I'll Be Right There (12 page)

3. Christ shouldered the cross, and Saint Christopher shouldered Christ. If we invert the sentence, then the cross carried Jesus, and Jesus delivered Saint Christopher to the path of salvation. They both had a calling to which they devoted their whole lives, and they both experienced fateful meetings that enabled them to fulfill those callings. In that case, do I also have a calling? A task that I am destined to carry out for the rest of my life? When will the chance to fulfill that calling find its way to me? Though I’m in my twenties now, I feel like I am still fumbling in the dark, trying to make my way forward
.

I stole a book from the bookstore. I didn’t need it. I don’t even want to read it. Yet when I pulled it off the shelf, this unnamable urge shot through me. I walked out of the store with the book in my hand, but no one stopped me. It was anticlimactic. On the title page, I wrote the date and a note: “Yi Myungsuh’s first stolen book.” It looked incomplete, so I added: “You’re not a grown-up until you’ve stolen a book.” But then I felt like I was making a childish excuse, so I erased everything except for the date
.

—Brown Notebook 3

CHAPTER 4

To The Salt Lake

I
asked Myungsuh and Miru to wait outside before I let them in. The list of promises I’d made to myself when I returned to the city was taped to the wall above my desk, and I thought I should take it down first. The cat came in and started exploring, as if looking for a spot of her own in this new place. She leaped onto the windowsill and curled up in a ball. Myungsuh transferred the table palm from the plastic container to the clay flowerpot and placed it on my desk. Then he sat down in the chair and tapped on the typewriter. Miru stood near the kitchen. I call it a kitchen, but it was really just a sink and a stove at one end of the room, along with a refrigerator. I washed the rice and put it in the pot. Then I pulled out the retractable tabletop that was hidden in the side of the kitchen counter and set it with containers of side dishes from the refrigerator. The pullout table was short and narrow. I kept it folded away when I was not using it. The three of us would have been knee-to-knee if we all tried to sit there. My cousin had made the side dishes for me;
the containers were filled with stir-fried anchovies, brisket marinated in soy sauce, seasoned perilla. The perilla that my cousin had brought was different from the perilla kimchi my mother used to send me: my cousin had simply steamed the leaves and seasoned them with soy sauce. Each time I opened a container, Miru murmured the names of the dishes like she was reciting the titles of books:
radish kimchi, braised lotus root, sauteed burdock root
 … She marveled at how much food I had and asked if I had made it all myself.

“I have an older cousin who lives nearby,” I explained. “She brought it over.”

“You said all you had was perilla kimchi.”

“I didn’t realize how much was in there.” I pointed at the burdock and lotus root. “It’s the first time I’ve opened these.”

“Why haven’t you had any yet?”

“I guess I just don’t take it all out when I’m eating alone.”

I ate because I was hungry, not for the flavor. My cousin made all kinds of things and left them in my refrigerator, but whenever I ate, I just reached in and grabbed the first three containers I saw. Myungsuh stopped tapping at the typewriter and came over. He transferred the food into smaller serving dishes.

“I have some curled mallow,” I said. “Shall I make some soup?”

“Don’t bother,” Miru said. “This is already too much food.”

It was true. The small table was crowded with dishes.

“But we’re eating together for the first time,” I said. “We ought to have soup.”

I grabbed a pot, filled it with water, and placed it on the
stove. Then I took the mallow out of the refrigerator. Even the mallow had been brought over by my cousin.

“I can’t believe you have mallow,” Miru said. “Here, I’ll do it.”

She took the big mallow leaves from me. She had the stems peeled in no time. Her scarred hands moved fluidly from stem to stem. I was surprised to see her work. From the way she handled the leaves, stripping off the thin outer layer of the plant and picking out the tougher pieces without hesitation, it seemed she had made this soup often. She added salt to the boiling water to blanch the leaves and then wrung them out hard under a running tap.

“You blanch it first?” I asked.

“That gets rid of the bitterness.”

“You must really like mallow soup.”

“My sister did. We used to grow mallow in our garden when we were little. First thing in the morning, I would take my basket to go pick mallow with my sister. I was always amazed by how fast the mallow grew back after it was cut. But mostly I liked going out to the garden because I had fun shaking the dew off the leaves. My pants would be soaked with dew by the time we were done.”

She had told me not to bother making soup and then wound up making it herself.

“There’s some dried shrimp in the refrigerator, too.”

Miru found the plastic bag, peeked inside, and rejoiced: “We have shrimp!” She washed the dried shrimp and added it to the pot. When my mother made this soup, she used to just wring the leaves out until the water ran green and then rinse
them and add them to the soup. I had never made it myself. It was strange to see Miru so adept at it. Myungsuh must have been hungry, because he grabbed a perilla leaf with his fingers and ate it. Miru gave him a look and handed him a pair of chopsticks. He took them and ate another. They looked so natural together that I stood still and watched them for a moment.

When the soup came to a boil, the cat stood up and arched her back into a deep stretch. Her supple belly grazed the windowsill. She leapt down lightly from the sill and strolled over to Miru, wrapped her tail around Miru’s skirt, and gave it a tap. The whole time, the cat kept her face turned away, as if feigning indifference.

“That’s how they communicate,” Miru said. “This means she likes me. She’ll do it to you, too, once she gets to know you.”

The cat sat quietly at Miru’s feet and looked up at me. The blue eyes seemed to say, “And who are you?” I filled three bowls with rice. It was the first time I had ever eaten with other people in my rooftop apartment. Every single plate and bowl in my cabinet was put to use. Once the table was set, Miru took a blank piece of paper and a pencil from my desk and wrote down the date and the names of every dish on the table:
curled mallow soup, rice, perilla kimchi
 …

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Writing it all down so I can transfer it to my diary later.”

“What?”

“Miru writes down everything she eats.” Myungsuh answered for her.

Everything? Miru ignored my stares and continued writing it all down.

“Why do you do that?” I asked.

“Because then it feels real,” she said.

“What does?”

“Being alive.”

“Have you written down everything you’ve ever eaten since you were born?” I asked.

“Of course not!” Miru chuckled.

“Then why? What’s the motivation?” I couldn’t help but laugh, too. With all of my questions, I felt like I was interviewing her.

We picked up our spoons and began our first meal together.

The cat curled up at Miru’s feet. Myungsuh stuck a huge spoonful of rice in his mouth and slurped down the soup. Miru did not touch her rice but ate small spoonfuls of the soup. I mixed half of my rice into my soup. She had seasoned it well. The green mallow leaves were tender. The pink of the shrimp complemented the green of the mallow. I still couldn’t believe we were eating together. I picked up a perilla leaf and placed it on Miru’s rice. It was something my mother used to do for me. When did my mother get to eat? I had more memories of her feeding us than of her eating. She used to beam with pride over how heartily my father ate, and she encouraged me to eat like him. The way he ate, it was almost as if he were eating something different and tastier. Seeing him eat made me want to hurry up and eat, too. He really was a hearty eater, before she became sick. After my mother died and it was just the two of us, we could still feel her sitting between us at the table, though neither of us ever talked about it. Those may have been my loneliest moments while
living back at home. My mother loved to watch my father eat, and she was forever pushing the side dishes closer to us and placing bites of meat and vegetables on top of our rice:
Eat it while it’s still warm, while it’s still flavorful, while the seasoning’s just right
 … Did I ever return the gesture? I would think about her and find myself unconsciously reaching over to push the side dishes closer to my father. He in turn would unconsciously place pieces of dried seaweed on the spoonful of rice I was raising to my mouth. Maybe that was why we still felt her there. After she passed away, my father no longer feasted on squash, or picked a fish clean of meat, or slurped down soup like it was water, or asked for sesame oil to drizzle on his
bibimbap
. Half of his rice was always left untouched.

Miru wrapped the perilla leaf around a big spoonful of rice, stuffed it in her mouth, and smiled with her cheeks full. I smiled, too. I would never have guessed that I would be sitting here in my room with the two of them, sharing a meal and laughing. My mother would have liked watching Miru eat. To my surprise, she ate heartily, like my father. My mother would have patted her on the back and been all smiles, and she would have said that Miru’s way of eating brought luck. No matter what the situation, my mother expressed everything through food. If something bad happened, she said it was on account of being a picky eater, and if something good happened, she said it was a reward for eating every meal like it was a feast.

“You’re a hearty eater,” I said.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

Miru looked like no one had ever told her that before.

“My mother would have enjoyed watching you eat,” I said. “She used to say that people had to know how to enjoy their food. She said that was how you could be sure to always get your share, no matter where you went. People who know how to enjoy food know the value of it.”

My mother’s words still rang in my ears. She was fond of Dahn because of his appetite. Whenever he came over, she would set out extra silverware and made sure he ate with us. And just like she did for my father and me, she would push the side dishes closer to him and even place food on his rice.

“Let’s visit your mother someday,” Miru said.

If only we could. If only I could take them to see her someday.

“My mother is dead.”

It was the first time I had ever said those words to someone. Myungsuh and Miru looked up at me. The fact of my mother’s death hit me again, the same way it had when Myungsuh appeared before me like a beacon of light in the center of the riot-swept city.
My mother is dead
. The words echoed in my ears. A chill ran over me, but the feeling soon passed. Maybe I had already come to terms with her death while typing up the poems in
We Are Breathing
. Miru placed a perilla leaf in my bowl. I wrapped it around the rice, put it in my mouth, and chewed. I could hear my mother saying,
Our little Yoon is such a good eater
. As soon as I swallowed, Myungsuh put another leaf in my bowl. I put a leaf in his bowl as well. Then he put one in Miru’s bowl. We picked up the leaves, wrapped them around the rice, and stuffed them in our mouths at the same time, giggling as we chewed.

I picked up a piece of brisket and held it out to the cat, but Miru stopped me.

“She can’t eat anything with salt or onions.”

“Why not?” I put the brisket in my own mouth instead.

“Cats can’t digest salt.”

“Then what should we feed her? She must be hungry.”

“She won’t eat anything anyway. She’s very vain. She never eats between meals.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Miru looked at the cat as if to say,
Isn’t that so?
The cat sat there and showed no interest in the meat, even though she must have smelled it when I held it in front of her. Miru was right. I realized again how little I knew about cats.

“I wonder why they can’t digest salt. That’s where all the flavor comes from.”

It’s what my mother used to say.

“That’s true. Come to think of it, I did once hear about a cat that lived near a salt lake.”

“Salt lake?”

“Yes. Where was it? Turkey? Greece? The path to the lake is crusted with salt. At night, the moonlight reflects off it, and it glows white. The description of the path is so amazing that I can still picture it in my head. People who are ill and at their life’s end go to that lake to soak in the saltwater, and the cat walks with them along the path and listens to their life story. The cat enjoys their stories and waits at the entrance for people to show up. Whenever someone shows up looking ill, the cat guides them to the lake.”

“Where did you hear that?” I asked.

“I read it in a book.”

“What’s the title?”

“I can’t remember. Do you remember the title of that book my sister had?” she asked Myungsuh. He cocked his head as if trying to remember.

“I thought the path sounded so beautiful that I was obsessed with trying to picture the lake, but my silly sister was worried about the cat because she said salt makes them sick.”

“I guess she knew everything there is to know about cats.”

“She wasn’t always like that. I remember when she first brought the cat home. Her friend’s cat had five kittens, and this one was the runt. The stronger kittens pushed her away when they fed, so she couldn’t get enough to eat. When my sister saw that she couldn’t eat and kept getting her tail bitten, she brought her home. She was so small. It was easy to lose her. She could hide inside a manila envelope, and you would never find her. She looked like a ball of white string rolling along the floor. But despite her small size, she had sharp claws. I was fascinated by them. She scratched up all the furniture. My mother and Mirae used to fight about it all the time.”