes with the back of her hand while Jisoo pulled on her straight, silky hair.
The sparrows teased me with their comings and goings, these birds that were now a part of this fateful day. Then, without warning, they took flight, fluttering so high that I could no longer follow them. They too were gone. Early evening owls began hooting, and I wondered how the afternoon
had already passed.
Guests from the funeral began trickling in for the dinner. Myung-gi, Yoomee, and I jumped to our feet and led them inside where Auntie had set a table full of grilled fish, pickled side dishes, spicy beef soup, and rice cakes. Everyone crowded the small room, murmuring condolences and remarks about how handsome Youngsoo looked in the photograph by his shrine. We hadn’t brought any photos from home, but luckily, Uncle had found one in his house. It was taken when Youngsoo was a baby. We had a better picture back home—one of him fishing by the river—and I wondered whether we’d ever see it again. Someone poured Abahji a glass of soju, and he drank it, then asked for more. The room continued filling with people, and soon I could hardly find a place to stand.
“Come on, there’s space over there,” Myung-gi said, pointing toward the back near the shrine. Yoomee and I followed, weaving through the crowd.
I couldn’t see it before—not with all the people in my way—but up close, Youngsoo’s shrine sparkled. A shiny silver frame held the baby photo that Uncle had found. Beside it sat a glossy black lacquered box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl cut in the shape of flying herons. And inside the box, on top of the black velvet lining, lay all of Youngsoo’s things.
“I remember that spinning top,” Yoomee said, looking at the open box. “He loved that toy. Every time we went to your house, he’d take it out and show us.”
I smiled faintly. I hadn’t realized how much he’d carried in his coat pocket. So many rocks and twigs and string, and underneath them all, a folded piece of paper. “What’s that?” I asked.
Myung-gi and Yoomee drew closer.
My hand shook as I pulled it out.
But I already knew, even before the picture of oceans and continents and rivers unfolded before our eyes. “My map,” I said, staring at the smooth sheet that I had once crushed into a tight ball and thrown away. “What’s it doing here?”
“Sora, you shouldn’t touch those things. They’re part of the shrine,” Auntie said, swooping in and taking it from me.
“But how did this get here? It wasn’t in his coat pocket,” I said.
“What do you mean? It belonged to Youngsoo. He was holding it the night before he passed, smoothing it against his chest to get out all the wrinkles. Someone must’ve crumpled it by accident. Poor thing. He was so tired, but he just wouldn’t quit until it was perfect.”
Blood drained from my face. He’d wasted his energy fixing something I ruined. He should’ve saved his strength for another game of yoot or a final glimpse of the starry night. Anything but this.
Auntie set it back in the box, then returned to the guests.
“That map was yours, wasn’t it? It was the one you always looked at back home, when we still went to school together,” Yoomee said, her eyes widening.
“I crushed it and threw it away,” I whispered. “In his room.”
“And Youngsoo found it and smoothed it out?”
Congratulations, detective, yes, I wanted to say. For a second, I glared at her. I wished she would mind her own business. I should’ve thrown it in the fire where he couldn’t find it. Then he wouldn’t have wasted his final night on that worthless, stupid map.
It was then that Yoomee put a hand on my shoulder. I looked at her in surprise.
“He did it for you, Sora,” she said. “So you would keep looking at the world. He didn’t want you to give up on your dreams.”
forty-seven
February, 1951
Over the next few weeks, Omahni spent her time lying on a mat and staring out the window.
Auntie prepared the family’s meals after long days of working at the fish stand. No one asked Omahni to help around the house, and for once, she never offered. I didn’t know what to say to her, and, believing that she blamed me for everything, I said nothing.
Abahji went to work at his new job on the dock even though he could hardly get out of bed. I knew he stayed up all night smoking cigarettes, sipping soju, and gazing at the stars. And although he’d come home pounding his aching back, he never complained about hauling heavy military supplies from a conveyor onto trucks. There were plenty of other men willing to take his spot, according to the supervisor.
During the day, I helped take care of Jisoo, and even Omahni, who now always had a headache. Chores helped me get through the hours. I helped Auntie make soup and rice for breakfast, cleaned the dishes, and fetched water from the neighborhood well. I bathed Jisoo and changed the wet towel Omahni kept draped over her forehead. At midday, I would make a simple lunch and clean up, and not much later begin preparing rice for dinner. Although Auntie sometimes scolded me for turning the rice into mush, the housework kept me from falling into the abyss that now consumed my mother.
I never mentioned Youngsoo, knowing that Omahni and Abahji couldn’t hear his name without falling apart. But I wished I could tell someone how he’d once made me laugh until water shot out of my nose. How he’d built a tower of rocks that was as tall as me. How one time he’d scored higher than his classmates on a math test—it couldn’t have been a mix-up; he had earned it. How he would’ve caught a two-foot-long trout in his net, if it weren’t for the kids splashing into the river. He was great at fishing, I wanted to say, because aren’t patience and perseverance most important? And he was smarter than we all thought too, sometimes surprising us with his observations. Animals don’t hate, they just fear.
But my days were wordless, and by evening, my lips were glued shut with dried saliva.
One day, over dinner, everything I wanted to say and everything they could never hear collided.
“Sora! Will you set the table for me?” Auntie called from the kitchen. Pots and pans clanged. Her slippers swished across the floor.
“Yes, Auntie.” I grabbed the chopsticks from the chest and set them around the low table in the sitting room.
“And get your father and Uncle. It’s time for dinner.”
I walked out to the courtyard. The evening air was cool and comfortable. Uncle roasted squid over the firepit while Abahji ran the dried pieces through a small press. The aroma had become so familiar that I hardly noticed it anymore.
They were talking about the war and the fighting near the thirty-eighth parallel. I had almost forgotten there was still a war; the American soldiers strolling through the marketplace were as unguarded as the rest of us, and with Youngsoo gone it didn’t matter anyway. I cleared my throat. “Abahji, Uncle, please come to dinner.”
“Okay, Sora-ya. We’ll be right there.” Abahji dusted his hands and shirt of dried squid flakes.
I returned to the main room. Omahni sat at the low dining table. Her eyes brimmed as she stared at the chopsticks across from her.
Auntie walked in carrying bowls of noodle soup, then looked at Omahni. “Aigoo…Sora, how could you be so thoughtless?” she asked.
Omahni sobbed.
What is she talking about? I followed Auntie’s gaze, and counted the chopsticks around the table—seven. I had set down seven pairs. Blood pounded in my ears.
“Noodle soup was Youngsoo’s favorite,” I blurted.
Omahni cried harder.
“It was what he wanted on his last birthday,” I continued.
Auntie blinked at me, her mouth pinched into a thin line.
“What’s going on in here?” Uncle asked as he and Abahji stepped through the door.
“Sora put down seven settings instead of six, and it has upset Sister-in-law,” Auntie said, looking as if she had just bitten into a sour plum.
“That’s not Sora’s fault. You should know that was an honest mistake,” Uncle said.
“Did I say she did it on purpose? I was just saying that she shouldn’t be so thoughtless! Especially to her mother, especially these days!”
“She’s not being thoughtless!” Abahji shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Brother-in-law, please,” said Uncle. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Why is everyone shouting? Aren’t we all suffering enough?”
/> Jisoo burst out crying; Omahni scooped him up and ran out the door, Auntie following close behind. Abahji patted his shirt pocket and stepped into the courtyard, fumbling to pull out a cigarette. And Uncle shook his head, then went to his room.
I was alone.
We had gathered together, the Paks and the Kims, dressed in our finest.
Shiny fruits and colorful cloths filled the house. We ran in and out of every room, playing hide-and-seek. The top of Myung-gi’s head poked out from inside a chest. Yoomee’s small silhouette showed from behind a folding screen. Ha, I found them both!
“Happy Chuseok, everyone!” Mrs. Kim said. She passed out plates of sweet rice cake.
“Thank you for inviting us. Dinner was delicious,” Omahni said, holding three-year-old Youngsoo in the lap of her dark yellow dress.
Abahji sat on the floor by the low table. “Oh, I’m so full.” He patted his stomach.
We came out of our hiding places. The evening light cast a soft glow on all our faces. I closed my eyes and wished this house could be mine.
There was laughing and drinking and talking. About the pears that were so ripe this year. About the beautiful sound of our Korean names. About the good health of family and friends. I listened, my heart soaring.
Soon, my own words swept up and rushed out: Did you know there are ten vowels and fourteen consonants? My favorite color is orange. Tag is more fun than hide-and-seek. I’m going to be a writer when I grow up. My harabuji once lived in America; he’s dead now. There’s a girl in my class who thinks she can fly. I love fried dumpling. But my brother’s favorite food is noodle soup.
A scream balled up in my throat. I sat in the seventh spot, digging the tip of Youngsoo’s chopsticks into my palm.
forty-eight
April, 1951
Somehow time marched forward.
I sat on the stone wall at the back of the house. The mountains had turned a velvety green, their sharp edges softened by new grass. Rows of cherry blossom trees exploded in a pink-petal snowstorm. My eyes stung from staring, and I closed them.