There was an ocean inside the glass. A gel candle smelling of salt and sea moss. Bubbles rose to the surface inside the transparent body, sands from Haeundae Beach scattered at the bottom. Small white seashells nestled in the rough grains. Sister also brought some boutique dark chocolates from Busan. Encased in a golden cylinder, the chocolates were coated in sweet, powdered beans. Sister wrapped a towel around her hair, her emptied luggage flung open in the living room. The laundry machine was drumming with her clothes. She had just arrived from the train station. The sour smell of lemon drifted as she moved.
“You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m feeling better,” I said.
“What did the doctor say?”
“He said it’s a common cold. He prescribed me some medicine.”
“Did you take it?”
“I need to take it after a meal,” I said. “Can we order something?”
Sister nodded and turned to a cabinet, taking out a few restaurant coupons. Spreading them out on the table. I leaned closer to the chocolates. They smelled like pan-fried rice cakes drizzled in honey. I picked up a piece. They were all different, each chocolate molded into the shape of a seashell. A spiral, a conch, a moon shell. The powder stuck to my fingers. Sister pointed at the boxes laid out on the table.
“I also bought some fish cakes, salted mackerel, and dried-kelp broth packs. There are some extra candles for Mr. Kim too. Take them home with you.”
“Okay.”
Sister had bought three more candles. One with a red hue. One purple. The other, swallowed up in dark green water. Each glittered under the bright light. Before I arrived, Sister had cleaned the entire apartment. Vacuumed and scrubbed the floor. Polished every surface. All the lights were turned on, and all the doors were open, except the one to the nursery.
“How about deluxe shrimp and steak pizza?” she asked. “My colleague told me it’s good. A bit sweet, though.”
“Sure.”
I stared at the chocolate. Last night, Mother had come into my room, her left hand touching my forehead. I rubbed my eyes, trying to see in the dark. What? I murmured. What is it? She sat on my bed. I moved closer to the wall. She said nothing, only lay down beside me, my arm brushing against her splint. We slept, taking each other’s breaths as a comforting lullaby. Just like the day we had heard about Father.
“How hungry are you?”
“Um,” I said.
“Large or medium?”
Slowly, tastes had been coming back; my cravings too. I slipped the chocolate into my mouth, relishing the bitter and sweet taste. I was hungry. Sister stood by the refrigerator, her eyes swollen, her lips chapped. Tired, she said, so tired. Sister turned around and went into her bedroom, finishing the order. I listened to the whispers of her voice, deciding. The apartment was heavy with the smell of lemon and vinegar.
“What’s wrong? You feel sick again?”
I had to tell her.
“Mom,” I mumbled.
“Mom? What about Mom?”
“Her wrists. The doctor said she has inflammation.”
Sister’s lips tightened.
“Both wrists,” I said.
“How bad is it?”
“She needs to rest her hands. The doctor suggested she get some injections, but Mom doesn’t want to. She’s wearing a splint.”
“How long has her wrist been hurting?” she asked.
It’s not that painful, Mother had always said. It only hurts a little. I should have forced her to go see a doctor. I should have told Sister. Sister would have done something.
“What did Mom say?”
“She keeps saying she’s fine,” I said.
“Is Mom still washing them?”
She was, but she kept it to once a day. Not twice, or three times a day, like she sometimes did. Sister didn’t know about that, though.
“She’s washing them less.”
“What is she thinking?” Sister’s voice rose. “Why is she still washing them?”
I didn’t know.
“Why is she being so stubborn? Doesn’t she think this is serious? She should think about her age. I’ll talk to her.” Sister sighed and got up. “Can you drink beer with your medicine? You shouldn’t, right?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
She opened the refrigerator and took out a can, and a pitcher of barley tea for me. I poured a glass, watching the foam pop on the surface. Sister would have to talk to Mother now. Not only about Mother’s wrist, but also about divorce and moving out. There was too much unsaid. I could already hear Mother’s voice, asking, Why? Why did you not tell me? Sister would say, Because. Because I knew you’d get angry. Because I knew you’d cry. They would go back to their silence.
Around Sister’s apartment, boxes were scattered. There were more of them today than before. Photos packed in bubble wrap were leaning against the wall. Duct tape rolls and bowls and plates were stacked on the table. The apartment was ready. Sister drank, the foam in her beer hissing and dissolving.
“You should drink a lot of water.”
“Shouldn’t you talk to Mom first about moving out?”
“I’m going to,” she said.
“When?”
“Maybe this weekend.”
I scratched at the ocean. Every direction, a fight. There was no way they could talk without fighting. I tapped at the pulsing sand. The water gurgled, rising. How long could I go on ignoring this? Those tanks on the highway. A serious escalation, the news reported today, a clear violation of UN resolutions. Sister stretched her neck.
“I think I should stay in Dalbit,” I said.
Sister put down the can.
“I only have three months left before the exam. I don’t think it’d be a good time for me to move now.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve always wanted to leave Dalbit.”
“I will. I’m going to.”
“You sure you’re not staying because of Mom?”
I’d concentrate on studying. I wanted to think about nothing else. The past few days, I’d been thinking about that apartment I’d seen. The tanks, the old man, the woman hanging windows on the clothesline. Seoul was no different from Dalbit.
“Maybe. I was thinking—”
Sister watched me, her fingers silently drumming on the beer can.
“I could try applying to the language program again.”
She leaned in.
“You want to go to Sydney?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“That would be so good for you.”
Sister smiled. I sniffled, turning the cup. I’d thought about just staying at home today, sleeping through the afternoon. But I remembered that I had left Sister’s car in Wontong, with my duffel bag. My clothes, Father’s photos. I’d thought maybe I should pick them up later, but Mother had told me to go. Have some fun, she’d said. Spend the weekend with your sister. See a doctor while you are in the city too. It was Mr. Kim’s idea, or maybe Min’s. Min came to see me. Today, when I got out of the bed, I overheard her whispering with Mr. Kim and Mother in the living room—I think if Yewon could just leave Dalbit.
“I’ll bring that up to Mom,” Sister said. “I could mention it, along with everything else.”
She was thinking, her arms folded, her forehead scrunching. Like Mother, Sister saw a fight in every direction. A swell of emotions flooding, crashing and destroying. She and Mother, pouring out everything. Their words cutting deep into festering wounds. Sister knew. No words would make Mother understand.
“By the way,” Sister said.
I picked up a moon shell.
“Someone’s interested in the car. I’ll have to sell it.”
Ms. Han.
“Do you still need the car?”
I glanced at my cell phone, unsure. Ever since the drive with her niece, I’d heard nothing from Ms. Han. Not a text, not a call. I’d only gotten a notification from the bank. Ms. Han had wired me money for the drive and the gas. This was it, then. I would never drive her again, never see her, but I could not believe it. Ms. Han couldn’t have given up. Accepted that everything was too late and that there was nothing she could do. Ms. Han was not like me. She tried endlessly, as she had exhausted her own body and mind just to see her brother. All alone in the South. All she wanted back, her family. All the pain she held inside the car that seemed to tell me, There’s still hope. Why did she no longer need a ride?
“Could you let me know by this week?” Sister said.
“Okay,” I said.
“Powder, it’s all over the table.”
Sister pointed at the scattered bean powder. A mess. She handed me a tissue. I slipped the moon shell into my mouth. My stomach growled. When was pizza going to come? No clock. Sister had taken down the clock too. I swept up the powder. Sister grabbed her vibrating cell phone, frowning as she massaged her wrist.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
Sister sighed.
“You should rest too.”
She stretched her fingers, then closed them.
“Can’t help it,” she said. “Especially when you’re working with the computer all day.”
Sister went back to her cell phone. Her wrists were sore, tingling more these days, she said. She’d bought a batch of relief-patches on sale last week. Sister frowned.
“I thought I sent the final file, didn’t I?”
Sister got up, telling me, sorry, wait. Wait, I have to find my laptop. She disappeared to her room, and I studied my soft, unscarred hands.
Mother sometimes called for me. From the bathroom, sitting on the stool. She’d take off her shirt and hand me the scar cream, asking me, Could you? Showing me her bareness. Her scars. Unhealed marks on her legs and back. Grandmother had been stricter. She had made sure we learned and understood every step of living with the bones. How to wash and how to dry the bones. How to keep the bathtub clean, how to keep the children safe from the bones. You need to know, Grandmother would tell us. You need to hear, see. Her hands always smelled of moisturizer and scar cream, lemon and vinegar.
“The old man from Dalbit. Sung-ho. Do you know him?”
“Um,” Sister mumbled, “you mean, Mr. Lee?”
Sung-ho Lee.
“Do you know about what happened to him?”
“Something happened to him?” she asked.
“I mean, what happened to him in the war.”
“War?” she asked.
“About his family.”
“I don’t know; I don’t remember.”
“Grandma didn’t tell you?”
She tied back her hair.
“Grandma? About what?”
“You didn’t hear about the church then?”
Sister tried to look as if she were listening, but I could see that her mind was on her laptop. She rubbed her eyes and put down her cell phone.
“You didn’t hear about the North Korean troops, then? They killed his whole family.”
Sister mumbled. Ugh, sad, tragic. She knew that they had died in the war, but she didn’t know about the North Korean troops. She spoke as if she were looking at his story in an exhibition at a museum. A thing of the past. And it was. The years of pain that drove him to build, that was the old man’s, nothing of ours.
“By the way, was everything all right?”
The laptop’s flashing screen reflected off Sister’s eyes.
“I heard it was chaos back home with the military coming through.”
I crumpled the tissue.
“Lunatics,” she said. “So tired of their fake threats.”
A suspicious movement had been sighted near the border, followed by a ballistic missile launched toward the sea. It had flagged an alarm for the military. Tanks and soldiers were deployed. DEFCON status discussed. An evacuation alert raised for villages close to the border. Mother had been in Wontong then. She had just left the hospital and was waiting for the bus back home when she saw the news. She tried calling me, but no one had service. Mother called everyone she knew in Dalbit, asking for me. The relief when Mr. Kim found me, crumpled in Sung-ho Lee’s abandoned lot.
The local news had reported on the incident. It had been a false alarm, another fear tactic, another threat by North Korea. All in the past now. Today, I had lived another ordinary scene on the bus and subway coming down to Sister’s apartment. People slept in their seats, men and women tapping busily on their cell phones. Earphones plugged in. Everyone’s eyes fixed on their screens. Their bodies, pushing and pulling with the train’s motion. The usual posts flooded my feeds, full of existential questions. What would you do if today was the last day of your life, suddenly a trending question. Do what makes you happy, a popular hashtag. Or, you only live once. Hours later, they got swept away by some other viral video.
“I, I never cared.”
Words thrashed in my mouth.
“That day, those tanks.”
My voice shook, like I was going to cry.
“There was nothing I could do.”
This was everything, for us. Nothing would change. I slept with the flame that burned down the church. I ate with the dead soldiers. I heard Mother’s voice with the echo of whistling bombs. Even after we saw the war that had crashed, swelled up to our ankles, I put on my jacket and walked out into the autumn. I bowed to Mr. Kim, thanked him for helping me yesterday, and asked about Mrs. Lim. Mother ran after me, handing me a scarf. Cold, she said. It’s getting colder. Mother watched me leave this morning, standing by the gate, like the day I left for university. She waved her left hand.
“Do you have the key?”
Sister squinted, her eyebrows raised.
“Key? What key?”
“The hotel,” I heaved. “The screams, in Dalbit.”
“What are you talking about?
“That woman on the rooftop. Those windows.”
I recognized Sister’s expression. It was how I had looked at Ms. Han in the car. Trying to listen, but not understanding. Irritated, tired. She looked worried. Words were shredding on my tongue, shattering as they came out. I couldn’t even understand them myself. Sister closed the laptop, startled. She was saying something about medicine, a nearby twenty-four-hour hospital. I wrapped my hands around the candle, gripping it, staring into its hardened ocean. Bubbles stood still. Sunken under. White seashells were nestled in the candle cup like bones in a bathtub.
Grandmother told us, once, how she arrived at the ocean. In the first years of the war, she and her family had fled down to the far South. Flocked to Busan. They arrived at the end of the peninsula, where she watched the rising surf. Its motion, large and ominous. The waves soon to crash, sweep, and drown. A faint rattling in the air. The ocean tugged back the waves, revealing what lay beneath the stirring water. The bones.
For all my life, I turned away. I told myself Grandmother’s war was her own. The old man’s, his. Mother’s war, her very own. Each of us understanding only of our own war and no one else’s. I would never come to understand theirs. I didn’t have to. Once I left home, once the bones left home, the bones would never be mine. In this comfortable distance, I had washed the bones.
But Grandmother wept to the bones, handed me the bones. Cupping them in my hands. Pointing as she told me, Look, look at where it goes, your war. My war, she was trying to tell me, the war will find me. As the war had found Grandmother, her brother even at the end of the peninsula. Mine, she was trying to teach me, the war will become mine. It will be our bones in the bathtub. I turned my eyes to my war.
A star. I rubbed my eyes. On the ceiling, there were stars. Those glow-in-the-dark planet and star stickers. The moon. Jae-hyun had stuck them there. Many months ago, as he stood on the sofa and reached for the ceiling. They were for our niece, for Ji-hye. Sister had not removed them yet. I touched my forehead. A slight fever. I was on the sofa, a blanket spread over my body. No light. The laundry machine was quiet. Its rumbling drone ceased. The apartment was completely dark.
Someone was here.
The doorbell rang. Hands pounding hard on the door. As if this was the only door in the world—now or never. I got up, stumbling, hurrying to open it. Behind me, I heard Sister’s voice. Her bedroom light turned on. I put my hand on the wall, afraid. The entrance light flickered on as I stepped forward. I unlocked the door and pushed it open, squinting at the sudden light coming in from the hallway. I blinked.
It was Mother. She grabbed my palms as soon as she saw me, her hair disheveled. Her hands sweaty, her body shaking. She had murmured the name so often in her prayers.
“Jae-hyun.”