The Kinship of Secrets

by Eugenia Kim

  Seonil, playful as usual, made paper airplanes after he ate. “Noona, look,” he said, twirling his planes, “zoom, zoom. Promise me you’ll tell me everything you see and hear, and what you eat on the airplane.”

  “I will,” she said, and his earnest and musical buzzing almost made her smile until she remembered he’d grow up without her and she’d never hear his little boy voice again. “And one day maybe you can cross the ocean on an airplane, too, and visit me.”

  “Can I, Appa?” He threw a whopper flight and it crashed beside the table.

  Uncle reached for the crumpled plane. “We’ll see. Maybe when you’re grown. First finish school, then college and military service.”

  “When I’m grown, Noona, I’ll find you in America.” He plopped into Inja’s lap, and she buried her nose in his shiny black hair and held him tight.

  Uncle said, almost apologizing, “Hyo’s father’s driver will be here in thirty minutes.” Inja’s heart leaped to hear Hyo mentioned, then it melted into sadness. At any other time she might have been excited to ride in a sleek car, but not today. Mr. Jeon had loaned them his driver to take her to Gimpo Airport along with Uncle, the minister, and the deacon—an honor to be escorted by these distinguished gentlemen, and one she would have preferred to relinquish in trade for Hyo, Yuna, and Junghi beside her on that plush back seat.

  Inja meandered through the house touching its walls and door frames that her father had built, its lacquer flooring that had kept her warm in winter and cool in summer. She wandered in the scrawny yard and said goodbye to Ara and Aunt. “I’m sorry not to meet the baby, and I hope it’s a boy,” Inja said. Aunt held her arms and gave the warmest smile she’d ever felt from her, and Inja meanly thought she could be warm now, knowing this burden was finally off her hands.

  The car came and the deacon sat in front and chatted with the driver, while Inja sat in the middle of the back seat flanked by Uncle and Reverend Shin. They talked church business peppered with parishioner gossip, and she wished she had a window seat to take in the byways of her country, her home.

  She had studied some American history in a world history curriculum, but she wouldn’t know it in the way she knew her own nation’s history displayed in its ancient city gates, its memorials, venerable temples, faded palaces, living historical sites such as Jongmyo Shrine, and even its blackened buildings still in need of repair from the war. She would be a grown-up newborn needing to learn how to talk and be with others in ways she couldn’t imagine. Because of her grief in leaving so much behind, she felt not a whit of excitement about what might have otherwise been an adventure. She felt only misery.

  Gimpo Airport had been transformed from a barren field of cracked concrete into a modern facility, with electric signage for departures and arrivals. It looked Western and ugly, a fitting portal for a dismal departure. Her papers had been previously examined and approved at the American Embassy, and they eased through the departure checkpoint. Her chaperones accompanied her to the gate, and like little boys they oohed and aahed as airplanes landed and took off.

  In the waiting area, an American mother of two middle-school children urged them to use the restrooms before it was time to board. Inja was relieved to see she was similarly dressed as the mother in a starched cotton shirtwaist with a sweater and scarf. She decided to take the advice given to those children and whispered to Uncle, “I don’t know if there’s a toilet on the plane.” He whispered back, mirth in his voice, that he too would check the condition of the facilities. Her eyes filled—it was so like him to want to share in whatever she did, though it was true that they had grown a little apart after she’d met Hyo.

  They waited and the conversation between the men dwindled, and Inja was neither interested nor able to contribute to their talk. The ambient noise of the airport soon surrounded them along with its smells of fuel and the drying sweat of people on a hot day with noisy fans.

  Her flight was called for boarding, and she stood and bowed to the men, hoping she properly conveyed by habit alone how honored she was for their company. Inja pressed Uncle’s hand, his palm damp in hers, as he argued with a stewardess who blocked the glass door exiting onto the tarmac. “Only passengers, please, sir.”

  “She’s just a child,” said Uncle, and Inja shrank to accommodate his exaggeration, clearly not a child. The woman glanced at her and frowned at Uncle. Two wings like those on Mercury’s ankles flanked the golden name badge shining on the woman’s dark uniform. Inja thought if she had such wings attached to her shoulder blades, she would have no fear of flying, no fear of departure, for with such magic she could fly home whenever she wished. Leaving would be a temporary parting all the sweeter for the future reunion it promised.

  In that moment she swore she would return. Though even her parents hadn’t been able to come back to Korea for fifteen years, she would find a way.

  Uncle said, “Of course she’s not a child, but she’s never been near an airplane, and certainly not a flight of such distance all alone.” People in line jostled behind them, heads craned, and the stewardess peered at Inja, reading the Korean and English writing on the tag pinned to her chest, truly as if she were a child. But Uncle had insisted she wear it. Hello. My name is Anna Inja Cho. I am Korean and do not speak English well. This is my first time flying. I will meet my family in Washington, DC, 44 Sherman Avenue, NE, telephone SHepherd 9-6397. Thank you. The stewardess frowned and opened her firm lips already formed into “no,” but Inja gave her a hapless look and her eyes filled unwittingly with tears.

  The stewardess’s posture softened. “Only for a few minutes. As soon as she finds her seat, you must get off the plane.”

  Uncle bowed. He held her elbow and they stepped over the threshold, and it took such effort to move, she felt as if her feet were magnets bound to the earth of her homeland. A brisk wind rich with fumes flapped her skirt and scarf, and she clutched the train case. They followed the queue to a rolling metal stairway locked beside the airplane. The convex of the airplane body matched the concave open door, and a sharp memory warmed her back—of being a child sitting comfortably in Uncle’s lap as if it were formed only and exactly for her. She couldn’t bear prolonging their parting, and when she turned to take his hand, she saw they were now the same height. “Ajeossi, I’ll go in. They’ll help me find my seat.”

  He hugged her hard, as if he knew she had to take this step alone. “Beloved child,” he murmured. “Safe journey.” He trailed his finger up her cheek, gathering the tears, and she grasped his palm against her face.

  “I’ll come back. I will. Ajeossi, thank you—”

  “I’m the one who is thankful. Go now. Goodbye.”

  How could such simple syllables be so heartbreaking? “Goodbye.” She bowed low, turned toward the stairs, and at the top by the concave door she looked back. He seemed so small, his handkerchief held aloft. Inja waved. It was he who knew her best, who had always loved her best, who had made her brave enough to face America—and strong enough to leave him. All of her years with him could never be replaced, nor forgotten. She would keep this last image of him close to her heart, where hundreds of other images of him were forever stored. And she would return.

  28

  * * *

  Reunion

  Miran sat in the back seat of the Plymouth Fury idling in the driveway. Calvin tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for Najin. She came out dressed in hanbok, a summery fresh blue of sheer silk, marking this as a formal occasion. Miran had spent fifteen minutes the night before sprinkling that silk with Argo starch-water, pressing it to a sheen of stiff elegance, now ruined by her mother lifting the skirt to her thighs to roll up and attach her stockings to her girdle. Najin laughed and apologized for the habit. Backing out the driveway, Calvin smiled at this immodesty bred from being perennially tardy, because it didn’t matter. Today was Friday, and they were going to National Airport to bring Inja home.

  Miran rolled down her window, already nauseated from having focus
ed on the front seat. The vinyl floorboards had withstood many incidents of her carsickness.

  “You okay?” said her father, concerned eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Yeah, thanks.” She kept her nose in the warm current of the open window, and clicked off familiar landmarks toward their church on Sixteenth and P, then the White House some blocks down, the blur of government buildings before they crossed the river into Virginia, the park-like riverbanks flanking the Potomac.

  Her parents talked quietly, wondering about Inja’s flight, how had she gotten to the airport, worries about her immunizations, how the time change and long flight would affect her, what she would eat on the airplane . . .

  Miran unrolled the window another inch, and the wind tufted her long hair. She would be a good sister, and maybe Inja would teach her Korean so she could really talk to her mother and be a better daughter. Fat chance. The chances were higher this sister would be a weirdo square.

  Najin tugged at the starched collar of her hanbok as Calvin veered onto the exit to the airport. “What about customs?”

  “The plane refuels in Alaska; they’ll do it there. We’ll see her as soon as they land.”

  Miran had sensed his buoyancy all day—he hadn’t stopped smiling, but her mother couldn’t stop fretting.

  Najin smoothed down her skirt and took out her handkerchief. What if too many years had passed? What if her guilt impeded her love? What if her daughter resented this American family? Surely, having always known they’d worked to bring her here, Inja would be looking forward to this day. But she was a young lady now, and writing letters was no substitute for mothering. She dabbed her throat.

  In the parking lot at National Airport, she leaped out of the car, though it was still an hour before Inja’s arrival. She saw a dozen church people and friends waiting under the awning in front of the beige terminal. Calvin had told her the Washington Post would send a reporter and photographer for a “special interest” story. Miran climbed out of the back seat, and Najin wished she’d dressed her in hanbok, too. Though properly attired in her Easter outfit, orange was not Miran’s color. Her attention shifted to Calvin striding across the parking lot to greet Miss Lone, and she smiled to see he’d forgotten to close his car door. But her husband’s energy was less about anxiety than it was excitement. Their differences could be summed up in that distinction.

  She remembered her own difficulties with acculturation and worried that Inja would suffer more, being thrust into a new family as well. She could only guess how her brother had raised her, with his impractical sentimentality, his romantic optimism. How many mistakes of his had she witnessed, covered over or repaired afterward? She knew she should be more charitable to him since he’d raised her daughter. Time would tell how well he had performed this act for them. She moved her mind to her daughter, but there resided feelings of guilt and regret—feelings so habitual she could no longer evaluate their merit. Here at the threshold of their reunion, these feelings merged with eagerness and anxiety. If at one time she had thought her husband’s remorse for being in America without her the first eleven years of their marriage was something she’d never understand, now she knew differently. And it was worse. It was her child, and it was fifteen years of separation from someone who wouldn’t know blame was warranted, who couldn’t know that forgiveness would be needed.

  She greeted Miss Lone with both hands wrapped around the one extended to shake, her smile warm with gratitude. “It’s because of you this day has come.”

  “Nonsense,” said Miss Lone with characteristic gruffness. “But what a beautiful day it is!”

  Indeed the sun beamed with radiance, a crisp breeze dispatched spring’s humidity, cumulus clouds shone glory in their billowing mounds, and anticipation filled every breath. They met their waiting friends and went inside. In the main hall of the terminal building, tall observation windows allowed full view of the runways. Calvin steered them to the Northwest Orient arrival gate.

  Mrs. Kim said, “I know you must be both excited and nervous. In fact, I can’t imagine at all how it must feel to be reunited after so long. How are you doing? Never mind! Surely you can’t even say what you’re feeling,” and she grasped Najin’s elbow.

  Najin appreciated this gesture, as it exactly captured her turmoil. Reigning over everything she held inside was the propriety of their behavior in such a situation, soon to be documented by newspapermen. It made a deeply private moment so public, and while she was proud and glad for the attention that augmented the occasion, she also wished it weren’t such a flaunted spectacle. Her poor child, after a long flight coming to America and meeting her family amidst such fanfare! She also worried that Calvin, sometimes as sentimental as Dongsaeng, would erupt in tears.

  The Washington Post journalists joined them and introduced themselves. The female reporter, a slim woman in a brown tweed suit with tortoiseshell eyeglasses, smoked an annoying cigarette while she asked Najin questions about the circumstances of this reunion. Miss Lone came to her rescue and clarified questions delivered too rapid-fire to grasp: Yes, it was because of the Korean War they’d been separated, then red tape, and, yes, immigration restrictions. Miss Lone intervened with a short explanation of the Johnson-Reed Act, commonly known as the Oriental Exclusion Act, and how a special rider to a House bill allowed Anna Inja Cho and a few others to legally enter these hallowed lands.

  The airline clerk ushered them and others awaiting the arrival of the plane outside behind a barrier of movable aluminum fencing. Their small crowd stood half in sunlight and half in shadow, and the photographer brought them all into the sunshine to take pictures. The photographer’s camera clicked. Calvin’s face gleamed. Miran seemed excited to be having her photograph taken. Najin heard only the roar of arriving airplanes.

  The public address system blared Inja’s flight number. “Here she comes!” said Calvin, and all eyes turned to the white and silver behemoth approaching the runway. Najin’s eyes lifted, and she remembered other silver harbingers of life-changing news: B-29s that had dropped leaflets and scarves printed in many languages to announce the end of the Pacific War. How she had rejoiced then, knowing she could be reunited with her husband. And now . . . She twisted her handkerchief to ruins around her pocketbook handles.

  The airplane landed and taxied to the gate at last, guided by men waving yellow flags, and it took another small forever for workers to roll the stairway up to the plane. Then the engines cut off, and in the surprising silence the door swung open. Many people got off—and a girl in a blue shirtwaist dress and a cream-colored sweater, who was clutching a beat-up train case, was guided by a stewardess onto the stairs’ platform.

  “Dear God,” cried Calvin. He hurdled over the barrier and ran up the metal stairs, footsteps clanging, pushing past deplaning passengers. Najin gasped at both the glimpse of her daughter, looking tiny, tired, and sad, and her husband’s leap. Calvin enveloped Inja in his arms, and Najin clutched her purse to her chest. Her heart swelled to see the pure joy in his features, and at the same time, she felt anger that she herself was too proper to jump the barrier and leap up those stairs to hold her child—shockingly a real person, a young adult, and one who looked forlorn.

  Calvin was halfway down the stairs with Inja when Miran tugged her arm. “Mom, let’s go! They said it’s okay.” The barrier had been opened, and they hurried through followed by the photographer and reporter. Calvin, tears streaming, cried out, “At last, at last, blessed child,” and delivered her to Najin on the tarmac.

  She grasped Inja’s shoulders—so thin, so tall—and searched her face, both familiar and foreign. She thought it must be the same for Inja when their eyes caught and her daughter looked startled—or was it afraid? Then love filled her with gratitude, and she hugged her to her heart and said, “My child, my daughter. Are you well?” All the years of anxiety melted, and she held her daughter tight until Inja stiffened and they parted. Najin’s eyes filled to see Inja’s features so close by, the shape of her own
eyes on her daughter. But she looked sad, tired, and Najin’s heart ached with love and protection.

  “How was the flight?” Calvin said at the same time as Najin’s greeting.

  “I am well, Mother. It was good, Father,” she said, head down, almost inaudible.

  The sound of her daughter’s voice, the melodious language of her nation spoken by her own blood—those words claiming her as belonging to them—made her eyes overflow with love, and Najin hugged her again, then hung tight to her elbow as if she’d lose her. Calvin wrapped her beneath his arm, and they stepped aside to allow other passengers to exit.

  “Here is Miran,” said Calvin, taking Inja’s case. They were not a family who hugged easily—rather, Najin was not one who hugged often or easily—but Miran embraced Inja with sincerity, saying, “Inja dongsaeng, hwanyeong,” welcome, little sister. Their crowd of greeters came up and each was introduced by Calvin to Inja, who bowed and kept her eyes down except to glance at Miss Lone.

  “You must be tired, my daughter,” said Najin.

  “A little, Mother.”

  The reporter flapped her notebook and asked them to line up at the bottom of the stairs, while Inja stood at the top. When they were all in place, Najin thought Inja looked so desolate alone by the airplane door, hand raised ready to wave, that she wanted to run up, as Calvin had, and scoop her into the safety of her arms.

  “Can you ask her to smile?” said the photographer.

  “Can you smile?” called the reporter.

  Inja waved feebly.

  “Make her smile for the camera,” the reporter said to Calvin. Najin wanted to slap her. Can’t you see she’s exhausted!

  Calvin said, “They’re asking you to smile and wave.”