A few more stops left.
The subway shook. People held on to the metal poles, stared down at their cell phones. I put down my duffel bag and waited. There were three more stops left until Toegyewon Station. Sister had already left for Busan, telling me about the yogurt lady who always delivered bags of fresh yogurt in the morning. Drink them, she said, or they will go bad. Her last text read, Have fun.
I stared at the subway map. Many lines, hundreds of stations. The map was a complete maze. There were so many tunnels underground. The flashing green light on the map moved onward to the next station. To get to Hongdae, I’d have to transfer. It was about an hour away from Sister’s apartment, on Line 2. I followed the green subway Line 2, looking for Hongdae Station. The photography club was meeting in Hongdae the day after tomorrow. Min had invited me. Tae-kwun would be there too. But first, tomorrow, I had to drive Ms. Han again.
I grabbed onto the pole. The train announced its next stop. Now, only two and a half stops left. I pulled the duffel bag closer. I had packed lightly, bringing only a few shirts and jeans. Min was going to take me to a mall in Yongsan. We were going to shop for cosmetics and clothes, like we used to back in high school, but this time, in Seoul. Not like in Inje, with only a few stores. This time, we’d buy makeup more fitting to our skin tones, clothes that were still in fashion. Min sent me a link to a popular cosmetics blog. Top trending lipsticks, eyeshadows, foundation, and color lenses. Now, I studied the girls and women on the train, noting their makeup, their clothes. I opened the web browser, trying to find something to do while I waited.
On the home page of the search engine, the news was blaring. Its headline: Four Short-Range Ballistic Missiles Launched by North Korea. I scrolled down. An actor was dating an idol fourteen years younger. There was a union demonstration of a large company in a rural province. I scrolled. An online- shopping-mall advertisement. A new movie. A rom-com. The male actor had been ranked the hottest man in Asia. The girl, a promising debut star. Was this the movie Min had told me about? A North Korean spy falling in love with a girl in the South. Min had said there was a movie theater in Yongsan. The rating wasn’t bad.
“You should sit.”
An elderly woman pointed at some empty seats.
“There are seats.”
I bowed, muttering, “Thank you.”
I put the duffel bag on the shelf above the seat, bowing my head again in thanks. The train came to a stop and people poured in, shuffling around as I sat, making sure that their bodies didn’t touch other bodies, putting on their headphones, reading comics, or watching shows on their phones. The train roared through the tunnel.
I scrolled back to the advertisement and tapped on it. The online-shopping mall popped open, showing me a long pleated chiffon skirt. Classic loafers. All the clothes now warm, comforting colors of autumn. Brown and red. I forwarded the link of a cropped knit sweater to Min and texted, How much weight do I need to lose to wear this? The thin model waved at the camera. Min texted back. Look at her waist. So unfair. Do they not eat?
A paper smacked the floor, hitting my shoes. A man had gotten up, leaving his newspapers behind. I picked it up. It was a local paper. The main headline was about reunification, and a summit conference between the United States, China, and South Korea.
Will the Nuclear Negotiations Be Successful?
Page A9.
As the talk of denuclearization and sanctions is still ongoing, the temporary reunion of the families separated by the Korean War has been postponed again.
I read. The heading was about silhyangmin. There were now only 57,000 survivors out of the 132,600 separated from their families during the war. Fewer than half.
The woman beside me took out her cell phone from a pocket. I could see her screen. She texted: Don’t wait for me. Going to be late.
Two stops left. Almost there. I’d be at Sister’s apartment at around five. The subway rattled, and everyone somehow settled into the train’s restless motion: a boy in a school uniform scribbling on his flashcards, a group of middle-aged men with hiking backpacks and trekking poles, huddling together. A boy in a military uniform had fallen asleep, his head drooped low. His military bag was locked between his tanned arms. A mother and a baby. She walked up the aisle, looking for a place to sit. As she passed, heads started to lift from their screens. One person shot up, trying to give her their seat—she shook her head, muttered something, and continued onward. She walked past me. A whiff of something familiar. Bones. I couldn’t see the baby.
A stroller. It had been Jae-hyun’s idea. He said we should chip in and buy a stroller. We talked about it on our way back from Sister’s apartment the day Sister told us she was pregnant. I had gone to see her right after school. Arriving late at night, past eleven. Sister had ordered a large pepperoni pizza, a jumbo shrimp pizza, and honey glazed chicken wings. Eun-woo smiled, told me to come inside quickly. Jae-hyun was already there, eating. He had skipped his class at the learning center and arrived well before I did. That night, we talked about the empty room. We looked through the choices of baby blue, lavender, and lilac for the walls. We searched for organic plush toys, walkers, mobiles, and clothes. Their first baby. Their first room. When would we know if the baby was a girl or a boy? When would I become an aunt?
As I moved, the paper on my lap rustled. I glanced at the front page, worried about tomorrow’s drive. It would be a slightly shorter drive this time—Yeoju was just an hour and fifty minutes from Seoul Station. Ms. Han was going to wait for me there. Tomorrow, I could also start out a bit later in the morning. I just hoped this drive wouldn’t turn out as bad as the first. I didn’t know what to talk about with Ms. Han. Her words and my words never seemed to reach each other. Maybe I could prepare. Something that was relatable to both of us. I opened a web page and typed North Korea.
Its official name: Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. The country’s calling code, 850. Something about that new rom-com again, about the North Korean spy. I wondered if Ms. Han watched movies. If she liked them. If she had ever watched any South Korean movies in the North. Was that allowed? My fingers paused. A movie, or a documentary. I tapped on it. I had seen this poster before. A photo of a river. It was the movie that Mother and Father had gone out to see. I only saw the trailer. A boy and a mother trying to cross over the Tumen River to China. They were hiding in the bush, waiting for the right time to cross. They watched the river, its dark rushing body, the moonlight shuddering. The mother whispered to her son, her voice muted, her words passing across the screen in small subtitles. Swim. If they start shooting, don’t look back. Swim. Just swim. True story, the caption read. The river and its flowing corpses. I had never watched the movie. Too busy with finals. Too sad.
Two to three million died from starvation or hunger-related illness. Serious poverty and starvation, human rights violations.
I couldn’t talk about this with Ms. Han. Was there anything else? Maybe her hometown? Where was she from again?
Someone hit my shoes. A boy bowed slightly, muttering an apology. Five boys were crowded in front of me. Why is it so cold in this car? one of the boys said. All of them were wearing the same school uniform. They would be one or two years younger than Jae-hyun. Soon to be drafted. What game are we going to play? I don’t want to play that shooting game, someone said. Another boy laughed and said, You just don’t want to lose again. Your aim sucks. I wondered how Jae-hyun was doing.
I clicked the screen, mindlessly tapping for images. The photo of the young dictator shaking hands with the president. Soldiers in their khaki uniforms, marching with their legs kicked high in the air, saluting. The tall golden statues of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il. Women putting down flowers on a pedestal, mourning. The related search words: the Kim dynasty, nuclear weapons, Pyongyang, the peninsula, South Korea, the war. I stopped scrolling.
A photo of a woman.
A girl was crying. Standing by a gate, watching as her mother was taken away, dragged back by two men in khaki uniform. The mother flailed, trying to reach her daughter, who stood on the threshold. One step away from the consulate. Away from their freedom. They would have dashed for the gate but for the guards. The mother, her devastated face, reminded me strangely of Ms. Han.
This stop is Toegyewon, Toegyewon.
I looked up.
The doors are on your left.
I picked up my duffel bag from the shelf. The boys pushed each other to take my empty seat. I shoved the newspaper into the bag’s front pocket and hurried to the door. Exit 1.
Min texted. You arrived?
I smiled. I did, I was here. I would see her in Seoul.
People scattered, pushing and pulling. I followed, lining up for the escalator. I sent Min a grinning emoji as I waited.
Cars honked. Near Sister’s apartment, the streets were full of shops and restaurants. The strong smell of roasted meat, fresh-baked bread, savory steam drifting from the food stalls clustered on the road. Jjinppang with sweet red-bean stuffing, vegetable stuffing, and curry stuffing were set on a large bamboo steamer basket. Soft and round. The jjinppang were as large as my fist, each wrapped in hot swirling steam. I wasn’t hungry, but the thought of one bite—one bite, the sweet taste of red bean warming my mouth. I asked for one red bean and one curry jjinppang. Tires screeched, in anger or in surprise. A driver had stepped on the brake, his hands pressing the horn. I handed the elderly woman at the stall my money. She didn’t seem to care about the noise. I watched her hands swiftly as she packed up the two jjinppang, wrapping them and putting them into a plastic bag.
A drop. The sky was looming gray, promising a downpour. In people’s hands, umbrellas swung. I walked faster, passing the bakery I had thought of stopping by. I thought maybe I could buy some egg sandwiches, veggie potato croquettes, and a bottled café latte for the drive tomorrow.
But then, Ms. Han might bring along some snacks and lunch again. I wished she wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be able to finish them. These days, I felt stuffed to the throat, like something had taken space inside me, and nothing could go in. Mother seemed to notice too. This morning, as I headed out, she handed me fifty thousand won, telling me, Why don’t you eat something nice with Min?
I reached the corner where Sister often told me to text her, to let her know I was near, about eight minutes from her apartment. Sometimes, she’d ask me to buy some strawberries, coffee milk, or chocolate ice cream from the convenience store. Her cravings had grown with her stomach. Then, one day, she began to tell me no. Sorry, I can’t see you this week, busy, work, she said. Later, maybe next time. I believed it. There was no reason not to believe it. Her marriage. Her job. She always decided what I could worry about.
I hugged the pack of warm jjinppang, my large duffel bag swinging. The rain began to fall harder. The street was packed, difficult to walk through without hitting someone, crowded around too many food stalls and restaurants. They could feed the whole peninsula.
By the time I reached the apartment, I was soaked. Completely drenched. I took off my shoes and socks, stepped into the living room. I dropped off the bag, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and dried my hands, face, and neck, wrapping the towel around my hair. I picked up the note. Don’t forget to check the stove before you go out. Sister’s writing was clean. Make sure you eat all the delivered yogurt. It’s good for your stomach. I bought some side dishes, microwavable rice, and bread. They are in the refrigerator. Finish them all, or they will spoil. I opened the refrigerator. A bag of butter scones. A pack of egg rolls, sweet and spicy sausages, bulgogi, a dish of spicy pickled squid. A bag each of strawberry, blueberry, and peach yogurt. So much food. I grabbed a can of beer from the refrigerator and turned on the television. A soccer match was playing: Manchester United versus AC Milan. Jae-hyun liked soccer. He would stay awake through the night just to watch a game. He might even be watching this now—if he was allowed to. I took one small sip of the cold beer and studied the boxes lining Sister’s walls. There were more of them now. Taped too.
I glanced at the door. The nursery.
I switched the channel. The news. Something about a new food-waste-management policy. I took off my sweater and hung it over the chair. I tried to take off my jeans, but they were wet and stuck to my legs. Food waste was becoming a serious issue. Three thousand tons of food waste were generated every day in South Korea. The news anchor asked, Shouldn’t the restaurants consider putting out fewer side dishes? I winced and freed my legs from the pants. Heavy rain tonight, the forecast said. The rain would continue until early morning tomorrow. I unwrapped the towel from my hair and looked out the window. This wasn’t heavy rain—it was a torrent of water gushing from the sky, flooding, beating hard. The window shook. I put my soaked clothes into the laundry machine and changed into my pajamas, slinking down onto the sofa and stretching my legs.
I texted Min. Is it going to rain like this the whole week?
I arrived. I texted Mother. I’m at Sister’s apartment.
I ripped open the plastic wrap, picking up one jjinppang and biting into its warm, soft flour—but found it hard to swallow. I rubbed my throat. A text from Mother. Is it raining there? You have an umbrella? What are you going to eat for dinner? You didn’t eat again. I texted back. Sister has umbrellas at home. She left food for me. Where did Sister keep her umbrellas? Did she pack them already? My phone vibrated again.
Jae-hyun.
I leaned forward.
A family chatroom.
Can you send me some thermals? Round neck and black. You won’t believe how it’s getting colder here already. And sweets. When you visit, could you bring something sweet like a chocolate cake? I aced my shooting training today. My commanding officer thinks I should join the army. I’ll call you this week.
I swallowed.
Should I write something back?
A hello or how are you.
Rain.
I deleted.
Soccer game.
I deleted.
Hey.
My fingers hovered the screen, not knowing where to land. I stared at his words, forcing down the jjinppang. Mother would be reading his message too. Probably writing a reply right now. Something about how he has to make sure to eat enough vegetables and meat. Something about the military accident that she read about online, telling him to be careful, please be careful. Sister would probably send him some photos of Busan and promise to buy some local snacks for him. I didn’t need to write. There was nothing to say. His drunk words echoed in my ears, suddenly bringing the thought of Ms. Han, how she might have written to her brother. I typed, How about sunscreen? Running out yet? and pressed send. I leaned back into the sofa.
From the TV, an uproar of laughter rang. Four comedians were stuffing bowls of steaming noodles into their mouths. The woman on the far left drank down the noodles, another groaned and fanned herself. The two men were the fastest. Gulping down the noodles, picking up new bowls. The countdown clock urged them to move faster. Their cheeks bulged, sweat dripping down their faces. One of them stood up, covered her mouth, and ran out from the frame, while the three remaining kept shoving the hot noodles into their mouths.
There were so many shows about food these days. Like those mukbang where people live-streamed their gorging and bingeing. Four whole cakes and chocolate and custard dessert pastries. Fifty hamburgers. Extremely spicy noodles or nuclear-hot tteokbokki, which a person could only eat after signing a liability waiver. I wiped my mouth, feeling already full. Feeling something inside me. I put away the jjinppang and got up. I opened my duffel bag, took out my clothes, and laid them on the sofa, folding them carefully.
I pulled out the letter. I had thought maybe I could look at it with Sister. When she came back, we could look at Father’s last photos together. She’d have seen them already, but I thought this might make it easier for me. I put the envelope aside and emptied out the bag, looking through all the pockets to make sure that I didn’t miss anything. The newspaper from the train station was still in the front pocket. It was crinkled. The audience laughed and clapped behind me. I spread it out, opened to page A9.
“We can’t wait anymore,” eighty-seven-year-old Kim Sook-Hee cried. “It’s been more than seventy years since we were separated. How many years do I have left? How long do I have to wait to finally see my daughter and husband?”
Ms. Han and her family. Silhyangmin. More than seventy years. Numbers, all numbers. Mother said a hundred boys died in the military every year. Tragic accidents, more than half from committing suicide. Crazy stories. Some were beaten to death by their superiors. Or killed by another soldier who had lost his mind and thrown a grenade into their bunk. I clicked and clicked. Channel six to channel twenty-one to channel eleven. Channel one.
About a year ago, I learned what happened. I’d arrived at the hospital, searching for Sister’s room, following the sound of Mother’s, Sister’s, and Eun-woo’s hoarse whispers. I followed the sounds. Ji-hye, what about Ji-hye? Eun-woo came out. He had been crying. Jae-hyun came out after him, holding Sister’s duffel bag. He had skipped his classes again. His eyes told me to follow. We waited in the hospital lobby—Eun-woo went to get us coffee. Sister and Mother didn’t come out of the room for a long time.
Sister didn’t tell Mother. That the doctor had recommended abortion. From her first trimester, Sister had tried to keep to herself the knowledge that giving birth to Ji-hye, Sister could lose her own life. It was only when Eun-woo called us to the hospital, when Sister collapsed and lost Ji-hye, that we found out. Then, a few weeks later, Sister told us that she and Eun-woo had decided to take some time. Live separately until she had enough time to think. She needed to be alone. No, it wasn’t because they fought. Something else, which she kept to herself. Mother didn’t understand. Sister didn’t understand Mother. Then, they stopped talking to each other. I sniffled. Why wouldn’t Sister talk to us?
Only two of the comedians were now left on the stage. Heaving and panting. The camera zoomed in on the audience sitting in the back row. The comedians gagged, pain colored in grim purple on their faces. One ran out. The audience clapped, no longer interested, no longer entertained. Their hands clapped and clapped, the sound hollow. Nothing seemed to matter. The timer ticked behind them. Twenty- eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six. All these numbers. Two hours from here, Ms. Han said, was North Korea, where millions of people were dying of starvation. Two hours away, and three thousand tons of food waste.
These numbers had nothing to do with me.
With a bright flash, lightning split the night. Thunder cracked, roaring. The rain was coming down harder than before. As I squinted out the window, something glinted. I walked up closer, looking down at the small complex in front of Sister’s apartment, maybe eight or ten stories tall. On the rooftop, there was a clothesline, stretched from one end to the other. I brought my face closer to the window. Something was hung on the clothesline. Not clothes. I stared, trying to look through the darkness and the pouring rain.
Windows. I wiped away the cloud of breath that fogged the glass to see. On the clothesline, windows had been hung.