This Burns My Heart

Chapter twenty

When they returned to Seoul, Soo-Ja and Hana resumed their lives as if nothing had happened. Soo-Ja went back to work, and Hana returned to school. They had the money. Soo-Ja had checked with the bank; it was all there. If she wanted to, she did not have to work again for a long time. But Soo-Ja longed for routine, for her life to be as close as possible to what it had been before. She had lost both her father and her husband, and she still felt the grief in her bones. When the divorce papers were finalized, Soo-Ja surprised herself by feeling sorrow, rather than relief. She didn’t know many other divorced women. They were like ex-convicts—people you talk about but don’t associate with. Did this mean she had failed, to some extent? She had always dreamed of the day she’d be free from Min, but when it arrived, it provided no joy.

At the time, Soo-Ja worried most about Hana, though her daughter seemed to take her father’s decision well. She even joked about it, said it made her more like American girls, whose parents were all divorced. Soo-Ja knew then that she’d lose Hana to America eventually. First the summers, then college there, then she’d probably move west for good, and marry an American boy. And Min, Min kept busy—he liked being needed by his parents, driving them around to play golf, going on fishing trips, having barbecues. Soo-Ja suspected he might even start dating soon.

And Soo-Ja? Well, she worked a lot. She thought about Yul and Eun-Mee, how they had probably managed to work things out between them. She could not bring herself to hurt their marriage, so she stayed far from both of them. Now that she was no longer married herself, it felt wrong to speak to Yul. Once, she saw him in the street, coming out of the New World Shopping Center. She turned and walked the other way, before he could see her. If they stayed away from each other, thought Soo-Ja, maybe at least one of them could have a good marriage.

But that is not to say she didn’t miss him. Soo-Ja thought of him almost every day, especially before she fell asleep in bed. And she figured maybe that was why she waited so long to return the money he loaned her—that was her last link to him, and once she gave it back, she would have no reason to speak to him. But finally she realized she had to learn to let go, and she gave Hana an envelope with a check inside in the amount he’d loaned her, and asked her to drop it off at his house. Hana went on the errand, curious but asking no questions. Soo-Ja waited anxiously for her daughter’s return, hoping for a word from Yul, or a reaction, but when Hana came back, she said Yul hadn’t been home, and she’d had to leave the envelope with the maid. Soo-Ja tried to hide her disappointment, as this felt a bit anticlimactic. No message from Yul, no final good-bye. Soo-Ja nodded and went back to work, and things might have stayed that way—calm, placid—if Eun-Mee hadn’t burst into her life once again, for the third and final time.

Eun-Mee came the very next day, unannounced. She did not look as well put together as she normally did—her hair hanging long with no headband or pins to support it. Even her clothes were somewhat middle of the road: a purple shirt with a large collar that hung almost as low as her chest, creating a V-neck, with the collar white and blue in diagonal stripes, matching the stripes on her skirt. And Soo-Ja did not notice this at first, but when Eun-Mee placed it on the counter, Soo-Ja saw that Eun-Mee had the envelope she’d given to Hana to deliver to Yul.

“Your daughter dropped this off at my house, didn’t she?” Eun-Mee asked, staring at Soo-Ja across the counter.

Soo-Ja closed her cash drawer and gave Eun-Mee the neutral look she reserved for difficult guests. “It’s for Yul.”

“You know Yul doesn’t live at the house anymore. You have a lot of nerve leaving this for him.”

Soo-Ja took the envelope from her and looked at it—its edges dirtied and worn-out—turned away, in limbo. By seeing its seal intact, she knew it had not been opened.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t open it,” said Eun-Mee. “I have no interest in reading your pathetic love letters.”

“What did you mean when you said that Yul doesn’t live at your house anymore?”

Eun-Mee did not answer immediately. Instead, she simply stared at Soo-Ja, as if in disbelief. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that we separated. I’m sure your husband told you all about the scene I made.”

“My husband?”

“Yes. When I came to the hotel after Yul left me. I thought he was staying here.”

“When was this?”

“The week after Seollal.”

“The week after Seollal? But only the week before, we had tea at your house—”

“Yes. Who’d think that would turn out to be a happy memory compared to what came later.”

“And Min knew about your separation?”

“Yes. I made him open every room in the hotel, even the ones occupied by guests. But Yul wasn’t here. He was at a different hotel. He told me when I saw him again, when he came back to pack things.”

“Eun-Mee, I don’t think we should have this conversation here. Do you want to come into my room?” Soo-Ja asked her, pointing inside.

“I was about to suggest that very same thing,” said Eun-Mee.

Soo-Ja called out for Hana and asked her to watch the front desk. When Hana came out, a bit out of breath, Soo-Ja saw Eun-Mee caress Hana’s chin lightly, as if she were a pet. Hana flinched a little, though her attention was immediately distracted by the envelope on the counter.

“I’ll explain to you later. Just put that somewhere safe,” said Soo-Ja.

As they walked to her room, Soo-Ja thought about Min. Eun-Mee’s story confirmed Soo-Ja’s suspicions that his decision to move to America had not come out of thin air—Eun-Mee’s actions must have given Min his sense of urgency. Min had hoped to keep her away from a newly separated Yul. To this day, Soo-Ja still didn’t know exactly what had transpired in her absence, only that one day Min and Hana were in Seoul, and the next they were in America.

Soo-Ja slid the paper door open and led Eun-Mee inside. The room still had some traces of Min in it. Eun-Mee sat on the floor, and once she had moved some padded blankets and mats out of the way, Soo-Ja sat across from her.

“So you’re saying you didn’t know about Yul leaving me?” Eun-Mee asked, sitting cross-legged on a mat.

“No, Eun-Mee. I really didn’t. I’m very surprised to hear it. He didn’t tell me that when I saw him.”

“I’m not sure if I believe you,” said Eun-Mee. “I wonder if this isn’t part of some plan you hatched.”

“You’re the one always making plans, Eun-Mee. Me, I don’t look too far beyond the present moment. I can’t afford to.”

“So I’m supposed to act surprised when, by sheer coincidence, any day now, you happen to leave your husband, and find yourself conveniently unattached?”

“Eun-Mee, I can’t leave my husband. My husband has left me.”

“He left you?” she marveled.

“Yes.”

“Just as Yul has left me. So we’re going through the same thing then, experiencing the same pains and sorrows?”

“I suppose. It is a bit disorienting not to have Min anymore. I’ve been talking to myself a lot. I still cook for three, and have to throw away his portion.”

“But can you sympathize with my sufferings? You can, can’t you? Oh, I was foolish to think of you as a rival, when you were in fact an older sister.”

Soo-Ja held her tongue—she knew Eun-Mee didn’t mean any of her words. Soo-Ja could detect the theatrical tinge in Eun-Mee’s voice.

“Yes, I suppose we’ve both been left bereft,” Soo-Ja said, trying to remain noncommittal.

Eun-Mee reached for Soo-Ja, and ran her right hand fast a few times over Soo-Ja’s arm, as if she were undoing a crease on her shirt. This close to her, Soo-Ja could see her face was a bit swollen with past tears, and she realized Eun-Mee must have lost five pounds or so off her already thin figure since she’d last seen her.

“Now, older sister, if you could do something to assuage my pain, you’d do it, wouldn’t you?” Eun-Mee asked.

“I’d try.”

“There’s a fear I have—this awful anxiety! It keeps me up at night. But you could put that fear to rest, and make my ordeal a bit more tolerable.” Eun-Mee had come closer to Soo-Ja and taken her hand into hers.

“What is it?”

“I’d like you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“I’d like you to promise me, that if Yul comes to the hotel, and asks you to be his wife, you’ll turn him away.”

Soo-Ja took her hand back from Eun-Mee and looked in the other direction. “Eun-Mee, why are you asking me that?”

“Because I know there’s a chance Yul will come back to me. But he’d do that only if he knew he did not have a chance with you. So make it clear to him that you will never take him.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t promise you that.”

Eun-Mee reached for Soo-Ja’s hand again, but this time Soo-Ja did not let her have it. Soo-Ja could feel the nervous vibrations off Eun-Mee’s skin, the way she seemed to shake from some core deep within.

“How can you not promise me that? He’s still a married man, as far as the world is concerned. Promise me you will reject him if he comes to you.”

“I would do no such thing.”

“You mean that you’d take him? Knowing that if you did, he’d never come back to me?”

Eun-Mee’s legs were now touching Soo-Ja’s, and Soo-Ja felt like Eun-Mee was on the verge of moving even closer.

“No wonder your husband left you. You have no morals.”

“If you’re here to insult me, then you should go.”

Eun-Mee remained quiet for a moment, as if trying to decide what to do. If Eun-Mee tried to hit her as she had done the last time, Soo-Ja would not hesitate to hit her back. Finally, Eun-Mee rose and excused herself, bowing deeply to Soo-Ja. Soo-Ja bowed back and wished her a good journey home. It amazed her, how polite and formal they were acting, when only a few seconds earlier, she thought they were about to do physical harm to each other.

“Is Dr. Yul Kim here?” Soo-Ja asked the receptionist, her voice barely audible. Decorated with ink brush paintings on the walls, and low brown leather chairs, the office was much larger than the one he’d had in Pusan. Outside, Hana waited for her.

“May I have your name, please?” the young woman asked, in a distracted manner. She sat behind a sliding window she opened only halfway, like a teller in a bank.

“My name is Soo-Ja Choi,” she said. Her heart pounding, she smoothed down the front of her dress and brushed her hair with her fingers. Inside, her emotions—anxiety, excitement, joy—swirled around her like mad butterflies of different colors, their wings breaking as they clashed into one another.

The receptionist checked a list. “Are you a patient of his? Do you have an appointment?” she asked, without looking up.

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.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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.