Mother set the dishes on the tray. Pan-fried shad, spicy soybean sprouts, two fried eggs, kimchi, fried tofu braised in soy sauce and red chili paste, and two bowls of rice. She held an empty bowl and a rice scoop and pointed at an open rice cooker.
“You going to eat?”
I took the bowl and rice scoop from her hands.
“Can you take those peaches?”
I put the bowl back inside the cabinet.
“You should eat.”
“I ate so much yesterday,” I said. “I’m still full.”
It was partly true. I felt bloated, although I hadn’t eaten anything since the drive yesterday. I closed the rice cooker, walking up to the sink, wincing at a strong acidic smell. I picked up the peaches floating in the vinegar water. Their sweet fragrance, gone. Mother saw me frowning.
“Vinegar helps remove pesticides.”
I put the peaches in a clean bowl, the smell of vinegar overpowering. I coughed, holding it far away. Mother started placing the bowls, setting the heavier dishes in the center and the lighter dishes on the outside. When Mother held up the tray, the dishes and bowls clattered.
“Door.”
My grip on the bowl loosened.
“Could you open the door?”
Mother looked at me, about to ask me again, but I quickly passed her.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.
It did feel like the start of winter. The temperature had suddenly dropped last night.
“You should’ve worn a cardigan,” Mother said, loud enough for me to hear but not loud enough to make it into a conversation. A cardigan would have been nice, but we were just going next door to Mrs. Lim’s house. I took in a deep breath, inhaling the earthy scent of autumn. The ground, preparing for the burial and decomposition of the past days. I kicked at the pebbles as we walked. Behind me, Mother was taking her time. Tiptoeing across the yard, making sure her footsteps weren’t too loud. When she reached me, Mother’s arms were steady. She held firmly onto the tray. The bowls and the dishes made no sound. She whispered.
“A cold stomach is bad for you, bad for digestion.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You should eat them when the foods are warm. Eating them cold isn’t good for your body.”
“I’ll reheat them.”
“You never do.”
I rubbed my eyes. Every part of my body ached. As if I had not driven, but walked the entire way to Yeoju. I should have gotten more sleep yesterday. The dream had kept me awake the whole night.
“Can I go back to my room? I want to sleep.”
Mother sighed. She eyed the tray and the door. The tray, always holding more than it should have been able to. Mother somehow managed to place so much on it. Never fewer than four dishes. She went back and forth multiple times a day, carrying a tray of rice and some side dishes. Every lunch and dinner, Mother crossed the yard, making sure that Mrs. Lim ate. Making sure that the old woman did not fall, like the time when Mother flung open the door and found her on the floor, moaning with her broken bones. I didn’t want to go inside.
“Door,” Mother said. “Can you open the door?”
Inside, I slipped off my shoes. Mother followed me in.
Mrs. Lim had lived across us for as long as I could remember. She was one of the oldest women in Dalbit. She had lived alone in this house until she had a stroke a few years ago. Soon after, her son, Mr. Kim, moved in from the city to take care of her. He was rarely home, always busy. I sidled up close to the wall, watching Mother hurry into the room.
Their house was small. A single room. Their living room, which was also their bedroom. A television. Blankets rolled and stacked up in the corner. A kitchen in the back, with the smallest refrigerator and stove they could fit in.
And there was Mrs. Lim, always in the same place, the same position. She sat on the floor, facing the entrance, the television on a stand beside the front door. She leaned against the wall, on her side. Anyone coming to the house would only greet half of her body, half her face. As if she was neatly sliced. There, Mrs. Lim sat, her other cheek and ear pressed to the wall. Mother bowed.
“Mrs. Lim, Yewon’s going to join us.”
I bowed too.
Mother lifted the tray.
“I bought a fresh shad from the market yesterday. They said they caught it from the Yellow Sea.”
I took the folding table from the kitchen and set it up. Mother stood beside me, nodding as I brought the table to Mrs. Lim. Careful, Mother eyed at me, careful. I put down the table, making sure that Mrs. Lim’s stretched-out legs went just under. Mrs. Lim was joined to the wall, only able to use her left arm. I pushed the wood against the wall, the table slightly touching her waist. I went to the sink, turning on the faucet and wetting a cloth. Mother spoke in whispers now, her voice so soft and so low that I had to stop my breath to catch her words.
“I also seasoned some soybean sprouts.”
I wiped the table.
“How are you, Mrs. Lim?” Mother put down the tray.
“Cold.” Her voice was quiet. “It’s getting cold.”
“I’ll bring over a heater next time,” Mother said. “What are you watching today?”
Mother laid out the dishes and bowls. I grabbed the remote under the table and set it aside. The television had only a few channels, and Mrs. Lim usually went back and forth between soap dramas and the news. Today, she was watching a replay of some early morning soap, the television muted. Always muted. No sound was allowed inside her house. The screen showed a young woman’s flushed face, her mouth wide open. She looked to be yelling. The veins bulged on her neck. Mrs. Lim groaned and pushed her ear closer to the wall.
“That girl married the wrong man,” Mrs. Lim said.
Mother smiled.
“Your husband, he was a good man,” Mrs. Lim said.
I put the bowl of peaches on the table.
“Peaches are in their last season,” Mother said. “I brought a few more. I thought you could eat them with Mr. Kim.”
Mrs. Lim stared at the chopsticks and then at me.
“Yewon is not eating,” Mother said.
“Why?”
As if I was a child.
“She should eat.”
Mother handed Mrs. Lim a spoon and chopsticks, putting them in her left hand, the only hand she could move. Mrs. Lim grabbed them, her wrist shaking but still strong enough to bring food up to her mouth. She picked up the tofu and slipped it into her mouth. Even her chewing was quiet. She swallowed. Back on the counter, I saw a bag of blueberry scones.
On many days, Mr. Kim took extra shifts or odd jobs. On those days, he asked Mother if she could look after his mother. He left Mother a small payment and sometimes fruits and snacks as a thank-you. He was always worried. His mother, left all alone at the house, listening to the wall. Just a few months ago, we heard a shattering from Mrs. Lim’s house. A loud thud, dishes breaking. What was that? I asked, but Mother was already out of the door, not even putting on her shoes. She ran as fast as she could. Mrs. Lim had tried to get up from her spot by the wall and fallen over a shelf, shattering glasses and dishes, breaking her arm. Mother found her trembling, too hurt to even cry. Her ear pressed to the floor.
The television switched to a commercial. Something about a styler. A slim steam closet that sanitized your clothes. Chopsticks moved quietly in Mrs. Lim’s fingers. Mother pointed at the peaches. I took the bowl of peaches and sat beside Mrs. Lim. Her left eye lifted from the television screen as Mother walked to the bathroom.
“Did Mr. Kim unclog the drain?”
“He said he’ll do it this week.”
“It’s not good to leave it like that for so long. Let me see how bad it is,” Mother said. “Why don’t you try those peaches, Mrs. Lim? Yewon will cut up some for you.”
I held up the peach, worried. I wasn’t so good with a knife. Mother slipped into the bathroom. Mrs. Lim’s gaze went back to the television. I grabbed a knife, slowly cutting off the peel, then a large chunk of the fruit.
How long had it been since I’d come here? Not after that incident with the firework, I knew that much.
Early this morning, I left Sister’s apartment. I took the first subway, then the first bus back to Dalbit. As soon as I arrived home, I went straight to my room, put the rusty key back in its drawer, and closed it. When Mother walked in on me washing up in the bathroom, she was surprised. She didn’t think I’d be home so early. I was afraid she was going to ask me questions about how the study group went or how Sister was doing, but Mother hurried to the kitchen. She had to prepare dishes for Mrs. Lim. Mother had put relief patches on her wrist again, leaving a strong trail of menthol in the hallway, the living room, the kitchen, everywhere she walked. Mother asked me if I could give her a hand with Mrs. Lim today. Her hands hurt badly. Too much washing.
I held up the peeled peach. It was all right. Not too bad. I cut the fruit into slices and put them on an empty plate. Mrs. Lim’s left eye was staring at me. It moved back to the screen. The scene had now switched to a three-story coffee shop. Two women were sitting across from each other, steam rising from their untouched cups. The younger girl looked like she was going to cry. Her lips quivering. As the older woman stirred her cup, clinking and clanking, the younger girl’s mouth cracked open in horror.
“Channel.”
Mrs. Lim pointed at the screen.
“I want to see the news. Where’s the remote?”
I handed her the remote I had set aside. Mrs. Lim switched the channels to the news. A male anchor opened, shut, opened his mouth. A female anchor sitting beside him opened, shut, opened her mouth. Both of them looked like broken puppets.
Maybe their faces were enough for Mrs. Lim. She did have a radio. It sat on the kitchen counter, its dials and numbers all worn out, the volume turned all the way down. It was impossible to know which station it was playing. Still, the radio was always turned on. Sometimes, I imagined I could hear it. Here, in Mrs. Lim’s house, I imagined every sound. What the anchor might be saying, what the actors might be saying, what the radio might be playing. All in my imagination. Mrs. Lim seemed to be able to hear the radio, though. Sometimes, her eyes widened as she stared at it. As though she caught something that she didn’t want to hear. Like the firework.
The television screen flashed. The caption read: War survival kits are going viral. The news anchor opened a kit, taking out a torch, a bag of materials for starting a fire, cans of beans and spam, a water filter, and a gas mask. With the possibility of a nuclear war, the caption read, people are preparing. The news played a video clip. I had seen this one already. It was in the top ten trending videos this week. A famous young vlogger who packed her own nuclear survival kit, a list of credible and affordable brands. An app that helped you find the nearest shelter around your home. The vlogger played the air-raid siren. Then quickly, she hurried into the suit, put on the backpack, and smiled. A demonstration.
Hashtag, prepared and ready.
“These kits are going viral,” I explained to Mrs. Lim.
When I first saw the kits, I didn’t understand why everyone suddenly wanted to buy a hiking bag. Actors and actresses posted too. Like some new fashion trend, their colors ranging from dark blue to khaki to simple chic black. Did I need to buy one? I took out my cell phone, downloaded the app.
On my screen, a sign popped up. A drawing of a house with three green, blue, and yellow triangles on the roof. A short description of some twenty-four thousand bomb shelters in South Korea. I scrolled through. I didn’t know there were this many. If you can’t find a shelter, it read, go to the nearest subway. The nearest subway from our home would be in Chuncheon, though. That was too far, some seventy kilometers away. I put in my home address and waited.
“I didn’t know there were so many shelters,” I said.
Mrs. Lim didn’t move. I tapped on the loading screen. With her ear on the wall, Mrs. Lim would be able to hear everything from outside. Sister dragging out her luggage. Jae-hyun’s new boots as he left for the military. My hesitating footsteps, back and forth in the yard. The yard, quieter now without Father. I wondered if she could hear the old man. Mrs. Lim must hate the old man. All his nailing, hammering, and dragging. Or, maybe not. That night, I had seen something else in her eyes. When the firework had gone off and she’d dragged herself outside, it wasn’t fear. Not annoyance or anger. Those eyes were searching for something in the darkness, in the noise.
The app stopped loading, then turned off.
“You can’t.”
Her voice was low.
“You can’t prepare.”
Her voice so sure.
“You can never be ready for war.”
I remembered the day after the firework. We were kneeling. Mother had taken me and Min to apologize. Mrs. Lim didn’t look at us. She wouldn’t. She never opened her eye. We told her how sorry we were, how we didn’t mean to scare her, how it wouldn’t happen again, but she kept that one eye shut. Even now, ever since the day of the firework, Mrs. Lim wouldn’t look at me for long. A few scattered glances. Mrs. Lim pulled up the blanket as I got up and walked to the bathroom.
“Do you need help?”
Mother scratched the patch on her wrist.
“It’s clogged?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe it’s just hair,” I murmured.
“It’s not hair.”
I stepped back, standing on the threshold of the bathroom and the living room. Mother was squatting down, hunched over the concrete, trying to see what might be blocking the drain. Their floor, dark and grungy. Of course it was the floor drain. It wouldn’t have been their bathtub’s drain. It couldn’t be. They had always kept their bathtub’s drain stopper pushed shut, making sure that nothing would fall in.
“Does Jae-hyun need anything?”
I leaned against the door frame, watching.
“Did your sister say anything about your brother?”
“No.”
Mother nodded.
“Oh,” I said. “Um, she thought maybe we should pack him a lunch. Some grilled pork belly and grilled short-rib patties. Jae-hyun told her the food wasn’t good there.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Mother turned her wrist, wincing at the pain. She had aged so much in the past few months. More gray strands now than black. Her eyes were sunken. Mother took out her cell phone, tapping on a flashlight, aiming the bright light at the drain. She peered in closer.
“How’s your sister?”
Her hair fell, covering her face.
“Everything well?”
She looked like she had not slept for days.
“She looked well,” I murmured. “She’s doing good.”
“How about Eun-woo? Did she say anything about him?”
Mother pushed back her curls, trying to see me.
“No. Sister’s going on a business trip.”
“A business trip? Again?”
“She said there’s a big conference.”
Mother shook her head.
“She should rest. Take some days off.”
Sister would never.
“Where is she going this time? How long?”
“Busan,” I said. “I think she said five days?”
“When is she going?”
“Next Tuesday.”
Their bathtub. It faced the door, and me. It took up half of their already small bathroom. There was not even a room for a sink—instead, a single faucet had been installed on the wall, set low for when Mrs. Lim had lived here alone and could still walk. I turned my eyes to the bathtub, the plastic wrap covering its entire length and width. The red basin under the faucet. Yellow towels heaped inside.
When I was young, I used to bring a chart of the skeleton into our bathroom. I tried to name the bones. Mandible, pubis, ilium, patella, phalanges. Trying to piece them all together, to make a full person. To count how many people lived in our bathtub. I couldn’t, though. I could only guess. Maybe, maybe it was an ilium. Maybe a shattered piece of a tibia. Something like a humerus. The bones never made one full person. There were so many unrecognizable. So many missing. But these. The bones at Mrs. Lim’s. There was no way of knowing who lived here. They looked more like ash.
“Did she give birth here?”
Mother turned off the flashlight.
“Of course,” she said.
Mrs. Lim wouldn’t be able to stretch her legs in this bathtub. She would have had to spread them out over the rim, her legs dangling. Mother scratched the cold sores on her lips. It wasn’t hair. Mother said it wasn’t. Something else clogged their drain.
I glanced back at Mrs. Lim in the living room, then lowered my voice.
“Mom, you said Mrs. Lim is from here, right?”
“No, she’s from Chongjin.”
“Where is that?” I asked.
“It’s a city in North Korea. She came down when she was a little girl.”
“What about her family? She came to the South with her family?”
Mother tried to look past me, past the door, at Mrs. Lim.
“No,” she said.
“No?” I asked.
“Her village was bombed.”
Mother’s voice almost inaudible.
“All her family died in the bombing.”
“Bombed? Then, who—”
“She scraped.”
I swallowed.
“After the bombing, she scraped any pieces she could find.”
From behind, I thought I could hear Mrs. Lim’s tiny body brush against the wall, the cardigan rustling as it slid down her bony shoulders. Chopsticks scraping the plate. Silent in Mrs. Lim’s slow hand—I should have known.
That day, we had asked ourselves why. What had we done wrong? Min and I thought it would be fun to buy firecrackers. It was the end of summer break in our third year of high school. We bought two small sparklers and a rocket, something to mark the occasion. Something to do for our boredom. We went to my house, where, all at once, we set them off in the yard, giggling as the firecrackers fizzed and cracked. Waving our sparklers, drawing our initials on the night. We laughed at the rocket that exploded in the air. Pop, pop. Hundreds of golden sparks scattered. Pop, pop. Each spark showered down on us like shooting stars. We murmured our wishes. Min, for her national exam, for Seoul, for her hands. Me, me, wishing for—
I had screamed. Min screamed too. A head was sticking out of the door across the way. It was Mrs. Lim, half of her body inside the house, the other half outside. She had dragged her two paralyzed legs, using her bony arms. Mrs. Lim had dragged her limp body across the floor. She had crawled.
“I can’t see it.” Mother sighed now. “I’ll have to tell Mr. Kim to pick up some solutions in town. Maybe they’ll work.”
I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
“We might have to call a plumber.”
Over their bathtub, one sheet of plastic wrap, layered over another, pulled tautly, wrinkles extending. Inside their bathtub, under the stretching transparent sheet, were ashes. Only a few bones were big enough to hold. But even they would become ashes soon, crumbling at even the slightest touch.
These tiny pellets, clinging to any remaining form, so brittle. If it weren’t for the plastic wrap, they would have disappeared into the air with the scatters of dust. I could see it. Mrs. Lim, lying in these bones. The bones shattering as her weight pushed down on them, sticking onto her limbs and her back as she gave birth. These shattered ashes.
Back in the living room, Mrs. Lim was in the same position as I had left her. Her ear pressed like always against the wall. Her shaking fingers picked up a slice of peach, her weak eye fixed on the television. She would have only been a girl during the war. I looked back at the bathroom. Their bathtub. If her family had been bombed and turned into ashes, she couldn’t have taken them. Fingers scraping ashes. Not knowing which was whose and whose was which. A girl scraping ashes in the ashes.
“Baking soda.”
Mother whispered.
“Vinegar. Boiled water.”
Mother tapped on her cell phone. Her face crumpling as she searched. Something about a home remedy. But I wondered if that would be enough. To unclog, to dissolve. To break down the bones.
Mr. Kim had to be out more than he was at home, working to pay his mother’s medical bills. Mrs. Lim and her legs. They no longer walked—she could no longer wash these bones. They belonged to Mr. Kim now. He had to wash them. He’d have to squat down here, in this cramped space. Peeling the plastic wrap off the bathtub. Picking up the few fragile bones, putting each one in the basin, careful not to let anything slip from his hands. So small, so fragile, breaking and crumbling if his hands weren’t careful. Even if he tried. No matter how carefully or gently he might have tried to hold the ashes, some would have slipped, dropping into the drain. Through his trying fingers, a piece, another piece, and another piece of bone falling into the drain, clogging.
Mother reached for the faucet on the wall, turning it on and letting the water gush out. The gray concrete floor turned dark with the water. The water streamed toward the drain, beginning to pool, trying to force itself down. Gurgling.
Sister had tried to reason with Mother, hoping to make Mother understand. But Mother was as determined as Sister was. Sister clutched her stomach. Begging Mother to think about her granddaughter. I don’t want to, for Ji-hye, Mom, please. What would be best for her? You want me to lie here, your own daughter, in these bones? In this grave? Mother had looked so stunned then. She couldn’t believe Sister would call it a grave.
I could never tell Mother. About moving out. The divorce. Mother and Sister, they would never understand each other, no matter how hard they tried.
“Do you want to go?”
The water swirled.
“Go and stay at your sister’s apartment for a week.”
Mother’s back slouched.
“You always wanted to go to Seoul. Maybe you could go and hang out with Min. You could also take a look around the universities. See what they’re like before the exam. Take a break, now that the convenience store is closed.”
I couldn’t believe what she was suggesting.
“It’d be good for your sister too. When she comes back, you two could spend the weekend together. Go to a nice restaurant, watch a movie.”
She was suggesting I leave.
“Why don’t you ask her, Yewon?”
Mother turned off the faucet, squatting down again and taking the towels from the basin. She let the towels soak up the water, sighed, and wiped away the black around the drain. I could leave. Go. I had her permission. All the streets I had imagined walking. All the things I had always wanted to do. One week in Seoul. Mother leaned over to check the drain again. If I left, Mother would be alone. All alone in the house, stirring awake at thoughts of the bones, thoughts of Jae-hyun, me, and Sister, and Father. Breathing in the air of the bones, wearing the odor of the bones, washing the bones. But it was just one week. One week for myself. One week without the bones. Wouldn’t that be okay for her too? She’d be fine. She was telling me to go.
“Just one week. I’ll come back.”
The heaps of towels began to wrinkle with water. Mother held her right wrist, her face difficult to read. The plastic wrap swelled on the bathtub.
“I’ll always be here,” Mother muttered.