The Loved Ones

by Sonya Chung

  The radius grew wider; there were whispers now. How could Soon-mi not have known, all those months? Or did she? Which was worse? Soon-mi kept her head down and continued to care for her patients.

  Neither she nor Chong-ho had given thought to how others would perceive Hannah’s departure, but Soon-mi understood soon enough that the act of sending their daughter away (word spread via the accountant, Mr. Rhee) had gained them exoneration. The boss and his wife, the other nurses, they were easy and friendly with Soon-mi now. You did the right thing, is what the friendliness meant. A bad seed is not your fault, it is your misfortune; you have managed your shame appropriately.

  Time passed. Chong-ho turned sixty-three and took early partial retirement, a phase-out plan they called it. Two afternoons a week now they strolled three miles, to the park and back, arms locked. Like a couple much younger, or much older, than they were. Days upon days—months, then years—passed in relative placidity. They were together, as always, together, alone. They’d managed their shame appropriately.

  James was doing well in Seattle. The pictures he sent of his new condo showed emerald-green lawns, beige carpeting, a ceiling fan, and a terrace where he kept his bicycle. They had not visited, but next year they would; he was engaged, the wedding would be the following summer. James’s fiancée was from L.A., her name was Grace. Her father owned two designer handbag stores, and her uncle was a minister. Hannah had been gone two years, and James had not seen her. She wrote him occasional postcards. Hopefully she would come to the wedding, too, he said, though he did not actually sound hopeful.

  One cool morning in the spring of 1988, on the way back from the park, Soon-mi mentioned to Chong-ho in passing an errand to the post office. She wondered aloud what sort of delivery system they had at Hannah’s school; it had been three years, and she had never before sent a package there. Hannah would be graduating in June. James’s wedding was coming up now, in July, but Hannah had not said whether she would be there.

  The line gets long after noon, Soon-mi said. Chong-ho said nothing. He looked up at the bright white sky and watched gray clouds gather, thickening.

  Soon-mi had begun knitting a poncho in the fall. Two shades of red with gray and purple flecks, a soft angora wool blend. She knitted in fits and starts. Finally she finished, but here it was late spring, too warm to wear. Well, she would send it. Autumn would arrive soon enough. Also in the box were wasabi beans, seaweed chips, dried spicy squid, powdered ginseng for tea. At the last minute, she’d scooped Chong-ho’s special growing mix into a Ziploc bag, tucked in a few seed packets. Only later did Soon-mi realize she’d sent last year’s leftover packets instead of the new ones. Probably the seeds would germinate, but still, she felt an old frustration. An off-pitch twang inside of her.

  Standing in line at the post office that afternoon, Soon-mi thought, Does she still like spicy foods? What has she been eating? And what is she going to do with plant seeds anyway? Hannah had never shown interest in gardening.

  “Excuse me,” a terse, impatient voice behind Soon-mi said. A moment later, a poke on her shoulder. She turned to see a chin raised, pointing toward the gap between her and the next person. Beyond that were at least ten more people.

  Only one clerk was on duty. No one knew why. There’d been much grumbling and sighing, which Soon-mi did not, like some, find comforting or cathartic. “Sorry,” she said softly, and shuffled forward with her box.

  Finally it was her turn. “Any perishables or combustibles?” the clerk asked. He was a small Indian man, with tinted glasses. He had a high forehead and sunken cheeks. He appeared to Soon-mi disturbingly skull-like. She shook her head no. Perhaps the growing mix was perishable, but she didn’t mention it. “Any stamps for you today, madam?” He must be new, she thought. So polite. This was why it was taking so long.

  “No, thank you,” Soon-mi said.

  The clerk nodded. “Parcel post, $8.50. Priority, $18.25. Overnight, Monday arrival, $43.” He said the last figure like a grand finale: FOR-ty three DOL-lars. He raised his black-caterpillar eyebrows. She couldn’t see his eyes through the tinted lenses. A drop of sweat trickled down his skeletal forehead, and Soon-mi felt suddenly warm herself. The box packed with winter clothing and desiccating dirt (why hadn’t she double-bagged it?) and foreign foods was ridiculous. A wave of futility washed over her.

  “Just … the regular mail,” she said.

  He nodded. “Cash or credit?” Soon-mi handed the clerk her card. The clerk printed and stuck the postage label on the box.

  On her way out, eyes lowered, Soon-mi did not see the brassy-haired woman standing in line. “Madam, Mrs. Lee,” a sing-song voice called from behind the counter. “Your credit card, Mrs. Lee.” The woman in line looked up from her tattered paperback and turned her head. But Soon-mi didn’t see, or hear. She kept her eyes on her feet and walked out the door, into the gray afternoon. The clerk had to follow her, waving the card. The other woman’s gray eyes opened wide, then wider, as they tracked the other Mrs. Lee out the door.

  On the way home, Soon-mi turned in to the parking lot at White Flint Mall. She did not like to come home in an unsettled state and wanted to clear the embarrassing episode from her mind.

  It was the expensive mall, where she and Chong-ho sometimes wandered on rainy or cold days, or during heat waves in summer. Soon-mi went occasionally by herself, when Chong-ho thought she was grocery shopping or working overtime. She parked in the covered lot and did not notice the black clouds gathering. If she had, she might have hurried home to help Chong-ho put away his shovels and tools. Instead, Soon-mi entered the mall at the ground level of Neiman Marcus. She liked to wander this store in particular, because it was never crowded, not even on weekends. There were not many places where Soon-mi felt she could truly escape, but this was one of them. It was for her like entering a dream, where she forgot herself completely; where the gleam and sparkle were more real than her gloom—than echoes and twangs haunting her. The salespeople and perfume girls knew she would never buy anything, and yet they did not let on: the place was too high-class for that. The perfumes here were light and fresh, the scent of perpetual spring, exotic flowers like plumeria and freesia. Soon-mi liked to finger the cool silk of richly colored blouses, the velvety cashmere of gloves and sweaters. In home furnishings on the top floor, she sometimes sat down in a plush armchair or recliner for fifteen minutes, half an hour—just reposing, beholding the vision of tranquility. She could not have named the music playing quietly overhead, but if she were to hear one of those songs elsewhere she would surely recognize it. It might summon her back into the dream, like a hypnotist’s trigger.

  No, on second thought: if she heard the music anywhere else, in the real world, it would only ring an atonal key. This world was apart from the other, a delicate mirage.

  After wandering clothing and shoes, Soon-mi returned to the ground floor. She was thinking of James now. There was a brief time, during high school, when he’d had some trouble, fell in with the wrong friends; but he’d outgrown it, gotten back on track, and now he lived in a nice community called Mercer Island. It was, in fact, an island, right there next to the city. There were such islands off the coast of South Korea, but they were primitive places mostly, hillbilly backward places. Or else exotic and tropical, mainly for tourists. Where James lived was simple and serene.

  Soon-mi approached one of the jewelry counters. She squatted to peer inside the display case. Suddenly a woman’s midsection came into view, a gold-link belt hanging low on bony hips, around a stretchy black dress. “May I help you with something, ma’am?” Soon-mi stood to see a petite woman with a pixie hairstyle; her little-girl’s voice matched her perfectly.

  Soon-mi froze but did not break eye contact with the salesgirl. She stared into the girl’s green eyes, not seeing the girl but something else; then Soon-mi pointed, her eyes following her finger. “That one,” she said. It was a men’s Rolex, silver and gold. The salesgirl slid open the display case and reached in to take ou
t the watch. She held it out to Soon-mi, loosely draped over her wrist; and Soon-mi felt her eyes grow wide like a child’s. It was exquisite. It was perfect. The girl was saying things about the watch, its features and what sort of gold and what sort of silver, but Soon-mi was not listening. Neither did she heed the $9,000 price tag, which she saw and did not see. She just knew the watch was something good, something solid, it would last and last; and James would know that she wanted this lasting goodness for him. He would know without doubt or confusion: the watch would always be proof. Soon-mi nodded every time the salesgirl asked her a question, until the girl was putting the watch in a box and wrapping it in tissue paper. Meanwhile, Soon-mi floated to the other side of the counter, where she saw a sapphire pendant, an oval, like an elegant lady’s manicured fingernail, surrounded by tiny diamonds. It was a deep indigo blue, like the endless sky on those cold winter nights at the base of Jiri Mountain after the war; when they lived off the land in the Quonset hut they’d built with their own hands. The diamonds were just like the stars on those cold, clear nights. James had been born during that time. They’d laid him down under the window that looked up at those stars.

  Grace. Her daughter-in-law-to-be was named Grace, and Soon-mi could see in her mind a pretty girl named Grace with this midnight sky hanging from her pretty neck. They would be so happy, James and Grace, and these gifts would be the grand finishing touch to that happiness. Soon-mi pointed to the pendant, and soon the salesgirl was bending down behind the counter to find a velveteen box; then lining with red tissue paper a small shopping bag of gold and pearl. The corners of the paper fluttered over the bag’s edges like flames. Soon-mi watched the girl, whose back was to her, as she placed each of the two jewelry boxes into the bag.

  And then, all at once, knowing what came next—what the girl would say when she turned around, the amount she would utter, the pale, terrifying palm she would hold out—Soon-mi woke from her dream. Faster than the girl could turn and look up, faster than she could catch Soon-mi’s panicked, mortified eyes, or her hunched figure shuffling away, Soon-mi was gone.

  3.

  February 6, 1985

  Dear James,

  I picked this one from all the postcards at the campus store because from above you can see the huge forest, and the campus looks small. It doesn’t always feel like that, but when I remember, I feel better. It’s not so different from before, really.

  You don’t have to worry.

  —Hannah

  Hannah knew she was serving out a sentence. What it meant was that there was an end date. In the meantime nothing was unbearable. She had no idea where she was, what sort of place she’d arrived to. It was thus easy, finding her way: French class and swimming, the familiar things. She formed a simple schedule around these.

  There were acres of woods a half-mile from the school, and she went for walks. She discovered a wetland area where a colony of white-petaled flowers with blood-red centers bloomed, and she wondered if they were related to Claudine’s rose mallow. She never found snakes, well-behaved or otherwise, though she kept looking. Hannah loved, like Claudine, her aloneness in those woods.

  In general, she kept to herself. She read and re-read Claudine à l’école and looked for signs of intrigue among the girls and her teachers; alas, rien. There was a quiet girl from mainland China who tried to befriend her, but with her slouchy shoulders and dry, blinky eyes, she was no Luce—and anyway, by the second year, the girl was teasing up her bangs and saying ya know and nuh-uh like everyone else. Hannah became friendly with the staff of the sports center and the language lab; she sometimes stopped in for tea with her dorm counselor, Ms. Marcioni, who taught physics and coached cross country and introduced Hannah to old movies like The Apartment and Sullivan’s Travels. Sometimes they baked cookies together, with Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell playing in the background.

  Hannah’s swim coach, Mr. Modeste, was an ex-Marine and doubled as the coach for the nearby military academy. He was tough, and Hannah liked that. In the middle of February, though, Coach Modeste came down with pneumonia, and his son, Omar, took over practices for two weeks. At the end of the first week, they had an away meet two towns over. On the bus, Hannah sat alone in the second row, behind Omar. His head was shaved bald underneath his thick wool hat, and his skin was very light—lighter than Hannah’s—but with lots of tiny chocolate freckles across his cheeks and wide nose. Omar sat sideways in his seat, looking out the window across the aisle, and Hannah crossed her arms over the seat back and leaned her head on her stacked forearms. It was an icy, slushy day. Omar said, “Nervous?”

  Hannah raised her head and shook it no. “I heard they’re no competition.”

  “That’s probably true,” he said. “But what does that matter?”

  Hannah smiled. She liked Omar’s answer. He said it like a dare. He was sucking on a green lollipop. Hannah guessed probably he and his father didn’t get along. He seemed about twenty-five, definitely not as old as thirty.

  Hannah said, “I don’t get nervous. I mean, this is one thing I don’t get nervous about. I just get ready.” She stretched out her hands by her knees then made fists, twice, three times.

  Omar smiled. He liked her answer, too. He leaned in and was about to say something conspiratorial when the bus swerved and fishtailed. The driver held on tight at 3 and 9 and pumped the brake while the bus skidded back and forth, back and forth. The girls screamed at multiple pitches. Omar grabbed both Hannah’s shoulders and pressed his forehead, hard, into hers. In a few moments, the driver regained control. Luckily there’d been no other cars within slamming distance.

  “Are you okay?” Omar’s eyeballs were an inch from Hannah’s. His breath was ragged and smelled of cigarettes and sour apple.

  Hannah nodded.

  Omar stood up. “Everyone okay?” His voice boomed and shook at the same time.

  Hannah didn’t turn around. She heard mumbles and swearing, and she studied Omar’s face as he scanned the rows: his mouth twitched at one corner, and the whites of his eyes made a moat around dark irises.

  They arrived safely, and they won the meet, a clean sweep. It was decided that the roads were too dangerous for night driving, so the girls were given sleeping bags and would spend the night in a common room of one of the dorms. They had dinner at Friendly’s, and Hannah sat with Omar in a two-seater booth. The girls were used to Hannah gravitating toward adults; the waitress was on her third shift and barely looked up as she took down orders.

  Hannah ordered a tuna melt, and Omar ordered a Reuben. When the food came, Hannah leaned forward with her chin out and said she’d never had one of those. Omar picked up half and held it out to her; she wasn’t sure if she should bite right out of his hand or take it with her own. It was a big sandwich. He pulled it back and cut off a quarter, then slid it to her on a napkin. When Hannah bit into it, she thought it might be the strangest, and most delicious, thing she’d ever eaten.

  “You have good form,” Omar said, leaning back with his arm across the red pleather. “Very smooth and patient. And still with speed. Not something you could have learned, just natural.”

  Hannah nodded and chewed her second bite of Reuben. She was easily the best swimmer on the team, and she knew it. After finally swallowing, Hannah said, “So, what do you do normally?”

  Omar laughed. “You’re funny. For a quiet girl, you get right to the point.” He waved down the waitress and ordered a coffee. He pointed at Hannah to see if she wanted one. She considered, then nodded. “At the moment, I do nothing, really. I do this. I tried the school thing. A few times. Didn’t work out.”

  Hannah lowered her chin solemnly. Then, “Where does your accent come from? Coach doesn’t have it.” It was the word “this,” which he pronounced thees.

  “Ah, good ear. Hardly anyone notices anymore. Can you guess? Same place as my name.”

  Hannah thought hard. She wanted to get it right. She had a feeling the answer would be satisfying. “It’s not French. But it sort of
is. Is it like … the Middle East?”

  “Close. Morocco. My mother was Moroccan. I lived with her most of my life.”

  “In Africa?”

  “For a few years. Mostly in Brooklyn.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She? Died. A year ago. That’s when I came to live with my father. It’s only temporary, though.”

  “How did she die?” The waitress brought the coffee and looked back and forth between the two, then turned and walked away. Hannah wrapped both hands around her mug. The coffee smelled bitter and a little chocolaty.

  “It was a car accident. Actually. Her boyfriend was driving. I was in the backseat.” He stretched his neck to one side and pointed. A thin raised scar the color of ash ran along his hairline from temple to jaw.

  Hannah could still feel the sharpness of bone on bone in the middle of her forehead; she was sure there was a red mark there. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Hannah almost said, “I was with someone when he died, too.” But she didn’t. She knew that to say it would do no good and would not be satisfying. She thought probably he already knew; she understood that people could recognize each other without words.

  The bus dropped them off at the dorm. Omar and the driver would stay at the Motel 6 and be back for them in the morning. Hannah was the last one off, and she felt wrong, leaving. Omar stood and nodded at her; he stuffed his hands into his pockets and smiled. She walked by him, then slowly down the steps, like a prisoner, back to serving out her sentence. She did not say Goodnight, because that felt wrong, too. It would have been nice to stay up late with Omar, on the bus. She had the sleeping bag. They could share. Hannah wanted to hear about Morocco; maybe Omar could tell his stories in French. That wouldn’t happen, though; and if it didn’t happen tonight, it would never happen. Coach would come back to practice; Omar would leave town. That’s how it was. How things were. It didn’t matter that Omar had seen her body and known her—her natural form and strength. Or that his great fear was imprinted on her skull, right between the eyes.