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As soon as she woke up, Mee-Kyong’s fingers worked their way over to her belly and began their meticulous scratching. She wasn’t nearly as swollen as she had been right after the delivery — Mr. Lee’s rations at the Round Robin had made sure of that. She pried her eyelids open. The walls of the bedroom were painted a clean, soft shade of pink. A window curtain with frilly white laces did nothing to block out the late-morning sun that cast horizontal shadows across the bed. She winced as she sat up, convincing herself the wetness in the corners of her eyes came from the bright light, not the pain. She pressed her hand over her side and looked down. The long flannel nightgown bore no resemblance to her uniform in the prison camp or her usual attire at the Round Robin. A warm, soapy smell wafted up from its cotton creases. Across from her stood an open closet where Sun’s red dress hung up like a monument.
Sun.
You heartless fool. Did your soft pillow and warm tea make you forget? Her fingers dug into the skin of her abdomen, tugging, poking, prodding, peeling. She didn’t stop until she drew blood. Then she curled up her fingers and studied the red mess beneath her nails. Red puddle on a dirty white sheet. She inhaled deeply, welcoming the torment in her side, daring it to knock her senseless.
Sun.
Mee-Kyong’s shoulders heaved. The fire from her injured rib raced through her veins all the way down to her filthy, blood-crusted fingernails. She slapped away a tear that threatened to streak down her cheek. You didn’t have the courage to save her while she was alive. You’re not worthy to cry for her now.
She assaulted her belly, etching scars across her skin in rhythm with her convulsing shoulders. She hated that girl. She hated the delicate frailty that begged for protection, the vulnerability that made those around her feel so powerless. Mee-Kyong had never felt so weak before, not even in the gulag. She hated Sun for dying, for having a brother who loved her enough to work out his twisted vengeance on her delicate, wispy body.
The brother. Mee-Kyong stopped scratching and forced herself to remember that face. She gritted her teeth. Don’t ever forget. Ignoring her wet cheeks now, Mee-Kyong recalled his angular profile, his eyebrows that sloped down spitefully. She clenched her fingers into two trembling fists and vowed if she ever met him, if she ever came across that merciless beast again, he would die for what he did.
***
Juliette wouldn’t entrust this morning’s cooking to anyone else. She ordered Eve to take the day off and forced the girl outside to take a walk. Sometimes Juliette forgot Eve could go days — maybe even weeks — without leaving the house if nobody was paying attention. Juliette liked to do her own shopping in the marketplace where all the Korean-Chinese vendors congregated. It kept her language skills sharp when her ears were bombarded with dozens of conversations going on at once, and frankly, she hated being cooped up in that huge empty house all the time. She didn’t always remember her housekeeper had the same needs for fresh air and time alone, and she couldn’t even guess the last time Eve went out.
Juliette thought about the way her husband would tease her if he knew how high in her chest her heart was fluttering this morning. At least, she hoped he would tease her. When he came back from the hotel district, Roger seemed jovial enough, but for weeks Juliette had acted like a spoiled, pampered toddler, throwing fits until everyone around her caved in to her wishes. Could she blame him if he was still perturbed?
At least God had answered her prayers, though. If God really wanted them to get back into hotel district rescues, then that refugee who came to their door last night really was a sign from heaven. Which meant the girl in Kennedy’s old room upstairs was sent directly from the Almighty himself. So why was Juliette in such a panic?
“What have you gotten into now?” she muttered to herself, cracking an egg into a pan along with half the shell. She didn’t know if she should smile or cry. What had she been thinking? She and Roger weren’t young anymore. They were middle-aged by every definition of the term. Their friends back in the States were going on vacation cruises and golfing five times a week. Some were just a year or two away from retirement. Why couldn’t Juliette have picked some other charitable passion — like donating collections to local libraries or something?
The front door opened. Juliette wondered if Roger had decided to stop by the house. It would certainly help her know where things stood between them. Last night, they had both fallen asleep almost immediately after getting the rescued girl settled in her room, but Juliette wasn’t sure if it was because they were both so tired or if they were avoiding each other. He left before she woke up in the morning, which didn’t bode well. She strained her ears. “That you, honey?”
“It’s just me.” Eve peered around the kitchen corner, and Juliette forced her lips upward.
“I’m glad you’re back. Did you have a nice walk?”
Eve nodded and looked around. “Everything smells good.”
“Well, I hope our guest likes it.” Juliette stopped and studied her housekeeper. “You know, I never really asked you how you feel about ... well, I mean ... last night, we were just so overwhelmed that we kind of forgot ... I guess I’m just wondering ...”
“How I feel with a former brothel girl living here?” Eve finished. Juliette nodded, flustered. Eve shrugged. “I guess I’ll know once I meet her.”
***
Mee-Kyong lay on her side, her face dry, her ribcage bound up even tighter with the linen strips Sun had cut for her. For the first time in weeks, she thought about the baby she had delivered a lifetime ago in Onsong, his wrinkled gray skin, his perfectly-formed fingers. She forced out small, shallow breaths and scratched tiny circles on her abdomen with her nail. She became vaguely conscious of a tapping outside her room but didn’t acknowledge it. A moment later, the door teetered open. Mee-Kyong didn’t move.
“I think she’s still asleep.” Mee-Kyong recognized the distinctive voice of the American woman. It wasn’t quite an accent, but a certain peculiarity she had picked up on last night while her hostess bustled about making tea.
Someone else spoke. “No, her eyes are open.” Mee-Kyong didn’t recognize the voice and tensed her shoulders. “See,” the girl said, “she’s awake.”
Mee-Kyong made herself sit up and nodded at the American who stood in the doorway holding a dainty little tray. In her periphery, she sized up the young woman standing next to her. “I’m awake.” She addressed the American but focused on the other, keenly aware she was being assessed with the same degree of scrutiny.
The American sauntered in, and the floor creaked slightly under her weight. “We thought you might like some breakfast.” Her voice was far too chipper for so early in the morning.
Mee-Kyong reached out for the tray. “Thank you.” After an awkward silence, the younger woman retreated, and the older one lowered herself onto the side of the bed, her sublime smile complementing the glossy look in her eyes. Mee-Kyong took a sip of tea, wondering what kind of house these people ran and what price they would charge her for her stay. The woman watched her eat.
“My husband would probably make me leave you alone and give you some privacy, but I just can’t tell you enough how glad I am you came here. My name’s Mrs. Stern, by the way. I don’t know if my husband mentioned that last night when you ...”
She stopped. Mee-Kyong was too hungry to pay much attention to what she said.
“Anyway, you’re here now, and that’s what matters.” The American woman prattled on while Mee-Kyong ate her breakfast. Mrs. Stern acted like Mee-Kyong had done her household some magnificent service by showing up on their doorstep, battered and exhausted. In reality, Mee-Kyong couldn’t even remember if the man last night had asked her to come with him or just carried her to his home. It was the events leading up to her escape she remembered so clearly.
“You don’t need to tell me a thing about what you did.” Mrs. Stern’s voice quivered with sugary concern, setting Mee-Kyong’s teeth on edge nearly as much as the sweetened tea. “I just want you to know that’s all behind you now. It’s not part of who you are today, and it doesn’t have to play any part in who you become. The past is a closed book here.”
Mee-Kyong didn’t recognize the foreign phrase but sensed the woman’s altruistic intentions. Were Americans really so ignorant that they reached adulthood with such a nauseating display of optimism still intact?
“I know you’ve been through a lot.” Mrs. Stern reached her bejeweled fingers out to caress the back of Mee-Kyong’s hand, hesitating only a moment as they hovered over her blood-encrusted nails. “You were so worn out last night I was sure you just needed sleep, but now that you’re rested, we have a nice hot tub down the hall, and you can take as long as you’d like.”
Mee-Kyong nodded, her mind screaming for solitude. She had spent the entire conversation with Mrs. Stern absorbing as much nonverbal information about her hostess as she could, and now she was exhausted. “A bath would be nice.” Mee-Kyong set her teacup on the flowered tray as gracefully as possible, while visions flashed in her memory of Sun’s hair billowing up in the tub around her.
***
Benjamin splashed water on his face, hoping the cold spray would clear his mind. He rinsed his mouth and stared into the porcelain as the drops splattered into the sink. He wiped the top of his brow, his body swaying slightly from the weight of his throbbing head.
He thought about the young man he brought to the Sterns’ the night before. Had they taken him in? He listened but only heard a slight shuffling upstairs, probably Eve or Mrs. Stern getting ready for the day. He dried his face on the towel, letting the coarse fuzz scrape against his skin. He shut his eyes once, and the sound of metal clanking against metal echoed in his mind. Not now. No, please, not now. He leaned forward and held onto both sides of the sink, sucking in a deep, desperate breath.
A scream. A man’s pitiful plea for mercy. Benjamin felt his innards descend and sit heavy on the base of his spine. He reached out his hand to splash more water on his face. He felt the wetness and remembered the blood. So much blood ... dripping off his hands, staining his chest, splattering on the cement walls. “It’s not my fault,” Benjamin whispered to himself. “I was just following orders.” The agony continued to drag him down the haunted corridors of his memory. Benjamin would have never guessed a grown man could squeal so loudly. His stomach churned. He forced his eyes open, gasping like a fish abandoned on the shore. He cupped his hands under the faucet and drank heavily.
“Jesus is my Redeemer.” He repeated the phrase Mr. Stern taught him to ward off his attacks. “Jesus is my Redeemer.” The shrieking stopped, its sound replaced by the impatient water flow from the sink. The dingy cement walls dissolved, and again he was surrounded by the Sterns’ familiar off-white wallpaper.
If Jesus could bring about such great deliverance, as his employers always claimed, why was Benjamin still a slave to these waking nightmares?