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I fish out cash and tuck several Korean won inside. When I’m done, Boyoung leads me inside. The hallway is thick with black-clad people. Boyoung wasn’t kidding when she said many people were having funerals here. Some have armbands around their suit sleeves. Others are carrying flowers similar to the ones Boyoung bought outside. A profusion of wreaths with long silk banners dangling to the ground lines the hallways.
“Oh, it’s them,” Boyoung says, stopping before one of the rooms. The camera crew that almost ran into us is setting up.
“Who?” I ask.
Boyoung drags me away before she explains quietly, “There was an article trending today. There was a couple from the same clan who fell in love. It’s not against the law, but their families must’ve been very traditional. Most Koreans won’t marry someone within their same clan. It’s . . . inappropriate. These two jumped off the Mapo Bridge into the Han River together. They were twenty-two.”
I can’t hold in my gasp. “They were so young.”
“Ne.” Boyoung grabs my hand. She doesn’t realize she’s spoken in Korean, but it’s that kind of moment.
Boyoung once told me that ne in Korean doesn’t merely mean “yes,” but that it is a word of acknowledgment with its meaning changing with how one emphasizes it, what kind of emotion one puts behind it. And, today, I understand. Yes, the couple was young. Yes, it was tragic. Yes, this is terrible. Yes, I know you are full of grief and hearing about this is very hard. Yes, I’m here with you.
It’s a good word. Ne.
I clutch her hand tightly as we walk down the long hallway, the scent of flowers making my stomach clench. The pretty decorations seem more macabre than comforting. At the end of the hall, the decorations grow sparser; the mourners are fewer. It begins to feel more like a hospital and less like a graduation ceremony.
A woman dressed in a knee-length black sheath, wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, sweeps by. Boyoung stops so abruptly I almost trip over her. My friend’s eyes linger on the elegant figure for a long, strange moment. There doesn’t appear to be anything remarkable about the departing woman other than she seems like she should be visiting the rooms at the front of the hallway, not down here in the antiseptic, spare part. Her clothes fit her well. I admire the hat. It’s a nice accessory.
“Do you know her?” I ask.
Boyoung doesn’t respond, but my voice appears to jolt the shorter girl from her trance. She gives herself a brief shake and then dips her head toward a small room at the end of the hall. “Your father is over here.”
“Over here” is a tiny rectangle of a room, with a plain table at one end. On the table is a picture of a man with a ribbon wrapped around the top corners. In front of the picture is one small bowl of fruit, a wreath of white flowers, and a pot containing three incense sticks. The smoke curls off the ends, dancing in the still air. It’s the only movement in the room, as the two women kneeling to the side with their heads bent don’t stir.
Boyoung motions for me to slip off my shoes and then urges me inside. I balk. My feet want to turn and flee, run after the lady in black and use the big black hat as a shield all the way to the airport.
This was a mistake—coming to the funeral, coming to Korea, believing I was going to find something from a stranger. There are no answers here, and the sense of belonging that infused me when I was at the airport has curdled into a rock in the pit of my stomach. I should go back home where I understand what everyone is saying and the losses in my life are still at one. I’m twenty-five. I should be mourning a romantic breakup, not the death of my second father—or my first one. I don’t know anymore.
I’m pivoting away from the door when one of the kneeling women rises, her black traditional Korean dress belling out like the bloom of a dark flower. The older woman shuffles toward us, confusion writ large across her face. I don’t need to know the language to guess that she wonders who the hell we are. Boyoung begins to speak, and with each Korean word that comes out of her mouth, my window of opportunity closes.
Boyoung softly translates. “You can bow if you’d like and then greet the family.”
“Family?” Why hadn’t I made that connection? This was my birth father. Of course the mourners would be my relatives. The rock in my stomach feels lighter, and something like excitement begins to bubble. I lean close to the older woman and inspect her face, looking for signs of familiarity. My mom, Ellen, looks a lot like her mother. They shared the same eyes, nose, and mouth. I don’t see any of myself in this round-cheeked woman with the downturned eyes. The skin around her cheeks has fallen. There are long, deep lines, and her eyes look tired. My eyes shift toward the younger woman, who is watching us curiously. Is this—my breath catches in my throat—my mother?
