THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER were still fidgeting with the pagoda music box, laughing it up as they stood close to one another, and what In Sook hated most about these two Americans was how relaxed they seemed. They were the ones who should be out of place in this store full of Oriental merchandise, but no, it was she who didn’t belong.
The mother was pretty in a way Korean women could never be. Everything about her was long—legs, fingers, even her eyelashes—and she was tall, taller than most men. The girl was also gangly, but it didn’t quite fit her, at least not yet. In Sook could see how she might grow to look like her mother, but for now, her body was stretched beyond the limited boundaries of beauty.
American women were big, no doubt about it. Apparently their vaginas were larger, too, because all the Maxipads In Sook had bought—three different brands—were unnecessarily wide. Back in Korea, her breasts had been considered normal, but here they were often dwarfed by girls her brother’s age.
Which made sense. This country was all about glorious excess, super this, mega that, so why wouldn’t its people reflect its principles?
The mother and daughter approached the register, the girl holding the pagoda music box.
“Hello, Harry,” the woman said, and In Sook’s father greeted them with a ridiculous, clownlike grin.
“Did you hear that?” In Sook said to her brother. “She called him Harry.”
“I think that means he has a lot of hair.”
For a second she imagined smacking him on the back of his head. She could almost see it, her hand rearing back, her palm landing flat and loud, her brother furrowing his eyebrows and rubbing his head, looking up at her with his mean face, which wasn’t mean at all but just a younger version of Father’s: a bump for a nose, tiny bright eyes, ears that stuck out like handles.
“No, you idiot, that’s his American name. Did you know that’s what it was?”
Dae Joon shook his head.
As her father rang up the sale, she heard snippets of their conversation. He was giving the woman a discount, and she was saying something about another store. Even though In Sook had taken two years of English in high school, she found that most people spoke way too fast. And even when they slowed down, they used too many words she didn’t know or slang that wasn’t in the dictionary.
From the front counter, her father pointed to them, and now everybody was walking over to the showcases, including her mother, who’d been busy arranging the new stock of Chinese umbrellas at the far end of the store.
“Hi,” the woman said. She held out her hand. “I’m Sylvia. And this is my daughter, Mindy.”
It was irritating to have to say hello, but In Sook complied. Sylvia then shook her brother’s hand, and then her mother’s, and still she wasn’t through. She proceeded to hand out her business cards to everyone.
ANIMAL ATTRACTION, the cards read, silhouettes of a cat and a dog bookending the store’s name.
“Please stop by,” Sylvia said very slowly. “We are just seven stores down.”
“Yes,” In Sook said.
“Do you like animals? Dogs, cats?” Sylvia asked. And when no one spoke, she proceeded to bark like a dog and meow like a cat, complete with faux scratching gesticulations to simulate a feline in action.
“Dog, cat, yes, I know,” In Sook said. She hadn’t meant to say it in such a derisive manner, but that’s the way it’d come out.
There was so much she missed. Not just her friends, but everyday things she’d taken for granted, like ja-jang-myun, her favorite dish, sweet black bean sauce spread over a bed of noodles. In Korea, ja-jang-myun was purported to be part of Chinese cuisine, but she’d been to a pair of Chinese restaurants here in the States and neither had it on the menu. At the last place—some restaurant called Golden Dragon or Happy Dragon or Golden Panda, they were all named stupidly alike—she’d mustered up the courage to ask a waiter, who went into the kitchen and reported back that neither of their two chefs, both from Shanghai, had heard of it. And the Korean restaurant owned by her father’s friend didn’t serve it, either.
She came home that night and began a list in her diary of all the things she missed. After filling three pages, she noticed a disturbing trend. Things she’d despised, like her ugly high-school uniform and the stinky movie theater—she longed for them the most. It was an unsettling revelation, to suddenly want the things you thought you hated. It made you question everything and trust nothing.
Still, the past was preferable to the present, so that’s where In Sook spent most of her time, especially when the store was quiet, like it was now. Since Sylvia and her daughter left, not a single customer had walked into their shop, so she closed her eyes and saw herself in that old school uniform of hers, the white blouse with a ring around the collar, the black skirt with the rusty zipper that required weekly lubrication with beeswax. On Thursdays after school, she and her friends would bus over to the theater that smelled of fermented soybeans from the factory next door, and although they would complain about the awful sweaty-sock scent that filled the darkness, they were happy.
She used to be happy. But now she wasn’t, spending all her free time at this stupid store, dealing with impatient shoppers and, even worse, with her father, who was clearing his throat loudly to make sure she knew he was walking over.
“Hi,” her father said. He stood beyond the glassed surface of the showcase like an uncertain customer.
She knew it was hard for him, to have his family back after five long years, but she didn’t care. They were now well into the second month of reunification, and she hated him just the same. He was an easy target, and a willing one, as if he knew he deserved to be punished.
Of course he did. It’s all his fault. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here.
But he did get her the piano, that was something. Did she ever thank him, actually tell him those words, Thank you, Father? The thought filled her with guilt and hate again, because if not for him, she wouldn’t be feeling any of this negativity.
She looked up at him and said nothing.
Five years ago she was ten years old, two less than her brother now, and she’d watched her father leave. Watched him wave with his briefcase in hand, the scene in Kimpo Airport growing fuzzy as tears softened her vision. How she loved him then. How she loathed him now.
She’d become a woman in those years, but he’d stayed the same. He wasn’t any grayer or heavier or anything, just the same guy who’d disappeared. It was almost as if he’d preserved himself inside an ageless vacuum as he waited for his family to arrive, so that when they were together again, their lives would magically resume.
It was an incredibly heartless, selfish notion. He’d uprooted her from everything that mattered, her life, her fucking life, and he just expected her to accept it all? Smile and hug and tell him what a wonderful father he was?
He did. That was his little stupid dream, and In Sook had taken it upon herself to wake him up, because no one else would. She’d never intended to kill herself last month, but she knew the drama of a supposed suicide attempt would serve as an effective alarm. The knife, the pills, the locked door, they would send him the message, especially when it came secondhand from her mother, who had a tendency to go overboard when it came to her children’s well-being.
He was smiling, his hands folded behind his back.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said. “You got this in the mail.”
When she looked up, he was holding an international envelope, blue and red rectangles alternately running around the edges. She snatched it.
“Is it from one of your friends?” he asked.
He made her say the most obvious things. Who the hell else would be sending her mail from Korea?
“Uh-huh,” she said.
The last letter she’d gotten was two weeks ago and she’d begun to lose hope for more, but now here it was, the return address bearing Kyung Mee’s name. There were people In Sook had been closer to, but now this made it four letters from Kyung Mee, while the two girls she’d considered her best friends had only written once each. It was odd how relationships changed when you moved away, how when you started writing letters, you were actually creating a wholly different bond. You almost became a different person.
In Sook drew the letter to her nose and took it in, but all she could smell was paper.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” her father asked.
This was the problem with the store being slow, the stupid questions, the needless talking. She rose from the stool and told him she had to go to the bathroom.
“Okay,” he said, keeping his happy face on, though she could tell he was hurt. He shuffled back to his chair behind the front counter and hid behind the open pages of a Korean newspaper.
In Sook walked away with the letter in her hand. Just feeling the envelope between her fingers filled her with joy. It was only eight o’clock, still a whole hour to go, so she’d use her letter judiciously. She’d meter out one paragraph at a time every quarter hour.
Their store wasn’t the only one dead; the entire mall was deserted. The reason became clear when she walked by a window and saw snow coming down. Nothing serious, just a dusting, but it kept customers away, and it was probably the reason why she heard the argument on the other side of the walkway, one booth down from where she was standing.
Sylvia and Mindy, again. It seemed as if she couldn’t get away from these people today, but actually, things were getting interesting at Animal Attraction. In Sook approached their incredibly bright store—everything was gleaming there, from the silver frames of the pet cages down to their shiny chrome bowls.
“Stop,” Sylvia said. “Don’t do this anymore.” Then she turned, and In Sook saw a man who looked tall enough to play professional basketball.
“Do what?” he said.
“I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but it’s not.”
The man looked like he was going to cry, then he did.
“Jesus, Russell, get a hold of yourself,” Sylvia said, handing him a Kleenex.
“Mindy doesn’t mind me coming around,” he said, his voice sounding boyish, small.
“But I do,” Sylvia said. “You’re her dad, but you’re not my husband. Not anymore.”
In Sook picked up a few of the words and watched their body language to fill in the missing pieces, the man’s slumped shoulders, Sylvia’s defiant stare. Sylvia wrapped her arms tightly around Mindy, who looked vacant. Her face was numbness, her eyes far away.
She didn’t remember seeing a ring on Sylvia’s finger, so In Sook figured the man to be the ex-husband. Maybe it was a bitter divorce, the two parents screaming at each other, Mindy in her room with her pillow squeezed over her ears. Wasn’t that how it was always shown in American movies?
Whatever. It was their problem, not hers. In fact, she had no problems right now because she had a letter to open. She stopped at Hotdog Heaven, got herself a Coke, and found a booth in the back where no one would disturb her.
The letter felt thicker than usual, so In Sook expected to find pages full of Kyung Mee’s delightful tales of their mutual friends, but it wasn’t the case. Instead, all she found was one scribbled sheet and another bulky envelope.
Dear In Sook,
Didn’t I promise you that I’d send your next letter to your store? That way, it would be a sort of a surprise. Okay, maybe not much of one, so here’s another: a photo! I’m sure it’s one you haven’t seen because it was from an old camera, from two autumns ago. I put cardboard in there so it doesn’t get bent, so I hope you like it. I would write more, but it’s exam time and I need to brush up on trig functions, especially tangent. I have no idea what that’s all about. Anyway, I’ll write soon.
Much love, Kyung Mee
She tried not to be disappointed, but she couldn’t help it. Last time her friend had thoroughly recounted the winter dance held at the school’s gymnasium, describing how she and her friends had found matching dresses at a consignment shop and how during a slow dance, she’d pretended to lose her earring, and while her clumsy partner got down on all fours, she made her escape. We laughed so hard, Kyung Mee had written, and even though she was half a world away and a month late, In Sook had shared in their laughter. But this time, there was nothing here except for a photograph.
In Sook slurped down the rest of her Coke and rose. She wanted so badly to peek at the picture, but she made herself wait. It would be her reward for making it through another day.
She walked around the rest of Peddlers Town, going all the way down to the pharmacy in the new wing of the building, but there was nothing she wanted to see or hear or touch. With the lack of customers roaming the walkways, it seemed less like a mall and more like a museum, the place too quiet. A few of the merchants seemed to recognize her, but none of them bothered to say hello, which was actually fine because she wanted to be left alone.
But was it, really? Wouldn’t it be nice if somebody knew her name, called her over, wanted her to stay?
She didn’t want to go back to the store, but there was nowhere else to go, so she marched onward, and then she heard a scream. It wasn’t just a short shriek of sudden pain or distress; this had legs, it went on and on and on, and it was coming from the rear of her store, in the furniture section.
Nobody was at the front counter or behind the showcases. In Sook made her way to where her parents were, standing a good ten feet away from Sylvia, who stood next to the large rosewood table. Underneath the table was Mindy, her hands gripping a table leg.
“What’s going on?” In Sook asked.
Her father held up his hands as if in surrender. “I don’t know. The girl was here with a tall man, and then her mother came, then he left, and now here they are. She”—and here her father surreptitiously nudged toward Sylvia—“just tried to pull her out.”
“Why is she under the table?”
Her father shrugged. “Joon-a went to get Mr. Hong, so maybe he can help.”
Mr. Hong was a friend of his, the only other Korean man in Peddlers Town. He owned a luggage store and often stopped by and chatted with her father during the day. He spoke better English than anyone in her family, though that wasn’t saying much.
“I’m sorry,” Sylvia said. She kept rubbing her hands together, as if she didn’t know what to do with them. “I—I don’t know what to say but say I’m sorry.”
“I’m not going anywhere until Dad comes back,” Mindy said from below.
Sylvia crouched down, furious. “You scream again, and I swear . . .” But then she trailed off and looked utterly baffled, and it was obvious why. What could she possibly say? If the girl didn’t want to leave, what could her mother do? What could anyone do, really? It was actually kind of funny, so In Sook laughed, which got everyone staring at her, especially Sylvia, who seemed more embarrassed than ever.
Her brother arrived with Mr. Hong in tow, and he didn’t waste any time. He walked right up to Sylvia and asked her why her daughter was acting this way.
“She won’t move until I call her father,” Sylvia said.
“You call him?” Mr. Hong said.
“No. That’s not going to work. We’re not—we’re divorced,” she said, ashamed at having to reveal a part of her personal life. “We have a visitation agreement, and we have to stick by it.”
“I see,” Mr. Hong said.
The two Korean men walked off to the side, where they could talk by themselves and make all the decisions, as usual. Since Sylvia couldn’t understand Korean, they spoke at normal voices.
“So?” her father asked.
“Family problems,” Mr. Hong said. “Divorces can be ugly.”
“I see. Of course.”
“I don’t know what we can do. Call Reggie, the head security guard, that’s one thing.”
Her father shook his head. “We could wait it out.”
“But the mall closes in ten minutes.”
Her father looked over in their direction. “Joon-a,” he called.
If only her brother could see himself. It was almost comical, the fear that gripped his little face. He sort of looked like one of the Three Stooges, the one with the helmet-shaped hair that was always punching everyone else.
“Better go,” In Sook said, and gave him a push.
“What do you think he wants?” he said. Unlike his sister, Dae Joon was wary of their father. Her brother had been seven when their father left for America, so he should have had some memory of him, but curiously, Dae Joon had none.
Behind, her mother sat in the severe-looking Japanese armchair that was on sale for half price, the one made of a single contiguous piece of wood.
“I heard you got a letter,” she said.
“From Kyung Mee.”
“That’s good.” Her mother looked tired, as she often did nowadays, especially in the eyes. Her makeup masked it to a degree, but her fatigue went deeper than that. The transpacific move wasn’t agreeing with either of them, but her mother was a trooper, a noncomplainer.
In Sook sat down next to her on the floor and, as expected, her mother’s fingers began running slowly through her hair. It was like an automatic response, one of the few things that could be counted on, and she reveled in it while in front of her, like a play, the drama unfolded. Her father was telling Sylvia that he and his son would stay as long as necessary.
“No,” Sylvia said, her guilt obviously mounting. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“No problem,” her father said, then repeated it twice more.
The men came over and told them what was going on. Mr. Hong would be driving the women home.
“I think this is the best way,” her father told her mother. “Don’t you?”
“Sure,” her mother said. “Just come home as soon as you can, but watch the road, it’s snowing.”
And that was it, the end of her day. In Sook looked back at the dismayed face of her brother and couldn’t help but smirk.
“Have a nice time with your daddy,” she said.
On the way to the parking lot, Mr. Hong confessed his car was a mess. “But I can clean it up real quick,” he said.
“Please, we can do that,” her mother said.
A mess was an understatement. Greasy burger wrappers lined the floors, cigarette butts crawled out of the overflowing ashtray, a window was spattered brown with dried-up cola.
“Asshole,” In Sook said as she and her mother filled two grocery bags full of garbage while Mr. Hong stood by the mall entrance, enjoying a smoke.
“Watch your language,” her mother warned.
Her fingers were so cold they hurt. She wished she’d brought her gloves, but In Sook hadn’t thought she’d need them. To keep going, she thought of all the things she wished she could do while sitting behind Mr. Hong on the way home. Slap him on his bald spot, spit into his ear, grab hold of his ugly comb-over and give it a good yank.
“Thank you so much,” Mr. Hong said, getting into his pristine car. “Crazy American girls should scream in your store more often, huh?”
What kept In Sook from screaming herself was the photograph in her pocket. Halfway home, there was a stretch of the highway where it was lit up bright enough for her to take in the picture and transport herself to Seoul. What could it be? One of Kyung Mee’s cousins was into photography, so it was probably from his 35mm. In the letter, she’d written that it was during the fall two years ago. Back then, she hadn’t even known she would be leaving her home, her life no different than those of her girlfriends.
And look at me now, In Sook thought. No, don’t look at me, please nobody look at me.
“Are you okay back there?” her mother asked from the front passenger seat.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” In Sook said, but her voice betrayed her words. She quickly wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her coat.
Up ahead, she saw the yellow glow of Route 35, and it looked magical under the falling snow, a hazy tunnel of light. She tore into the envelope and leaned against the window.
It was in front of their school, six girls sitting on the grass and holding hands, forming a human line of everlasting friendship. She remembered this day, the earthy scent of the surrounding pine trees, the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun. Everyone in the picture was smiling into the camera.
But no, not everyone.
How could this possibly be? Her tired, sick-of-this-world face stared back at her, no different than her reflection framed in the bathroom mirror this morning. In Sook thought hard back to that day, trying to recall anything unpleasant that might’ve happened, but she couldn’t come up with anything.
Maybe it wasn’t this new country that made her miserable. Maybe the misery had always been inside her.
Strangely enough, this realization didn’t depress her. Instead, it gave her hope, because if it was indeed inside her, that meant she owned it. She could continue to wallow in the pool of her own pity, or she could go on. Her choice, no one else’s.
In Sook tried to take another look at the photograph, but it was once again dark in the car, the lights of the highway now behind them, fading into the night.