Blood Sisters Page 5

  I met Sol last May. We were singing “Marching Song for My Love” after watching the documentary about the May 18th Gwangju student protest that a few Sunbes had screened in the school theater.

  “The burning oath we made: let’s push on, leaving behind love, fame, and even names,” we sang. The Sunbe with a microphone led the chanting, singing the phrase first, and the freshmen echoed him. We pumped our right hands, determined but restrained.

  “Alright, you got the gist of the song, right? Which one of you wants to come onstage and sing it?” the Sunbe asked. Most freshmen shrank and looked away. The theater fell silent. Then a voice rang out, “Me! I’ll sing.” The voice came from right next to me. I turned and saw the face of a girl with a raised hand. She looked like a middle schooler. A young, innocent smile. Her wrists in the rolled sleeves of her yellow shirt were so thin, they looked as though they could snap right off. I watched the laborious process of her making her way to the stage: odd movements, like a bird trying her wings. She got up from her seat, walked down the stairs of the auditorium in her strange gait, and climbed the stairs of the stage, limping. The theater filled with swirling uncertainty. I couldn’t quiet the rippling wave in my chest, so I escaped through the back door. The voice spilled out through the door, a delicate, bright, and yet solemn voice.

  * * *

  “Here.”

  Sol, like a fortune teller with a pendulum, stops at the corner of the river. She sets a newspaper down on a cold sand dune and anchors its four corners with rocks. “Ugh, this wind! Come on, help me out over here. Hold this down.”

  I notice a man standing on the bridge by his bicycle, watching us. My ears hurt so much they feel like they are going to fall off. Sleet, not quite rain or snow, scatters around us. I tilt my head back and catch the wet snow with my tongue; they are like icy flakes of a delicate wafer. The flakes land on the rushing water and become part of the river. I watch the river intently, standing like a crane. A crane doesn’t watch the river because it’s admiring the beauty of nature.

  “The ashes floated away so we don’t have to set things up right here.” My voice is cold and detached.

  “But don’t you remember? This is the very spot you stood and scattered the ashes. I remember. We could see the pine forest ahead of us this way. We were away from the bridge, just like this.”

  “Everything looks the same around sand dunes like this. And with pine trees everywhere.”

  I don’t want to do the ritual jul, the deep bowing. Sol insists on greeting Jimin this way, however. She lays down fruits, sponge cake, soju, and paper cups on the newspaper. After rummaging through her bag, she pulls out incense and a lighter.

  “Do you see the jujube tree on the river bank over there? The single one among the zinnia trees. I can tell from that tree that this is the correct spot. My family used to run an orchard, so I know something about trees. They all look different individually, even when they are the same kind.”

  “Show-off.”

  “Why are you acting so sullen, like I dragged you here? You’re too skeptical of every gesture.” Nobody had ever told me I was too skeptical. I consider it a fault of mine that I trust others too much.

  “You got it wrong. Sol, you’re the one who’s being outrageous. You prepared the whole Jesa ritual!4 I don’t believe in that kind of stuff, and I hate that kind of ritualistic crap. I just wanted to visit Sunbe’s hometown and touch the river where Sunbe used to swim and fish.”

  “Yes. Also the place where we scattered her ashes. And you!You ate a handful of her ashes before we scattered them. I saw you sneaking it. Your lips got ashy. Do you think she’ll live inside you forever now?”

  Sol starts trembling as if she was freezing. Her lips are blue, and her hair, wet from the sleet, covers her tiny face. I take the jul, bowing deeply twice in the direction of the river. My teeth chatter. In the distance, I hear a loud crack, like the sound of a tree breaking. Sol mumbles, as if reciting a spell or a blessing.

  “I’m gonna go now. What about you?” Sol asks me, frowning like she is about to freeze to death.

  “I told you not to go to Sunbe’s place!”

  “Who said I’m going to her place? I’m going to my place. In Hadong. I’m going to stay with my parents during the break and move into the dorm at the end of the month.”

  As we pass by the riverbank, I turn to look behind me. Sol taps a dead-looking tree trunk. “This is a jujube tree. Even when the spring comes, it doesn’t sprout. It too is skeptical of everything, so only after all the other trees have sprouted and blossomed will it slowly push out its new leaves.”

  “I can tell that you’re insinuating something. Forget it. Just give me a light.” After lighting the cigarette between my lips, I look at the watch on my wrist. It’s the dead watch Jimin Sunbe gave me. My watch may be dead, but time keeps on going.

  “Yeoul, can I ask you a favor? Please don’t smoke at my place.”

  “What are you talking about? Who said I’m going to your place?”

  “No, I mean, well … I’m just saying … let’s go home together. You’re so broke, you’re practically homeless. Come to Hadong with me. Please?”

  Sol leans in and tries to wrap her arm around my shoulder, but she’s too short—shorter than an average middle schooler—so she hops. I lift my arm and pause, but eventually wrap it around Sol’s shoulder. We walk askew, like they’re the first steps we’ve ever taken.

  A group of children run by, flying their kites. A man on a bicycle passes us, watching us through the corner of his eye. It’s the same man who was watching us from the bridge. The red armband on his upper arm says Watch Out for Wildfires. I was told that Jimin Sunbe’s parents farm in the area and during the winter work as wildfire watchers, which makes me think the man on the bicycle might be Jimin Sunbe’s father. He and I exchange a look but don’t say anything, just like at the funeral. His first daughter, the one who got married and moved to Seoul, hung herself; two years later, his youngest daughter was found dead in her apartment in Busan, so Korea must no longer feel like home. The pendulum of his heart circles and circles, never stopping in one spot. He spins the pedals of his bike and enters the dark forest. It doesn’t seem like he’ll ever reemerge.

  4. Jesa is a traditional ritual where one pays respect to the dead and other spirits, often with offerings of food and drink the dead person enjoyed in life.

  Hitchhiker

  Sol and I walk through a cold wind tunnel on a dusty street. No sidewalk. I’m so tired, I feel like flopping down on my butt and crying. Sol, silent through the entire journey, suddenly starts waving at a passing car. Honk honk! The passing car just honks at us. Sol, what are you doing? Of course nobody would pick up hitchhikers in this remote area. Sol, not discouraged, continues waving. It looks like she’s dancing.

  “Mom!” Sol hops and runs across the road, like a fish propelled out of a pond’s depths to break free from the water. Making loud slapping noises with her shoes, she dashes over to a woman looking away from us on the opposite side of the road, and hugs her from behind. It looks so intimate. I wish I had someone I could hug from behind like that.

  “Look who’s here! I thought you were going to be here next week at the earliest.” Her mom sounds more scolding than welcoming. She then turns to the car that has pulled up to the stand where she is selling apples. “No, I can’t go any lower. No, not even a cent. I’m giving you such a good deal!” The car slowly pulls away and she yells after the car, “Okay okay. Just give me 4,500 won!” After the car leaves, Sol’s mother clicks her tongue in annoyance. “City folk really don’t give a damn about other people. Selling apples is a business with slim margins.” Sol’s mother shoves the money she just received into her fanny pack and starts to order Sol around as though her daughter never left for college and has always been at hand. Sol pulls out rotten pears from the boxes and collects them in the basket under the wooden platform. She then refills the empty rubber bucket her mother used with new apples.


  “Mom, I brought a friend with me. We’ll stay over for the next few days.” Sol’s mother doesn’t respond to her announcement. Instead she asks if we had eaten. “Yeah, we ate a while ago. You know the grandma’s seafood tent on the sidewalk next to the bus terminal? We ate the clam soup. We each had a whole bowl. It was so good.”

  “Yeah, hers is the real deal. All the other places dilute the soup, or use Chinese clams and lie that they are local Hadong clams.” Even though I showed up unannounced on the evening of New Year’s Day looking like a wet rat, soaked in sleet, Sol’s mom offers me an apple after wiping it on her sleeve. I take a big bite of the shiny red apple. It’s fragrant and sweet.

  Selling fruit on the side of the road is not easy. We pile up the apples and pears, sitting on the wooden platform by the side of the highway. It’s cold, so we blow on our hands and rub our red cheeks. A car stops. People mostly ask for the price, poke at the fruits, smell a few, but then leave. I feel an urge to walk into the road with a fruit basket in my hand. I could just lie down on the road and be done with it.

  It’s getting dark and no one is buying our wares, but still we wave at the cars with their headlights on.

  “People must have eaten a lot of food and gotten full at the New Year’s rituals. Let’s just go home.” We walk past the green tea farm and reach the house on the hill. In its small yard, a dogwood tree is blooming, its flowers look like scattered yellow pills. Next to the tree, a pinwheel is spinning.

  “Dad! I’m home!” Sol tosses her bag on the floor and yells at the top of her lungs. She throws open the doors.

  “Your father went into town for an embalming. He won’t be back till late.”

  “Again? Who died?”

  “Now that the weather’s warming up, there are funerals constantly. The night before the New Year, Hakgyu’s uncle died, and then the town officer, who was healthy one day and then dropped dead the next.” She gave a little tut-tut of disapproval. “Your dad had to go over to his place in the early morning.”

  “Tell Dad to get a new job. Choi at the morgue can take care of embalming, right? The village people keep calling me the embalmer’s daughter. I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t be like that. When your father dies, this town will be full of ghosts who can’t move on because your dad won’t be there to embalm their corpses.”

  Sol’s mother dozes off holding the spoon she was eating sikhye with. A grain of rice sticks to her lips. She must’ve been exhausted. Sol and I look at each other and quietly leave the room. We watch the river from the wooden deck. The dark river looks like teary black pupils. The moon drifts in and out of the clouds, reflecting on the water like an aluminum plate jaggedly cut with a serrated knife. Why am I here? Where did I come from, and where am I going? Such grandiose questions enter my mind. I thought I was just getting a headache from an infection in my wisdom teeth, but I feel worse. I think I have a fever. I could probably cook an egg on my forehead.

  “It’s too cold. Let’s go inside.” The bedroom Sol takes me into isn’t heated, so it’s freezing cold.

  “Sol, feel my forehead.” I grab Sol’s hand and place her hand on my forehead to confirm my self-diagnosis.

  “You’re burning up! When did you notice this?”

  “I dunno. I don’t know why I’m getting sick! I wasn’t that soaked from the rain.”

  “You haven’t been sleeping well lately, though, right? You don’t seem to eat right, either. When was the last time you took a shower? Frankly, you stink pretty bad. Your eyes are red, your cheeks are sunken … the bags under your eyes … it’s as if you want to follow Jimin to the grave. You’ve changed so much, you suddenly seem old.” Sol walks out of the room and leaves me standing there with her critique. She comes back with an electric blanket. Somebody must have been using it, because it already feels warm, like it’s holding onto body heat. Sol turns the control dial to the maximum heat, and I lie down under the blanket, burying my face into the pillow.

  “No, lie down the other way. Only dead people lie down with their head to the North.” Sol pulls the pillow out from under me and slaps the back of my head. I sit up, spin on my butt to face the right way. Sol chatters away on her belly, resting her head on her hands. Her shirt is loose, so the neckline hangs enough to show her clavicle and pale breasts. I feel lightheaded and dizzy, but she won’t stop telling me stories about her life: how her father and grandfather cheered hurrah at the sound of her first cry at birth—how her cry was so loud they thought she was a boy—how she excelled in school—both in her studies and on the track team. I think about her limping gait as we ran together at the student protest but say nothing. She tells me how she once hid in her closet and didn’t come out for days. I feel thirsty and worn out from fever. I wish she would stop talking so we can go to sleep. Sol doesn’t seem tired at all. Like a kid on an overnight field trip, she talks on and on even with the lights off. She doesn’t realize my mind is scrambled like a shaken up bento box. She goes on about a time eight or nine years ago: black fungus was going around the orchards, and the disease turned all the pears black, starting at the stem. The helpless villagers could only sigh in response. Sol’s family’s orchard was hit especially hard, so the local journalists did a feature story on them. It was on that fateful day that it happened: it was cherry blossom season and tourists were coming in droves on buses. Sol was playing jacks alone in the shade behind the tour buses, and a bus backed up onto her. Sol tells me she was lucky, she could’ve been squashed into roadkill, but she only got a limp from the accident.

  I’m pretending to be asleep, pretending I’m not listening. In the darkness I open my eyes to steal a glance at her face.

  How long did she suffer before she got to the point where she can talk about this like it was an ordinary thing, without tears, without pain? How long did she hide in the closet, watching herself crumple in disbelief?

  My pillow gets wet, and the fever seems to break. I want to reach out and hug my friend, but I don’t want her to know I’ve been listening after all. Or am I afraid I won’t be able to release her once I hug her? I stop myself from reaching out and instead wrap my arms around myself.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep—I feel a rush of hot air. Not long ago all I felt were the claws of the cold draft seeping under the door and in through my blanket, skinning me alive. Is the heat inside of me burning up this room? What is this smell? Is someone blowing heated hot breath on me?

  “Fire! Fire! Wake up!” Sol yells. The blanket is ablaze. Flames flicker like the tongue of a ghost on the edge of the blanket I had been pushing down with my heel. Sol and I together grab a pillow and blanket and use them to smother the flame. The fire goes out too easily and in our shocked state it seems like a joke. It must have been an electrical fire. The electric blanket is blackened on the edge.

  “We survived!” We playfully slap each other and giggle.

  Wedding Cake

  Will you marry me?

  A Post-It’s hanging on the door. A basket of roses at the doorstep. I scoff. Probably the lover of someone who used to live here must’ve sent this, or some idiot who doesn’t even know where his lover lives. I push the rose basket away with my foot. I click my teeth as I push the key into the doorknob, and just then the door opposite mine opens. A man with bird-nest hair briefly emerges but then slams the door, startled at the sight of me.

  I don’t know what kind of people live here. I think four or five people live on this floor. There are ten or so pairs of shoes that step on each other and are being stepped on in the foyer. Sungyun’s room is right before the foyer.

  Nana’s mom, the café owner, told me to go out and take down the sign that says ROOM AVAIIABLE OVERNIGHT. She goes on, “Eunyong told me about your situation—she was freaking out the whole time. Are you planning on going back to your old place? I don’t think you can stand your place anymore. Just try to forget everything. You can stay here. We have a room you can use. You can trust me. Don’t worry about the rent.�
�� She quickly added, “In return you can come to the café early, help with the cleaning and grocery shopping with Sungyun.”

  That was a month ago. I climbed these stairs with Sungyun making snide remarks at me. It was the same day the scary-looking men in red cotton gloves arrived at Jimin’s place with the moving truck. They took everything: books, clothes, right down to the last spoon. That was when I returned from Jimin’s funeral, I’d spent the day lying catatonic in the corner of the room like unwanted rebar in a junkyard.

  I fall stiffly on top of the mattress. The woman who lived here before me left behind a few things, including several bloodstains on the mattress—from what, a nosebleed? Her period? Something else?—and a red cord. The cord is for hanging laundry and spans the distance between the walls.

  I’d hung my towels, socks, and underwear after washing them, but two pairs of underwear are missing now. Did someone come in while I was away? But then I never know where my mind is. I can’t trust myself. The gloves I’d been wearing when I left home are gone now too. I might have left them by the river, or in the bus, or at Sol’s place. I have no recollection of what’s been happening, as if some device has been jammed into my head to prevent me remembering. Everything feels like it happened last night or eons ago. At this rate, after washing my face one day, I may ask my reflection, “Who are you?” If that day comes … well, that doesn’t sound too bad.

  My room is cold. I think it’s colder in the room than outside. Where’re my cigarettes? Oh right, Sol confiscated them. She’s probably getting yelled at by her parents. We let her stay over, and she took off without even saying goodbye? She has no manners! She brought bad luck to us. Why else would the electric blanket catch fire? I feel like I can hear it. I throw the blanket over my head and plug my ears, but I cannot sleep. Please, please, please. Gurgle. I hate these hunger-bugs in my stomach, I can’t help them. I guess I’ll make some ramen.

  * * *