“I would not have ever judged you for that. I was embarrassed to speak Korean.”
“But you tried. We all admired it. Then when you spoke it so well that night at the dinner, it scared us. We could not remember all that we had said in Korean believing you could not understand us. I am sorry. Very sorry.” She bows, one hand holding the paper tray of food and one hand pressed into her stomach, deep enough that I can see her spine.
My first instinct is to say she doesn’t have to be sorry, but she did make my life difficult and I don’t need to dismiss that. The times that I felt left out, put down, and criticized by her and Chaeyoung in the last few months are too numerous to count. I could let it go and say that it doesn’t bother me, but that would be a lie. I can let it fester or I can drain the wound and allow it to heal.
“You weren’t great to me, Soyou, and sending me to the wrong place for the hweshik was really terrible, but I’m not going to hold a grudge. I’ve got some good things in my life and I’m going to focus on those. I suggest you do the same.”
I hand her the drink and the umbrella. “Take this. Sometimes you need to not let your insecurity drive all your decision-making. I haven’t told my mother or Yujun about what I saw. You should come clean about that. If he’s harassing you, he should be fired. If you’re sleeping with him to get ahead, that’s not going to end well for you. If you’re with him because you love him, you might remember he has two kids who would be devastated by their family breaking up. You’re a good worker, Soyou, but I don’t think you’re proud of yourself.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Are you a Christian, Hara? You and Ellen?” Wansu asks as we sit in the living room with a pot of tea steeping between us. She’d invited me to tell her more about my food truck adventures, which aren’t many. I explained to her about Ahn Sangki’s and my trips to various outdoor eateries around Seoul and my affection for Yang Ilwha. I mentioned that the food reminded me of August in Iowa and fair food, which somehow made her ask about my religion.
“Yes, I suppose we are, but we don’t go to church. I believe in God.”
“In Korea, there are many Christians, but most people would say that they are agnostic or Buddhists. Many believe in reincarnation. There’s a famous saying when something good happens that you must have saved a country in your past life.” She hands me a cup of tea.
I curl my hands around the heated porcelain. “I’ve heard it before.”
“When you returned to me, that is how I felt. That I must’ve saved a country in my past life. I am sorry for what I said about Yujun-ah and you. The images were a shock to me and I spoke imprudently. It will take some time for me to adjust, but please accept this apology with my sincere heart.” She bows her head deeply.
My breath catches as cautious joy seeps into my veins. She’d been silent on the topic of Yujun and I since Chuseok but this is the first overt acceptance. I try not to smile too happily when I respond. “Thank you and please accept my own apology for not treating the workplace appropriately.”
“I accept. We do not need to speak of this again.” She looks relieved and so am I. She takes a sip of her tea before speaking again. “Your father had a food truck of sorts. It wasn’t a mobile unit like yours, but more like the stalls you see at the markets. He made fish cakes. They were very good. He also sold banana milk. We should see him, you and I.”
“He’s . . . dead, though?” I am not following, although I get the intention.
“Yes. I mean his resting place in Seoul Choomo Gongwon. It is a columbarium where I brought him after the funeral.” She stirs a spoon in her tea even though she hasn’t added any sweetener or milk. “It is very nice there, Hara. Your father would like it. The building is set at the foot of Woomyunsan. The ceilings are tall and there is good light.”
“Seoul park?” I know gongwon is “park” but am unsure about choomo.
“You are doing so well, Hara. Choomo is ‘honor the deceased,’ so choomogongwon literally means ‘public park where you can cherish the memories of a deceased,’ but in English it is called Seoul Memorial Park.”
I have no memories of Lee Jonghyung to cherish. The only thing I’ve experienced with him is his funeral. I knelt for more than twenty-four hours next to two women I didn’t know, and neither of them was Wansu. She’d paid for it. She’d come and bowed and said things to my dad’s landlady and his girlfriend or lover or random hookup at the time of his death. She hadn’t stayed. I wonder what memories she cherishes. If there are memories she cherishes.
“You do not have to do this for me.”
“It is not for solely you, Hara. It is for me as well.”
Once again, Ellen’s words ping-pong in my head. Wansu is lonely. Her husband has been nonresponsive for three years and in bad health the previous two. The man she made a child with, who either rejected her or, as he said in the email he sent me, hadn’t believed he was the father, died as well. I had lost two fathers but Wansu had effectively lost two husbands. It is for me as well.
“Yes. I’ll go.”
Wansu reacts as if I’ve agreed to carry an umbrella on a rainy day. In other words, no big deal, but it is important enough for her to have come home early on a workday, important enough that we head straight out to the car. It takes us forty minutes to arrive at the columbarium.
We talk a little about the economics of a food truck. Wansu brings up all sorts of hidden expenses and legalities that I will need to navigate. She instructs me to use the family lawyer to obtain the proper licenses. I will have to get a commercial driver’s license, given the size of the food truck. She thinks it is a good idea that I will be preparing for a spring opening. I have a lot of preparatory work to do. The advice is good and the conversation makes the trip pass quickly.
The Seoul Memorial Park is situated in the basin at the foot of the mountain. Dug into the ground, the massive structure is surrounded by huge evergreens on nearly all sides. The building is four wings centered around a large reflecting pool with a giant metal lotus-flower sculpture in the middle. The walls facing the courtyard are all glass. Inside, the building is divided into smaller well-lit bereavement rooms with niches from floor to ceiling.
Wansu guides me to a unit at the end. Lee Jonghyung’s resting place is spacious, two niches wide, and set at eye level. Behind the protective glass is a white porcelain urn that takes on a light green hue at certain angles, and two white flowers, which I presume are fake, lie at the base. The only other item in the niche is a small picture of young Lee Jonghyung in a simple wooden frame. He’s leaning against the counter of his food stall with a pair of sunglasses dangling between his fingers, and everything about him, from his relaxed pose to his jeans and white T-shirt tucked in tight, shouts effortless cool. I can see why he attracted so many girls and so easily.