by Eugenia Kim
“Don’t come to the airport tomorrow,” Inja said. “Too much trouble, and I don’t want the girls to miss more school.” She and Uncle sat beside each other on a row of cushions on the floor and leaned against pillows lining the sitting room wall. Aunt sat on the opposite side of a low table between them. The two grimy windows on the west wall had haphazard curtains that allowed weak streams of light, but it was bright enough to see Uncle’s portraits of Grandfather and Grandmother, warmth exuding from their eyes and the colored paints.
“I’ll come back so there’s no need for prolonged goodbyes,” Inja added.
“Elder Hwang already promised to drive us so I’m going, but you’re right, there’s no room for anyone else.” He studied her face and shook his head. “You’re so grown—it surprises me each time I look at you.”
He had undoubtedly repeated this statement a hundred times, and it reminded her of Grandmother’s repetition. “Here I am, Ajeossi, the same inside.” For Inja, returning to him was more congruent with her memories. He was wrestling with their changed roles. She’d grown independent of him as a daughter, but he had missed the gradual distancing that comes from witnessing a child’s maturity at home. So perhaps his ready demonstration of father-figure-to-child love could not so easily shift to her adult self.
While they talked, Inja listened for Miran and the kids: bouts of tapping—their wooden pawns counting moves, dice tosses—and shouts and laughter. They were absorbed playing in the room she had once shared with Grandmother. She hadn’t noticed if the corner shelf where she’d kept special gifts from her mother’s packages was still there. Would the girls display their presents from Miran on that shelf, listing each item’s best features on scraps of imaginary paper as she had? But now they had plenty of real paper and pencils.
She said to Uncle, “I regret it took so long to come back.”
Uncle rubbed his knees. “Never mind that. It was a hard day when you went into the plane. I could see you from the window waving, and that’s when I cried—everyone cried. I came home and lay around crying for three days. Nobody could eat.”
“Nobody could eat because we had no food,” said Aunt. “They rationed rice sometime after you left—all we had was rice mixed with barley and red millet, and impossible to digest. Even later I managed to give Seonil and Seonwu money for the bus and made them box lunches, but only with rice and kimchi. Like wartime. They’d have breakfast and go off to school, with nothing left for us to eat until dinner.”
“Yeobo, don’t bring up that old business,” Uncle said.
“You’re telling her sad news, and it made me think of it.” She frowned. “He did cry like that when you left, and I was quite alarmed. Three days of weeping and then he stopped. I think some church people came over to calm him down.”
“I couldn’t get out of bed and couldn’t think or do anything. I had raised you from birth to sixteen years, and then I had to let you go.” Uncle’s eyes filled and overflowed, as did Inja’s.
This was what had made him so easy to love—his unreserved, expansive emotions that ran as freely and fully as a spillway in a storm—the very trait that Inja’s mother had labeled simplistic, sentimental foolishness. How could two siblings be so opposite? She thought about Miran: how could two non-blood siblings be so similar?
“It’s a tragedy—don’t think about it, Yeobo, a true tragedy,” said Aunt. “Think of it this way—because she went away that time, she’s rich and successful and comes back to us like coming back home to her real parents.”
“That was a hard time,” said Uncle, “and painful to remember.” He bowed his head and tugged a handkerchief from his back pocket. “How was it when you landed?”
“Same. I cried all the time and felt bad for my parents that I was crying so much. But I was also angry and helpless. I only wanted to return, and for two years I dreamed every night of coming back.” She hadn’t meant to say anything that would make him sadder, but his open love demanded confession of all she’d hidden away in hopes those forests of memory and forgetfulness would bury the pain. But it had rooted instead. Her hands were fists of sodden tissues.
“Your mother wrote that she cried because you would not eat, and instead wept all night.”
“I think it was harder for her than she could show. She’s so different from you in that way, Ajeossi.”
“We waited and waited for your letter, and it came about a month after you left. You sent us a picture your father took, and it gave us so much happiness. Ah, but the letter was difficult.”
Inja did not want either of them to remember this added pain, but Uncle couldn’t help himself, as if now the wound was open and needed to run clear.
“I see you do remember,” he said of her streaked cheeks.
“I shouldn’t have complained about Mother, but she was treating me like a baby. It made it more difficult for you.”
“Here you are all grown up and sitting beside me, but it’s like that decision was made this hour.” He beat his chest. “Terrible—a terrible thing to never write to you again so you would bond with them. I had to, you see that, don’t you?”
“Of course I understand, and you were right. But, Ajeossi, none of this would’ve happened if I wasn’t forced to leave.”
“There’s no point in thinking that. My sister gave me a great gift, and this is how I know she loves me best. Why else would she take her adopted daughter and leave the blood daughter with me?”
They were both ruined with tears.
“Yeobo, don’t think about those things,” said Aunt. “Like you say, here she is, come back to us.”
“But how could she divide us after sixteen years?” said Inja. “My life was here, and if she gave me to you, then she shouldn’t have taken me back—she was only lending, not giving.” She was appalled at her disloyalty, but this malice had long festered in the locked drawers of her inner cabinet. Even that impressive bureau full of new clothes couldn’t fill its emptiness.
Uncle sat back and massaged his knees, brows knit. “It may sound confusing, but it only further proves the measure of her love, her sacrifice to your grandmother and me, especially if you think about her father.”
Aunt sighed. “Always the old stories,” and she stood, saying she’d make a broth of the medicine they’d purchased from the herb market for his arthritis.
“What did you say?” said Inja. “Whose father?”
“Miran’s father.”
“Who’s her father?”
“You know—surely I’ve told you. It’s one of the three miracles of my life.”
“Tell me again.” She curled her legs beneath a straight back, her body winding tight in the face of a new vista of information she hadn’t ever considered.
“About the miracles? Come to think of it, maybe I never told you because you were a child.”
“You might’ve told me, but I was too young to know they were miracles.”
“This was after the war ended—not the last one, the war with the Japanese.”
“Before I was born.”
“Yes. Your father was here, but he was often away with the big general, going all around the country. He came home some weekends—the trains were terrible then, crowded and always late or breaking down, they were so ancient.”
Inja had heard the story of Miran’s birth from Uncle, Grandmother, and her mother. Once she had arrived in America, Najin also described those postwar months with her father being away for extended periods of time. She had said it was one of the reasons he was endlessly patient with Miran—he felt guilty. Inja had not disagreed but believed it was simply his nature to be endlessly patient.
“A young widow was living nearby,” and he explained that under Japanese rule, the city was organized into precincts and sectors for rallies and rationing as a way to monitor each neighborhood for proper behavior and quotas for metal, rubber, and paper drives. “She was vulnerable, being young and a widow, so they made her a block leader. The Japanese head of all the blocks
in that sector was called a tongjang. The tongjang would go in and out of the widow’s house for any number of reasons. At some point they had sex, and she became pregnant.”
Images of Miran’s features raced behind Inja’s eyes—her fingernails, slim body shape, and the strong texture of her hair—all features she had carefully avoided pointing out as different than hers. She now envisioned those features as belonging to Miran’s unnamed mother, the lips silent, the eyes empty beneath the faceless tongjang. “She was raped.”
“Probably. It’s bad enough for a widow to be pregnant, but being pregnant by a Japanese was the worst possible stigma, no matter how it happened. She took all kinds of pills to abort the baby, but everything failed. Somehow she heard about your mother, and when the baby was due, she found our house. She was too ashamed to give birth in a hospital or with a midwife in her own district. After the birth, she ran away. Nobody wanted another baby, especially not a Japanese baby, but your mother kept the baby, even without asking your father.”
“Dear God.”
“He felt guilty about leaving her in postwar hardship.”
“Not about that—you’ve told me about that—about Miran’s father.”
“I have his name somewhere in my desk. The mother did at least name the father, and I learned from her neighbors he was the tongjang. I lost that paper some time ago.”
Avenues of possibility in Inja’s mind opened for Miran’s sake. Should she ask Uncle to find that name? What if that man was alive? What would happen if—
He tilted his head. “I see what you’re thinking. No need to tell her. It would only bring heartache.”
Aunt came in with his broth, switched the ceiling light on as the day was waning, and went to check on the others. Inja tuned in to the bedroom and heard Seonmi say to Aunt, “It’s not an egg—it’s clay but stretchier, look!”
“Ajeossi, your three miracles,” she prompted. “I know the first one: how Miran almost died and came back to life.”
“You know about that then.”
“I heard it from everyone.” She was having trouble concentrating, like her mind was that stretchier clay, in flux to learn about Miran’s blood father.
“A dreadful, horrific time. Her eyes rolled up, she foamed in the mouth, and there was no pulse. I was so distressed and grief-stricken, I held the baby tight, weeping from my deepest soul. Then I heard a tiny bird-like sound, and the baby started to breathe.”
“You never told me that part!”
“Your mother did most of the work. Still, this was my first miracle.”
“How could you and my mother accept this baby, especially since the Japanese had imprisoned her?” Grandmother’s portrait caught her eye. “I’m thinking about Halmeoni’s feet, too, though Mother still doesn’t know about that.”
“It didn’t matter.”
“Mother won’t even buy anything Japanese at home.”
“None of that mattered, it was just a baby.”
“How did you know?”
“What do you mean? Everyone knew about the widow.”
Not everyone. “My grandparents? Mother knew? Father?”
“Everyone knew,” he said, sipping broth.
Inja let this revelation settle and put her altruism away. Here was another reason for Miran to never know she was adopted. It was odd that she’d never thought about Miran’s father before, but wartime, the distance of time, and the separating ocean left questions one never thought to ask, as if the secrets had draped themselves in heavy cloaks. Come no further, the secrets say, our very existence requires opacity.
Inja was glad that it had never occurred to Miran to calculate the date of her conception against their family’s history. Even if she had, Miran didn’t know that their father had been reunited with their mother just three months before she was born. She’d had no suspicion and thus no need to calculate. The cloaks were purposeful—self-protective and embracing.
“Yah, this broth is delicious. I feel stronger already,” said Uncle, unable to fully mask his “ugh” expression. Protective.
“You don’t need more than a sip,” Inja said, and took it from him. “I’m not sure what to think about that story, Ajeossi.”
Miran called from the bedroom, “Inja, how do you say ‘comics’?” She wanted to show them how to transfer images onto Silly Putty.
“They probably don’t have any—why don’t you ask Aunt for newspaper?”
“Ajumeoni, sinmuni isseumnikka?” said Miran.
“Great!” Inja called amongst the giggles of delight from the other room. This could be another miracle—Korean words did indeed flow from Miran’s American mouth, no matter how awkward or childish or incorrect. Those sounds that had always been a part of her had found an inner wind to carry them forth.
She turned back to Uncle. “The other two miracles?”
He opened his hands. “The second miracle was you, of course. That your mother would leave her firstborn with me and take the adopted daughter to America instead. It’s why I know she loves me the most.”
This time his declaration made her smile.
“You were there for the third miracle, but too young to remember.”
Distracted, she parked away the question of Miran’s father for later. “During the war? The Korean War?”
“Earlier. One night you had a high fever. In those days, babies—you were still a baby—got sick without cause and they would die. Your mother and I were spoiled by our parents for this very reason—your grandmother had six who died before us, so we were especially precious to them.”
“Six! Does my mother know about those babies?”
“They weren’t all babies; one reached age seven.”
“Such suffering!” Her mother had told her many stories about Grandmother but had never mentioned these tragedies. Since Grandmother had successfully cloaked the fact of her frostbite, she had the capacity to hide this enormous loss from her mother as well.
“I’ll show you the family register; that’s how I know, but I’m not sure if your mother knows. No reason not to tell her.”
“So tragic. Poor Halmeoni!”
“That’s how life was those days. Hard life. But there you were—my sister had given me her true firstborn child, and you had a scalding fever. I was so afraid to lose you—how could I lose you after she’d put you in my care?”
“How old was I?”
He thought a moment. “Maybe fourteen months, the first winter after they left. What could I do? Every second your fever got worse. I raised you high up in my arms and prayed from the deepest part of my soul that you would get better, and I wept and wept, praying. Not long after that your fever went down, and everything was fine as if you’d never been sick. You never got sick like that again. That’s the third miracle, praise God.” He beamed with love, and Inja leaned to press her cheek to his.
“You saved both of your sister’s children.”
“Not me, God.”
“In your hands, though,” she said, taking his in hers. “Did you ever tell my mother about that?”
“I might have written to her, but she often scolded me for writing sentimental things, so I may not have. ‘Wasting paper’ she always said.” His smile was mischievous. “I probably didn’t. I wouldn’t want to frighten her or make her think I couldn’t take care of you.”
“Ajeossi, I’m only grateful. I don’t have words enough.”
“Let’s not have any more crying tonight, eh?”
They embraced, cleaned their faces, and went to his room. Inja scanned his desk, as if the lost paper with the tongjang’s name would jump out at her. From a chest against the wall, Uncle dug out the family register, a worn thick book with a hand-sewn spine, which absurdly reminded her of her childhood Bible storybook, though it opened from the back. She had forgotten most of the Chinese characters she’d learned in middle school so could read only the numerals, but the more recent pages were in both Chinese and Hangul. The precise and elegant letterforms stru
ck her as being the work of not only her talented uncle, but her grandfather, his father, his father’s father, and on back. In itself a masterpiece of calligraphy, the genealogy in its mulberry and silk-fiber pages was a stunning family chronicle.
Inja would not tell her mother all of Grandmother’s secrets, but she felt sure she’d want to know the names of the siblings who had preceded her. Learning about Miran and listening to Uncle’s declarations of undying faith in his sister’s love once again changed the direction of Inja’s understanding and attitude toward her mother. She appreciated that growth in her knowledge of family had fostered the growth of her love for her mother as well. “Could you copy that page for me to show her?”
Uncle sat at his desk right away and inked a copy for his sister in his enduring script: the names of Inja’s grandfather and grandmother, and four girls and two boys who were her mother’s older siblings, and the dates of their births and deaths.
The remainder of the evening was less emotional, except for Miran and the two young cousins, who all cried in saying their goodbyes.
Their footsteps fell in unison on the quiet walk back to the inn. Inja’s mind was full with Miran’s parentage, but she diverted these thoughts by asking how the evening with the cousins went. At the inn, they prepared for bed in a well-worn pattern of sisterly consideration, then Miran sighed and said, “I’m going to miss those girls,” and was soon asleep. Inja stared at the cathedral of shadows on the ceiling, thinking about Grandmother’s losses. It seemed too devastating a tragedy, even to the extent that she wouldn’t tell her own daughter about the six siblings before her who had died, and it gave Inja pause to consider Grandmother’s immense strength. As a keeper of secrets and a teller of lies, Inja knew that not everything needed to be exposed, but what was right for Miran?