“Yoon, what’s wrong?” My cousin asked as I stared at the phone. Her freckles seemed to have taken over her once-white face since the last time I had seen her. My eyes dropped to her enormous belly.
“I’m huge, right?” She smiled and rested her hands on top of her stomach. “They say if you’re carrying high, it’s a girl.”
She moved her hands down to support her stomach. It was the protective instinct of an expectant mother toward her unborn child. I couldn’t believe that she had walked up all those stairs to my place, carrying that big container of kimchi, holding her belly, face full of freckles.
“I must have been sound asleep,” I said.
“But how could you sleep through all those rings?”
“I walked a lot yesterday.”
Actually, I had stayed in the day before, but I didn’t know what else to tell her.
“You’re still taking those walks?” She looked worried. “You better call your dad.”
I did as she told me and called him immediately. I had no memory of hearing the phone ring the night before. I didn’t even remember hearing it in the morning, when I had been sleeping at my desk. I picked up the phone, placed it to my ear, and dialed the number with one hand while closing the notebook that held my letter to Dahn with the other. The blacked out lines filled my eyes. His letters had fallen onto the floor. Just as my father answered the telephone, my cousin picked up the letters and set them on the desk. She rested her hands on her belly and gazed down at the letters. She did not take her eyes off them.
“Dad, I’m fine. I must have fallen sound asleep last night and didn’t hear the phone. How are you?”
“I’m fine, too.”
Those words echoed inside of me like a bell. I would never have thought that such an ordinary phrase, I’m fine, too, could hit me so hard. If only I could hear the same words from Miru, who had stopped calling. If only I could hear them from him, who was getting thinner with each passing day. I held the receiver and listened to the sound of my father’s breathing. If only I could hear those ordinary words from Dahn.
“Yoon? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I said finally.
“If things are tough, just come home.”
I thought about the year I spent at home after my mother died. That year spent hanging around the country house. The quiet dinners with my father. My father’s voice as he called to me on his way in the front gate. The silence that would return to the house after I answered him from my room or the kitchen. Though we never did anything for each other besides just being there, perhaps by calling to each other and responding, we had helped each other to slowly accept my mother’s absence. When we were children, Dahn used to call my name from the alley before reaching the gate and stepping into the courtyard. Whenever he found a dead bird or saw a snake that had been run over by a train, he would take me with him to look at it. I must have called his name, as well, countless times. Whenever I slipped in the snow or fell in a ditch, his was the name I yelled. Because he was always there, right beside me, or walking ahead.
“That’s okay, Dad.”
When I hung up, my cousin was staring at me.
“Yoon.” She sounded just like my father. She gently picked the letters up from the desk. She looked like she either had something to say or things she wanted to ask. Neither of us spoke for a moment.
“Why don’t you come stay with me?” she said. “My husband is flying to Europe.”
That meant he would be gone for several days.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
She slowly bent down and sat on the floor. She stretched out her legs and leaned against the wall, but in a moment she was sprawled out flat. Her round stomach pointed up at the ceiling. I thought of the book of poetry Dahn had given me the night before I left home the first time. Because of the quote he had written on the first page—I began to tread softly … Poor people shouldn’t be disturbed when they’re deep in thought—the very first book I had bought in the city was The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. The first chapter in the book describes a pregnant woman pushing herself along the wall of a hospital. The dedication read: The most beautiful woman in the world is one who is pregnant with new life. My cousin’s hands kept moving to her belly. Her freckles spread across her cheek and over the cheekbone to her temples. It was not hot, but there were drops of sweat on her forehead. Each time she took a breath, her round belly rose and fell. I went over and lay down beside her. We used to take naps together, back when I lived with her. She smiled, pushing her freckles up toward her ears. She took her left hand off her stomach and reached out to stroke my cheek. Her hand warmed my face.
“Will you promise me one thing?” she asked. I looked at her. “Promise me you will never cover your windows with black paper again.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I always liked having you live with me. Except for when you covered the windows and wouldn’t come out of your room.”
“What was I like then?”
“You were a different person. You looked like you were wrestling with something, and if you lost, you would never come out of that room again.”
All I had wanted was to see my mother, who sent me away when her illness worsened. All I had ever wanted was to be by her side.
“I hope you’re not going to cover up those windows.” A worried look crossed her face. “Promise me you won’t do that. And then I won’t force you to come back home with me.”
“I promise, Sis.”
As I called her Sis, I suddenly felt sleepy.
“You promised!” she crowed.
I nodded. Then I placed my hand gently on her stomach. It rose and fell with the strong kicks of her unborn child. Thoughts filled my mind: I have to see Professor Yoon. I have to walk my cousin out. I have to go to school. I have to take a coat to Myungsuh. But I was overcome with drowsiness and could not open my eyes.
Miru has been arguing with her parents every day, ever since finding out that her old house was put on the market and posted in the window of every real estate office in the neighborhood. She’s been so distraught that Yoon told me she regretted her decision and said if she had known this would happen, she would never have agreed to it. It took her a long time to accept Miru’s invitation to move into the house, and she only did so on the condition that Miru stop wearing her sister’s flared skirt. My condition was that Miru had to stop searching for her sister’s boyfriend. The turn of events left us all dumbstruck. The house had been sitting empty since Mirae died, but it sold just a few days after Yoon agreed to move in.
When Yoon mentioned Miru’s skirt, I tensed up. In keeping with tradition, their parents had piled all of Mirae’s belongings in the courtyard of their house several months after her funeral and burned them. Miru stubbornly grabbed hold of that skirt and refused to let go. Afterward, she wore it year-round. She never took it off. Nevertheless, she listened to what Yoon had to say, and her face immediately brightened.
“That’s it?” she asked. “The day we move in together, I will take it off and never wear it again.”
It is a mystery to me how women can grow so close in such a short time.
Miru begged her father not to sell the house, but he was stubborn. He told her he would buy her another one. She said it had to be that house. They both refused to back down. I understand why he did it. That house holds the painful memories Mirae left behind. All it does is remind them of the grief of losing a child. Who could ever make up for that grief? Miru’s father called and asked me to try to calm her down. But Miru would not be appeased. She lashed out at her father and yelled at him. He slapped her, but still she refused to give in. It was shocking to see her so fierce. Once the house sold, she cut off all contact with her parents, and after she resumed her search for her sister’s boyfriend, she stopped contacting me as well.
|||
I met Yoon’s cousin at Myeongdong Cathedral. She called me at my uncle’s house. I didn’t realize how far along
her pregnancy was—of course, I couldn’t tell over the phone. She sounded so young.
“I would like to meet you without Yoon knowing,” she said.
I wondered why she wanted to see me. Yoon talked about her cousin every now and then. She told me she had lived with her when she first moved to the city.
“Please don’t tell Yoon,” she said.
I felt alarmed and quickly asked if something had happened to Yoon. I hadn’t seen her in almost ten days.
“Shall we meet at Myeongdong Cathedral?” she asked. “From what I hear, you’re there almost daily. I can head over right now.”
Now? At this hour? I checked my watch. It was eight in the morning. But though she had phrased it as a question, her tone made it clear that she wasn’t really asking. She told me where to find her, the decision already made for me: she would be sitting in the tenth pew from the back in the sanctuary inside the cathedral. Before leaving to meet her, I tried calling Yoon. The phone rang and rang, but she did not pick up. I hung up and left for Myeongdong.
When I opened the sanctuary door, I thought the place was empty. I went to the tenth wooden pew from the back and spotted an enormously pregnant woman sitting at the other end. For some reason I didn’t realize she was Yoon’s cousin. She was sitting in quiet contemplation but looked up and smiled at me when I sat down. She got up and started moving down the pew, so I hurriedly stood and made my way toward her instead. She sat back down when she saw me coming. I hesitated, so she spoke first.
“Are you Myungsuh?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You must have been surprised to hear from me. Please sit down. I’m sorry for calling so early. I didn’t notice the time.”
I couldn’t take the suspense and asked her again if something had happened to Yoon. She looked at me for a moment and moved her hands from the back of the pew to her round belly.
“The problem isn’t Yoon, it’s Dahn.”
Dahn. I breathed a sigh of relief to hear that Yoon was okay. But what happened to Dahn? I hadn’t heard anything more about him from Yoon after we all visited him at the training center. Whenever I asked about him, she told me he was probably fine. I thought about the time we had spent together in that old house. Yoon used to stare at Miru and me with this inscrutable look on her face and, once, I asked her what she was staring at. She said, “The two of you seem to share something that I can never be a part of.” During our time together in that house, I came to realize what she meant. When Yoon and Dahn were deep in conversation while pulling weeds in the courtyard, or lying on the deck reading books or drinking beer, or in the kitchen cooking rice or seasoning greens, Miru and I could not come between them. They were in a world of their own and knew each other inside and out. Once they started reminiscing about their childhood, Miru and I could not keep up. Sometimes I caught myself looking at Yoon and Dahn the same way that Yoon looked at me and Miru. Yoon would ask what I was looking at, and I would give her the same response: The two of you seem to share something that I can never be a part of.
Yoon’s cousin looked up at me, and our eyes locked for a moment. Her cheeks were gaunt, which made her eyes look even more deep-set. I noticed that she had freckles. She had a straight nose and clearly defined lips, and her skin was darker than Yoon’s, though that might have been because of the freckles. Her mouth barely moved, but the outer corners of her eyes lifted into a smile. Yoon had often mentioned her cousin’s eyes when she talked about her. She said they smiled even when she was angry. Her face looked more or less how I had imagined it.
“Yoon has told me a lot about you,” she said, using a formal register. “She would probably be surprised to know that I was meeting you like this.”
I told her she didn’t need to be so formal, but she pointed out that we were meeting for the first time. Though her eyes remained friendly, it was clear from her mouth that it was hard for her to keep smiling. Then she seemed to give up on trying. Her eyes darkened, and she moved her hands farther down her stomach. We never see these things coming: to think that I would find myself sitting in the gloomy sanctuary of Myeongdong Cathedral, which had not seen a single day without demonstrations … I figured she did not have good news, so I didn’t rush her to speak. I sat looking straight ahead like a man waiting to be sentenced. The long rows of pews filled my eyes.
“We were told that they were stationed on the beach around four in the morning for a live firing drill,” she began. “An older soldier who was almost done with his service was on the machine gun, and Dahn was beside him firing an M16, when they said they heard Dahn scream. They’re calling it an accidental misfire during a night shooting drill, but it doesn’t make sense.”
She had her head down and was dashing the words out all at once, as if reciting them.
“Dahn is dead,” she said.
I thought I heard the heavy cathedral door blow open and slam shut again with a bang. Something like a black horse seemed to ram me from behind, vault the empty pews, and punch through the ceiling.
“But it doesn’t add up. Something’s not right.”
What went wrong that I now found myself sitting in this cathedral, receiving this news? Was this the price we had to pay for those blissful days spent in that house before Dahn went to the army? Dahn always stayed behind to draw in his sketchbook whenever Miru, Yoon, and I went out. Whenever I saw him absorbed in sketching, I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt him. From what I had observed of his powers of concentration, I assumed he would be an artist one day. It was strange to look back on it now: Dahn whipping up something in the kitchen for us and setting it on the table: tofu and kimchi, green onion pancakes, kimchi stews that he made from whatever was in the refrigerator. His easygoing smile, and the way he said, “I just threw it together,” when I teased him by asking what kind of man cooks that well. Dahn saying, “Just seven more minutes!” whenever we complained that we were hungry, and bringing out noodles or bibimbap. The four of us laughing gaily and eating every last bite. As much as I had enjoyed spending time alone with Miru, it was better when Yoon joined us, and better still when Dahn was around. Had things been too perfect, and we had to suffer for it?
“They aren’t certain of the cause of death,” Yoon’s cousin continued. “Whether it was suicide or an accident, or if he had been arguing with his shooting partner … The units stationed on the coast have regular shooting drills. The soldiers do them on their own without an officer or even a noncommissioned officer present, so they say it’s possible for mistakes to happen due to carelessness. Even a small mistake can be fatal. Though Dahn was only there on temporary duty, they say he was a disciplined soldier and got along well with the others in the barracks, so it did not look like suicide or an intentional accident. They say it was just bad luck. The battalion commander, company commander, platoon leader, and other immediate superiors got nothing more than a reprimand for negligence. But the problem is that the position and angle of the bullet wound don’t match the conditions of an accidental discharge during a live firing drill. The bullet that hit him came from his own gun.”
I didn’t know what to say. We looked up at the figure of Christ nailed to the cross. Two elderly women who looked like friends walked slowly past us and sat down several pews ahead. They took out their white chapel veils and placed them on their heads. A ray of sunlight pierced through the stained glass window and slanted across the cathedral. The tinted light looked like an indelible stain.
“I came to see you because …” Yoon’s cousin said.
She stared straight ahead and did not look at me.
“Because of Yoon,” she said finally. “I was so shocked and saddened to hear about Dahn. I knew him and his family really well. Though I worried about how they were handling it, I still thought of Yoon first. I guess that’s selfish of me. It’s already been six months since he died. But Yoon seems so calm—strangely so. I was relieved at first, because I thought it meant she got over it quickly. But lately she’s been acting strange. As if
she is only now realizing that he’s gone. Or no—no, she acts like she forgot what happened.”
Dahn died six months ago? I rubbed my ears. Yoon’s cousin’s voice seemed to grow louder, like she was shouting directly into my ear, and then fade into a distant echo, and then buzz so that I could not understand a single word. Yoon had known about this for six months? I stopped rubbing my ears and rubbed my eyes instead. I felt like my eardrums were bursting and my eyeballs bulging out. Every time I asked Yoon about Dahn, she said, “He’s probably fine.” Even when I asked if we should visit him, she said yes at first but then hesitated and changed her mind. I looked at her as if to say, What kind of an answer is that? And she said, “I don’t think Dahn wants any visitors.” Another time she told me he didn’t want to see any civilians until he was discharged, and still another time she agreed and said we should go see him. I thought she just couldn’t make up her mind.
“I dropped in on her a few days ago,” her cousin continued. “She was writing a letter to Dahn. I read it while she was sleeping. It was a reply to a letter he sent her a year ago. She wrote that they should go to Gyeonghoeru Pavilion together someday and go up to the second floor … My heart sank when I read that. I know how she feels—she can’t accept the fact that he’s dead. I saw how close they were, ever since they were kids. Some people are like that.”
I knew what she meant. When Dahn came to see Yoon, and Miru found out that he didn’t have anywhere to sleep and dragged us all to that old house, I knew their friendship was just like Miru’s and mine.
“I’m due any day now,” Yoon’s cousin said, and placed her hands on her belly again. “I want to help her, but I don’t think she will let me. That’s why I came to see you. It wasn’t easy finding your number, and I had trouble getting through. That’s why it took me so long. As soon as I got through this morning, all I could think about was meeting you as soon as possible. I’m a little older than the two of you … so I hope you don’t mind my being direct, but I think people suffer the most when they have no one. Yoon and Dahn share a connection that can never be broken, regardless of whether they are physically together or not.”
I'll Be Right There Page 20