by Julie Lee
“Sora-ya! Where are you? I need your help!” Omahni walked out of the kitchen and into the courtyard. Her hands were red with hot pepper flakes and wet with kimchi juice. She had begun cooking again, not wanting to burden Auntie any further.
I watched her from behind but pretended not to hear.
Omahni checked the outhouse, then the storage shed. She called my name again as she turned to look on the side of the house, the bottom of her long skirt swishing. It was then that she saw me.
She marched up with her hands on her hips. “Yah, why didn’t you answer me when I called?”
I shrugged.
Something in her face wound tighter, and for a second, I worried that she might unleash all her pent-up anger in a slap across my cheek.
“Get down from that wall, right now,” she said, gritting her teeth.
I started to climb down the stone wall, thinking of the time when I’d scrambled off the roof of the train. Youngsoo’s panicked face flashed in my head. I tugged at my long skirt, which now fell short above my ankles. I was growing taller, already different than I was on that day, while Youngsoo would always remain my nine-year—
“Hurry up!” Omahni grabbed my arm with her red-pepper-flake hands and snatched me off the wall. My elbow scraped against the rough stones. I caught my mother’s gaze as I stumbled to the ground and thought I saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes, as if she were seeing herself in my face and punishing us both for it. My eyes stung.
“Go to Uncle’s fish stand and bring home several squid right away. I’m going to teach you how to make a squid dish tonight to go with the birthday dinner,” she said in a flat tone. Her face sagged as if she were made of wax, and melting. She went inside.
Birthday dinner? Whose birthday? I had to think.
Oh, it was my thirteenth birthday. Why couldn’t Omahni have just said so? But as soon as I asked myself, I knew by the way she could hardly look at me or be in the same room for too long.
It should have been me instead of Youngsoo.
He was such a good kid, much better than me. Always trying to make everyone happy. Her precious son. It was no wonder that Omahni loved him more.
But still, I was here. And I didn’t know what to do about it.
The Gukje Market bustled with the Saturday afternoon crowds. Glossy pottery, bright fabrics, and ripened fruits and vegetables—cabbage, chives, tangerines—covered the tables. The earthy scent of spring hung in the air. Uncle’s fish stand was at the end of an aisle. I headed toward it.
“We’ve got fresh carp and squid caught today,” Uncle called out to passersby. He didn’t shout or haggle. On his table, silvery fish with mouths agape poked out from small buckets, and bulbous squid lay in rows, their tentacles draped over the edge like wet, braided hair.
“Uncle,” I said, walking toward him. “Omahni asked me to bring home squid for tonight’s dinner.” For some reason, I couldn’t say it: birthday. My birthday.
“Of course. You turn thirteen today. Here, I’ll give you the biggest, freshest ones.” Uncle winked at me and dumped the slimy, curling masses into the burlap bag I had brought.
How could he be so different from Omahni? I bowed. “Thank you, Uncle.”
He smiled. “You know, when your mother and I were kids, we would go with our father on his fishing boat. We’d always come home drenched! Sometimes, as a special treat, our father would give us each a persimmon—your mother’s favorite. We ate them in our fists. The juices dribbled down our arms and chins, but it tasted so good. Your harabuji would laugh at our messy faces. Those were some of my happiest memories.” He patted my back.
I couldn’t imagine Omahni playing or having a messy face. I shifted my weight, wanting to leave.
“Did you know that before a persimmon turns sweet and orange, it starts out green, and so sour that it makes your mouth dry? Kind of like your mother sometimes,” Uncle said, chuckling. “But if you’re patient and give it a chance, it turns into a totally different fruit, well worth waiting for. Hold on, let me see if my friend is selling any at his fruit stand today. I’ll be right back.”
If I had left a second earlier, then I wouldn’t have heard it—the words that turned my stomach inside out and set me on the warpath as I headed back home.
“It’s bad luck, of course, to have a child die,” Auntie said to a woman at a nearby cabbage stand. “It’s best just to move on, and not think or talk about it.”
“You’re right, you’re right. Better just to forget. Thank God, at least she still has one son left,” the woman said, clucking in sympathy. “Can you imagine if she’d lost her only son and was left with nothing?”
I listened intently, my entire body buzzing like a struck metal gong. At least one son left? Better to forget? Left with nothing? Auntie with her big mouth and stupid friend!
A strange metallic taste washed over my tongue. I left before Uncle returned, before he could tell me more about my mother and fistfuls of persimmon and playing on a boat. All of which I could hardly believe. Omahni would never let me be as free.
A different street. Unfamiliar houses. Wider roads. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I was tired of running away. I’d risked everything—including my brother’s life—to get here, thinking one kind of freedom would automatically lead to another, that I could go to school, that I could write, that we would be happy. But I was wrong. Nothing was guaranteed.
A part of me would stay trapped, no matter where I went. It started raining, and I squinted through the water pelting straight down, the answer coming to me out of the mist.
Arriving in Busan was only half the battle; the other half was in Uncle’s house, working in the kitchen, red kimchi juice dripping down her arms.
forty-nine
“Did you get the squid?” Omahni said. She stared blankly at the bulging bag in my hand.
I stuck my arm out and handed it to her.
Omahni took the bag, then headed inside the house. “Come, I need to teach you how to cook,” she said over her shoulder.
When I stepped into the kitchen, Mrs. Kim and Yoomee were already preparing food, their heads down and elbows moving. Omahni rolled up her sleeves. “Sora-ya, watch carefully. I’ll teach you how to clean the squid.”
Omahni grabbed the tail with one hand and twisted the head off with the other—entrails and the black ink sac slipped out. Then she tore off the outer speckled skin, peeling it away to reveal a smooth, milky surface.
The next squid came slapping down on the counter in front of me.
“Now, your turn,” Omahni said.
I clamped down on the squid’s body and grabbed the head, but the tail slipped out of my grasp. I tried again—digging my nails in this time, slimy juices covering my fingers—and yanking harder. It came apart, the insides oozing out and black liquid leaking everywhere.
“Aigoo! You popped the ink sac.” Omahni reached for a bowl of water, her face crinkled in annoyance.
I stepped back to let her finish the preparations. She rinsed the squid in the bowl, and the water turned black. I snuck a glance at Yoomee’s squid. It was as pristine as Omahni’s, of course. Yoomee looked at me with sympathy.
Omahni had rushed around the kitchen, her long hair fraying from her bun. “Help me, Sora-ya. I have so many dishes to prepare today. I’ll never finish in time.”
I chopped the cucumber into slices, my small, clumsy hands holding the knife in a fist.
“Not like that. Slice it paper thin. Hold the knife like this,” she said, putting her index finger over the top of the blade. The knife in her hand echoed—rat tat tat tat—against the cutting board.
“Omahni, it’s only Halmoni coming to visit. Do we need to make so much food?” I wanted to go outside and play.
“Ha!” Omahni snorted. “Do you know your father’s mother? Nothing is good enough for her. The last time she was here, she told me my rice was hard and your father looked too thin and maybe my cooking didn’t suit him. That maybe I didn’t sui
t him.” She fried scallion pancakes in the cast-iron pan.
“Couldn’t you just ignore what she says?” I looked out the window. Blue sky and green grass beckoned me. How much longer did I have to stay indoors?
“Easier said than done. You’ll understand one day, Sora. Except I will make sure you are perfection in the kitchen. No mother-in-law will be able to find fault with you. I’ll guarantee you have a good life.”
Omahni froze. I followed her gaze to the cutting board. My cucumber slices were thick and all different widths, scattered like chunks of chopped wood. Her face reddened. “Aigoo! What is this? Mrs. Kim tells me Yoomee can make a pickled cucumber salad all by herself!”
I stood there like an overgrown tree sprouting in the middle of the kitchen, getting in everyone’s way.
Omahni clipped my shoulder as she reached for the seasonings. She mixed garlic, soy sauce, red pepper flakes, and sugar in a small bowl, stirring with her fingers. With just the feel of her hands, she added more salt and pepper. Before rushing off to prepare the noodle soup, she handed me an empty bowl.
“Now you try,” she said.
I hadn’t paid close enough attention. The ingredients were scattered across the counter. I poured and sprinkled everything into the bowl.
Omahni stopped to dip her pinky into my sauce. “Aigoo. Too sweet. It’s like candy.” She poured more soy sauce into the mixture to counter the sweetness. After another taste, she shook her head. “Still no good. How will I ever get you married off one day? Start over.”
I stared at my bowl full of too-sweet sauce.
Everything slowed as if underwater. This bowl had come all the way from home; I’d held it a hundred times before. But today, as I watched myself pick it up, I was amazed at how easy it was simply to open my hand and let it go. I watched it drop like heavy fruit cut from its branch.
The terrible crash caught everyone’s breath. Shards of white pottery exploded across the floor. Dark, oily liquid splattered onto the walls. But I did not flinch.
“Yah, Sora!” Omahni said. Her face twisted in anger. “You’re such a clumsy girl! Aigoo…God have mercy on the fate of such a hopeless daughter!” She bent to pick up the broken pieces.
Hopeless daughter—it shot like an arrow and lodged in my heart. The hurt bloomed across my chest.
“Omahni,” I said, hardly able to speak past the knot in my throat. “You have no right to call me that.”
“What did you say?” Omahni said. She stood and flung the ceramic shards back to the floor.
A small piece hit the side of my face, but I refused to rub it. The room fell silent. Something stirred inside me, murky and fierce. I felt it gather and rise, turning my face crimson.
I looked at her. “You weren’t there. I took care of Youngsoo. I kept him alive. I protected him. He believed in me.”
“Uh-muh! So you’re saying it was all my fault because I wasn’t there?”
“I never said that.”
“Have you lost your mind talking to your mother this way?”
Auntie ushered Mrs. Kim and Yoomee out. Omahni grabbed a wooden spoon and smacked the back of my knees.
I drew in a sharp breath. My legs throbbed. A slow tear carved a path down my cheek.
“You’re always going against me. You never do as I say!” Omahni said, whimpering and striking out, almost as if she were terrified.
“What do you mean? I always do what you say. I stayed home from school to watch my little brothers, didn’t I?”
Another whack.
I clenched my teeth and stared at her white skirt. A small soy sauce stain had splattered there.
“You selfish girl! Talking back to me!” She raised the wooden spoon once more.
“Uncle told me that you used to play on your father’s boat. You had a messy face,” I blurted.
She lowered the spoon. Her eyes were searching me. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing has changed since we came to Busan,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re still forcing me to be someone that I’m not.”
Omahni’s face snapped back into a snarl. “Oh, really? Who are you then? Do you think becoming a storyteller who doesn’t even know how to cook bean pancakes will give you a secure life? How about your future mother-in-law—would she take kindly to an incompetent girl like you? Wake up, Sora, I’m trying to prepare you for the rules and expectations of this world!”
“I’m not incompetent,” I said, tears now running over my chin. “I just want to do something different. Don’t you ever want to do something different?”
She chuckled, as if she couldn’t believe I’d said something so stupid. “What would I do? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I don’t know. You could learn how to paint or go somewhere unexpected,” I said, wiping my eyes and frantically searching the room as if the answer were hidden behind the walls. “Like Egypt.”
“Egypt?” She snickered again. “Why would I go to Europe? Hitler destroyed almost all of it.”
“No, Omahni. Egypt is in Africa.”
Omahni’s cheeks turned bright red. “Is that what you learned from your fancy books? You’ve had your head in them too long. You don’t know how to do anything else! If I don’t teach you the practical things in life, you’ll never survive!”
“I want to go back to school,” I said.
“Well, you can’t.” The words lashed out of her mouth as fast as a whip.
My eyes met hers. “But there are some things you can’t teach me.”
She laughed, the sound of splintering wood, and I covered my ears. “So, I’m not good enough for you? You’re too smart to follow in my footsteps and learn from me?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth. That’s not what I meant,” I said, my voice rising.
Omahni threw the wooden spoon on the floor, her eyes flashing. “Why do you hate me?”
My face blanched. I couldn’t believe I’d heard her right. It was the same question I’d been asking her inside my head all along.
“You’ll do anything to go as far from me as possible—anything to be opposite of me! Always talking about going to school, going to university, going to America,” she said, spittle flying everywhere. “You’re ashamed of me, aren’t you? Ashamed of your uneducated mother who couldn’t even save her own son!” She stopped and let out a deep-throated moan. “This is why you were always my least favorite!”
The room started spinning. Hurt, as heavy as a concrete block, slammed into my stomach. I couldn’t breathe.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. I’m sorry, Sora! I didn’t mean it,” Omahni cried.
My voice was a rasp, like black smoke. “I know you think it should’ve been me instead of Youngsoo. Then you wouldn’t be nearly as sad.” My face was slick with tears. “And you’d still have two sons.”
“That’s not true. How could you say such a thing?” Omahni reached for me, her arms trying to tangle around me like an octopus.
I stayed clear of her grasp. My chest heaved up and down. A buzzing sounded in my ears. I knew this would be hard—maybe even as hard as my journey to Busan—and I braced myself.
“You can’t stand to look at me. You blame me for everything. But I’m worth something.”
Omahni’s eyes pleaded with me. One hand closed around my wrist. I pulled back, but she held on. “Sora, you are not to blame for Youngsoo’s death. If anyone is to blame, it is me. I was his mother.”
“You’re wrong, Omahni. It wasn’t your fault either. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
That was when my mother shriveled, as if I’d thrown salt over the thin, tear-drenched membrane of her body. She wept.
The angry knot in my chest unraveled, but her words had left a deep mark that was tender and sore. Through my watery eyes, Omahni blurred into an imperfect shape. I knew I would forgive her, and over time, maybe even forget—but a small part of me would always wonder whether there was some truth to what my mother had said.
“Sora, I push you because there ar
e things a girl must know how to do. How will you survive if I don’t teach you?”
“Don’t worry, Omahni. I’ll survive.”
“But how will you do that?”
“The way you’ve always taught me. By being strong and working hard.”
“My only daughter,” she whispered. “I can’t lose you, too.”
I reached for her, touching her arm. “You won’t lose me, Omahni. Not ever. Not even when I go back to school.”
fifty
May through August, 1951
The following week, Omahni gave me a journal and a pencil for class. The school year had begun in March, but it didn’t matter. She told me to head south, halfway toward the beach, where there would be big tents that I couldn’t miss.
I ran. My muscles had softened, but their memory was strong, and pounding against dirt roads was familiar. I felt as if I were back in the frozen valleys, the empty villages. Only now, I wasn’t running away. I was running to school.
The Busan provisional school was inside an army tent with a green canvas roof and mesh windows. It didn’t look like a classroom, but I didn’t care; the smell of chalk hung in the breeze. I waded through the crowd of unfamiliar faces, wondering whether I’d make any friends.
“Sora, over here!” Yoomee called, waving her arms by the entrance. Myung-gi stood beside her.
A wave of relief washed over me. I waved back and headed toward them. “Myung-gi oppah, are you back in school?” I asked.
“Nah, I’m just here to see about another job—translating.” He took off his glasses and wiped them against his shirt. “If I save money over the next few months from this job and the water job, there should be enough for Yoomee and Mom to live on for a while.”
Without his glasses, I thought he could be any one of the boys running stalls at the Gukje Market. “Where will you be in a few months? Are you planning on going somewhere?”