Around the time you were to go to Seoul for your birthday, your wife was suffering from stomach problems. You worried whether she could go to Seoul if she was so weak, but she asked you to go to town to buy bananas, having heard about some remedy or other. Before you went to Seoul, she ate a mixture of two dried persimmons and half a banana for three meals straight. Even though she’d never stayed in bed for more than a week after giving birth, she was laid up in bed for ten days with the occasional stomach problem. And your wife started to forget the dates of ancestral rites. When she made kimchi, she would stop and sit staring into space. If you asked her what was wrong, she would say, “I don’t know if I added garlic or not.…” She would pick up a boiling pot of fermented-bean-paste stew with her bare hands and burn them. You just thought, She’s no longer young. You just thought, Even I spend my days without giving a thought to traditional drums, which I used to love so much. At this age, our bodies can’t be the same. You just thought, It’s about time things get broken. You assumed that ailments would be a constant companion at this age, and you thought that your wife was at that stage, too.
“Are you home?”
Your eyes fly open at your sister’s voice. For a second, you think you hear your wife’s voice, even though you know full well that only your sister would come to your house this early in the morning.
“I’m coming in,” she says, and opens your bedroom door. Your sister is holding a tray laden with a bowl of rice and side dishes, covered in a white cloth. She places the tray on the floor at one end of the room and looks at you. She lived here with you until forty years ago, when she built a house by the new road, and ever since, she would get up at dawn, smoke a cigarette, smooth her hair and secure it with a hairpin, and come to your house. Your sister would walk around your house in the dawn light, and then go home. Your wife always heard your sister’s footsteps, quietly circling the house, from the front yard to the side yard to the back yard. Your sister’s footsteps were the sound that woke your wife. Your wife would grunt and turn over and mutter, “She’s back,” and get up. Your sister just circled your house and went home—perhaps she was checking to make sure that your house had remained intact overnight. When she was young, she lost two older brothers at the same time, and parents within two days of each other; during the war, she almost lost you. After she married, her husband came to live in your village, instead of your sister’s going to live in her in-laws’ village. The wound of losing her young husband in a house fire soon after was rooted deeply in your sister, and had grown into a large tree, one that couldn’t be chopped down.
“Didn’t you even bother to sleep on your mat?” Your sister’s eyes, which used to be unfaltering and fierce when she was a young, childless widow, now look tired. Her hair, brushed neatly and secured with a hairpin, is completely white. She’s eight years older than you, but her posture is straighter. She sits next to you, pulls out a cigarette, and puts it between her lips.
“Didn’t you quit smoking?” you ask.
Without answering, your sister uses a lighter printed with the name of a bar in town and puffs on her cigarette. “The dog is at my house. You can bring it back if you want.”
“Leave it there for now. I think I need to go back to Seoul.”
“What are you going to do there?”
You don’t reply.
“Why did you come back by yourself? You should have found her and brought her back!”
“I thought she might be waiting here.”
“If she was, I would call you right away, wouldn’t I?”
You’re silent.
“How can you be like this, you useless human being! How can a husband lose his wife! How could you come back here like this, when that poor woman is out there somewhere?”
You gaze at your white-haired sister. You’ve never heard her talk about your wife in this way. Your sister always clucked her tongue disapprovingly at your wife. She nagged your wife for not getting pregnant till two years after your wedding, but when your wife had Hyong-chol, your sister was dismissive, saying, “It’s not like she’s done something nobody’s ever done before.” She lived with your family during the years when your wife had to pound grain in the wooden mortar for every meal, and she never once took over the mortar. But, then again, she helped take care of your wife after she gave birth.
“I wanted to tell her some things before I died. But who am I going to tell, since she’s not here?” your sister says.
“What were you going to say?”
“It’s not just one or two things.…”
“Are you talking about how mean you were to her?”
“Did she tell you I was mean to her?”
You just look at your sister, not even laughing. Are you saying you weren’t? Everyone knew that your sister acted more like your wife’s mother-in-law than her sister-in-law. Everyone thought so. Your sister hated hearing that. She would say that was how it had to be, since there was no elder in the family. And that might have been the case.
Your sister slips out another cigarette from her cigarette case and slides it in her mouth. You light it for her. Your wife’s disappearance must have pushed your sister to take up smoking again. It was hard for you to think of your sister without a cigarette in her mouth. The first thing she did when she woke up every morning was to feel around for a cigarette, and all day long she looked for cigarettes before she did anything, before she had to go somewhere, before she ate, before she went to bed. You thought she smoked too much, but you never told her to quit. Actually, you couldn’t tell her. When you saw her right after her husband died in the fire, she was staring at the house that had burned down, smoking. She was sitting there, smoking one cigarette after another, neither crying nor laughing. She smoked instead of eating or sleeping. Three months after the fire, you could smell cigarettes on her before you went near her, the tobacco seeped into her fingers.
“I won’t live long now,” your sister has said since the day she turned fifty. “All these years, I thought my lot in life was especially … especially harsh and sad. What do I have? No child, nothing. When our brothers were dying, I thought I should have died instead of them; but after our parents died, I could see you and Kyun, even though I was in shock. It seemed we were alone in the world. And then, since my husband died in the fire before I had a chance to grow fond of him … you’re not only my brother, you’re also my child. My child and my love …”
That would have been true.
Otherwise, when you were bedridden, half paralyzed from a stroke in your middle age, she couldn’t have wandered the fields to harvest dew for a year, through spring, summer, fall, having heard that you would be cured if you drank a bowlful of dawn dew every day. To get a bowl of dew before the sun rose, your sister woke up in the middle of the night and waited for the day to break. Around that time, your wife stopped complaining about your sister and started treating her with respect, as if she were indeed her mother-in-law. Your wife, with an awed look on her face, would say, “I don’t think I could do that much for you!”
“I wanted to say to her that I was sorry about three things before I died,” your sister continues.
“What did you want to say?”
“That I was sorry about Kyun … and about the time I screamed at her for chopping down the apricot tree … and about not getting her medicine when she had stomach problems …”
Kyun. You don’t reply.
Your sister gets up and points at the tray covered with the white cloth. “There’s some food for you; eat it when you’re hungry. Do you want it now?”
“No, I’m not hungry yet. I’ve just woken up.” You stand, too.
You follow your sister as she walks around your house. Without your wife’s caring hands, the place is covered in dust. Your sister wipes the dust off the jar lids as she walks by the back yard.
“Do you think Kyun went to heaven?” she asks suddenly.
“Why are you talking about him?”
“Kyun must
be looking for her, too. I see him in my dreams all of a sudden. I wonder how he would have turned out if he’d lived.”
“What do you mean, how he would have turned out? He’d be old, like you and me.…”
When your seventeen-year-old wife married twenty-year-old you, your little brother Kyun was in the sixth grade. A smart child, he stood out among his peers: he was sharp and outgoing and handsome and got good grades. When people passed Kyun, they turned around to take another look, wondering which lucky family had him as a son. But he couldn’t go on to middle school because of your financial straits, although he begged you and your sister to let him go. You can almost hear it now: Please send me to school, brother; please send me to school, sister. He cried up a storm every day, asking you two to send him to school. Even though a few years had passed since the war, it was pitiable—you were unbelievably poor. Sometimes you think of those days as if they were a dream. You survived miraculously after being stabbed in the neck with a bamboo spear, but you were mired in a desperate situation as the eldest son of the extended family, responsible for feeding everyone. That might have been why you wanted to leave this house, because it was so difficult. It was difficult to find food, let alone send your brother to school. When you and your sister didn’t listen to him, Kyun begged your wife.
“Sister-in-law, please send me to school. Please let me go to middle school. I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you.”
Your wife said to you, “Since he wants it so badly, shouldn’t we send him to school somehow?”
“I couldn’t go to school, either! At least he was able to go to elementary school,” you retorted.
You couldn’t go to school because of your father. As a doctor of Chinese medicine, he wouldn’t let you go anywhere there were a lot of people, whether school or anyplace else, after he lost his two older sons to an epidemic. Your father, sitting knee to knee with you, taught you Chinese characters himself.
“Let’s send him to school,” your wife said.
“How?”
“We can sell the garden.”
When your sister heard that, she said, “You’re going to be the ruin of this family!” and she sent your wife to her hometown. Ten days later, drunk, your feet headed toward your in-laws’ at night. You stumbled along the mountain path, and when you got to your in-laws’ cottage, you stopped near the glowing window of the back room, the one closest to the bamboos. You didn’t go there thinking you would bring your wife back. It was the rice wine that had brought you there, the makgoli you had been given after you helped a neighbor plow his fields. Even though you weren’t the one who had sent your wife back to her childhood home, you couldn’t step into your in-laws’ house as if nothing had happened, so you just stood there, leaning against the dirt wall. You could hear your mother-in-law and your wife talking, just as you had in the cotton fields a short time ago. Your mother-in-law raised her voice and said, “Don’t go back to that damn house! Just pack up your things and leave that family.”
Your wife, sniffling, insisted, “Even if I die, I’m going to go back into that house. Why should I leave that house when it’s my house, too?” You stood against the wall until the dawn light rippled into the bamboo forest. You grabbed your wife as she came out to make breakfast. She had cried all night, and her large, dark, guileless eyes were now so swollen they had become slits. You took your wife’s hand and pushed through the bamboo woods, back to your house. When you got past the bamboo forest, you let go of your wife’s hand and walked ahead of her. Dew dropped onto your pants. Your wife, falling back, followed you, breathing hard, saying, “Just go a little slower!”
When you got home, Kyun ran over to your wife, calling, “Sister-in-law!
“Sister-in-law,” he said, “I promise I won’t go to school. So don’t leave like that again!” Kyun’s eyes welled up; he had abandoned his dream. From that point on, Kyun, unable to go to middle school, threw himself into helping your wife and doing housework. When they worked in the hillside fields and Kyun couldn’t see your wife behind the tall millet stalks, he would call out, “Sister-in-law!” When your wife said, “Yes?” Kyun would smile and call out again, “Sister-in-law!” Kyun would call and your wife would answer, and Kyun would call her again and she would answer him again. The two would finish up the work in the hills like that, calling and answering. Kyun was a faithful companion for your wife whenever you wandered from home. When Kyun got stronger, he plowed the fields with the cow in the spring, and harvested rice in the paddies in the fall, before anyone else. In the late fall, he went to the cabbage garden in the early morning and harvested all the cabbage. Back in those days, people hulled rice over straw mats on the paddies. Each woman would set up a brusher, a contraption of metal teeth in a four-legged wooden frame, and pull the stalks through, forcing the rice kernels off. All the village women owned such brushers, and they would go to the fields of the family who was harvesting that day and set these up. And they would thresh the grain until sunset. One year, Kyun, who had grown almost ten centimeters over the previous year, went to work at the brewery in town. With his first paycheck he bought a brusher, and brought it home to give to your wife.
“What’s this brusher for?” your wife asked.
Kyun smiled. “Your brusher is the oldest in the village—it doesn’t look like it can even stand on its own.”
Your wife had told you that her brusher was so old that it took more effort for her than the other women to skim the grains, and had said she wanted a new one. Her words had gone in one ear and out the other. You thought, Her brusher is fine, what’s the point of buying a new one? Holding the new brusher that Kyun had bought, your wife grew angry at Kyun, or maybe it was at you. “Why did you buy something like this, when we couldn’t even send you to school?”
Kyun said, “It’s nothing,” and his face turned red.
Kyun got along well with your wife, perhaps thinking of her as his mother. After he bought the brusher, he brought home various things for the house whenever he had the money. They were all things that your wife needed. Kyun was the one who bought her a nickel basin. He explained, a bit embarrassed, “This is what the other women use, and my sister-in-law is the only one who uses a heavy rubber bin.…” Your wife made various kinds of kimchi in the nickel basin and used it to carry lunch to the fields. After she used it, she would polish it and put it up on top of the cupboards. She used it until the nickel wore off and the basin turned white.
· · ·
You get up abruptly and go into the kitchen. You open the back door of the kitchen and look up at the shelf made of poles in the all-purpose room. Squat tables, their legs folded, are stacked on top. At the end sits the decades-old nickel basin.
You weren’t home when your wife gave birth to your second son. Kyun was there with her. You heard what happened later. It was winter, and cold, but there was no firewood. For your wife, who was lying in a cold room after having given birth, Kyun chopped down the old apricot tree in the yard. He pushed the logs into the furnace under your wife’s room and lit them. Your sister burst into your wife’s room and scolded her, asking how she could do such a thing, since people say that family members will start dropping dead if you chop down a family’s tree. Kyun yelled, “I did it! Why are you accusing her?” Your sister grabbed Kyun by the throat. “Did she tell you to chop it down? You bastard! You awful boy!” But Kyun refused to back down. His large, dark eyes glittered in his pale face. “Then do you want her to freeze to death in a cold room?” he asked. “Freeze to death after having a baby?”
Soon after that, Kyun left home to earn money. He was gone for four years. When he returned, penniless, your wife welcomed him back warmly. But Kyun had changed quite a bit while he was away. Though he had become a strapping young man, his eyes were no longer animated, and he appeared gloomy. When your wife asked him what he had done, and where he had gone, he wouldn’t answer. He didn’t even smile at her. You just thought the outside world had been unkind to him.
&nbs
p; It was the spot where the apricot tree had stood. Maybe twenty days had passed since Kyun returned home. Your wife ran up to the store in town, where you were playing a game of yut, her face ashen. She insisted that there was something wrong with Kyun, that you had to come home right away, but you were immersed in your game and told her to go ahead. Your wife stood there for a moment, stunned, then flipped over the straw mat on which the yut game was set out. “He’s dying!” she screamed. “He’s dying! You have to come!”
Your wife was acting so strangely that you started for your house, a knot in your stomach.
“Hurry! Hurry!” your wife shouted, leading the way. It was the first time she had gone ahead of you, running. Kyun was lying on the spot where the apricot tree had stood. He was writhing, frothing at the mouth, and his tongue was hanging out.
“What’s wrong with him?” You looked at your wife, but she was already overcome with grief.
It was your wife, who had found Kyun in that condition, who was called to the police station several times. Before they determined the cause of death, a rumor that she’d poisoned her brother-in-law with pesticide spread to the neighboring village. Your sister screamed at your wife, her eyes reddened, “You killed my baby brother!”
Your wife was calm as she was being questioned by the detectives. “If you think I killed him, then just put me away.”
Once, the detective had to bring your wife home; she’d refused to leave the station, asking to be locked up in jail. Your wife would rip out her hair and grab at her chest in grief. She would bang open the door and run to the well and gulp down cold water. Meanwhile, you ran around in the hills and in the fields, crazed, calling the dead boy’s name: Kyun! Kyun! The burning in your chest spread and you couldn’t stand the heat in your body. Kyun! There was a time when the dead didn’t speak and the ones left behind went crazy like that.
Please Look After Mom Page 13