by Eugenia Kim
Inja hid an inner pang about this reference to Miran’s birth and explained to Seonil what she’d said about the nightmare. His eyes grew wide. He hadn’t known Uncle and Najin had shared this dream. More than all the other topics of conversation that evening, this one story about the filament of dream connecting a geographically divided family bonded them beyond the barriers of language, time, distance, and difference. When they parted that evening, Seonil’s hug—though brief—felt to Inja as warm and genuine as Uncle’s.
“How bad was it?” Miran asked when they were settled in their bedding at the inn.
“Cost us the same as three nights here,” she said. “Worth it, though.”
“That’s not what I meant, you idiot.”
Inja punched her and told her about Aunt and Uncle’s fighting.
“Makes sense.” She yawned.
“What?”
“The girls are starved for attention—it’s why they like me so much.”
“Are you kidding? You’re the rich American cousin who swears and laughs without covering her mouth. Who wouldn’t love that? Seriously, you’ve been great with them, almost like you understand everything they’re saying.”
“I don’t, but I also kinda do. It’s strange—like my earwax got cleaned out.”
“Oh, ick.”
For a time the only sound in their room was the dripping showerhead in the next-door bathroom, the loud ticks of the second hand on the electric alarm clock, and an occasional passing car outside. Miran’s breath grew even, and Inja remembered what she’d wanted to tell her. It was a lie, but it was an important lie. “Miran, are you still awake?”
“Umhmm yup.”
“Mom did have a dream before you were born.” Inja chose her words carefully so as not to make everything she said a lie.
“She did?”
“She never told you?”
“She might’ve told me, but I didn’t get it.”
“She told me at some point—can’t remember when, but it was after I’d been in America awhile.” Inja closed her eyes and conjured Najin’s animated storytelling voice, and almost as if Najin’s spirit were supporting her lie, she heard it as clearly as if her mother were talking from the room’s shadows. The tones blended with memories of Grandmother’s dramatic cadence, and so the story flowed from three generations of voices. “She was in water, like with me, but not the sea. She stood in a freshwater brook, and the water was like music as it ran between her feet and the pebbles in the streambed. She was trying to catch a little silvery fish darting between her ankles, but it was slippery, fast, and elusive. She finally caught it and lifted it high from the water, and that’s how she knew you were a girl.”
“Oh wow.” Her usual response but soft.
Inja wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but something propelled her forward, a sensation that could have been like the dream connection between Uncle and her mother, or the ghostly encouragement of Grandmother. “She said the water droplets from the squirming fish scattered all around her like diamonds, and it made her so happy she laughed out loud. That’s what makes our mother different from most Korean mothers—she loved having daughters. Her laughter woke her up, and when she did, Dad was also awake laughing because he’d had the very same dream.”
“Wow. Double wow.”
“You’re that special.”
“That’s crazy heavy.” She remained quiet for a long time.
It was a righteous lie, if there could be such a thing. Inja would alert her mother to the story, but it was entirely possible she already knew. The ceiling of their room seemed far and airy from where she lay on the floor. It was a squared-off ceiling, but the night and shadows had rounded its edges like arches in a chapel. “You’re the crossover daughter,” she said, “bridging together Mom and Dad, like Korean and American. Like you and me.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
She heard subdued tears in her voice. “And I love you, too,” Inja said.
“Me too.”
Toward the end of their final week in Seoul, Miran took to bed with her books and a stomach bug, and Inja roamed the neighborhood with Uncle to check out his routine haunts, pleased to find his daily bathhouse clean and a cozy gathering place for elders with whom he socialized for hours, until his fingers and toes were wrinkled soft with moisture. Later that afternoon, Inja left to find dinner for Miran and went down the hill toward the main road. Impulse made her take a turn toward her old school—and there she was in front of Yuna’s house. She wasn’t even sure if it was the same house, with kids’ toys in the yard and differences she couldn’t quite name, but she heard the Temptations singing “Just My Imagination” and stopped to listen long enough to hear it segue to the next song, meaning the Sky’s the Limit album was playing, and loud. All things combined gave her courage to holler at the open gate, “Yeobosayo?” but no one heard. She went into the yard, called out at the kitchen door, and this time was rewarded with the music cutting off, a baby’s cries protesting the sudden silence, and the sound of footsteps.
Yuna’s face looked exactly the same, and her shoulder-length hair was cut like Inja’s. Her eyes got big, then bigger, and she screamed Inja’s name. Inja screamed hers back, and they were in each other’s arms, all distance erased. Yuna drew her inside, sat her down in the main room, and plopped the crying baby in her lap, a three-month-old boy as fat and round as a ten-kilo bag of rice. She served barley tea and ddeok, sweet rice cakes, and right away showed Inja her wedding album from two years ago—to show that she had not married Hyo.
“He’s handsome,” Inja said of the bookish-looking fellow in the photos beside Yuna, a serious bride. “But you’re as gorgeous as ever. Where’d you meet? What’s his job?”
They caught each other up on the decade in the next few hours. Yuna had met him at the temple where she went regularly to honor her grandmother, where he also was a regular, lighting incense for both his parents who’d died in the war. He was a Korean-language instructor to U.S. Army personnel and worked mostly evenings. Of Yuna’s grandmother’s death, Inja said, “She was so patient with us and always soft-spoken. You know I would’ve been at the temple. I’ll never forget how you came to church both times for me.”
“It’s what friends do,” Yuna said, and in the short awkward moment that followed, Inja asked to use her telephone to call the inn. The owners said they’d be sure to give Miran the message that she’d be late and would also serve her rice gruel. She and Yuna prepared a simple dinner from what was in her refrigerator, and Yuna nursed the baby while Inja sautéed greens and doled out rice.
Yuna put the Temptations back on the stereo. “I can only play it when he’s at work—he hates my music. But the baby loves it.” She patted him as he rolled on a blanket gurgling happily. “And naturally it’s one of your favorite groups too, right?”
“They’d have to be, if they’re your favorite.” She smiled. “But I honestly do love them.” Talking thus with Yuna was comforting and as ordinary as the shape and size of this familiar room with its plain lacquered floor, the particular quality of light from the alley shining through her windows, the intense rhythms of American music that Yuna had brought into Inja’s life. “My mother isn’t a fan of soul or rock-and-roll,” Inja said, “and she suffered, though willingly, with two teenage girls. The only music she appreciates is on the piano or hymns.”
“Did you ever get those piano lessons?”
“Only a few—I was too old to learn how to play well.” She had a vivid memory of sitting on the bench beside Hyo, their thighs and shoulders touching.
Yuna picked at the few remaining morsels in her rice bowl. “Did it ever get better? All I remember is how miserable we all were you had to leave.”
Pain jabbed Inja’s heart, and she sipped hot tea to hide the surprise of tears. She had hoped returning to Korea would resolve those old hurts, but her tears proved that such bitter memories were not so easily appeased, even with time.
Yuna set her chops
ticks across her bowl and touched Inja’s knee. “I missed you terribly and that business with Hyo was a mistake. I think I was trying to have you back by going with him. That sounds crazy, but it’s how much I missed you.”
“Never mind.” Inja took her hand. “Think how young we were. It means so much to see you happy and well”—the strains of reverberating laughter faded at the end of the record—“and still obsessed about music, even if it’s weird music.”
Yuna laughed, slung the baby to her shoulder, and showed Inja a long shelf of albums. “You pick something. At least my father still manages to find me LPs. And once when my husband’s students had asked about me, he told them I liked American music, and now they give him record albums—some brand-new—which is also how we have all this equipment; the soldiers advised him on what to buy. We don’t have eight-track yet.”
She displayed and described the features of her stereo system, and Inja admired the turntable, amplifier, tuner, speakers, and reel-to-reel. Inja thumbed through Yuna’s eclectic album collection: Carole King, Sarah Vaughan, Chick Corea—Yuna laughed that her father bought it thinking it was a French girl singing about Korea—Simon and Garfunkel, Stevie Wonder, the Beatles . . . and dozens of others. Inja chose The Golden Hits of Lesley Gore, since she remembered the two of them singing, “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to,” as loud as they could, twirling around this very room with scarves flapping.
“I’ll do the music if you burp him.” Yuna handed her son over and attended to the equipment with obvious pleasure. She brushed the album grooves with a velvet anti-lint roll, and when the needle dropped, she turned various knobs for optimal sound.
“From elementary school teacher to sound engineer,” Inja said. The former was Yuna’s profession the few years before she was married, and like with Seonil, Yuna’s unwarranted praise and admiration of Inja’s and Miran’s jobs exposed more about the feminist privileges the two sisters enjoyed that she’d taken for granted.
They cleaned the dishes, then Yuna fed her son once more and laid him asleep on bedding spread nearby. She cracked open a bottle of beer, they poured each other’s glasses, and Inja said, “Tell me what happened to Hyo. Uncle says his father has a third wife, but he doesn’t know any more than that.”
“You don’t know? I thought for sure you knew. He was arrested, then when he got out, he went to America.”
She stifled concerned surprise—and amusement at her friend’s assumption she’d know he was in America merely because she was in America. “Arrested for protesting? I hope it wasn’t on suspicion of being a communist.”
“It was for a protest when Park was tired of the students on the streets and sent the police to shut it down. I heard he was questioned but doubt if he was tortured. His father bought his way out the next day, then found a way to send him to America.”
“He went to college in the U.S.? Where?”
“This was later, after university. He graduated in sociology at SNU.”
The preeminent and prestigious Seoul National University required impossible entrance examinations that denied ninety-six percent of its applicants. “He was always more intelligent than all of us put together,” Inja said.
“But he could be stupid, too, especially about his passions and politics. He’s in California. He was always in trouble with some of the professors for organizing protests and writing manifestos, but after university he kept it up, always the idealist.” She lowered her voice. “Then two years ago, he joined the masses and got arrested with those very same masses. He loved talking about ‘joining the masses.’ How could he not get in trouble? Junghi and I are still friends, and last he heard, Hyo lives with a cadre of anti-Park sympathizers in America. They admire him and consider him a leader in the movement. I think he’s seeking asylum.”
It had grown dark, and Yuna turned on a few lamps and played Joan Baez, the volume low.
“Are you in touch with him at all?” Inja said.
“Even if I were interested, it’s impossible with a husband and baby. Do you want me to ask Junghi if he knows how to reach him?”
A quick inner assessment authenticated Inja’s conviction. In this case, she could put the past behind her. She wondered if his “cadre of sympathizers” were like a cult, and he their charismatic leader. She could see him in that role. Though she felt concern for his well-being and peace of mind, he was safe and in the land of the free. “No, but please tell Junghi I’m sorry I didn’t see him this time around.”
It was near eight o’clock, and she said she had to go. She hadn’t thought out this visit enough to have a gift for Yuna, but dearly wanted to give her something. She removed the ring she hadn’t taken off since her mother had given it to her, its nickel coating mostly gone, the heavy gold worn smooth over the years. “I want you to have this,” and she slipped it on Yuna’s finger. Of course her friend protested, and Inja closed her fingers around the ring. “You see how it fits you perfectly, and it’s important to me that you wear it. Will you?”
Yuna’s eyes reddened with tears, and she hugged Inja, but being Yuna she had to refuse several more times until Inja threatened she wouldn’t come see her next time if she didn’t accept it. Saying there would be a next time made it real—a promise she wanted to keep more than a thinning gold ring given by her father to her mother, who by accepting it had shown forgiveness for his years apart from her. She couldn’t remember exactly when or what Mother had said when she’d given her the ring, but she did remember accepting it as a way to ease her mother’s concern about her “transition,” though at that time she wasn’t yet ready to forgive. And for years now, she’d felt no blame toward her parents for the reunion that had caused her so much pain. Without blame, there was no need for forgiveness.
In the dark walk back to the inn, Inja felt the unexpected relief of her empty finger, glad that circle of guilt-ridden gold was returned to Korea—to Yuna, with whom she’d be friends until the end of her days.
Tuesday, 5.1, Seoul
Two days before departure. Mixed feelings. Many feelings. Accomplished all my list plus more. Aunt loves her fancy hair, and Uncle teases about her revitalized beauty and makes her cheeks pink. Gave $300 to Seonil, and he accepted it like the man of the house. He’s placid but there’s fire in him still. The eldest and only son, it’s all on him, and that matters a great deal to Uncle. I doubt if it would matter that much to our mother if she had a son, but what’s she going to say having had only daughters? I don’t think it matters to Father; his older brother had many sons, so the Cho line is safe. It raises the entire question of the eldest child and his or her (my?) responsibility. Being here brings up old injustices I’d forgotten about or buried. I’ll talk it over with Uncle one last time tomorrow.
I saw Yuna yesterday—a perfect visit. Miran wanted to stay in bed. I stopped at a medicine shop on the way back to the inn and got advice and herbs to make goldenseal and blackberry tea, and she’s better now, middle of night.
I loved spending the day with Uncle, though it’ll never be like it was before. Now I’m the one making him feel like royalty, treating him to ice cream and pens, brushes and paper. Aunt mostly stays home. Seonil told me she had left home at age eight, but that’s about all he knew about her early years. She must have had a hard life, and I should think more kindly about her, but it’s difficult when I remember how mean she was. It made me sad to hear that she and Uncle still fight. They’ve been on best behavior with us.
Last Saturday Miran spent all her souvenir money buying the girls Parcheesi, Silly Putty, View-Master, Etch A Sketch, and boxed candies at Shinsegae Department Store, which Elder Hwang insisted we visit. I didn’t mind—I remembered its European exterior as housing the U.S. Army PX and was glad to see it modernized and Koreanized. Is that like me? Modernized and wanting to be Koreanized again? I don’t completely know what I expected in coming back, but I hear myself calling each place home—and rather than being polarizing, it’s a simple word whose definition can be shared
in two countries, which makes it all easier to bear.
I have ddeok for Uncle that Yuna gave me. She and I are renewed friends, equals in a way like no other friend I know. When I think about it, I’ve known Yuna less years than Miran, and maybe it’s because we were friends when no one else wanted to be friends with us that everything about her feels more deeply familiar to me as a sister—as Miran says of me—a real Korean sister. I’m not at all upset about Hyo. I can regard our youthful love with gratitude and respect. I only feel sad he’s chosen such an angry lot in life, and hope he’ll marry someone smarter than he is so he’ll do what she says.
38
* * *
Protections
Miran still felt rocky, and they were both happy to hang out with Uncle at the house on their last full day. They filled a taxicab’s trunk with market bounty: bundles of dried seafood, grains, mushrooms, beans and roots, fresh greens, and kimchi makings, and the sisters cooked the perishables all day and packed dishes into the freezer until the girls came home from school. “We should cook like this at home,” said Miran, bottling the last of the radish kimchi.
“We’re eating ramen and eggs for the rest of the year. Our budget is blown.”
The cousins in their navy-blue sailor-styled school uniforms came into the kitchen, shouting, “Miran Unnee!” and Seonmi threw her arms around Miran’s waist.
“Your fan club,” Inja said.
“Greetings, children, here are apples,” Miran said in exaggerated Korean, making them giggle. “Let’s eat apples!” and she put them to work washing and slicing the fruit in the decorative way Najin had taught them, each wedge sitting on a peel cut like a leaf.
Inja and Miran had already said goodbye to Seonil, now back in his dorm to study for an examination. Uncle returned from the bathhouse, Aunt woke from her afternoon nap, and Inja sat with them in the main room nibbling on fruit and sipping lukewarm pineapple juice, while Miran taught the girls how to play Parcheesi in their bedroom. Inja had tried to dust and declutter somewhat, but without drawers and closets, straightening up was limited to folding clothes and lining up books and papers in tidy piles. She wouldn’t touch Uncle’s desk for fear he’d never find anything, but she did linger over the pages and pages of his fine calligraphic writing where he’d copied chapters from the Bible on the backs of old calendars. She wondered if Miran knew anyone in New York who might be interested in selling his work, and shelved this idea to research at home and discuss with him on the next visit. She would come back again, she knew.