When we’re all done bowing, Yujun kneels again and pours more wine for the ancestors. After doing this three times, he distributes the chopsticks to various dishes, the fish, the soup, the hanwoo, and then a final set into the center of a bowl of rice and bows one more time before rising.
Kyungsook marches out the door, leaving Yujun inside. We all file out behind her. The men stand facing the west and the women the east. Again, Wansu and I are last. Wind blows our skirts against our legs and the dark sky threatens to rain. She hasn’t released my hand. I wouldn’t allow her to.
“The ancestors are coming to eat,” she tells me. “Yujun will appear and cough three times to let us know that it is time to return.”
It doesn’t take long. I guess the ancestors were hungry. We return to the house and Yujun spoons rice and soup from the bowls to mimic the ancestors eating. We bow twice more, with the men going first, the women following, and Wansu and I last, outside the main room. This whole process is followed ten more times.
I’m exhausted by the time they burn the pieces of paper, on which are written the names of the dead we are honoring. All this rising and bowing is hard on my body but also my heart. Each time we leave and enter the house with Wansu at the very end, I think of all the times she did not have anyone by her side. Wansu is lonely, I hear Ellen saying.
Ellen has no idea. Or maybe she does. Maybe everyone knows how awful it is to be Wansu except for me. The kids are ushered into a different room, where they can take off their hanboks and eat their meal.
Yujun brings me a small plate of glass noodles and mixed vegetables—japchae—and a glass of wine for Wansu. She finally releases my hand. I finally allow it.
“You did well,” he tells me. He also looks worn-out.
“You did well, too.” I want to hug him. I want to hug Wansu, too, even though we have never embraced. I’ve always thought she didn’t want that kind of contact, but maybe she doesn’t know how to ask for it; maybe she doesn’t think she deserves to ask for it.
“What would you like from the table? I’ll fetch you a plate,” he offers.
“No.” The sharp negative rings out in the large space. Park Kyungsook glares at me from her position at the head of the table. She’s sitting in the chair Wansu usually occupies. “She should not eat the food of the ancestors.” She waves her hand at Mrs. Ji. “Surely you have food in that kitchen of yours that you will be eating. Staff food. That’s what this girl should be served. Yujun, come and attend to me.”
Yujun doesn’t move.
“Your father would not approve,” Kyungsook declares.
“He would. He did, in fact. He knew of Hara’s existence before we married and he gave me money to find her. He would approve of her if he knew,” Wansu replies, her tone cold and hard.
“He would not approve,” Kyungsook insists. “I do not approve. She should not be in this house while my son lies upstairs in his sickbed. And, you, Yujun, I hear that you have been sullying yourself with her.”
“Hara has a name,” Yujun says.
Choi Juwon laughs cruelly. “Yujun-ah, you have done nothing but spit on your father’s legacy. The changes you’ve instituted at IF Group will result in disaster, and now you bring that girl into the house? Choi Yusuk would definitely not approve. She’s a doenjang girl.”
I have no idea what that means other than it’s an insult.
“You can leave right now.” Yujun points to the door.
Choi Juwon tilts his chin up in defiance. “I’ll leave when the owner of this house tells me to leave.”
Wansu gasps. It takes a moment for the full cruelty of Juwon’s statement to sink in. The owner of this house has been in a coma for the last three years. He is not getting out of his bed to say anything and we all know that. You push your father to his death, but maybe it is good he cannot see or hear so that he does not witness what his son has become.
This time, when Yujun’s fist comes up, I don’t stop him. It only takes the one punch and Juwon drops to the floor. Kim Jinae screams.
Kyungsook gets to her feet. “I always knew you weren’t good enough for this family.” She spits on the table and walks out, the skirt of her hanbok billowing behind her. No one else moves. At the doorway, Kyungsook opens her mouth again. “What are you all waiting for?”
“Our envelopes . . .” murmurs a small female voice.
Yujun snorts in disgust.
“We are leaving. Now!” Kyungsook’s voice tolerates no objections, and one by one the family members gather up their belongings and their children until the house is completely empty but for a few staff members and Mrs. Ji.
Wansu stands stick straight, her shoulders not slumping even a half degree. The steel she has in her spine is industrial-strength. I would’ve folded. Tears would’ve been in my eyes. My hands would be shaking.
“I trust that you will oversee the cleaning up and the distribution of the food,” she says to Mrs. Ji.
Mrs. Ji gets to work immediately.
“I’m going to sit with your father,” she says. She makes her way across the house, past the main room where the bowls and dishes of food still sit, barely touched. Her gait is steady and her head is high. She plants her foot on the first step, and that’s when it happens. She falters. Her hand shoots out to grasp the railing. Yujun starts forward, but I pull him back. She doesn’t want his help. I know this because even though Wansu has not raised me, we are alike in many respects. I’m not one to be loud or cry easily. I don’t like others seeing me weak. I’m not always comfortable with physical contact even with friends. Whether this came from Wansu, whether this is in my blood, it is hard to say, but I won’t deny these similarities.
He tenses in my grip, and for a worrying moment, I wonder if we are going to struggle, but he gives in. It’s the right call, because a second later, Wansu pulls herself upright and climbs the stairs as if the hesitation never occurred.
How long has she lived under the disapproval of her mother-in-law? How many Chuseoks and Seollals has she suffered through? Her disapproval of Yujun’s and my relationship makes perfect sense in this context. She was trying to protect us—both Yujun and me, but mostly me. She did not want me to spend the rest of my life on the outside, kneeling by myself.
“I’m sorry,” Yujun says. His long-fingered elegant hand comes up to cover his face, to hide his shame.
I pull his hand away and sweep his bangs off his forehead. “What are you sorry for? You are not your grandmother. You have no control over her, over Wansu, over me. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
His eyes darken. “No. I put you in this position. I should’ve—”