“What really happened to my auntie?” I asked.
It was as if I had slapped her, the question shocked her so much. She drew a sharp breath. “She died.”
“But of what?”
“Illness. She was very sick.”
“What kind of illness?” I persisted. “No one will ever tell me.”
My grandmother narrowed her eyes and looked at me until I lowered mine. For a moment I felt ashamed of myself. After a long silence, she said, “To ask an old woman about her dead child is reprehensible. If you want to know, ask your mother.”
As indignant as I was, I was also afraid that I had wounded her. Anyway, I knew the truth. I did not push it.
Later that afternoon, my uncle came by and picked me up. He drove me home in silence. The gloom that had been pressing on my chest since last night had been growing more insistent, and under its weight I was content to let the silence stand. When we got to the house, I got out of the car and waved once, but didn’t bow or speak. My uncle didn’t comment, but waved back and drove away, and I stood in the cloud of dust and felt pleased that no effort had been made between us. It felt like a kind of honesty, and at the same time, I felt let down and lonely. I thought of all the people who loved my parents, and visited us weekly. I thought of the comfort they brought, and the comfort my uncle used to bring me, when I was a child. You can really lose people, I thought.
At home, I couldn’t concentrate, so I went outside and worked in our garden. I weeded all the innocuous-looking green shoots that if left to grow would take over our plants. I staked all the tomatoes to long slender rods to hold them straight so they would not drag their leaves on the ground. The sun beat down on my back as I raked the dirt again and again until it was fine and soft beneath my fingers.
After that, I tried to take a nap; I thought of hiking in the mountains, but went for a walk down the long deserted highway that our house led out to, instead. I walked and walked. For a long time there was nothing. Then I crossed a bridge. On either side of the road from there were rice paddies and workers bending over the rice plants with their pant legs and sleeves rolled up.
I wondered how long it would take me to walk to the city. I counted the white cranes picking their way through the paddies on their long, careful legs. I wondered if my parents were already on their way home, and if I stayed out long enough whether they would pass me on the way back. When the sun had dipped down below the tree line, I turned and headed for home. It started to rain.
By the time I was halfway home, I was soaked through to my underwear. The rice plants bent under the onslaught, and the shining clear water of the paddies turned brown with mud. The cranes had lifted off while I wasn’t looking and were already gone. I thought of my parents driving back in the storm, and wondered if they had passed by without seeing me. I hurried then, but when I returned the house was empty.
The rain stopped before my parents returned, and when they came I was standing in the dusk in front of the garden staring at the plants that had fallen into the mud.
“How did it go?” I asked.
My mother didn’t respond, looking away from me as if she hadn’t heard my question. My father glanced at her, and said, “It’s not so bad, Jeehyun. There’s no reason to worry.”
“You have to tell me things,” I said. “I always think the worst, since I never know what you’re hiding.”
“The cancer has stopped shrinking,” he said.
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry too much, Jeehyun. At least it’s not growing, either.”
“What does your doctor say?”
There was a silence. “He thinks it will grow again,” my father said. “He thinks it will grow back faster than before.”
“I see.”
“He might be wrong,” my father said very gently. “Right now, I feel perfectly fine.”
I nodded. I wanted to say something encouraging to him. When my father had planted our first garden in Michigan, I had thought the plants grew because he told them to. “Oh, Daddy,” I said.
My father reached down his hand and patted me on the shoulder.
“Let’s just have dinner and deal with this in the morning,” I said.
“We ate on our way,” my father said. “That’s why we were so late. At least we can stake some plants this evening. Let me go and change, and then I’ll come out and help you.”
And so I waited, staring at the ground. He came out in loose linen pants and tennis shoes, and stood, his hands on his hips, his back absolutely straight. He looked at the tomatoes, which were in disarray. “I’ll get some sticks,” he said.
I watched him. I did not want to garden anymore, or to go on walks, or anything at all. I wanted to lie down in the dirt and sink. But he paused at the edge of the river, waiting, and I watched. The water in the river was high, rushing, insistent.
When he returned, his walk was energetic. Mud snaked up his ankles. He bent down and began planting the stakes he had gathered. He had found the straightest fallen branches, and stripped them clean.
“Get me some rope,” he said, beginning to pull up the collapsed plants. I went indoors to get some twine.
When I entered the house, my mother was mixing fruits and vegetables in a blender. “Nutrition,” she said. “My friend who’s a nurse said this would be good for him, for all of us.”
She smiled at me, and handed me a pair of scissors to cut the twine. She knows, I thought. And she is smiling and calm. She is preparing everything like always. I smiled back at her. I said, “Great.”
Outside, my father had propped the plants up to the stakes, and was waiting for me. I handed him the twine, and moving slowly, my father gently tied each tomato plant to a stake. He was so meticulous and careful; the tomatoes nestled against their vines. I thought of our garden that had frozen over in Michigan, and wondered what the next family to live there would do with what was left. It seemed astonishing that anything there could remain, now that we were gone.
As my father finished staking the tomatoes, my mother came out with two cups and ordered my father and me to drink. We both downed the concoction and praised it to my mother, who smiled extra wide. We were acting for each other, showing each other we were all right. And I felt reassured by this, as if it was true, that if we were all standing here, drinking smoothies and gardening, nothing could be so terribly wrong.
My father adjusted his posture so he stood a little taller. “Shall we take a walk around the pond, quickly, to stretch our legs?” he said. “Yubbo?” He held out his hand to my mother. “You, too, Jeehyun,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The pond had changed since the afternoon: the dim evening light had turned the water greener, and the flowers around it seemed brighter. Scores of tiny silver fish were visible just beneath the surface of the water, and beneath them the heavy shadows of the large, dark fish.
We stood out there and listened to the sound the water makes when it is almost still: the barest of ripples lapping against the edge of the bank. My mother put her arms around herself and leaned against my father, who tilted his head to one side so it was resting on hers, and I knew they were listening, too.
16.
The next morning, my fatherate a large breakfast and said, “Today I want to climb to the top of the mountain.”
“Won’t it be too much?” my mother asked.
“It will be all right,” my father assured her. “Right, Jeehyun?”
I promised my mother not to let him overexert himself. We would turn back, I promised, before he wore himself out.
“I don’t know,” my mother said. But she looked at the empty plate in front of him, and I knew she was telling herself he must be feeling better if he’d eaten so well. So she let us go.
We started off in high spirits. The trail at the bottom of the mountain was muddy from the last week of rain, and at first our feet slid and gathered weight as we made our ascent. We tried to be good-humored about it, making jokes as we pulled our feet out of th
e sticky ground.
On our way up, we overtook a group of thirty or so women my grandmother’s age, all dressed in the same outfit. They were wearing bright yellow T-shirts and identical calf-length black pants. They were noisy as sparrows, chattering and heaving their way up. Their walking sticks kept getting stuck in the mud. When we approached they stood to the right, single file, and let us pass.
The ground hardened after about half an hour, and we started to hike faster, though it was hot. We took frequent breaks on the benches, and once while we rested, the group of grandmothers passed us. My father seemed to gain energy from this, and a moment later we zoomed on ahead and passed them again. They laughed as we did so, calling out encouragement.
It took us a long time and was strenuous going, and we didn’t talk much, just took our breaks when they were possible, resting and eating our snacks. When we finally reached the peak in a burst of energy, we were panting and hot. Below us stretched hills and hills. The country spread out before us. The wind brushed our faces. The sun was already low and sinking in the sky. The entire day was nearly gone. In the distance, we could see houses in the valley, spaced far apart. “Is one of those ours?” I asked, pointing.
My father leaned forward. He was panting a little. “There’s our river, our little stream. But I don’t see the pond, do you?”
I squinted. “No.”
“Then I think our house is behind those trees over there.” As he pointed, he leaned forward and his arm brushed my shoulder. It was so thin. His sweat smelled different: there was something metallic in it. Underneath his hat, my father had been losing his hair. At home, it covered the floors and matted on the bottoms of our socks—we were always picking it off and sweeping it up.
“I think it’s about time we get started down,” he said. He stood up and held out his hand to help me. I thought his face looked haggard.
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go.”
But then he turned and pointed to a path that was not the same as the one we’d come up. “Want to try another way down?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, but I looked at his face, and it was eager. Suddenly, I wanted us to have an adventure: some evidence that he was still all right after all. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
The path he had chosen to take us down was more gradual, and seemed to go on for a long time. We made many winding little turns, alternating between trees and vistas. After a while I looked over at my father, and saw that he had turned pale. I asked how much longer he thought we had to go.
“I don’t know,” he said, pausing, his hand against a tree. “Let’s rest a moment.”
I pulled out my cell phone; I was not surprised that it had no reception. I looked at the sky. The sun was starting to fall, and I didn’t want to get stuck out here in the dark. There were no other people on this path, and this worried me. I thought maybe we were going the wrong way, but I wasn’t sure we’d be able to make it if we went back up and headed down again.
“The sun is setting,” my father said, stepping out onto a rock at the side of the trail, where the trees fell away. He pointed at the horizon. And there it was, setting gloriously against the mountains, against a stream, over rice paddies I’d never seen before.
“Daddy, I think we’re lost,” I said. “We might be on the wrong side.”
He nodded. “How much time do you think until the sunset?” he said, looking at the sun, and glancing at his watch.
“Not much,” I said. “Should we go back up?”
He shook his head. “I’m tired,” he said. “Let’s just go down.”
“Do you want to wait here? Should I run up and get help?”
“No, no,” he said. “It will be all right.” He touched my arm. His hand was warm; he was smiling. “Let’s sit here and rest a moment.” The evening light was soft and set the trees around us aglow. Even the rock we were standing on seemed to radiate the sun’s fading light. “Jeehyun, how long?” He nodded at the sun.
I shielded my eyes. Half of it was already gone. “A couple minutes?” I said. “Maybe less.”
“Less,” my father agreed. He didn’t look at his watch. “There isn’t much left at all.” We watched the sun disappear. The trees lost their glow.
“It’s dark,” I said. “Daddy, let’s go.”
“Just another second,” he said. We were quiet. “Your mother and I went to a temple yesterday,” he said. “On the way back from town.”
“You did?”
“Yes. We drove up a beautiful path to get there,” he said.
“Did you meet any monks?”
“Yes, we met the head monk, and when we were having tea, he said to me, ‘Don’t fight nature, everywhere is nature, and everything is nature.’”
“I wish for once they could just say whatever they’re trying to say.”
“I liked him,” my father said. “I wish I could have talked to him longer. He was very old. He said, we fight so much in the world about what’s ours and what’s not. Who belongs where. America and Korea are different countries, and North Korea and South Korea are different countries, or one country divided in half, however we want to think of it; but he said always remember, one country, two countries, three countries, it doesn’t matter: we are just one world.” My father laughed. “He’s right, you know. We’re just one world.”
“That’s interesting, I guess.”
“And afterwards I wrote all our names down to be painted onto the tiles of the temple’s new roof.”
“Did you make a donation?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “So all our names will be there, in a row up there next year. Haejin’s, too.” He laughed. “Whatever happens, we’ll be together on the roof of the temple next year.”
“We’ll have to go and see it together then.”
He didn’t respond for a moment. “We should have gone on this walk two weeks ago,” he said. “It wouldn’t have tired me out as much then.”
“It’s a hard hike,” I said, making my voice as bright as possible. “I’m tired, too.”
“I wanted to come today,” my father said, “because I thought it might be one of the last days to do it.”
“Don’t say that,” I said. “You’re doing fine.”
“I meant before it gets too hot,” my father said, gently. “There’s no way we’ll want to climb the mountain once the heat wave comes.”
“Right,” I said, calming down but still uneasy. I didn’t like the feeling that my father had more to say and wasn’t saying it. “Daddy, let’s go,” I said. I wanted us to get home safe.
We finally made it home around ten p.m., more than twelve hours after we’d set out. My mother rushed out the door before we even reached the walkway. “What happened?” she said, taking my father’s arm. She turned him to face her, and looked full into his face: taking stock. When she was satisfied, she turned to me with a grim, hard look.
Inside, our dinner was still set out on the table, but it had long gone cold. All the little side dishes sat reproachfully there, the fish casserole, and three little bowls of congealing rice.
“How could you be so irresponsible?” my mother said. She helped my father out of his jacket. “How could you be so late?”
“We got lost,” I said.
“It’s my fault,” my father said.
“I don’t want any excuses,” she said. “Your father missed his dinner today, and he’s exhausted. You know how important it is for him to have regular meals and rest. You’re not a child anymore. Whatever happens, it is on your head.”
“I’m all right,” my father said. His voice was weak, and filled me with remorse. “Truly, it’s my fault,” he said.
“Go to bed, darling.” She gave him a push toward their bedroom, then turned toward me. She said, “I called Haejin while I was waiting for you.”
“What?” my father cried, stopping on his way to their room. “How is she? What did she say?”
“She is coming in two weeks,�
� my mother said. “She bought a ticket. Go to bed, I will tell you about it in a moment.” Her voice was impatient, edged with anger.
I knew how exhausted my father was when he obeyed. “You’ll tell me in a minute?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
He shuffled to their room. My mother turned back to me. She said, “I called her when you didn’t come. I thought she should know that you and your father were lost—who knows where.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I began.
“Quiet,” she said. And then, “I waited here all day, wondering what had happened, wondering if I should call the police, whether I should wait. I sat by the phone, and then I sat by the window, and then I called your sister.” She said fiercely, “How could you?”
I wondered what Hannah had told her. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean for you to worry.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” my mother said. “I have wasted enough time.” And she stalked to her room, and shut the door between us. I stood in the living room, staring at my parents’ room for a good long while. I wondered what they were saying to each other. I listened for voices, but I heard absolutely nothing from their room.
The next morning, my father seemed all right. I was relieved. I had been unable to sleep worrying about him, and what he and my mother knew about what I had said to Hannah in Los Angeles, and how I had kept her away. But he said nothing about it.
“When Haejin comes,” he said, “I want to celebrate. I was thinking we could go to the Muju Firefly Festival together.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” my mother said.
“What’s the festival?” I asked.
“You were exhausted just driving to Seoul,” my mother said. “And remember how you wore yourself out yesterday?”
“I want to go,” he said. “I’ll be okay.”
“It will be too hard on you,” my mother said.
“Hello?” I said. “The festival?”
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