The Kinship of Secrets

by Eugenia Kim

  “Thanks for the Hershey’s Bar,” Miran said.

  Appalled at this invasion, tears came to Inja’s eyes as she put the rumpled contents back into the train case. How could she? Was there no privacy to be had in America? She didn’t care about the candy, but like a magpie Miran had taken that case and everything she owned at this moment, her soul included, and strewn it about carelessly in a room in a house in a family in a country in which she was supposed to belong, but that couldn’t have been more foreign—and unwanted—to her.

  Inja clicked the case shut, sat on the bed, and wept. Miran stared wide-eyed a few moments, then brought her a box of tissues and crowded in beside her, awkwardly sliding an arm around her shoulders. Inja almost shrugged her off but was moved by her gesture and gathered herself. “I’m sorry,” she said, forgetting Miran didn’t speak Korean. “I’m very tired. So much is new here.”

  “Jada?” Sleepy? she said. To Inja she sounded like Seonil, and she blew her nose and forgave her. She stood and named some of the stars in the magazine pictures Miran had taped to a bulletin board: Bobby Vinton, Lay Chahles, Chubby Checker, the Shillels, and Elbis—and Miran laughed at her funny diction. It was the most Inja had spoken all day. Miran showed off her record collection, pulling out favorite 45s, and Inja showed her the ones she knew from having played them with Yuna. Perhaps they could be united over music.

  Mother, in a cotton housedress, came in and said she would help Inja change out of her travel clothes.

  Miran said, “I thought you’d like that bed, but you can choose which one is yours. I’ve changed the sheets so they’re both clean.”

  Mother explained what she said, though Inja didn’t understand about sheets, and she chose the obvious bed with her train case on it. “Is good, thank you. Good,” she said.

  Miran’s smile revealed a single dimple in her left upper cheek.

  Mother showed her a bureau of five drawers, as high as her neck and as wide as two steamer trunks, and said it was for clothes. Inja had known to expect a raised bed with a mattress—and by inspecting the bedding had figured out what sheets were—but the bureau flummoxed her. She had never seen such a big piece of furniture with this many drawers, even in Hyo’s rich house. “Which drawers are Miran’s?”

  “These are all yours; that bureau is Miran’s.” She indicated the set of drawers with a mirror on top on the other side of the room.

  Inja grew more and more amazed as she opened each drawer packed beautifully with folded clothes, including pajamas, which her mother explained were sleepwear. No one she knew wore pajamas. Maybe Hyo did, but she wouldn’t have known such an intimate thing about him. At home they’d slept in whatever they were wearing or in underwear. Pajamas! The casual presentation of this chest of drawers filled with clothing of all sorts gave substance to “mountains of gold.”

  Inja hung up her dress in the bare half of the massive closet that Miran said was her portion, chose a white camp blouse and pale blue capri pants with a shiny white belt—because it reminded her of Yuna—and changed into everything new including socks. Miran lay on her bed, reading, and Mother helped Inja change. Though embarrassed by this attention, she understood her mother wanted to inspect every part of her long-lost daughter, and she suppressed modesty for her sake. Her mother said they’d go bra shopping later in the week. She took her underwear and demonstrated the laundry system, and outside, the ropes strung across trees in the park-like backyard, where clothes would be hung to dry, attached by clothespins. Inja’s astonishment—and vocabulary—grew with each step of introduction to this house, and the wonderment worked to numb the razor edge of grief.

  Then the girls sat at the kitchen table with their parents. The sun streamed hot through the windows above the sink, and frilly white curtains stirred in an occasional breeze. Najin asked if she was hungry. Strangely she wasn’t, nor did she want her mother to fuss over her with food, afraid she might actually want to spoon-feed her. Najin gave her a glass of water and also a bottle of Pepsi-Cola with two straws to share with Miran. She heated coffee for Calvin and opened a new blue tin of cookies lined in fluted paper cups. Their buttery smell turned Inja’s stomach. Her features must’ve shown her revulsion, because after Miran ate one, Najin closed the tin. “Your father can’t have any—it’s not good for him.”

  Inja didn’t know if her mother was allowing her to save face or if her father was ill. Her mouth still didn’t want to volunteer much of anything, so she saved that question for another time. At the stove, Najin heated water and opened the refrigerator to take out a covered dish of kimchi and a glass container of some kind of green vegetable mixed with some kind of sliced meat, odorous of hot pepper sauce and cabbage, and though Inja’s eyes widened at this casual presentation of meat, its smell reminded her of the airplane food. Miran set the kitchen table—Inja’s inner clock was too disoriented to predict if it was lunch or dinner—then she and her father negotiated something until Miran nodded. He translated the exchange. “She wants to go camping with her friends, but your mother doesn’t like her going away for weekend trips with people we don’t know, so we agreed she’d practice piano without complaining, weed the lawn, and clean the bathrooms twice a week from now on.”

  It all sounded too foreign for Inja to think of anything to say.

  Only she and her parents sat at the table to eat, and her father apologized for Miran, but thus did she learn “It’s too early for lunch.”

  Najin served small bowls of rice, and the steam of the plain rice opened Inja’s desire to eat. “It’s so tasty,” she said of her mother’s kimchi, which was better than Aunt’s, of course, but even better than Ara’s. Inja didn’t tell her mother that part, wanting to spare Ara this small slight, though she’d never know about it. She lost her appetite then and put her chopsticks down. Najin didn’t say anything about the wasted food.

  “It might ease your mind to know what to expect in the next few days,” said Calvin.

  While he talked, she stole glimpses of her parents and saw that her mother and Uncle were similar in appearance—both had Grandmother’s nose, while her own was more like Grandfather’s. It was reassuring to see Uncle’s face in her mother’s, though her formal demeanor had stiffened those features somewhat. Her father handled his chopsticks in an odd way, but she could see her fingers in his. Inja wondered if her sister compared her features to their parents, or if such comparisons were discouraged. She wondered when, or if, she’d ever talk to her mother about Miran.

  Her father’s genial expression and deliberate articulation gave her calm; this aspect of his character likely elevating the respect he garnered as a minister. “Rest at home this weekend,” he said. “I’ll take your sister to church on Sunday while you stay home with your mother and get comfortable with your surroundings. You’ll want to know which way to turn in this house before enlarging your comfort zone.”

  His manner of speech made her smile, and their quick smiles in response plus the glance they gave each other showed Inja she hadn’t been terribly forthcoming with any expression at all. She would have to change her selfish behavior. How easily joy had come to their features!

  “They’re eager at church to meet you, but we’ll spare you that ordeal until next Sunday—or later, whenever you’re ready to meet that many people.”

  She dipped her head to express gratitude. His smile had a glint of gold around the edge of some bottom teeth, and she surreptitiously examined her mother’s teeth while Najin picked at them with a toothpick; they were straight and without any gold fillings—more like Uncle’s and hers; rather, her teeth were more like her mother’s.

  “Your mother will be at home all next week, and Miran will also stay home from school to keep you company. I’ve enrolled you at Blair High School with Miran. You’ll both be juniors—eleventh grade, same as in Seoul.”

  She wanted to ask if, as Minister of Education, it was truly he who had aligned Korea’s school structure to America’s, something Uncle often said with pride, but
hearing Uncle’s prideful voice in her mind made her swallow and kept her silent.

  “The principal agreed to keep you in the same classes until your English improves enough for you to be on your own. We know you want to study art, and your sister is active in that area, including an after-school art club. How does that sound?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She grasped only vague outlines of his plan—except that more unknowns awaited her—and that she must learn English quickly.

  He reached across the table, took her hand in both of his, and his expression shifted to a tenderness that reminded her of Hyo and Uncle combined, but so intense, eyes filled with tears, that Inja looked to her lap. “We praise God and are blessed and pleased to have you home at last.” Mother held her other hand while he gave a prayer of thanks, then said, “I can barely remember my first days in America, but I know they were confusing, like in a whirlpool, so I want you to take your time getting adjusted. This family’s job is to make your transition as easy as possible. Okay?”

  “We have many things to talk about,” said her mother, “but now we have many hours ahead of us as well.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and failed to return a genuine smile. Inja supposed his little speech was meant to ease her “transition,” but that very word had the opposite effect of hammering in the permanence of this life here and of never going home again.

  Najin guided her once more through the house with particular warnings about the hot-water faucets, and she took her through the back of the basement to explain about the hot-water heater and the furnace in an area crowded with a big desk, upside-down chairs, cardboard cartons, and rolled-up rugs. “We’ve had many Korean students coming and going, and they end up leaving things for the next person to use. It’s a mess back here.”

  Inja liked that messy corner with its oily iron behemoth, rough and cold to the touch, the mysterious boxes and abandoned furniture lit with a single naked lightbulb, reminding her of their sitting room at home before they’d gotten a decent ceiling shade of white glass. When she knew the words, she would ask Miran if she’d like one of those rugs in their room. Only rich people did that. Even Yuna didn’t have rugs on her floors (but Myeonghi probably did).

  “Inja, my child, after such a long day, you probably want to rest,” said Najin, and, “Miran, come help me in the kitchen.” Miran made an “ugh” face to Inja without Najin seeing, a surprising first chip in her image of them as the perfect American family. Inja hoped she wouldn’t have to choose sides. At least with Aunt, it was clear they did not care for each other, to put it nicely, but she knew nothing about this family’s internal alliances.

  Najin led her to the master bedroom and darkened it by closing the Venetian blinds, which she showed Inja how to operate, though she already knew from Hyo’s house. Her mother left the door ajar and said to call her if she needed anything. Inja stood in the middle of the room, unsure in general and especially unsure about climbing onto that big bed, until the things atop the bureau and dresser called her to examine them. The mirrored bureau was messy with cosmetics and creams, books and Korean newspapers, a basket made especially for needles and threads and such, and an old Korean lacquer box and miniature chest. Inja opened the little chest and found a stack of yellowing thin papers with old-fashioned brush writing. One glance showed they were letters from Halmeoni, and the fluid brushstrokes revealed they were written before her stroke. For the first time since her arrival, Inja felt a sense of union with her mother in the love they still shared for Grandmother. A brass rice bowl overflowed with hairpins, safety pins, and rubber bands, and any remaining space was filled with a heap of nylon stockings, garter clips, and a pile of diaries and spiral-bound notebooks. Her father’s dresser was orderly with an electric clock, a chipped glass holding pens and pencils, an enameled dish with collar stays and buttons, a stack of ironed and folded handkerchiefs, a Bible with a zippered cover, a Korean Bible and hymnal, and medicine bottles. These two surfaces gave Inja easy insight into their personalities, and the cluttered disorganization of her mother’s bureau felt as familiar as Uncle’s desktop and shelves that had a little bit of everything on them.

  Inja studied the portraits of her grandparents and herself, then gingerly climbed onto her parents’ bed in her new clothes. The soft mattress enveloped her, and the pillow smelled faintly of an herbal scent she would later identify as Vitalis, her father’s hair tonic. In this immense strange room with its terrible pink color, its odd light and shadows and the grit that seemed to coat the inside of her eyelids, it seemed a mercy to close her eyes to this day, and she slept.

  30

  * * *

  Writings

  27 April 1963, Saturday, to Ajeossi

  I arrived safely. Thank you for taking me to the airport. That day is hard to remember, it seems so long ago. The airplane flight was long. That is about all I can remember. After arriving at Father and Mother’s house, I slept through more than one night. The hours were all wrong. I went to bed on a Friday afternoon and woke up Sunday before dawn. Father said I would have this problem with sleeping for a few days. “Adjusting your inner clock,” he says. Did you know he was funny? He laughs often. Mother does too. They are generous and kind and gave me a good welcome, but I am lonely for home. I cannot express how much I miss my family and friends. How is everyone? Is Seonil excited about having a new dongsaeng?

  I am so thankful for all those years you kept that family album for me, because I have at least a photographic history with my American family. Miran seems not to know much about me, but maybe that is because we do not talk to each other very well yet. Here is a photograph of Miran and me that Father took. Father spends a lot of time with me for English vocabulary, as does Miran Unnee. Mother gave me a spiral notebook to write down English words and meanings. She says she does the same thing. She laughs at her poor English and says we will be students learning to speak together.

  It is strange with Mother. She often tells me how to behave, as if I don’t have any manners. She did this at church, and it was embarrassing. She seems to want something of me I cannot give, though I cannot say what it is. For the first week I slept in her bed with her, and I suppose it was because she was missing me for so many years and wanted to make up lost time. But I cannot sleep when she is in the bed. She makes lots of noise sleeping—more than Halmeoni—and sometimes she shouts out loud in her dreams. It is uncomfortable in that big soft bed, with her so close beside me like two lost souls on a fluffy sea. After a few days of not sleeping, Father noticed how I seemed to nap when I sat down in an armchair or the couch, and then we had the talk about “the inner clock.”

  I know I should be a good daughter and not ask for anything for myself, but over the days Father continued to say to me, “How are you feeling? Is there anything you need?” It seemed easier to talk to him than to Mother, so I mentioned how difficult it is to sleep in that big bed. No, I did not say it was difficult to sleep with Mother.

  He is wise. Later that night after dinner, I was doing homework with Unnee—it is very hard, this English language—and I heard him say to Mother that his back was hurting from sleeping in the sewing room, and did she think it was time to let me sleep downstairs in my room? It felt wrong to eavesdrop, so I went to the very back of the kitchen and clattered the dishes (they have many, many dishes—​we have many dishes) into the cabinet so I would not hear any more. I slept in my own bed that night in the cool basement room Father had built. The bed is still too soft and Unnee also snores, but it is better now.

  Miran Unnee stayed at home with me for the first week, and we walked all around the neighborhood. She is a little shy but tries hard. We do not talk very well together, but it is getting better. I teach her Korean words, and she tells me what they are in English. It is very pretty here, and everything is green and so clean. The streets are all paved with raised cement paths, and the curbs are so clear, I wonder when am I going to see the people who wash them. So much green! Everyone plants flowers in their yards
. Unnee says the people with big flower gardens are not rich people. They are just like us, she says. They do not know how rich they are. We sat in the backyard and drew flowers, and then we drew each other. She is good as an artist, but she tells me that Mother and Father think she should study “something more practical.” At the same time, Father says it is fine if I want to study art, so I do not understand this family.

  School is very difficult. Unnee tries hard to keep me company, but her Korean is limited to “toilet” and “drink water” and “let’s go” and “eat,” which I suppose is all I need. Though I cannot speak enough English and do not fit in one bit, I can see that the other students shun her and that makes me sad. But I did not have many friends either. She plays piano very well and plays in the school orchestra. Because we are in all of the same classes, the teachers call us “twins,” though we look nothing alike! Some of the students are kind, and she has a few friends who eat with us. They look together like United Nations delegates, they are from so many places.

  Say hello to everyone. Tell them I miss them. I miss you the most.

  Your daughter

  Tuesday, 14 May

  This is my diary. I know it’s supposed to be for studying English, but if I cannot write to Uncle, then I must write to someone, and that will be you, spiral notebook. I am so sad and upset. I have been crying all day and trying to hide it. Dinner was torture. Finally I said I wasn’t feeling well and was excused from washing dishes. Later I told Miran thank you for doing my housework. Mother told Father I had gotten a letter from Uncle, and it must have made me homesick. She asked to read it, but I didn’t answer and when she wasn’t watching, I took it in the backyard, tore it into tiny pieces and threw it in the brook in the woods. Yes, I got a letter from Uncle, and I was so happy to hear about Aunt’s healthy baby, a girl they named Seonwu. But then Uncle said after he got my letter, he had to pray every day for a week to decide what to do. He said he hopes I understand that I should not write to him about my troubles because I need to bond with my family here. He said he loves me with his whole heart and prays for happiness to enter my soul, but if I continue to be attached to him, I will not give myself a chance to have a good life with my family in America.