“You like her, nee?”
“Yes,” Yumi said. It was true; Yumi admired her mother-in-law, yet they were strangers to one another. Sunja was not like most mothers of sons; she never said anything intrusive, and her reluctance to speak her mind had only increased after Noa disappeared. When Mozasu and Yumi had asked her and Mozasu’s grandmother to move into their house, Sunja had declined, saying that it would be better for the young couple to live without old women bothering them.
“I thought she wanted to stay with her mother and Aunt Kyunghee.”
“Yes, but she wants to help us. She will come by herself. It will not be permanent. Grandmother will stay with Aunt Kyunghee to help with the store. I’ll hire some girls for them to replace my mother while she’s here.”
After two weeks of bed rest, Yumi felt like she was going out of her mind. Mozasu had bought her a television, but she had no interest in watching it, and heartburn kept her from reading. Her wrists and ankles were so swollen that if she pushed her thumb lightly onto her wrist, she could make a deep impression in her flesh. Only the baby’s movements and occasional hiccups kept Yumi glued to her futon and from fleeing out of doors. Since her arrival, her mother-in-law remained by herself in the small room beside the kitchen—no matter how many times Mozasu insisted that she stay in the larger, unused room by the master bedroom. Sunja did all the cooking and cleaning. At whatever hour of the night Mozasu came home, she had his dinner ready.
It was morning when Sunja knocked on Yumi’s door to bring her breakfast.
“Come in, omoni,” Yumi said. Her own mother could not make a pot of rice or a cup of tea, in contrast to Mozasu’s mother, who had supported her family on her cooking.
As usual, Sunja carried in a tray with an assortment of tempting dishes, all covered with a clean white cloth. She smiled at her daughter-in-law.
Yumi, who would normally have relished such good meals, felt bad, because all she could manage to keep down lately was rice porridge.
“I feel terrible that I’m lying in bed all day while you work so much,” Yumi said, hoping that Sunja would stay and talk with her. “Have you eaten breakfast?”
“Yes, I ate. You work hard all the time. But now, you’re supposed to be resting. A pregnancy is not an easy thing. My mother had six miscarriages before having me,” she said. “She wanted to come and take care of you, but I told her to stay at home.”
“Six miscarriages. I’ve only had two.”
“Two is not easy, either,” Sunja said. “You should have your breakfast. You and the baby need nourishment.”
Yumi sat up a bit. “Mozasu left early today for Yokohama.”
Sunja nodded. She’d fixed his breakfast before he got on the morning train.
“You saw him then.” Yumi admired the tray. “This looks delicious.”
Sunja hoped her daughter-in-law would eat. She was terrified that she would miscarry again, but didn’t want to appear worried. She regretted having mentioned the number of her mother’s miscarriages. The minister at the church had warned against the sins of the careless tongue; it was always better to speak less, Sunja thought.
“Thank you for taking such good care of us.”
Sunja shook her head.
“This is nothing. You’ll do this for your children,” Sunja said.
Unlike the ajummas in the open market with their tight, black, permanent-wave curls, Sunja hadn’t colored her graying hair and wore it cut short like a man’s. Her mature figure was solid, neither small nor large. She had worked out of doors for so many years that the sun had carved thin grooves into her round, dark face. Like a Buddhist nun, Sunja wore no makeup, not even moisturizer. It was as if she had decided some time ago that she would not care what she looked like beyond being clean, as if to pay penance for having once cared about such things, when in fact she had not.
“Did Mozasu tell you about my mother?” Yumi picked up the spoon.
“That she worked in a bar,” Sunja said.
“She was a prostitute. My father was her pimp. They weren’t married.”
Sunja nodded and stared at the tray of uneaten food. When Mozasu had told her about Yumi’s family, Sunja had imagined as much. The occupation and the war had been difficult for everyone.
“I’m sure she was a good person. I’m sure she cared for you very much.”
Sunja believed this. She had loved Hansu, and then she had loved Isak. However, what she felt for her boys, Noa and Mozasu, was more than the love she’d felt for the men; this love for her children felt like life and death. After Noa had gone, she felt half-dead. She could not imagine any mother feeling differently.