This Burns My Heart

Chapter seven

By December of that year, Soo-Ja had a new president, a new constitution, and a missing husband. The police had come by several times by then, and each time they told them Min had fled to Japan, and they had no contact with him. The officers, of course, did not believe them, and searched the house every time. Flashlights made circles in the kitchen furnace, and turned visible the excrement in the outhouse. Gloved hands dug through the armoires in every room, clothes flying in the air like grasshoppers. Standing behind them with her hands locked, Soo-Ja imagined Min as an invisible man, rushing from room to room, only steps ahead of the investigators, in narrow misses. She rooted for him, though she knew, of course, exactly where he was: hiding with a relative in the port town of Pusan, in case he had to hop into a boat and flee, in fact, to Japan. Soo-Ja had offered to go with him, but Min insisted that he hide alone—it would be easier, he said, though she suspected he simply did not want to inconvenience his parents by depriving them of their daughter-in-law.

Over time, Soo-Ja grew tired of the police’s constant visits, as if they were mad guests who liked to play at scavenger hunts, undoing the stone paths she had so painstakingly arranged, or stepping on floors wearing shoes, much to her horror. Her fear of them quickly became annoyance, especially one time when the lead officer (a new one, when the case was reassigned) dared to reach for Hana, and asked her if she had seen her daddy. She thought it was cruel to ask a three-year-old that, though later she wondered if she’d been simply covering up for her own guilt at seeing Hana deprived of her father.

Soo-Ja didn’t know exactly where Min was, though one of his letters mentioned a house with a thatched roof, slightly belowground, in a remote village, and that to get there one had to cross a potato field, some rice paddies, and a river. He was terribly bored, he said, unable to work or leave the house. There was no radio there, and the only time he saw someone was once or twice a week when his old uncle would come by with pots full of watery rice and a little banchan: cubed turnips laced with grains of sand, and pickled cabbage more sour than spicy. She felt like writing back, Can’t they boil an egg for you? Or kill a chicken? Soo-Ja wondered if this was any better than jail, but as she lay in bed alone at night, thinking about it, she figured it was. At least he could breathe in some fresh air, and watch the sun rise and fall. And she knew Min was safe. Her only worry for the moment was that Min would alienate his uncle. She could see the uncle start out feeling sorry or protective of Min, but then growing tired of him. Maybe the uncle would not come by as often, or not be as nice to Min, frustrating and frustrated as he was, living the life of a dog tied to a post.

Around Christmas, Soo-Ja decided she should visit Min. It had been almost two months, and Soo-Ja felt that it would be safe. She wanted to check on his state, and to have him see Hana, as she knew the separation was tough on both of them. How do you explain to a three-year-old that the police are after her father, and he has to hide for the time being? Soo-Ja knew how much Hana wanted to sit on her father’s familiar lap, and how much Min wanted to kiss his daughter’s cheeks, turning her upside down and making her giggle.

When Soo-Ja told Father-in-law of her plans, he nodded and said that he would come, too, along with Mother-in-law and the others, as if this were someone’s strange idea of a family vacation. Soo-Ja told him she should go on her own, and this was just so Hana could see her father. But Father-in-law looked terribly hurt, and said he missed Min much more than Hana missed her daddy. Soo-Ja at first couldn’t believe he was comparing his feelings to those of a toddler, but finally she relented, amazed that he’d already forgotten the very reason Min had to hide in the first place. Father-in-law felt no guilt for sacrificing his son, nor—her second hope—any gratitude toward him. She wondered if he wrestled with those demons on his own, in the dark, until she figured that was wishful thinking on her part. Regret and pangs of conscience are feelings we assign to others to make the world seem a little more fair, to even things out a little and provide consolation. In reality, those who do wrong to us never think about us as much as we think about them, and that is the ultimate irony: their deeds live inside us, festering, while they live out in the world, plucking peaches off trees, biting juicily into them, their minds on things lovely and sweet.

Min looked much changed—his almost adolescent gait gone, his old swagger replaced by an older man’s contemplative stillness. He’d started smoking more often, he informed her within minutes of her arrival, and each drag of his cigarette seemed like a reproach to her. Min had lost weight, and his clothes—a light brown pullover sweater with crew neck and dark brown pleated gabardine pants—hung over him like an older brother’s hand-me-downs. He seemed to her like someone who had come to life only upon her wish, but in doing so made her aware of her initial impulse—to long for him, endlessly, rather than actually have this awkward, foreign body inches away from her.

Father-in-law and the others had stayed behind in his brother’s house near the harbor; Soo-Ja and Hana alone had made the crossing in the middle of the night, knees deep into freezing lakes, past wet marshes and muddy banks, before arriving at the secluded one-room house by an abandoned potato field. The house was miles away from the main roads, in a mostly unpopulated area, and the few people who did live nearby—farmers and rice paddy workers—did not think to bother Min. Although, he told Soo-Ja in a paranoid manner, those who did pass by him acted as if they knew he was there hiding, and were careful not to get too close, keeping the river and the night between them.

Soo-Ja figured this was the worst kind of solitude, but she could see how it might become comfortable after a while. She had a vague feeling that less than an hour after their arrival, Min already wanted her and Hana to go—even though he had waited two months for this visit; even though this was the first time since getting there that he got to speak to a human being other than his uncle; even though as soon as they left, he would no doubt start missing them again. Soo-Ja felt like the two of them were bothering him, reminding him of all the things he couldn’t do. Whatever his little routines were now—counting cans by the window, doing push-ups against the floor, reading the same books over and over—they had probably become his reality, and maybe more reliable to him than this mirage of wife and daughter appearing just so it could grow fainter and disappear again.

Soo-Ja watched Min play with Hana, as she sat on his lap, her little back resting against his belly as she played with a pair of dice she’d found on the floor. Hana had a habit of biting her lower lip in intense concentration, and when she’d notice him staring at her, she’d look up and smile briefly, as if thankful for the attention, before going back to busying her hands.

The two of them did this for a while, until Hana noticed Min’s plate of food, filled with the fruits and fried meats that Soo-Ja had brought him. Hana reached for a sweet potato; it was, Soo-Ja knew, one of her daughter’s favorite things to eat. Hana dug her fingers into it clumsily, mashing it when she tried to peel the skin off. Soo-Ja thought of helping her, but she liked watching her daughter do things on her own. Hana loved to mimic. She’d pretend, for instance, to do laundry, and when her mother sat Indian-style by the water pump, Hana would do the same, rolling up her shirt to her upper arms, and wiping the imaginary sweat off her forehead.

When Hana finished peeling the sweet potato, Soo-Ja thought her daughter would eat it, but instead Hana split it into three parts. She held one piece toward her mother, one toward her father, and a small chunk for herself.

“Thank you, Hana,” said Soo-Ja, touched by her daughter’s gesture.

“Thank you, Hana,” said Min, taking his portion. He did not put the potato in his mouth; instead, he stared at it, as if staring at his daughter’s love.

Soo-Ja held back a tear, as she realized how much father and daughter missed each other. All three of them ate in silence, Soo-Ja and Min watching Hana. They appreciated the illusion of normalcy, eager to forget that they were miles and miles away from their home, in a tiny room scarcely bigger than an outhouse. Soo-Ja realized at that moment that the biggest luxury in life was the ability to make plans, to count on the future as if it were something pinned down on a map. She wanted to speak in terms of years, not days; know exactly when Min would return, when they could resume their lives. How strange, she thought, that she longed, desperately, for old routines that once drove her to tears—tiresome and dull as her days had been, their certainty had made them bearable. This was like holding your breath in a bad dream, and when you woke up, you found out you still could not breathe out.

During their days in Pusan, Min’s family stayed at Min’s uncle’s house, about a good hour away from the hiding place. Because they were cherished guests, they were given the best and largest room in the house. Soo-Ja had no idea where the uncle and his family—a wife and a five-year-old boy—slept, since she saw only two other small rooms in the house, both of which were cluttered with old furniture, worn-out bicycles, dusty boxes of rice and noodles, and a surprisingly large collection of vinyl records, along with an old Victrola.

This meant all of them—Father-in-law, Mother-in-law, Na-yeong, Chung-Ho, Du-Ho, In-Ho, Hana, and Soo-Ja—slept on the floor in one room, one next to the other, in a row of horizontal lines. This wasn’t something to argue over, or to be discussed. It was simply accepted, and many families, who could not afford to rent houses with more than one room, did this routinely, with couples and their relatives cooking and living and sleeping in the same room.

While everyone else seemed to thrive in this arrangement, Soo-Ja found the lack of privacy and solitude unbearable. It was too cold to stay outside for very long, and in other rooms, Soo-Ja felt like she got in her uncle’s way. So she had to be in the same space with Father-in-law and Mother-in-law for hours on end, and she found herself unable to hide her irritation at them. This tableau would be her life if something, God forbid, she thought, happened to Min.

As Soo-Ja played with Hana on her lap, she watched her family. In one corner, the boys played a game of baduk. In another, Mother-in-law clipped Na-yeong’s fingernails. Across from them, Father-in-law sat by himself under a window. Soo-Ja noticed that he had a strange ability to be doing nothing but making himself look busy, in the same way emperors and kings—who were just sitting most of the time—managed to as well.

“It would be a waste to come all the way here and not do some sightseeing. Tomorrow we’ll go to the Haundae Tourist Hotel. We’ll pretend to be guests, and bathe in some of their medicinal hot spring water,” said Father-in-law.

Soo-Ja looked at him in disbelief. “What about your son? You should go visit him while you’re here.”

Father-in-law waved his backscratcher at her. “Don’t tell me what I should do.”

“What you should do is go to the police and tell them what you did,” said Soo-Ja. “Tell them how you let him take the blame for you.”

“Min’s lucky he never got arrested for something or other before,” said Father-in-law. “He’s been getting in trouble since he was seven years old. I had to grease a lot of palms to keep him out of jail.”

Soo-Ja could see how much he wanted to yell at her, but something held him back. She realized then that he still had hopes that she would get her father’s money for him.

“He’s your son. You can’t put him through this,” Soo-Ja said, directing this to the others, hoping to elicit their rebellion.

“You’re trying to undo something that already happened. I go to the police and turn myself in, things would turn out ugly very quick. Why do you think the police have been so lackadaisical looking for Min? Why do you think Min is still free? They know, Soo-Ja. They know because sons have sacrificed themselves for their fathers for centuries. If anyone’s at fault here, it isn’t me, for exercising my parental privileges, but Min, for not offering himself first.”

The world, as explained by her father-in-law, felt like the narrow mazelike streets near her house that Soo-Ja used to run through as a child. You had to know where to turn, or you could get lost for days, steeped in their unspoken secrets.

“Then I will stay here with Min,” said Soo-Ja. “It’s not fair for him to endure this alone. He needs Hana and me.”

“No. You’re coming back to Daegu with us,” said Father-in-law. “And you’re going to get your father to help us.”

Soo-Ja noticed that Mother-in-law had been silent through this. She had stopped dyeing her hair with henna, and the gray now crowded out the black. Her eyes—usually knowing and canny—seemed foggy and distant. So she missed Min after all, thought Soo-Ja. In her fantasies, Soo-Ja could see Min’s mother making Father-in-law magically disappear, trading him for the son she loved.

“Be sensible, Soo-Ja,” said Father-in-law gently, almost kindly. “Go talk to your father.” She finally understood his pull. After all his angry and harsh words, the mere hint of his approval could be irresistible. For all her mistrust of him, it was amazing how much she still wanted him to like her.

Nevertheless, Soo-Ja decided to stand firm. “No, I won’t bring my father into this. You’ll have to find some other way.”

Pusan reminded Soo-Ja of the years during the war, when her family had fled there to escape the communists. It also made her think of Yul, who had moved there a few months after his graduation from medical school. They hadn’t seen each other in almost four years, but for a while, he had sent her letters—not to her house, but to her parents’ house. An investor had agreed to back Yul’s medical facility, and he’d opened an office, along with another partner, in the ever-growing port city. Soo-Ja pictured him practicing medicine behind a window in a square box of a room, with a wooden plaque the size of a mailbox out front, his name carved and colored in black ink.

Soo-Ja desperately wanted to see Yul. It would be foolish to be in Pusan and not look for him. So the day before she was supposed to return to Daegu, she decided to track down his address. She got it rather quickly, just by asking the telephone operator, who told her of a Dr. Yul-Bok Kim practicing in the Suyeong-gu district, near the city’s busiest marketplace. The woman also gave Soo-Ja directions, telling her which bus stop to get off at. (“On the way back, you should try the fish market. Squid like you’ve never tasted it.”) Soo-Ja wrote down the street name on a piece of paper and stared at it for a long time.

She knew she didn’t have much time, and that she couldn’t bring Hana. She couldn’t subject her child to the ride on the bus and the walk in the cold wind. But Soo-Ja feared asking Mother-in-law to watch her, as she’d bombard her with questions. The boys she couldn’t trust, since they were rowdy and unreliable and would probably leave Hana forgotten by the side of the road, while they threw snowballs at one another. That left Na-yeong, a poised eighteen-year-old, old enough to have her own daughter now. She’d never shown much interest in Hana, preferring her Bible and hymnal books, but Soo-Ja figured she’d do her this favor.

“Where are you going?” Na-yeong asked, taking Hana’s hand as Soo-Ja offered it to her. They were standing by the front steps of the house, with everybody else scattered about.

“I have to get some of my shirts mended, I left my good ones in Daegu,” said Soo-Ja, looking down at her clothes.

“Can’t this wait until we get back? And why can’t you take Hana with you?”

“If you don’t want to watch her, just tell me, and I’ll ask Du-Ho. He seems to have more maternal feelings than you,” said Soo-Ja. She reached back for Hana, as if she were an exotic gift from abroad and Na-yeong simply too uncultured to appreciate her.

Na-yeong held on to the child. “It’s fine. Go, eonni. I’ll watch over her,” she said, calling her “older sister.”

Soo-Ja turned to Hana and kissed her head, feeling enormously guilty. It was rare for Soo-Ja to leave her behind; Hana was always beside her or strapped to her back, wherever she went. Soo-Ja looked at her daughter and waited for her to tell her not to go, to ask for her to spend the day playing with her. But of course, Hana just said, “Bye, eomma,” and focused back on the doll she had in her hands. Soo-Ja wavered a bit. Was she on a fool’s errand? But things had been set in motion now. She knew that if she didn’t go—even if it was just to see what Yul looked like now, even if it was just to gather one more memory of him to last her another four years—she would regret it, and taste that regret on the rim of every glass she drank from thereafter. Then, as Soo-Ja put on her heavy winter coat, something in Na-yeong’s demeanor made her hesitate. A sadness fell over her, like sudden hail, and Na-yeong suddenly seemed as old as Mother-in-law herself.

“Iseul never asked for a second meeting.” Na-yeong was talking, of course, about her suitor. The only one she’d ever had. Soo-Ja wasn’t sure whether she was asking her a question or stating a fact, so she simply nodded. “He barely spoke to me that day. He was too busy admiring you.”

“There’ll be other suitors, Na-yeong. You’re still very young,” Soo-Ja said gently.

“The first time is the only one that counts. Were you afraid I’d make a better match than you?”

“I can’t imagine a better match than your brother,” Soo-Ja said, not hiding her sarcasm.

“I’ve been so mad at you. And you haven’t even noticed. Could you tell I’ve been giving you the silent treatment?” Na-yeong looked terribly sad, more sad than angry, and Soo-Ja felt as if she were seeing her for the first time. Na-yeong was always so quiet that Soo-Ja had made the mistake of assuming her silence indicated a kind of nothingness, when inside her there must actually be drums and waves and peaks.

“I didn’t mean to ruin that day for you, Na-yeong.”

“Why didn’t you sing my praises to him? I’m sure he was impressed that you chose to marry into our family. Your words would have counted for a lot.”

“I’m not sure if I’m the right person to be selling other people on your family.”

“Of course not. You look down on us. You don’t think I noticed the look of disdain on your face when I met you for the first time? I’m sorry we’re not as educated as you,” said Na-yeong.

“Maybe I should stay,” Soo-Ja said. “It’s so cold, anyway.”

“No. Go,” urged Na-yeong, speaking normally again. She looked a little embarrassed by her earlier burst of emotion. She forced a smile and began toying with Hana’s hair. “I’ll take her for a walk. I saw some kids playing outside, maybe I’ll introduce her. It’ll be good for her to meet kids her own age, instead of being with adults all the time.”

Soo-Ja hesitated, and almost reached back for Hana, but she decided she’d just make the situation worse if she changed her mind. Hana, distracted by her doll, did not pay attention to their conversation. She was like a figure in the corner of a painting, placed there amid the scenery. Soo-Ja stepped back, feeling an odd sensation of being exiled. For a second, she hoped something would keep her from going to see Yul—an emergency or some urgent news—but no, the road was clear, nothing on the way, nothing to prevent her from doing this.

The doctor’s office smelled of lye and cleaning supplies. In the middle of the room, a boiler gave out heat; the few waiting patients clustered around it, all still wearing their heavy coats and jackets. Soo-Ja sat down in one of the small metal foldout chairs. She wondered if the others could read on her face her reasons for being there, and hoped that they would take her for another sick person.

Not too much later, Soo-Ja saw a nurse come out. She wore no uniform, only a red windbreaker and a mask over her mouth. Soo-Ja signaled to her, asking if the doctor would be long.

“No,” she said. “It looks like a heavy snowstorm is on its way. Even the sick are staying indoors. You said you had business with the doctor? You can speak to him as soon as this patient comes out.”

At that moment, Soo-Ja heard the door to the inner room open, and the sound of talking filled the air behind them. She looked at the nurse, who nodded brightly and said Yes, that’s the doctor. Soo-Ja turned, full of hope, her heart beating fast, expecting to see Yul, but instead she saw a man much older and shorter than him, wearing thick glasses and a long white uniform.

“Excuse me, miss.” Soo-Ja reached toward the nurse again. “But that is not Dr. Yul-Bok Kim.”

“Ah, Dr. Kim is not in today,” said the nurse, a little too loudly. “He and his wife are vacationing in the mountains. They ski. Do you know what skiing is?”

“Skiing?” Soo-Ja repeated weakly.

The nurse’s words echoed in her head: He and his wife… So Yul was married now. Why was it that she’d never considered that as a possibility?

“He’ll be back tomorrow, though. Are you a patient of his? What is your name?”

Soo-Ja looked at her and panicked, feeling ill.

How foolish I’ve been! What did I think was going to happen? That Yul would rescue me from my marriage? He’d probably think I was crazy for coming here.

“It’s all right. I—I’ll come back tomorrow,” said Soo-Ja, knowing she would be back in Daegu by then.

“Where were you?” Mother-in-law asked her as soon as Soo-Ja came into the courtyard. Behind her, Soo-Ja could see the sun erasing itself.

Soo-Ja looked at her, confused, noticing how Mother-in-law’s voice seemed too strident, almost hysterical. For a moment, Soo-Ja felt the odd sensation that her mother-in-law stood in her way, not letting her go find Hana.

“I was just running an errand. Didn’t Na-yeong tell you?” Soo-Ja tried to walk past her mother-in-law.

“Leaving your child with another child, what kind of thinking is that?”

Soo-Ja could hear it clearly now, the panic in Mother-in-law’s voice. Soo-Ja swallowed, feeling something hard sprout inside her lungs.

“Na-yeong is hardly a child. Where is she? Where is Hana?”

Mother-in-law didn’t answer but looked at Soo-Ja with pity and fear in her eyes. The lump inside Soo-Ja’s lungs felt like a massive growth now, and it began to pulsate.

“Where’s Hana? Tell me, where’s Hana?” Soo-Ja walked past her and went into the house. As she opened the door to the main room, Soo-Ja found Father-in-law and the boys gathered there. When they looked up at her, she witnessed the graveness in their eyes. Then, she saw something that chilled her blood: in the back of the room, as if hiding, Na-yeong ate from a bowl of rice by herself, without Hana. Trying to keep her rising panic in check, Soo-Ja walked slowly toward her.

“Where’s Hana?” Soo-Ja asked, hearing the dread in her own voice.

Na-yeong made no answer, using her chopsticks instead to hide part of her face.

Soo-Ja did not see Mother-in-law appear behind her.

“Na-yeong, go to your uncle’s room and wait there.”

“No, stay here,” said Soo-Ja. “Tell me. Where. Is. Hana?” She knew by then something bad had happened.

“I don’t know!” Na-yeong blurted out. “I lost her!”

“What do you mean, lost her?” yelled Soo-Ja.

Mother-in-law grabbed Soo-Ja by the arm. “There’s no sense in getting hysterical. She didn’t do it on purpose.”

Soo-Ja shook her arm away from her. “What happened, Na-yeong? Where did you leave Hana?”

“Outside,” said Na-yeong, quivering, the chopsticks in her hand beating against the sides of the bowl of rice.

Turning her back on all of them, Soo-Ja ran outside, calling out her daughter’s name. “Hana! Hana! Where are you?” she screamed into the twilight. Almost immediately, Na-yeong followed, her little body shaking with fear. Soo-Ja looked at her with a madwoman’s eyes and began to squeeze her sister-in-law’s arms. “Tell me exactly where you left her. Tell me exactly.”

“I…. I followed you,” said Na-yeong, trembling, looking back toward the house, as if to make sure no one could hear them. “Today… I took Hana with me and I followed you. I knew you weren’t going to the seamstress. I wanted to know if you were doing something bad, so I could tell on you. Oh, if I’d known you were just going to the doctor I never would’ve—”

“You followed me? You followed me all the way to the marketplace? You mean, you didn’t lose Hana here, you lost her in the busy marketplace?”

Na-yeong nodded. “I wanted to make sure it was a doctor’s office, and I had to cross the street to read the sign properly. I told Hana to stay quiet, and away from the curb. I thought it’d be all right if I left her there for just a few seconds. I was coming right back! So I went over to get closer, and tried to peek in through the window glass. I saw the back of your head in the waiting room, and knew for sure it was you. When I saw you, I got this panicked feeling that maybe you’d turn around and see me, so I hid, and ran back to Hana, as fast as I could. But when I got there, she was gone. I kept calling her name and looked for her everywhere, but it was like she was never there in the first place! I did this for a while, until a policeman came to me and I got scared. I told him I wasn’t looking for anything and I ran back home. I was so afraid he was going to put me in jail if he knew what I’d done.”

Soo-Ja grabbed Na-yeong by her bone-thin arm; it reminded her of a wooden ladle, almost slipping away from her. Soo-Ja made her walk with her, and as she did so, she could see her own Fury-like gaze reflected back in the girl’s eyes.

“What are you doing?” asked Na-yeong, whimpering. “Let me go, eonni.”

“We’re going back to the marketplace. You’re going to show me exactly where you left her.”

“Eonni, it’s getting dark now. It’s not safe. We can’t go back there.”

“Yes, we can. And we are,” said Soo-Ja. Soo-Ja grasped harder at Na-yeong’s arm, almost snapping it in half. If it bruised, fine. Let it be a reminder of what she’d done.

Soo-Ja had to block out her fears for Hana, otherwise her heart would stop beating. All she could hear was her own voice inside her calling out for her child, Wait for me, Hana. I’m coming for you. She needed her daughter more than she needed any of her own limbs. She had only one thought, running through her head in a single loop: Bring Hana back. Bring Hana back. If somebody had told her that her child was in Mongolia, she would not have stopped to pack a bag or change clothes, but simply started walking in the direction of Mongolia.

Na-yeong looked back toward the house. “I should tell appa. They don’t really know what happened. Appa!” Na-yeong called out, hoping to alert her father. But Soo-Ja pulled her forward as she bent her body back like a rag doll. “Appa!”

Soo-Ja kept dragging Na-yeong with her, until the others were too far away to hear them. They passed block after block, on their way to the central marketplace. The streets were empty, some unpaved, and they could feel the dried-up mud on the ground softening the blow of their heavy steps. The sky grew darker by the minute, and they saw people in the distance scurry home, to their warm floors and family dinners. It was only she, it seemed, who stalked forth in the night, like the sole woman awake in a town of sleeping souls. Soo-Ja had never moved with such sense of purpose before. For she knew, as long as she kept walking, kept moving, kept looking, Hana would be closer to safety. It was only if she gave up, and stopped trying, that she knew Hana would be in danger. A few minutes later, Soo-Ja imagined, Mother-in-law would come out looking for them, but all she’d find would be the memory of their bodies, their shapes left behind like the outline of a ghost.

When Soo-Ja and Na-yeong arrived at the marketplace, Soo-Ja experienced not déjà vu but the strange feeling that she had never been there before, as if the town were simply a diorama, and it had been rearranged only a minute before by its restless owner. The streets were still vibrantly alive, now filled with food stands on every corner, their little red plastic curtains cordoning off the sizzling kimchee pancakes and vegetable-filled sausages being served with glasses of soju. You could barely see the hardy stand owners buried inside their heavy jackets and hats, cheeks glowing red from the alternating cold and heat, working the three-burner stoves only inches away from their customers—tired-looking fishermen who ate heartily by the counters.

Though night had fallen, the streets were not dark. Some of the closed businesses kept their windows lit for another few hours, along with the small revolving sausage-shaped signs above their doors, with their rotating strips of colors. Soo-Ja felt as if she’d left the countryside and was now in the big city, full of faces that seemed familiar but belonged to strangers. She could not imagine Hana here on her own, although she did see some children standing behind boxes of apples, trying to sell them, jumping back and forth and blowing into their own bare hands to keep warm.

“It was here,” Na-yeong said, pointing to a small patch of grass below a maple tree, two or three steps away from a closed tobacco shop.

“Are you sure?” Soo-Ja asked her, still holding her arm.

Na-yeong looked as if on the verge of tears. Soo-Ja was not bothered by the fact that she had, in essence, kidnapped her sister-in-law. She squinted her eyes, looking at the area Na-yeong pointed at, as if she could see not just the people in front of her right then, but everyone who had walked by or stood there earlier in the day, including Hana.

After Na-yeong nodded again and pointed to the spot, Soo-Ja let go of her. She began to canvass the area, looking absurd, she knew, with her long hair falling over her face. Her brown scarf, initially wrapped around her shoulders, now almost swept the ground, and her white blouse, once impeccably ironed, was now wrinkled and spotted. The day’s mishaps, it seemed, had chosen to leave marks all over her. She was not dressed for this cold weather, and she froze a little bit each time the bitter wind blew in her direction.

Soo-Ja felt as if the way to find her daughter was to provide the right answer to a riddle. I know you are here somewhere. You couldn’t have gone very far. I can find you. If I look in the right place, I can find you. I will look the way a mother does. I will bring purity of heart to this search.

Soo-Ja started to call out her daughter’s name again. “Hana!” She looked all around her, at all the little girls, one of whom might turn and reward her with a look of recognition. Soo-Ja waved at the adults, one of whom maybe had found her Hana earlier and was waiting for her mother to come claim her. It was that simple, Soo-Ja imagined. Any minute now, she would hear her daughter’s voice call out to her and this would end. “Hana!”

Soo-Ja’s cries became more and more panicked. She started to walk around the marketplace, circling it a few times, stopping people and asking if they had seen a lost child. Strangers sitting by the food stands started to look in her direction and point, and soon she realized it was not sympathy in their eyes, but irritation and disgust. As she approached them, they would immediately shake their heads and bury their noses in their steaming bowls of soup. Some of the women, mistaking Soo-Ja for a beggar, grabbed on to their own children, wanting to protect them from her. She was made to feel like a woman sick with some terrible malady, one that could be easily contracted. One misguided look and her fate could become theirs. But she could not stop; she had to ask every single person in that square if they’d seen her daughter.

Soo-Ja could not stand the growing panic she felt as she gathered more and more nos, each shake of their heads getting her farther and farther away from Hana. As she approached men walking toward her, they would avoid eye contact and sidestep, quickly striding past her. Some of the women listened, especially the older grandmas, their eyes full of kindness. A couple of them offered her a glass of water and warm wheat dumplings, which she refused.

Na-yeong reached for her, looking spent and worn out. “I’m going home,” she said, her voice cracking a little.

“Good.” Soo-Ja nodded. “You go home and tell your father to let Min know what happened. Min can come help me look for our daughter. They will take it more seriously, at the police station, if it’s the father who’s there to talk to them.”

“Now you’ve really gone insane,” said Na-yeong, her voice rising. She sounded so much like Mother-in-law, thought Soo-Ja. That was a favorite word of hers—insane. Michyeoss-eo. “You want my brother to go to the police? They’ll arrest him right then and there. He can’t leave his hiding place!”

“Then am I supposed to look for Hana alone? And why aren’t your mother and father here to help me? She’s not just my daughter, she’s also their sonjattal!” Soo-Ja knew the only people who’d help her were her own parents and her brothers, but they were three hours away by train, and it was night already.

“I want to go home! I don’t think you’re going to find her!”

Soo-Ja grabbed Na-yeong by the arms again and shook her. “I am going to find Hana. What you just said, I’m going to forget it ever came out of your mouth. Because if I don’t watch myself, I might just kill you with my bare hands.”

Na-yeong cowered, averting her gaze. Two or three people stopped to watch their argument. Upon seeing them, Soo-Ja let go of Na-yeong and asked them if they had seen a little girl on her own. They shook their heads. Soo-Ja did not notice Na-yeong running away. She felt as if her sight had narrowed into a circle, and everything outside it had turned into a blur.

All night, Soo-Ja kept wandering through the streets, reaching for strangers who were like buoys in the cold sea, only to be tossed back by them every time, her body growing more and more unsteady as the imaginary waves beat against her. She was in such agony she could hardly stand. And the more desperate she became, the more cruel and cold the people around her grew, until boys began laughing at her and the food stand keepers started to shoo her away from customers. She was like the lowliest of beggars, pleading with no dignity or self-respect, but with tears streaming down her face and questions that were not questions but cries. She needed to tell everyone that her daughter was missing; the pain inside her was so big, the only way to bear it was to give a slice of it to every single person in the world.

Piercing cold air, cold enough to break.

An hour or so after midnight, the town square started to become more and more deserted—noodle stand owners packing red tents, fruit peddlers putting away bruised pears, drunks staggering elsewhere—until not a soul walked the streets other than Soo-Ja, shivering in the wind. Snow began to fall little by little, dancing in front of her. Initially, it acted like a friend, glad to see her. Then, more like a spurned lover, quickly covering the ground, and turning it thick and slippery. She had nowhere to go, not a won in her pockets. Soo-Ja could not go back to her in-laws’. She could not add to the distance between her daughter and herself. But she also could not stay in a single spot for very long, as the lashing cold made every drawn breath feel like swallowing ice. So Soo-Ja kept walking in circles, going nowhere, helpless. Eventually, she felt her hands and feet freeze up, and had the distinct feeling she might topple over, stiff, like a statue.

When Soo-Ja had only five more steps left in her, she took those halting steps to the front of the medical office at the end of the street. She had felt such guilt earlier that now she did not think she’d dare come back to the place where this nightmare had begun. But, hoping that there might be a night nurse on call, Soo-Ja made her way there and knocked on the door, tasting the bitter ice in her mouth. She waited a few seconds, but no one came. The nurses, too, must have gone home. She banged on the door until her knuckles were almost stripped raw. Whatever hope she had left in her vanished instantly. Soo-Ja had been saving that door as a last alternative, but it had never been an alternative to begin with. With not an ounce of energy left in her body, Soo-Ja collapsed and fell to the ground. She pushed against the cold glass of the window, trying to pull herself up, but to no avail. She opened her mouth wide, having trouble breathing. She sucked in the air hungrily, but nothing happened. She closed her eyes, unconscious, as the snow began to bury her.