This Burns My Heart (41 page)

Soo-Ja noticed a hint of North Korea in her accent. “No. I’m a friend of his. I’d just like to see him, please.” Soo-Ja felt the anxiousness rise in her body; it had taken all of her courage to come here. She would not, in fact, have come if Eun-Mee hadn’t gone to talk to her. After Eun-Mee
left, Soo-Ja simply could not keep still. Yes, she had to return the money he’d loaned her, and she let that goal dictate her steps, but in fact she was drawn there by an almost irresistible force.

“Dr. Kim is in the break room. We’re having a party for him,” the receptionist said.

“A party?” asked Soo-Ja, confused.
But it wasn’t his birthday.

“It’s so sad he’s leaving for Pusan next week,” said the receptionist, her manner around Soo-Ja growing more informal. “Are you here to say good-bye to him?”

“Pusan?” Soo-Ja repeated. She had to put her hand over her mouth, to hide the shock on her face. The receptionist could have said Mars, or Russia, and her reaction would have been the same. Surely she had misheard?

“I’m going to miss him a lot,” said the receptionist, with a glint of a smile in her eyes. “He’s one of the nice ones. Too bad he isn’t staying.”

“Can you please—can you please tell him I’m here?” asked Soo-Ja.

The receptionist looked at Soo-Ja with concern on her face, and Soo-Ja could see her own distraught emotions mirrored back to her. Soo-Ja could not tell if the receptionist knew her reasons for being there, but it didn’t matter—the young woman rose quickly from her chair and rushed to the door separating the waiting area from the examination rooms. She bowed to Soo-Ja and pointed to Yul’s office with her long, pale arms. Soo-Ja was touched by her kindness—that she would let her in without questioning her more, without making her wait.

Once inside Yul’s office, Soo-Ja pulled out the envelope with the check from her purse, and she placed it on the examination desk. She made sure Yul’s name faced upward. Soo-Ja was not sure whether to remain standing or sit on the chair, like a patient. She hesitated, afraid to step too far into the room. Soo-Ja stared at the hospital bed, imagining the various men and women who came to see Yul. So much sickness, so much worry. Soo-Ja thought about what Yul did every day: he listened to people’s woes.

Yul came into the room only a few seconds after she did, and she realized he must have rushed there as soon as he heard her name. She
took this as a reassurance—he could have hesitated, maybe even refused to come. Seeing him, Soo-Ja felt the air tickle her skin, as it traveled underneath her clothes, stirring up nerve endings. He had burst into the room so fast that the tail of his white coat flew up a little. He looked out of breath, as if he’d been miles away instead of next door.

Yul shut the door behind him and, like her only a moment earlier, seemed to wonder whether to sit or stand. Wanting to put him at ease in his own office, Soo-Ja walked to the patient’s chair and sat down, allowing Yul to take his doctor’s seat across from her. His knee bumped hers slightly as he eased into the chair, and she moved her legs to the side.

Yul noticed the envelope right away. “What is this?”

“The money I owe you,” said Soo-Ja.

Yul nodded. “Is that the only reason you came?”

“No. That’s not the only reason. Is it true you’re going back to Pusan?”

“Soo-Ja, your timing is not very good,” said Yul ruefully, almost sighing.

“So it’s true. You’re going back to Pusan,” said Soo-Ja, the weight of the words feeling heavy on her tongue.

“Eun-Mee and I have separated,” said Yul.

“I know. So have Min and I.”

“You have?” asked Yul, surprised.

“Why are you going back to Pusan?” asked Soo-Ja, ignoring his reaction.

Yul blinked for a second, gathering his thoughts. “My old patients miss me, and my former colleagues invited me to return. They said they’d welcome me back to the clinic.”

“I see,” said Soo-Ja, feeling as if her gut had been punched. “So you’re going back.”

Yul directed his gaze at her, both love and anger flashing from his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me about you and your husband? Last time we spoke, you told me to forget about you. You told me it was over between you and me. Isn’t that right?”

“And you believed that?” asked Soo-Ja, cracking a desperate smile. She realized they both wanted to shout, and this conversation belonged
in an open field, or by the river. Anywhere but a small examination room.

“You told me that. You gave me no hope for a future. When you left for America, I never thought you’d come back. What was I supposed to do?” asked Yul, with a tinge of desperation in his voice.

“You were supposed to wait for me,” said Soo-Ja, her fingers tracing the metal armrest.

“Wait for you? Wait for you to come back and tell me what? That you cannot be with me because it wouldn’t be good for Hana? That I have to wait another ten, twenty years?” Yul spoke through gritted teeth, his words bouncing against the stark white walls.

Soo-Ja lowered her head and wished the floor would turn into water, so she could dive and swim to the bottom of the sea. “Don’t go,” she whispered.

“I don’t think I heard you right,” said Yul, staring at the top of her head.

After a few seconds, Soo-Ja lifted her head up. Her eyes were welling up with tears as she met Yul’s gaze. She could barely mouth the words—
Sarang-hae
—but it was a beginning. She repeated them again, amazed that after so long, she was finally free to direct those words—
I love you
—to him.

“What did you say?” asked Yul, his breathing growing shallow.

“I said, don’t go to Pusan. There’s nothing for you there.”

Yul swallowed, his hands trembling slightly. “What are you trying to do, Soo-Ja?”

“I’m trying to keep you from slipping away from me. I could not survive that, Yul,” said Soo-Ja, her voice scratchy and flickering.

Soo-Ja reached for Yul and rested her fingers on his arms. She could feel the electric charge running through his body. She knew his heart would be beating as fast as hers.

“I have made so many mistakes in my life,” said Soo-Ja, fighting the pain pushing against her chest. “But my biggest mistake was that I gave you up too many times, and I won’t do that again.” Her shoulders began to rise and fall, and her eyes flooded with tears. “If you want me, that is.
God knows I’ve hurt you enough. God knows it would be simpler for you to be with someone else.”

“Of course I still want you. I know I said some horrible things to you the last time I saw you, but I didn’t mean them.”

“So don’t go then. Don’t go,” said Soo-Ja, the urgency burning in her tongue. Soo-Ja glanced at his face; it looked older than the last time she’d seen him, and the lines around his eyes evoked in her a feeling of tenderness.

“What about the patients who have already made appointments?”

“They can find another doctor. They can wait.”

“Where has this resolve come from?” asked Yul tenderly, leaning forward toward her.

“It has come from living half my life without being able to touch your face,” said Soo-Ja, as she held her hand up and gently brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. Yul closed his eyes and moved his head, so his lips could meet her hand.

Soo-Ja angled to the side and leaned forward, so that their knees were touching. Yul reached for her, and Soo-Ja let him rest his hands over hers. She could feel him try to find the hole in her heart, try to heal it. The kiss, when it came, happened blindly, without forethought. He pressed his lips against her mouth, his tongue gently tapping hers.

As they kissed, Yul’s body moved closer to her, and the room seemed to grow quieter. Soo-Ja felt Yul wrap himself around her, until she wore him like a favorite coat. After a while, they let go of each other’s lips and held each other without speaking. Soo-Ja could feel the vibration traveling back and forth between them. She reached for his neck, which felt warm and naked against her hand.

“Why didn’t you just say yes to me all those years ago, when I first asked you to marry me?” said Yul.

“I was young. I was a fool,” said Soo-Ja, holding him tightly. “Forgive me.”

Yul placed his head on her shoulder, and Soo-Ja did the same to his. He could be a baby, asleep on her shoulder, a newborn with a soft
cranium and the promise of speech. Silent tears traveled down her cheeks. Soo-Ja let out a long, slow breath.

“I won’t go,” said Yul. “I won’t go to Pusan.”

Soo-Ja closed her eyes. She had made so many mistakes in her life, but in that moment, she forgave herself for them. She forgave her past, with all its bumps and imperfections, and let it go, pouring it into some beautiful gilt-edged box, wrapped with cellophane. The life she had was in fact the one she’d been supposed to have, she told herself. Without its lessons, how could she have become the woman she was?

When Soo-Ja finally came outside, Hana saw the tearful look on her mother’s face, and she immediately reached for her. They were in the middle of a busy street, and arms and elbows brushed against them. They could barely hear each other above the din of cars rushing by on the road and buses coming to a loud stop.

“Mom, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Soo-Ja smiled through her tears, wiping them away. “I’m all right. Everything worked out. Let’s go.”

“Was Yul there? What did he say to you?”

“Nothing. He wasn’t there,” said Soo-Ja.

“Then what took you so long?” Hana asked cautiously.

Soo-Ja nodded. How could she hide her joy from her daughter? She couldn’t.

Hana squinted her eyes and looked as if she understood. “You have him, don’t you? You have Yul.”

Soo-Ja leaned forward, nodding, and kissed her daughter’s head. Even though night was beginning to fall, surprisingly it wasn’t cold. The weather had turned the day before, and a warm blanket of air enveloped them as they walked. Soo-Ja liked this—when she thought she might need a coat or a sweater, and she didn’t, and for that she was grateful. Everybody in the crowded street seemed to be thinking the same thing: spring had arrived, at last. As Soo-Ja walked, she kept noticing the faces of the people around her, especially the women. Soo-Ja didn’t know where they were going, or where she and Hana were going, for that matter. They simply walked together, Hana’s arm around her waist, her
head leaning slightly toward her mother’s shoulder. The strangers who walked by and saw them may not have found anything remarkable about them, and she liked being ordinary, just mother and daughter. Straight ahead, construction cranes lifted steel bars onto bare scaffolding, while window-washers descended in their bosun’s chairs. Store loudspeakers announced sales, and food shop greeters called for new customers. Bicycles and carts sped past pedestrians—bells ringing, horns blaring. Exhaust fumes rose from the ground, tinting the air black and brown for a second or two. The streets seemed to widen in front of Soo-Ja and Hana, and the two of them held hands tightly as they kept walking, joining the rest of Seoul.

My agent, Lisa Grubka, at Foundry Literary + Media, is the best agent I could have hoped for, and I’m lucky to have her knowledge, hard work, and good judgment on my side. My editor, Kerri Kolen, at Simon & Schuster, is simply the best: her editorial guidance made this story better in every way, and, with unyielding enthusiasm, she served as this book’s best possible advocate and midwife. Also at Simon & Schuster, many thanks to Jonathan Karp, Amanda Ferber, Tracey Guest, Rebecca Marsh, Sammy Perlmutter, Jackie Seow, and Wendy Sheanin.

In researching some of the historical and cultural details of mid-century Korea, I have relied on a number of studies and memoirs, and am especially indebted to the following:
Korea’s Place in the Sun: A Modern History
, by Bruce Cumings;
Symbolism in Korean Ink Brush Painting
, by Francis Mullany;
Korea: A Walk through the Land of Miracles
, by Simon Winchester;
The Koreans: Who They Are, What They Want, Where Their Future Lies
, by Michael Breen;
One Thousand Chestnut Trees
, by Mira Stout; and
Home Was the Land of Morning Calm
, by K. Connie Kang. I also couldn’t have researched this book without the
Korea Annual
volumes published by the Hapdong News Agency.

I have many, many people to thank for helping me with support, feedback, or both, during the time I was writing this book: Crystal Williams gave me a beautiful home in which to write. Jean Petrolle read an early draft with great attention and care, providing priceless insights and encouragement. At Foundry, “anonymous” readers Chelsea and Laurel. Hyunjung Bae, Michael Dwyer, David Lazar, Wendy Lee, and
Karen Osborne provided advice, information, and suggestions. Curtis Sittenfeld is the book’s
fada madrinha
(fairy godmother). Her brilliance, wisdom, and generosity of spirit touched this book in all of its stages. For as long as I can remember, Maitraya Patel has been my biggest supporter and my best friend, and I could not have asked for a better one—his loyalty over the years has been unwavering, and his belief in me never-ending.

Finally, I am lucky and blessed to have the love of an incredible family. Kwang Ok Park has been the most kind and giving dad I could hope for. My sister Julie is the most generous and caring person I know.

My sister Mila delights me with her wisdom—her initial support for the book helped me keep faith in the darkest of times. My mother, Ryung Hee Park, whom this book is dedicated to and inspired by, is a heroic figure and gifted storyteller. A mother-lion in every way, she has sacrificed and fought all her life to give her children a good life. Without her efforts, this book would simply not exist.

Samuel Park is an Assistant Professor of English at Columbia College Chicago. He graduated from Stanford University and the University of Southern California, where he earned his doctorate. He is the author of the novella
Shakespeare’s Sonnets
and the writer-director of the short film of the same name. He lives in Chicago.