This Burns My Heart (36 page)

When Soo-Ja was a little girl, and her father owned the biggest factory in their town, he would have her sit next to him when visitors—relatives real and fake, friends of friends—came asking for money. They’d plead their cases, explaining their reasons for needing help. Some claimed they had a daughter getting married, when in fact they had a mistress on the side. Or they talked about funeral costs for an in-law, when what they wanted was a holiday trip to Japan. A few had real reasons, like medical bills for a child, or the costs of sheltering a parent. Soo-Ja and her father would listen attentively. Then, her father would turn to her and ask her to make a decision. He already knew who to give money to and who
not
to give money to, of course, but he made her feel like she was the one with all the power. Soo-Ja had inherited both her father’s compassion and his ability to spot liars. They always came to the same conclusion, and it was usually the right one. And when she bestowed the money, the supplicant would kneel in front of her and call her sage. And so she had spent her childhood.

By the time Soo-Ja reached Daegu, he had already passed away. As she sat in the train, staring out at the open fields, she wept—she’d been denied parting words, or a last look. For most of the journey, she prayed for the train to keep running forever, never stopping, never dropping her off, never reaching its destination at all.

Later, during the half-hour trip from the train station to her brother’s house, she sat in the back of the taxicab with her body feeling frozen—it was the longest half hour of her life. The taxi dropped her off in front of a series of huge apartment complexes, an entire maze of them, all identical, washed white, with rows of small balconies; each building was set apart only by a giant three-digit number painted on the side. This was the new Daegu, rising upward.

Soo-Ja knocked on her brother’s door, and he himself answered it. When she saw the expression on his face, she felt a lump in her throat. She took in the commotion behind him, the grieving women chanting
and crying, arms rising and falling madly in the air. Soo-Ja and her brother did not say anything at all. They simply stood by the door and embraced, and when she felt his warm body against hers (he had their father’s build), she felt her face flood with tears.

Soo-Ja ended up staying in Daegu much longer than she’d anticipated. Her days were busy, since there was always someone to visit with: distant relatives, friends of the family. They all wanted to see her. They said being around her was like being around
him
—the same smile, the same warmth. So she met with everyone who wanted to meet her, going to visit folks all over Daegu, and becoming her family’s public face, while her mother stayed at home, retreating into her room, her pipe, and her silence.

Min and Hana came for the funeral, but left almost immediately. Min told Soo-Ja someone had to look after the hotel, and she couldn’t argue with that. Soo-Ja didn’t know what was happening with her husband and her daughter at that point. She didn’t know they’d already decided what they were going to do. Later, when Soo-Ja would tell people about what they did to her, they’d always ask,
Why did you stay in Daegu so long? Why did you give them the opportunity?
This is really your fault, can’t you see?

Soo-Ja liked it in Daegu; she liked the fact that everyone around her was mourning. They were all in love with loss—her brothers, her mother, and she. She liked the fact that their meals magically appeared, courtesy of countless friends, who brought the food not on aluminum or plastic plates, but on real tableware and silverware. She liked the fact that for as long as she was there, she could simply burst into tears at random times, and no one took pity on her, as if it were normal to start weeping while doing the dishes. At night, Soo-Ja read and reread the long, beautiful letters her father wrote her, the blue ink stained by tears, rendered nearly unreadable.

My dear Soo-Ja,

I have not heard from you in a very long time. I can imagine you are very busy, working in that hotel and raising Hana. It hurts me,
sometimes, to think of you working such long hours. It is embarrassing to me, to think that I could not give my daughter a better life. Everything I worked for—the factory, the business—they were so that you could have a comfortable future. It seems to me that I have failed.

It pains me to know that I want to give you more, but I have so little left. All I can give you now is my love, and it seems so insignificant, so inconsequential. My love cannot get you a day off; it won’t pay for a bowl of rice. My fortune is gone now, and so is much of my health. I see friends of mine turn to prayer for comfort—and drink, too, which you know I have always been fond of—but I want to tell my friends not to fear what lies ahead. I am not afraid of dying—I am only afraid of the hurt it may cause those I leave behind. If something happens to me, cry, but do not cry too long; mourn, but do not mourn too much.

Know that I count myself lucky that I have had so much love in my life—from your mother, your brothers, and from you. You especially—who keeps running away from me. But I will always find you, no matter where you go. I will always be a part of your life. I will always care for and protect you.

Your loving father

Soo-Ja was sitting on her father’s old bed, looking at photograph albums, when she saw her mother appear by the doorsill. Soo-Ja’s mother had always seemed old to her, even when she was younger. Now that she was a grandmother, she seemed to have finally fit into the role she’d waited for all her life. She’d been wearing the same outfit recently, almost like a uniform—heavy, padded brown pants held down by white socks, and a knitted green vest with white buttons.

“Why did you leave that money on my dresser?” asked Soo-Ja’s mother.

“It’s for all the phone calls I’ve been making to Seoul.”

“That’s more than just for phone calls to Seoul,” said Soo-Ja’s mother, entering the room. Soo-Ja moved aside slightly, so her mother could sit on the bed. “Phone calls cost a lot less than that.”

“It’s all right, Mother,” said Soo-Ja. “You and I both know I owed Father a lot of money. And I will send you more, every month.”

Soo-Ja’s mother squinted at her daughter, as if trying to read her. “Are you still torturing yourself about your father’s loan to old Nam Lee?”

“How can I not? Father living here. Losing all his money. It was my fault.”

“No, Soo-Ja. Your father lost everything because he
drank
so much. He’d come home, and relatives would ask for money, and he’d give it to them. His brother once stole his signature stamp and used it to fleece one of his bank accounts. Some other scoundrel took money that your father meant to use to build a school, and ran out of town. The money he lost because of you was relatively little.”

Soo-Ja did not reply at first, as she felt the blood drain from her face. She began to feel herself crack open; that detail of her life had long been as much a part of her as her arms and legs. “But I always thought that he had ruined himself because of me.”

“Your father let you think that,” said Soo-Ja’s mother, with a sigh. She produced a bag from under the bed; it was filled with dried rolls of mugwort and incense. As Soo-Ja watched, her mother picked up one roll of dried mugwort and pressed its end against her finger, while lighting the other end with an incense stick. By the time she pulled the incense away, the heat had made the mugwort glue itself on her finger.

Soo-Ja breathed heavily, starting to lose her bearings. “Why did he do that? Do you have any idea how horrible I’ve felt all these years? Do you know how much guilt I felt, every day?”

Soo-Ja’s mother reached for another roll of mugwort and placed it on her index finger. The smell of incense filled the room.

“You’re so ignorant sometimes, it hurts my ears,” said Soo-Ja’s mother. “Behind his tough facade, your father was a cub. And he was terrified of losing you. You had just gotten married. He needed something to hold over you.”

Soo-Ja began to weep. Her mother continued lighting the mugwort rolls, until every single one of the fingers in her left hand had one attached to its tip. Soo-Ja had watched her mother do this many times
growing up. The mugworts would burn slowly, and were supposed to heal different ailments. In Soo-Ja’s mind, those sticks were as much a part of her mother as her eyes and nose. They were the kind of thing she’d remember her by, long after she passed away.

“Don’t be angry at your father. Now that you’re a parent, you must know what it’s like to fear losing your grasp over your child.”

Soo-Ja looked at her mother, as the light smoke covered her face in a thin white layer. For a moment, she longed to touch her wrinkled warm hand and feel it against her own skin. Her mother was so small and hunched, but still so strong. Her mother’s life was so different from hers.

Suddenly, breaking Soo-Ja’s reverie, the telephone on the nightstand began to ring. Soo-Ja guessed it would be Min and Hana. It was late, later than the time she usually called them at night, and Soo-Ja figured they were concerned. Soo-Ja’s mother motioned for her daughter to pick it up, as she excused herself from the room.

But when Soo-Ja answered the phone, she did not hear Min’s voice. Instead, she heard the unexpected sound of Miss Hong’s distinct cadences, the round, exaggerated phonemes of a woman from the countryside, sigol. She was half crying, half mumbling, and it took Soo-Ja a while to understand why the chambermaid was calling her. Still, even after the words became clear, Soo-Ja could not believe what she had just been told.

The shock almost made her drop the receiver.

Hours Later

Seoul and Los Angeles

S
oo-Ja arrived back in Seoul late in the evening and found a handwritten sign on the glass door of the hotel reading “Closed.” She had some trouble with her keys and struggled to get inside. Right then, she regretted refusing her brother’s offer to come with her. She’d been wrong to think she could handle all of this by herself. But during the ride on the train, she’d managed to convince herself this was simply a misunderstanding, and Miss Hong had alarmed her for nothing. Min and Hana would be in the hotel when she came in. They’d hug her from behind, and ask her why it had taken her so long to return home.

“Hana’s mother?” Miss Hong’s disembodied voice greeted her as she came in.

“Where’s Min? Where’s Hana?” Soo-Ja asked, turning the lights on.

Miss Hong’s body came out of her room and joined her voice as she hurriedly put on her slippers and rushed forward in her hanbok, putting her hair in a bun.

“Hana’s mother, I tried to stop them, I really did! Please don’t be mad at me.”

“What happened?” Soo-Ja asked her. “Where are Hana and Min?”

“I told you on the phone! They left,” said Miss Hong, her eyes growing big.

“No, this can’t be happening,” said Soo-Ja, shaking her head. Had
they lived in peace for so long that she had forgotten what her husband could be like? “Even for Min—he wouldn’t do this to me!”

Miss Hong reached for her arm and pulled her toward Soo-Ja’s own room. In there, lying on top of a sausage-shaped pillow, Soo-Ja found a sheet of paper where a sleeping head should have been. Miss Hong pointed to it, her face anxious, suddenly going mute. Soo-Ja quickly reached for the letter and began to read.

Dear Soo-Ja,

So many people want to move to America, but can’t. While we—we have family there and the money. That’s why I decided we should immigrate.

Soo-Ja put the letter down, gasping. Now she could no longer pretend that her family was still home. Miss Hong, seeing the stunned look on Soo-Ja’s face, propped her up with her right hand and offered to bring her some water. Soo-Ja shook her head and reached for the letter again.

Now that your father is dead, I suppose the money from the land can go to Hana. We will spend it on her education. I promise I won’t touch it.

I have made arrangements with Gi-yong Im to transfer the funds from the sale to our accounts. I have also left behind some cash for you to buy a ticket to join us.

I know we should have consulted you before we did this. And we would have. If you were here. Are you ever coming back? Isn’t two weeks too long to be gone? Do you not miss us at all?

Please don’t be mad at me. I was afraid that if I asked you, you would never let us go. In a way, I’m helping you, so you don’t have to make a tough decision. The decision has been made for you, and now you can look forward to a great future in a great country!

I know I am doing the right thing, and I will explain it all to you once you get here. We’ll be staying with my parents. The address is on the back. It is in English, but I think you can read it.

Hurry to your new home.

Your husband,

Min

Soo-Ja made a mad dash to Min’s desk, looking for her in-laws’ phone number. Her mind raced with thoughts. She had been gone for too long. She had given Min too much time alone to plot and plan and go back and forth in his decision, until he finally began packing their bags. This couldn’t have been a spur-of-the-moment decision—it took too long and too much work to get the tourist visas and plane tickets. Soo-Ja wondered if her absence had made him feel abandoned, and maybe she had, in fact, abandoned him, choosing her father’s memory over his live, anxious body. Still, he’d done this in the most cowardly and hurtful way possible. Not even a phone call.

But why the sudden departure?
Soo-Ja knew that for years Min had yearned to reunite with his father, but she never thought he’d act on his own like this. There had to be more to his decision. And how could he take Soo-Ja’s own daughter away from her! Without consulting her! Soo-Ja asked herself how he could be so selfish. Hana must have been thrilled, of course, to go to America. She was too young to understand what her father was doing.