“Same here.” Mrs. Baek sighed.

The waitress carried two heavy earthenware pots of soon-dubu jjigae. Steam rose between them, clouding the air with the scent of kimchi, sesame oil, garlic, anchovy, shrimp. They cracked their eggs onto the jjigaes. The yolks throbbed on top.

Mina rubbed the space between her brows, partially covering her face. “You know, I have to be honest. When I first saw you, I was sort of terrified of the memories that you might bring up. I’ve grown so accustomed to being alone after Margot left, you know?”

“Yes, I understand. I felt the same way, I think.”

Mina pressed her palms on the wooden bench below her.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Mrs. Baek said, eyes low. “But back then, when you were going through so much, that’s how I survived in a way—by helping you and Margot. That way I didn’t have to think so much about my own problems anymore. I felt like I had escaped mine and that I had to be strong. For you two.” She sighed, crinkling the paper sleeve of her chopsticks.

Mina wanted to thank her for helping all those years ago. When having a child should have been impossible, Mrs. Baek had fed her and tended to Margot when Mina couldn’t do so herself. Maybe that was what made Mina so uncomfortable about Mrs. Baek. She had never experienced this kind of love before; this was family.

And yet she realized that she had never known much about Mrs. Baek. In the past, Mrs. Baek had mentioned a husband in Texas. What problems had she escaped by helping Mina and Margot? Mina couldn’t ask her about them now, could she? Maybe one day she would. She wanted to help her, to be of some use to her, too. Who had Mrs. Baek left behind, or who had she been fleeing from all those years ago?

“Did you ever—your husband—did you ever speak to him again?” Mina asked.

Mrs. Baek’s eyes darkened into coal. “No, no, of course not. He was terrible.” She sighed. “Thank goodness we never had children together.”

“Did you want to have children?”

“No, I did not,” she said. “To be honest, I never wanted my own.”

“Is that why you had to leave? Did he want them?”

“Yes, he did, but—that’s not why I left. When we first met, he was so much fun. Isn’t that how they all are? But once we married, I realized he was very bad. He . . . he couldn’t control himself.” She shook her head. “But I didn’t have a way out until I became a citizen, so I stayed with him for years. I had to survive, you know?”

“Yes, of course,” Mina said. Sadness crept up from her chest into her face. She wondered how many women had been trapped—in terrible marriages, terrible jobs, unbearable circumstances—simply because the world hadn’t been designed to allow them to thrive on their own. Their decisions would always be scrutinized by the levels at which they were able to sacrifice themselves, their bodies, their pleasures and desires. A woman who imagined her own way out would always be ostracized for her own strength. Until one day they found each other by some kind of magic or miracle or grace—here now. They were safe.

Tears filled her eyes. “You’ve done well,” Mina said.

“Me?”

“Yes, we’ve done well. Don’t you think?”

Mrs. Baek smiled with a dull glint in her eyes. Pulling the rest of the gulbi’s flesh off the bones, she said, “You and I, we’ve always been stronger than anyone else.” She nudged the plate of fish toward Mina. “At least we have each other.”

Mina stared at the objects in front of her—the banchan, the jjigae, the metal spoons, the chopsticks. For a moment, as Mrs. Baek delicately spooned her soup, Mina contemplated the matte rouge that managed, despite the eating and drinking, to remain perfectly lined with only a patchy fade, a charming pinkish stain on the lips.

So much of Mina’s life had been driven by the need to survive in a world created by and for someone else. What would the world look like if she made it her own, even temporarily, for a moment, f leeting, so that she could experience again the throb, the hunger of being alive, eyes wide, teeth showing?

The color, the mark on the rim of a glass of water. I am here, I was here, it said. Makeup expressed a desire to be seen while providing some camouflage as well. But what else was Mrs. Baek hiding? And how could Mina help her now?

Margot

Winter 2014

ON THE FLOOR OF HER MOTHER’S BEDROOM, MARGOT pored over the contents of the safety-deposit box—a large envelope of documents in Korean and mostly black-and-white photographs extending over decades. For the first time, she saw her mother as a small child—her oval face and clever gaze—posing by herself in front of a traditional Korean house with its elegant tiled roof and dark wooden beams, then her mother as a young teenager, defiantly unsmiling at a communal dining table. All of these images had faded through the years, which reminded Margot, almost, of the Seattle sky in winter, all those layered gray washes of muted softness and light.

She could begin to imagine what her mother’s life might have been like at the orphanage, from which she had never been adopted and which she had almost never discussed.

But what stood out most, what startled Margot with waves of uncertainty, were several color photos, in particular one of her mother as a woman in her late thirties with a husband and child, a pigtailed daughter in a red T-shirt and leggings. With its yellowish tint, warped surface, the photo had been thumbed, touched through the years repeatedly like a worry stone.

The husband had a long sensitive face and an easy smile, standing in a relaxed, open stance with one hand on his daughter’s shoulder and the other arm around Mina, fashionable in her wide-legged jeans and floral blouse. She stood stiffly with a slight smile on her face that shone without a single wrinkle or line. In the background, a tree-covered hillside revealed a slip of blue sky at the top of the frame. A sunny remarkable day in the woods or the country. Dust from ambling on trails covered their shoes.

The little girl in the photograph resembled Mina with her high cheekbones and narrow chin, more than Margot did herself. And the strangers, the husband and child, had an innocence and clarity about them, untouched by the hardness of Mina’s orphan past and her future immigrant life.

Margot had always thought of Koreans as workaholics, religious and pragmatic, yet at times showy and status-oriented when they had the means. But studying those relaxed faces in the photographs, those dusty shoes, Margot could see someone else, Koreans—not Korean Americans, not immigrants hardened by the realities of living in a foreign country, who like her father in Calabasas had stubbornly “succeeded,” achieving a sheen of perfection while obscuring his actual complexity, an isolation from the self. Or like her mother, who had worked tirelessly yet had never amounted to more than the long days, the long hours, alone.

What did this country ask us all to sacrifice? Was it possible to feel anything while we were all trying to get ahead of everyone else, including ourself?

And how could her mother have abandoned this other family to live in America, where her life had been tough in this cramped apartment, working an often soul-crushing job, as she yelled, Amiga! Amiga! to strangers walking away, as she raised Margot day-to-day, month-to-month, by herself ? Unless, for whatever reason, the husband in this photograph had been worse, this family, this life had been worse. But how could that be possible?

Of course, her mother might’ve wanted to tell Margot about all of this one day—another family, another country, a half sister somewhere. But when and how? Perhaps her mother, like herself, didn’t know what to do with life sometimes, hadn’t made any decisions yet. Her mother had kept the key to the safety-deposit box inside the teddy bear’s silly heart, which she had assumed no one would ever steal or touch. She, too, might have been under that spell, the illusion that delaying one’s decisions, one’s actions was the same as prolonging life. But then—unexpectedly—she died.

Who could help Margot understand this all now?

In the stairwell, the landlord had said Mrs. Baek had been at her mother’s apartment in September or October, when he had seen Mr. Park waiting for her outside.

We all lived in the same house together until you were maybe three or four. Your mother used to bring you to the restaurant that I worked at, Hanok House. Do you remember?

Only one person knew her mother well enough.

Mina

Summer 2014