“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says.
Kyung blinks as the reverend sweeps down the pew in his shiny black vestments, greeting everyone with the same octopus embrace, even Connie and Vivi, who managed to slide into the seats next to Jin unnoticed. Molly follows close behind, bowing and shaking hands. He expects her face to reflect some memory of the last time they were together, but she keeps her eyes fixed to the floor. It’s obvious she didn’t tell her husband what happened, which is both a relief and a disappointment. Even the devout have their secrets.
“We have a nice gathering of people here today,” the reverend says, staring out into the pews.
The sanctuary is almost two-thirds full. Most of the mourners are members of the church—Koreans with lined faces and dark clothes, blotting their sweaty foreheads with handkerchiefs. Over a hundred, maybe even 150 have turned out, which is more than he would have expected. He wonders who, if anyone, will show up for Marina’s services, if she had any friends to remember her at all.
“When is Marina’s funeral?” he whispers to Gillian.
“Why are you asking that now?” she snaps, barely attempting to conceal her irritation at being spoken to.
“Because I want to be there.”
“We’re sending her body back to Bosnia. Now stop talking.”
The reverend climbs the steps to the altar and asks everyone to be seated. The low murmur of conversation comes to a halt as he thanks people for coming to celebrate Mae’s life. Kyung thinks of Marina’s parents, standing on an airstrip in some wretched little town, waiting for men to unload their daughter’s coffin. He’s certain there won’t be any gardenias at her funeral. No gardenias or carnations, probably no flowers of any kind. Just a modest grave that people will visit for a while until they eventually don’t. The memory of his first and last real conversation with Marina still haunts him, the way she kept insisting she couldn’t go home. Death made it easier, strangely. Everything she didn’t want her family to know will remain secret now. He assumes that Mae understood this, and the bond he couldn’t see was actually there all along. She thought she was doing right by Marina, ending their suffering together, the same way it began.
“Our sister, Mae, is no longer with us…,” the reverend says. “I know that her loss may seem like too much to bear, and you’re tempted to ask yourselves, Why? Why did the Lord have to take her?”
In the corner of his eye, Kyung sees several people nodding, but it’s not the right question, he thinks. God didn’t take her. She took herself. And the guilt he feels is multiplied by the fact that he prayed for this as a child, back when he thought his prayers might still be answered. He wanted his mother to run. He wanted her to be brave. But he knows it wasn’t bravery that made her get in that car. It was him.
“Some of you may even find yourselves blaming the Lord for her absence.” The reverend lowers his head, shuffling through pages and pages of notes that everyone can hear through the microphone. When he looks up again, he pauses much longer than he should, flustered in a way that Kyung has never seen before.
“We’ll now have a reading from Sister Han.”
A small Korean woman stands up across the aisle. She watches the reverend for a signal, confused perhaps by the brevity of his remarks. When he doesn’t give one, she approaches the altar, nervously folding and unfolding a slip of paper. Kyung thinks he recognizes her. She and her husband used to run a copy shop somewhere. Her round face is more withered now, and her hair has turned gray, but her footsteps sound the same, the way they clunk in thick black orthopedic shoes that correct the uneven lengths of her legs. Despite the shoes, Mrs. Han’s face barely clears the podium.