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Simply put, I could not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
When I step out of the shower of the Four Seasons hotel suite, I discover an unfamiliar black garment bag lying across my bed. The Hangul characters are the same as the ones that were on the bag that Bomi had brought me two weeks ago on just my second day in Seoul. I had suspected that Wansu had bought my funeral dress, and this confirms it. I know enough now to make out the name—Hwaiteu Ip. I’m not sure what the second characters mean, but I think the first one is “white.” “White-eu.”
“It’s White Leaf,” Wansu informs me. “It’s a very nice shop.” She walks over to the bed and draws down the zipper. “It’s owned by sisters and they employ women who can’t find employment because of their past. The white leaf represents a new start.”
The dress isn’t white, but the palest pink—the color of the inside of a flower that’s too shy to show itself to the sun. It’s simple and lovely and will make me look like I’m the sacrificial virgin to the god of business.
“I have my outfit,” I say. I pull out the pinstripe gray pants suit Bomi bought with the very last available credit on my card. The straight-legged pants have cuffs that break right at the top of my black two-inch pumps. I pair it with a beautiful light blue blouse embroidered with white and pink cherry blossoms on the collar and down the front.
If Wansu is disappointed that I’ve opted for a different outfit, she doesn’t show it. Without a word, she returns the dress to the garment bag and zips it up. I step back inside the en suite bathroom and change. Wansu and Ellen don’t speak, so it’s eerily quiet. The only sounds are the ones made by fabric sliding over skin, the metallic slide of the zipper, and the breaths I take as I button, fasten, and smooth everything into place.
“Leave your jacket off. I have a makeup artist and a stylist,” Wansu says when I open the bathroom door. Since I already won the clothing battle, I meekly follow her out into the living room, which has been transformed into a salon. An army of staff appears to be milling about with brushes and curling wands and hair dryers.
I’m stunned at how quickly this has all been put together. One minute, I’m listening to Bomi’s story about Wansu’s rise to power, and two hours later, I’m preparing for an emergency board meeting. I have no idea where Yujun is. While Bomi called Wansu to tell her my decision, I called Yujun, but he never answered. Wansu informed me that she passed on the plan to Yujun and he was in agreement that this was the best course of action.
That really hurt, even though it was my damn decision. I guess a tiny part of me wanted him to protest or, rather, a big part of me wanted him to swarm in here on a white horse and save me, save all of us. How humiliating. I shove the misery I have no right to feel aside and give myself over to Wansu’s miracle squad.
Ellen is already in a chair. “Come here, darling, and get your battle gear put on.” She pats the arm of the seat next to her. “Do you like my dress? Wansu brought it.”
“It’s very pretty.” What I can see of it looks nice. There’s a cloth draped around Ellen’s shoulders, but it is a lovely color of tulip yellow. Wansu is dressing us to all look soft, like flowers, and I’ve ruined it. “Thank you.”
“Eomoni.”
“What?”
“You will need to call me Eomoni in front of the board. It is a more formal version of ‘Mother,’” she explains for Ellen.
“Right. I forgot,” I reply stiffly. Not the same as what Yujun calls her, but close enough. It could be worse, I can hear him saying, we could actually be related. He was right. Things could be worse than they were the other night, and this is living proof.
“Come sit down,” Ellen says, this time tugging on my pants. “Let’s get this over with.”
I do as I’m told. My hair is tucked back into an elegant bun at the base of my neck and the hairdresser gives way to the makeup artist, who smooths on one cream and then another before she even starts with foundation. Light eye makeup is stroked across my lids. Blush is dabbed on my cheekbones. Highlighter is added to my nose and forehead. The stylist shakes a tube of liquid eyeliner and starts to apply it. I feel the wet liner drawn across my lid, hear a mutter, and then a cotton pad swipes across my eye. This process happens twice more. I tell myself that this isn’t a bad omen, that not even a Korean can apply eyeliner correctly to my eyes.
