The negotiation went on like this until a deal was struck. Mi-ja would come to Hado every other day until Sang-mun went to the mainland; his mother would pay for her food, with a little extra thrown in for Do-saeng’s trouble.
The next day my friend arrived, wearing a skirt, a little jacket, and a hat with a veil that came down over her eyes. She looked beautiful. She bowed. I bowed. Then we hugged. The first words out of her mouth were “They will send a car to get me later, but at least they let me come.”
She borrowed trousers and a tunic made from persimmon cloth. Once she’d changed, she looked like the girl I’d grown up with and loved with my whole heart. I had so much to tell her, but she chattered nonstop as she unpacked the basket she’d brought with her. “Kimchee, fresh mushrooms, white rice. And look! Tangerines! Oranges!” She giggled, but her eyes had the bottomless blackness of those of a dying octopus.
She wanted to visit my mother’s grave before going to the shrine for Halmang Samseung, the goddess of fertility and childbirth. I was so happy to see her that I didn’t question why. Together, we made a meal for my mother, walked to the burial site, and had lunch with her spirit. After we’d eaten, Mi-ja and I leaned our heads together and began to share our hearts as we always had. I was eager to hear what Mi-ja had to say about her wedding night and all the nights—and maybe days—since.
“It’s fine,” she said. “It’s what wives and husbands do.”
I took from this that she didn’t like sharing love. “Have you tried tilting your hips up so he can—”
But she wasn’t listening. From her pocket she pulled out a piece of silk, which she slowly unfolded. Inside was a simple gold bracelet. Not so long ago I wouldn’t have known what a bracelet was, but I’d seen women in Osaka, Busan, and Vladivostok wear them on the street, on ferries, in buses. “They’re for decoration,” Mi-ja had explained. Only later, after I’d walked past jewelry store windows and understood a bit about the value of gold and silver, did I come to view the idea of “decoration” as a senseless extravagance.
“Did Sang-mun give it to you?” I could imagine that he’d want his wife to be ornamented.
“It belonged to my mother,” Mi-ja said, her voice tinged with awe. “I didn’t know it existed. Auntie Lee-ok gave it to me on my wedding day.”
“Your aunt?” I asked in disbelief. “I can’t believe she didn’t sell it.”
“I know. All the work she made me do . . .”
“Will you wear it?”
“Never. It’s all I have of my mother. What if I lost it?”
“I wish I had something that belonged to my mother.”
“Oh, but you do. Her tools. Her . . .” She took my hand. “You have her spirit, while I know nothing about my mother. Am I like her in any way? Do I have her smile? Did she feel the same way about my father as I feel about my husband? I don’t even know where she’s buried. Never have I been able to do the things for her that you do for your mother—like this.” She gestured around the field, then looked at me earnestly. “If my husband plants a baby, what if . . .”
“You aren’t your mother. You won’t die in childbirth.”
“But if I do, will you visit my grave? Will you make sure Shaman Kim performs the rites?”
I promised I would, but I couldn’t begin to contemplate what she was suggesting.
We packed up our baskets and walked to Halmang Samseung’s shrine. As we neared, Mi-ja held me back. “Wait. I’m not sure I want to go.”
When she wasn’t more forthcoming, I asked, “Is it still because of what happened to your mother?”
“It’s not that. I mean, it is, but it’s also . . . I’m not sure I want to have a baby.” This from the girl who’d saved worn-out persimmon cloth to make into baby clothes and blankets long before I’d thought about becoming a mother myself? My surprise must have shown on my face, because she said, “Things are not good with my husband.” She hesitated, chewing tentatively on the side of her forefinger. Finally, she admitted, “He’s rough when we’re on our sleeping mat.”
“But you’re a haenyeo! You’re strong!”
“Look at him the next time you see him. He’s stronger than I am. He’s spoiled. And he likes to be in control. We don’t share love. He takes it.”
“But you’re a haenyeo,” I repeated. Then, “You have every right to leave him. You’re barely married. Get a divorce.”
“I’m a city wife now. I can’t.”
“But, Mi-ja—”
“Never mind,” she said in frustration. “You don’t understand. Forget what I said. Let’s just do this. Maybe if I have a baby planted in me, things will change.”
This was the moment I might have said something that could have made a difference, but I was young, and I still didn’t understand very much. Oh, I understood life and death, but I didn’t yet have a true comprehension of all that could happen between your first and last breaths. This was a mistake I would live with for the rest of my life.
We made our offerings and prayed that we’d get pregnant quickly.
“Not just pregnant,” I begged, “but pregnant with sons.”
When Mi-ja added, “Who will be born healthy and have loving mothers to nurse them,” I convinced myself she’d turned a corner in her mind.
* * *
Over the following week, Mi-ja and I visited the goddess every other day. She always arrived in her city clothes, changed into a persimmon-dyed outfit, and then back into her city clothes to return to Jeju City. As soon as she was gone, my mother-in-law would push Jun-bu and me out of the big house “to be alone.” Whether during the day or at night, we found plenty of ways to sleep together without ever closing our eyes on our sleeping mats.
In the middle of the second week, I asked Mi-ja to invite her husband to pick her up so we might have dinner together. She agreed, and the next time she came, we quickly made our offerings and hurried home to prepare the meal. The kitchens to the big and small houses opened to the courtyard, so we kept our voices low, aware that my mother-in-law—even with ears damaged from years under the sea—would try to listen to all we said.
Mi-ja had seemed happier since that first visit, and I asked her if she enjoyed being back in Jeju City. Her response told me that I’d read her wrong.
“When you’re a child,” she said, “everything looks big and impressive. Coming to Hado as a little girl was like stepping back in time, making life with my father seem even grander than perhaps it was. But you and I have seen so much more than this island. I love the beauty of Grandmother Seolmundae and that the sea stretches forever, but Jeju City seems small and ugly to me now. I miss Hado. I miss diving. I miss visiting other countries. Most of all I miss you.”
“I miss you too, but maybe this is what it means to be married.”
Air hissed through Mi-ja’s clenched teeth. “I’m a haenyeo, not some Confucian wife. My husband and his parents are unfamiliar with our ways. They believe, When a daughter, obey your father; when a wife, obey your husband; when a widow, obey your son.”
I tried to laugh away the idea. “What haenyeo would ever do that? Besides, I always thought following Confucius meant that men needed to think big thoughts all day under the village tree.”
Mi-ja didn’t giggle or even smile at the ridiculousness of the sentiment. Rather, a troubled expression passed over her features. Before I could say anything, my husband entered the courtyard. Mi-ja put a pretty smile on her face and whispered, once again between clenched teeth, “We must remember that our marriages are steps up for both of us. Each of us has a husband who can read and do sums.”
While Jun-bu washed up, Mi-ja and I walked to the road to wait for her husband to arrive. Finally, a pair of headlights appeared, coming through the darkness. Once they reached us, Sang-mun parked and exited his father’s car. He was dressed in the same casual style as the day we first met. Mi-ja and I bowed to show our respect.
“Where are your clothes?” he asked gruffly.
“I didn’t want them to get dirty,” Mi-ja answered, her voice a bare whisper.