“What?” I interrupt. “Gone back in time and never met me?”
“No.”
“That’s the only answer to the ‘should’ve’ intentions. I’m not sorry we met. I’m not sorry I love you. And I’m not going to leave you because your grandmother doesn’t like me or your cousin doesn’t think I’m fit to play with their kids or the friend at the river park finds our relationship offensive. None of that matters to me.” I’m not on the outside and I am not alone. I have Yujun. I have Ellen. I have Wansu. I have so many people who love me and care for me. I only have to open myself up and accept them.
Yujun shudders and collapses into the dining room chair. His shoulders drop to his knees as he drags in breath after breath of relief, of sorrow. I lay a hand across his broad back, the one I’ve leaned against so many times in the past.
“Hara,” he says on a gruff, raspy breath. “I’ve been afraid.”
“Me, too.” I release a watery laugh. “But haven’t you told me that we belong together? Our hearts are one. We shouldn’t anger the gods who have pulled so many strings to get us together. They even arranged for Wansu to fall in love with your father. Isn’t it our destiny to be together? I am not going to be the one to thumb my nose at the heavens. Whether it is here in this house or in your apartment or in LA or Des Moines, wherever it is, we will be together.”
His back muscles tense and then relax as he takes in my words. He brings my hand to his mouth and presses a warm kiss on it.
“Go sit with your mother,” I urge. “She needs your warmth. I’m going to go watch YouTube ASMR cooking videos.”
“What?” He jerks upright.
I grin, my first true smile of the day. “Yeah, I watched a ton of them while you were gone. They were very soothing. Go!” I push his shoulders. “I’ll be here, waiting for you.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.” Forever. I’ll wait for him forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I do not go and watch YouTube videos. Instead, I help Mrs. Ji clear away the charye table. The food is handed out to the staff members because I know that Wansu and Yujun will not be able to eat this. I divide up most of the songpyeon as well.
“You make pretty songpyeon,” Mrs. Ji tells me as she leaves, basically declaring that I will have pretty children.
“Thank you. Have a good night, Mrs. Ji.”
“Take care of them.” She walks toward her car.
I wave to her. “I will.”
After Mrs. Ji departs, I tie on an apron and inspect the refrigerators. There are hanks of hanwoo and pork, fresh vegetables, banchan that Mrs. Ji made earlier this week, and even broth. I pull out ingredients and start prepping.
I’d read once that in Korean, the word for “butcher” is baekjeong. The word itself has no literal English translation because it’s not related to the word “meat” or the act of cutting. Instead it comes from a class of people.
In the Joseon period, there were distinct classes. First, of course, was the crown, the wangjok. After them was the yangban, or nobility. They collected the taxes, made the laws, meted out the punishment, served as advisors to the wangjok. Below the yangban were the commoners. These were the workers, laborers, farmers. The doers.
Even the commoners, or sangmin, had those they looked down upon. If you weren’t a commoner, then you were a lower class still, a cheon-min. Kisaengs, or pleasure women, were part of the cheon-min, but even they had status greater than the baekjeong because they were recognized by the government. The baekjeong were essentially ghosts. They had no status, no rights, and no protection. For some reason, butchers fell into this category, and that’s how the word baekjeong came to stand for “butcher.”
A person without status or rights or protection—unrecognized by the state. This is why Wansu agreed to acknowledge me, so that in this, her country, I would not be unrecognized. Being unregistered means you don’t exist. You have no status. You cannot get a job. You cannot obtain medical care. You cannot be educated. I suppose it is no different at home. Without a social security number, you are a baekjeong. Here, though, there is cultural meaning attached to being registered. Some families can trace their roots back ten generations or more through the local gu books.
These are the things she wanted to protect me from. But recognizing me meant separating me from Yujun. Siblings could not marry even if they were not blood related. The answer, then, is to not be recognized. Does it matter that my name is never entered into the registry? Isn’t that the greedy part? She still acknowledges me as her daughter. I am the daughter of her flesh if not her heart.
Jules and Bomi are prepared to live together without special status for as long as is necessary. They are prepared to be dragons and fight for their love. I will do the same for Yujun but also for Wansu. I have a tough outer shell; scales protect me. Those scales are made up of the love of all of those in my life.
As the pork browns in the oven, I finish brushing egg white on the pastry pockets stuffed with apples and then move on to making honey rice cakes. Mrs. Ji has a whole fresh honeycomb in the pantry, so I cut that up into little bits and stuff them inside the rice dough.
The pastries are done quicker than the meat. I make a plate of the small apple pastries I shaped like mandu and the honey rice cakes and pour myself a glass of hot water from the dispenser.
The pastry is flaky and the apples are tart. It’s the perfect combination. I pop another one in my mouth. Makgeolli ice cream would be a perfect topping. In fact, these small apple desserts are an ideal food truck item.
A crazy idea pops into my head and I shove it aside but I can’t keep it out. The idea returns. The one with four wheels, a stainless steel service counter, and deep fryers with automatic drains and filters. I look down at the apple pastry mandu and wonder what they would taste like fried instead of baked, served with makgeolli ice cream, and topped with powdered sugar. I wonder how long it would take to prep enough for one day of sales and how many I would go through. I glance at the refrigerator, where the leftover shredded pork sits alongside the small compotes of relish.
It’s not something I could do by myself, but if I had someone who would partner with me . . . My eyes climb up the stairs but I shake my head. He makes a decent cheese ramyeon but his skills are in numbers and making deals. There’s another person I know who is in the service industry. I pull out my phone and text her even though it’s a holiday and she’s probably doing something with Bomi, but there’s a thrum of excitement coursing through me. My whole body is buzzing.
The reply from Jules is, Are you crazy, to which I type in return, That’s not a no.
There’s motion on the stairs, so I shelve my idea and go to greet my family. It’s a relief to see that some of the tension has eroded. Wansu’s face isn’t so tight, and there’s even a hint of dimple creasing Yujun’s cheek.