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Nicki was an adoptee from Minneapolis whom I’d met a few times during annual cultural festivals. Through the adoption grapevine that Mom had once been hooked into, Nicki’s unhappy reunion story spread like a spark falling on dry hay. She’d gone to Korea on a trip hosted by her adoption agency and met with her bio father and two older siblings. They were poor, which was why they’d given young Nicki up for adoption. They were still poor when Nicki, now a med student, returned. They’d demanded money from her, stating that it was her filial duty. She’d grown up in a posh home with wealthy doctor parents, wanting for nothing, while her biological family had scraped by. She’d given them money, but the requests were nonstop to the extent that Nicki had to cut off contact. She regretted ever meeting her bio family and never wanted to return.
“He didn’t say he wanted money.” The few responses I’d received from Lee Jonghyung were brief. Come and visit me. I would like to meet you.
“Why else would he contact you?”
Mom doesn’t mean to hurt me, but the offhand way that the sentence is phrased, as if there couldn’t possibly be any reason other than money, leaves a shallow mark across my chest. I pretend that I’m unaffected. “Perhaps he’s curious, too.”
Mom sniffs. “He could be one of those fisher people, trying to take your identity. A lot of people over there do that.”
“Over where?” I don’t like where she’s going with this and before she can say something we’re both going to regret, I move on. “It’s phishing, not fisher, and I’m not going to give him any information. In fact, he wants me to come to Seoul. He’s not asking me to pay his way here. Mom, I know it sounds ridiculous and that it’s a dead end, but I’d always regret it if I didn’t do anything.”
She mashes bread on top of the carelessly strewn cucumbers. “Aren’t I enough? Yes, Pat was a bad dad, but he did love you in his own way and I love you so much. From the moment that I saw your picture, I have loved you. There’s nothing for you in that country. They literally threw you out like trash and abandoned you.”
I suck in a breath and hold it, surprised at how much simple words can hurt. She’s mad, I tell myself, and hurt. “There’s lots of reasons. Medical, for instance. Whenever I have to fill out medical forms, I can’t answer any of the family history questions.”
“Are you sick? Is there something you’re not telling me? You should’ve said something before I planned this party!” Mom’s voice is getting high and thin.
“No, Mom, I’m not sick. I’m just . . . I’m curious.” I rub my throat, wondering if the tightness there is from a summer illness or the fact that this conversation is going exactly as badly as I expected.
“You can be curious here. There are lots of resources. The internet exists for a reason.” She smacks her hand on the counter. “What if you do meet up with him? What answer can he possibly give you that would make you feel better? I already told you that your mother gave you up because she wanted a better life for you.”
That’s the story Ellen has told me all my life, particularly at night, when there was a tiny bit of moonlight seeping in around the edges of the shade that’s cut shy of the opening. Because at night is when the doubts would creep in, when I would lie awake and stare at the popcorn-pebbled ceiling and wonder why my mother gave me up. Why she, as Ellen so plainly put, threw me out like so much trash. The painful, hurtful thoughts would run around in my head like a hamster on a wheel until I worked myself up so much that I felt like I was actually the hamster—small, insignificant, unworthy. These were the source of the tears that Dad had hated so much. Stop crying. What’s the use of crying? Not going to change things.
“I want to see him. I want to touch his hand. I want to . . .” It’s inexplicable. I don’t have a full explanation because I don’t fully understand the yearning myself. I only know that it exists and it’s pulling me, like a rope around my heart tugging me east.
“There’s nothing for you there. Your life is here. Your job is here. Your friends are here.”
“Mom. They said I didn’t look like Dad. At the funeral.”
“Who cares what they said!” She throws her hands in the air. “You don’t look like me either. Does that mean I’m not your mother? Does that mean that I haven’t been there for you every time you fell? Every time you had a success? Every time you were sick or you were happy? It was me that was there for you. I’m your mother!” The last word is said more like a plea than a declaration. Her outburst isn’t followed by a torrent of tears, but a thin-lipped, tight-faced expression, and somehow that’s even worse.
