The Loved Ones

by Sonya Chung

  “Okay, hon. Show us whatcha got.” Alice grinned up at her, hand over her eyes like a visor. At a glance, Alice looked like she was saluting.

  Hannah walked toward the water, then broke into a run. The ocean! It was indescribable. Sitting on the beach towel, beholding it from afar, Hannah had been eager but intimidated. It was so huge, and endless. It did not surprise Hannah that her parents had never brought her here; perhaps they’d never seen the ocean themselves. Now, her feet splashed in the shallow foam, she windmilled headlong into the emerald waves. When the water reached her thighs, Hannah sprang up from bent knees, hands clasped high and pointed like a gun, and dove. When she came up, she sputtered and shook her head. The water was cold, but not freezing, and saltier than she ever imagined: the sting at the corners of her eyes and the taste on her lips were strong but not unwelcome. Hannah leaned back, stretched her arms akimbo, and let her legs rise. The buoyancy of the salt water was a miracle, and she felt light as air. Her eyes were wide open, staring into the cloud-covered sun. She lay there a moment, felt for the pull of the current, carrying her out and away, then paddled and kicked her body so that her head pointed into the pull.

  She began to backstroke. She stroked hard and fast for ten strokes, then slowed, stroking at an easy warm-up pace. She kept her eyes to the sky, kicking and stroking gently, in good form, knees rolling up and back, up and back, like perfectly calibrated gears. Hannah knew where she was: she’d stroked to exactly where she started. And she knew she was stroking in place, in proportional opposition to the current. It was like magic, this force of the sea, and Hannah was at home, its creature. She imagined them all on shore, imagined Charles especially, watching her. And they were.

  Hannah stroked until her shoulders began to tingle, her breath grew shallow. She didn’t know how long she’d been out—a few minutes, ten, twenty. She rolled over and swam breaststroke toward shore, then found herself caught at the crest of a massive wave and began freestyling hard. She rode the wave all the way in. Hannah knew instinctively how to ride it, how to let it carry her; how to join with it and borrow its velocity.

  Years later, she would remember this first wave, this being carried aloft, like a feather, like an empty shell.

  She would remember too how Charles had watched her, standing in front of his beach chair, hands on hips; how Charles and Alice both clapped their hands, laughing. Hannah would remember standing and walking up into the hot sand, winded and exhilarated, the sun now broken free from the clouds and illuminating everything with a blinding whiteness; and how, even in her blindness, she saw him there, Charles, on his feet, shoulders back, beholding, and pleased. She would remember that Charles was her destination, her sun-warmed celebration and homecoming.

  And she would remember Benny, running toward her, catching her by the arm before she could reach them, reach him; pulling her away, off course, something about the boogie board man, c’mon, Alice’s small woven money pouch in his hand. Why is he here, this boy, this mean stupid boy, Hannah would remember thinking; why is he pulling me, away, away from … Why does he ruin everything.

  16.

  Who’s to say, in the end, who was at fault? Did the boy bring it upon himself? But he was a boy, just a child; can a child be responsible for his own fate? Charles was the only one who would wonder about this; and to himself, of course, never aloud.

  Alice’s eyes had just fallen shut underneath the shade of her peach sun hat. She lay on her stomach, cheek resting on hands stacked neatly one atop the other. Her elbows pointed outward and nestled in the warm sand. The seagulls squawked, and Alice heard them and didn’t hear them. She was dreaming of Korea, of the little ranch house on the Army base: a warm bed, a warm breath in her ear, the bulk of a man settling on top of her, how good it was, so long ago and so good, the warmth and the weight.

  Charles and Veda floated in a calm spot. They let themselves be carried downshore, toward another floating boarder who Veda was swearing was her dance teacher.

  The lifeguard had climbed down from his tower to talk to his buddy, the bartender at the Crab Shack, who needed him to cover his shift later that night. The bartender had gotten a gig at a comedy club, and he was trying out some jokes on the lifeguard.

  Hannah and Benny were just where they were supposed to be. Hannah kicked and paddled to keep within sight of their spot—of Alice’s peach hat—on shore. But without her glasses, Hannah’s distances were distorted; she relied more on instinct than on sight.

  Benny was horsing around. He wanted to test how deep the water was. He lowered himself and threw back his head, with just his fingertips pressing the edge of the foam board. Hannah noticed how bitten-down his nails were, worse than usual. She hadn’t noticed him biting them since they’d arrived; he must’ve done it only in private.

  “Quit it, Benny,” Hannah said. Benny wiggled his toes underwater, a good ten feet above the ocean floor. Hannah grabbed his arm to pull him back up.

  “Are we going to catch a wave or what?”

  “We should paddle that way, to your dad and Veda,” she said. Hannah felt anxious, the farther away they drifted from Charles; the more distance between them.

  “Daaad! Veeee-da!” Benny shouted right into Hannah’s ear. She turned away, cringing. To make her point, she inched over to the other side of the board so that she was holding on to the corners of the short end. “Not in my ear, Benny.” He was bobbing up and waving his hands in the air while still shouting. “Benny,” Hannah said. Her back was to whatever Benny was shouting and waving at; she couldn’t see them. Couldn’t see Charles. She started to inch back to the other side of the board, when Benny pointed and said, “Look look!”

  Hannah turned to look over her shoulder. It was Veda, standing on the surface of the water, and waving. Hannah blinked her eyes hard, then opened them again. Veda was still there, her legs long and straight, back slightly arched, waving like Miss America. It was some kind of mirage. Hannah couldn’t understand what she was seeing.

  “We have to get out there,” Benny whined. Get out where? Hannah wondered. What was it? It was an invisible island in the middle of the ocean. Some kind of magic trick.

  “Where’s your dad? Can you see him?” Hannah squinted, scanned the horizon. Then she saw him, Charles, still in the water, leaning on the orange board. There was another figure next to him, on a blue board.

  “Who’s that?” Benny asked. They’d seen the blue boarder at the same time; it was too far to make out who it was.

  They began paddling and kicking. Charles was just on the far side of Veda, Hannah didn’t see him at first. They paddled and kicked, Hannah and Benny both determined to get there, toward a destination farther out than Hannah would have thought wise, since Benny had no floaties. But then Charles saw them, and he too waved his hand, and so Hannah kicked and paddled harder. She was pulling Benny and the board behind her, holding the board with her left hand, paddling with her right.

  They were still some distance away when it happened. Benny was again shouting and waving. His puffy ponytail bobbed up and down. Hannah was doing all the paddling, and her arms grew tired, especially after stroking so hard earlier. She stopped paddling and instead held tightly to the board and kicked harder. It happened in an instant: one second, not even. The rip current shot through, carrying Benny with it.

  There was silence, stillness. Where, what? Benny was gone, speeding away from her, from all of them, and the current was pulling on the far edge of the board. Hannah gripped it with both hands, she didn’t know why; she didn’t think. She kicked and kicked for what felt like a long time, until she ran into something solid. Her chest ached, her arms and her legs felt numb. The current was no longer pulling on her, and Hannah found herself collapsed on top of the board, lying on a soft wet beach in the middle of the ocean. She’d reached the magical island. Nothing at all made sense. The force of the current had come from nowhere, a beast had come to swallow them with its giant sucking mouth. She was exhausted. She opened her eyes. For a
moment Hannah did not think of Benny, or Charles, or anyone. She thought: I escaped the giant sucking mouth that was trying to kill me. She thought: My bangs are in my eyes again, someone please push them away. She thought: My chest is going to explode.

  Someone was screaming. It wasn’t Hannah, or Benny. Neither of them had made a sound. The screaming came from somewhere on the other side of the island. It was an awful noise that filled Hannah’s head as if it were coming from her own scrambled brain. Hannah would never forget that scream, Veda’s primal scream that shot into the gray-blue sky that day, and voiced the horror that none of them—not Benny, not Charles, nor Alice—ever managed to voice.

  The lifeguard was too late. Charles was too late. The blue boarder, who was, in fact, Veda’s dance teacher, had been the first to see what was happening and pointed to where Veda and Charles saw the last of Benny alive, shooting away from them, weightless and tiny, like refuse down the gutter.

  The boy never stood a chance. He did not have the strength to swim against the rip, nor the knowledge to ride it out then swim diagonally toward shore. The beast swallowed him, without mercy. Hannah understood later, when the rip current between the sand bars was explained to her, that had she let go of the board, had she let Benny have it, then kicked herself to safety, Benny may have survived. But no one said so. Not out loud. No one blamed her.

  Holy Cross Hospital, Silver Spring, Maryland

  1971

  Many times she’d seen patients go under, as nurse assisting doctor; but this was her own first time. There was no question, at her age.

  It’s not the sleeping but the waking that stretches on, endless. It begins pleasantly, a floating, then dream and memory tumble in, flotsam and jetsam, shiny and broken …

  Deep night, at the base of Jiri Mountain. She is holding her first child, baby boy, in her arms. Cold dirt floor, black silken sky through the window. Stars like diamonds. The child is tiny, and wet, and red. Come too early, far too early. Bleeding and pain, long pain, blinding blurring pain. This is not birth, she thought, this has to be death. The midwife is an angel of death; her husband the caretaker; this Quonset hut a gateway to the lower world. But then he wailed and wriggled, screamed at the stars; her heart wailed along, with joy, with relief. Her heart, her flesh. So tiny and red. He has his father’s cheeks and brow. Their baby boy, alive not dead, tiny and alive, come into the world. Life, only life! The window offers the infinite sky. Enormous, kind mountain. Down below, tangled bedsheets. She is wet and throbbing. Warm and wet and throbbing …

  In the hospital bed she floats, waking, slowly waking. Thrashing, murmuring. Endlessly waking, still.

  Deep night. Running, running. Stars shimmer then disappear, shimmer then disappear. Thin clouds glide westward. She keeps pace, gliding. Light on her feet. The moon glows white noise. In the pine grove, high on the ridge, he’d whispered to her. They plotted all summer—not with words, but glances, the tension of their bodies. She runs the whole way, a lithe girl, only just started her flow last spring. She does not feel the autumn chill; breast thrumming with heat. She thinks of his small strong hands, intelligent eyes behind thick glasses. He is nineteen, a man; the landowner’s first son. He sees her as a woman, sees her; not just the tenant farmer’s little girl.

  She arrives, giant pines rise up, reaching. Heaven above.

  Breathing looking listening, in the dark, in the grove. Here he is; behind her now. She feels his bulge against the small of her back. Powerful sensation between her legs, a wetness, swirling, throbbing. The dark, sweet earth rising up beneath them, pulling them down, holding them up. Stars puncture the black sky above. Giant pines whisper, love whispers. Then his mouth, his hot breath, on her wetness, throbbing. This is death, she thinks, this is paradise, and she wants to die: surrenders, completely. Trembling, shuddering. His face now warm on her neck. He enters her, into the throbbing. Together now, they give up their breath, they die, they love, violently, perfectly, together. A war is on, but what does it matter, now, to them—North, South, Red, White—it is love that has invaded, conquered, taken possession.

  She is waking, still waking, so long in waking. A tube twists, a needle digs into her vein. Fragments tumble then cease. Awoken.

  A beige room. Blurry. A cold metal bar. A window. The buzz of yellow light. Eyes sticky, mouth dry. A face, lips moving. Arms holding it out to her, the swaddled bundle. The bundle is laid on her chest. Soon-mi shuts her eyes, wants to reach back to the grove, for the swirling and throbbing. But there is nothing. Where did it go. Her body is nothing, only a terrible ache and a tightness across her middle. This dry mouth, heavy head. The bundle moves, little elbows squirming. A girl, her daughter. Come too late, after everything; after too much. She is forty-three years old. Cut open in the middle. Where is her light-footed teeming body, her awakening soul. She looks down at the pink head and feels only loss, depletion; the end of love’s invasion.

  1973–1974

  1.

  Alice Weaver’s eyes scan the words and images of the glossy trifold, unable to penetrate their meaning.

  The DoD Education Administration of the Pacific provides a comprehensive and high-performing educational system dedicated to raising up the progeny of America’s heroes.

  Good order and discipline are the hallmarks of the military community we serve.

  The plane flies west, chasing the sun—perpetual morning for almost twelve hours now. Good order and discipline, Alice reads. America’s heroes. The words tilt and circle in the young woman’s mind, searching for a landing strip, a clearing. The light streams in; Alice’s eyes sting. She has been squinting for a long time. She’d tried to pull down the shutter, but it stuck halfway—the lid of a sleeping eye, still watchful.

  The last two hours of a long flight are always the hardest. Alice knows this, having flown back and forth between Santiago and Logan Airport twice. The long leg of that trip—DC to Santiago—was ten hours; this time, DC to Seoul, is an endless fifteen.

  Alice’s friend Laila—who’d led their Peace Corps team in morning meditation and yoga—offered travel tips, to “keep her energy flowing.” Alice had called Laila three weeks before, after sending in her DoD paperwork. “All transitions are traumatic,” Laila had said on the staticky pay phone line. “You can minimize the trauma, with mindfulness.” Panic had seized Alice: she had to get away, get out of her father’s house and away from her stepmother; but a military base in Asia? Alice called Laila, because Laila had said, Mi querida, mi hermana, we have to stay in touch, and Alice believed she meant it.

  Laila was the only one who’d chosen to stay in Chile after their two years were up. She would have left the Valdivia countryside by now, settled in Concepción to start on her new assignment. New roommates, new friends. Everyone loved Laila.

  The first five hours had passed quickly. Alice re-read all the DoDEA materials—sent to the PO Box she’d set up at the Hanover post office after she saw her stepmother reading her postcards. The packet came from the high school on Yongsan base where Alice would be a teaching assistant (GS-4, biological sciences). Its contents were reassuringly thorough and clear—everything on crisp government stationery, a thickly embossed DoD medallion in the upper left corner. Arrival, transportation, housing, meals, post allowances, training and professional development, medical care; plus curriculum materials and an overview of the school’s history and pedagogy—Educate, Engage, Empower—along with pay grade and benefits, which were comparatively generous and the main reason Alice chose Korea. There was a separate packet of recommendations for “Exploring Korea” on the weekends, listed by season. The Wild Tea Festival in Hadong, Gyeongsang-buk Province, in May and June, is beloved and enjoyed by Koreans from all over the country.

  The impression of a cozy suburban community: there was a movie theater, library, bar and grill, two swimming pools, a park, a bowling alley. Alice found all this comforting. Everything, it seemed, would be taken care of, courtesy of the United States government.

  In the ph
one interview, Vice Principal Mattison—wife of an Army captain—had told Alice that the school was both well-run and “progressive.” The word was common currency, but Alice wondered what it meant to an educator of military children. The students, Mrs. Mattison said, were well-behaved, the teachers dedicated. When Alice said that she had little direct experience with the military (neglecting to mention protest activities in college) Dorothy Mattison said that was fine: the students needed a sense of normalcy, which was why they had begun to hire people from outside.

  Alice reclined her seat halfway and sipped her ginger ale. She studied the photos of clean-cut, straight-backed children sitting at their desks; mist-crowned mountains in full autumn color; well-dressed officers’ wives shopping for fruit in the busy streets of Itaewon. Soon she began noticing things, fixating: was that an insolent look on a student’s face in the back row? Why was the sky overcast in all the outdoor shots? She put the folder away and flipped through her Korean phrase book. Goh-MAP-sum-ni-DA. AHN-yung-ha-sae-YO. Alice closed her eyes and mouthed out words, trying to hear them in her head. MEE-gook-eh-suh-WAH-sum-ni-DA.

  She read a week’s worth of the Herald Tribune, cover to cover, and realized just how out of touch she’d become. Two years in the Peace Corps, in rural Chile, and she—all of them—had gradually let go the daily connections to their old lives. Had they been back in the States, or even working in Santiago or Concepción instead of the tiny village of Colonia de Curfeo, they’d have kept up on the war, on Watergate, on US relations with China and Russia. During her junior year, Alice had gone to meetings, made posters, and marched almost every week. Meanwhile she’d studied organic chemistry early mornings and attended all of her classes, to prepare for med school applications. Needless to say, Nicholas Weaver Sr., whose professorship at Dartmouth had been newly endowed, and who’d be named, later that year, an advisor to the President, knew nothing of his daughter’s political activities.