“I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought,” I confessed, because my years of believing that I’d be ready when she came back had turned out to be false. I hadn’t been prepared for any of this.
“I thank you anyway.” She lifted her chin as she added, “The ceremony will be tomorrow at the church, as I told you earlier. The banquet will be at my aunt and uncle’s home. You are welcome to attend. The children would love to have you with them on their joyous day.”
But as much as I loved my daughter, I couldn’t go to her wedding. First and foremost, it would have been disrespectful to her father, brother, and aunt. On another level, I was too hurt by Joon-lee’s years of lies and broken promises even to want to see her face. I would have to overcome a lot within myself to break through the barriers that now separated us. So, the next day, I stayed with Min-lee—who also refused to attend the wedding—and her family through the long, hot hours until night finally fell. They rolled out sleeping mats in the main room, so we could all be together. The children fell asleep. Min-lee’s husband snored lightly. But Min-lee and I went outside, sat on the step, held hands, and listened to the music, songs, and laughter that wafted from the other side of the village.
“So many bad memories,” Min-lee whispered. “So much pain.”
I patted her back as she quietly wept. She and I would never be the same after what we’d seen and lost twenty-three years ago, but that could also be said for most people on the island. On this night, I couldn’t take my mind from Jun-bu, what he’d wished for our children, and what he’d feared for them. For a tree that has many branches, even a small breeze will shake some loose. We had grown a tree with many branches. One son had died too soon, but we now had grandchildren who would ensure our family’s line. But wherever Jun-bu was, could he be disappointed in Joon-lee and even more disappointed in me for how I’d raised her? For me, the pride of my life, my youngest daughter, was the branch who’d broken off in a way I never expected. By joining Mi-ja’s family, she had shattered my heart.
* * *
Fourteen months later, on a sultry fall morning, I walked my twin grandsons to school. They usually went with their father, but he’d needed to leave the house early to attend a meeting. We saw other children in the olles. The girls wore school uniforms: a dark blue skirt, white blouse, and wide-brimmed sunhat. The boys wore blue pants and white shirts. We met a teacher as we neared the school. Jun-bu had always worn traditional clothes made of persimmon-dyed fabric to teach, but these days the instructors wore their own version of a uniform: slacks, white shirts, and ties. We bowed to show our respect. The teacher nodded to us and continued purposefully in the direction of the high school. When we reached the elementary school, I gave each grandchild a tangerine. These days, teachers in Hado expected to find tangerines placed in a neat stack on their desks every morning, and I was proud that my grandchildren could participate in that. I watched them run inside, and then I went back home. Min-lee waited for me much as I’d left her, sitting on a low stone wall, holding an envelope in her hand. This was the first letter Joon-lee had sent since her wedding.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“Open it.”
Min-lee slit open the envelope. Money fluttered out of it, which we quickly gathered. Then she began to read: “?‘Dear Mother and Sister, I’ve given birth to a baby girl. She’s healthy, and I’m fine. We’ve named her Ji-young. I’m hoping you’ve softened toward me and my husband these past months and will come to Seoul to meet her. I’ve enclosed money for your travel expenses. We’ll be moving to America in December. Yo-chan will be working at Samsung’s office in Los Angeles. I’m hoping to become a student at UCLA, so I can finish my degree. I’m not sure when we’ll be back, so you must come see us. Mother, you’ve always said that children are hope and joy. Ji-young is hope and joy to us. I hope she will be to you too. With love and respect, Joon-lee.’?”
Min-lee’s voice trailed off. She studied me, trying to get a sense of my feelings. I was ripped up inside. I had a new grandchild. Such a blessing. But that child was also the grandchild of the woman who’d nearly destroyed my life.
“If you want to go,” Min-lee said tentatively, “I’ll take time off from work and come with you. Would you like that?”
“You’re a good daughter,” I said, “but let me think about it.”
A flash of hurt crossed Min-lee’s face.
“Don’t misunderstand,” I said. “If I go, I’d love for you to come with me. You’ve always been a perfect daughter, and I’d need you. But I’m not sure if I’ll go.”
“But, Mother, it’s Joon-lee. The baby . . .”
I slowly rose. “Just let me think for a bit.”
All that day and all that night I tortured myself with what I should do. In the deepest hours of darkness, I realized I needed advice from Shaman Kim. I followed the proper customs to prepare myself. I gave myself a sponge bath and dressed in clean clothes. I searched my mind for any contaminating activities I might have participated in and found none. I hadn’t drunk rice liquor recently, nor had I argued with friends, family members, or women in the bulteok. I no longer had my monthly bleeding. I wasn’t sharing love with anyone. I hadn’t butchered a pig, chicken, or duck, nor had I harvested any marine creatures in the past week.
The sun had not yet risen when I put on my white kerchief and left the house with a basket filled with rice cakes and other offerings over my arm. I found Shaman Kim and her daughter at a makeshift shrine for Halmang Yeongdeung—the goddess of the wind. Shaman Kim was quite old now, and her daughter was training to take her place.
“Visiting the goddess is like visiting one’s grandmother,” Shaman Kim recited when she saw me. “It’s always best to arrive at a goddess’s shrine close to dawn, when she is sure to be in residence. You can say anything, and she will listen. You can cry, and she will console you. You can complain, and she will be patient.” Shaman Kim motioned for me to sit. “How can we help you?”
I gave her the news of the birth of my newest granddaughter and told her of my conflicted emotions.
“You should go to Seoul, of course,” she said when I was done.
But my mind was too divided to accept this simple direction. “How can I? I’ll look at the baby and see—”
“Everyone lost people, Young-sook,” Shaman Kim said, not unkindly. “And you know you want to forgive. If you didn’t, well, then, explain to me why you’ve never taken the opportunity to retaliate against Mi-ja. You cared for her house all these years when you could very easily have set fire to the roof.”
“I stopped visiting it after she came last year,” I pointed out. “It’s scheduled to be demolished.”
“Ah, but how do you know that information? It’s because you make it your business to know everything about her.”
I veered toward the subject that had been eating at me since the last time I saw Mi-ja. “She said that Jun-bu, Yu-ri, and Sung-soo spoke only when she appeared. She said their messages were for her. She said they’d forgiven her. But how can any of that be?”
Shaman Kim’s eyes narrowed. “Are you questioning my abilities to let the dead speak through me?”
“I’m not doubting you or what they said. I just need to know if they were speaking to her or to me.”
“Maybe they were speaking to you and Mi-ja. Have you considered that?”
“But—”
“You waited a long time for them to come to you, but did you actually hear what they said? You should be grateful. They’ve found forgiveness. Why can’t you?”
“But how can I forgive Mi-ja after what happened to them? I live with that every day.”