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“Ah, no, I’m sorry. Not family. They are . . . the older lady is Yung Hyejin. She is—I mean, was your father’s landlady.”
My heart drops.
“And the other?”
“Your father’s . . . friend. Kwang Miok.” There’s a note of disapproval in Boyoung’s voice although I’m not sure if it’s because the friend came to the funeral or because my father had a girlfriend at his age. Then it strikes me that I don’t even know how old he was. I guess around forty-five based on his email where he said he was twenty when he learned of my bio mom’s pregnancy.
“You can light a stick of incense and lay your flower down next to the fruit on the table.” She clucks her tongue. “There should be plates, but there are not. Bow twice to the family,” Boyoung instructs. I do as she tells me, walking toward the small table that serves as the altar. I sink down in front of it and my fingers shake a little as I strike the match and light the incense stick. The smoke rises, snaking its way up toward the ceiling to join the other plumes like a tiny death cloud. Someone’s tears should fall from that, but everyone here is dry-eyed. Maybe crying isn’t appropriate at Korean funerals.
My gaze falls upon Lee Jonghyung’s portrait. The photo isn’t large—slightly bigger than the size of one of my school portraits Mom has hanging on the hallway wall. She bought the eight-by-ten-inch version each year and had them framed. The hallway served as a storyboard of sorts showing my progress through the years. At age five, I had three missing teeth and wore my hair in two pigtails. I wore dresses picked out by my mom. As I grew older, I smiled less, my hair was straighter, and my clothes were more casual. From ages eight through ten, I had a sports uniform. That was before Pat gave up on me. In my teen years, smiling during photos was for losers and straights. I wore too much blush and my eyeliner skills were tragic. The senior photos were taken at a park, because unlike other kids, I had hobbies that didn’t photograph well. There were only so many poses one could do with books.
Lee Jonghyung isn’t smiling in his photo either. By itself, the photo doesn’t tell much of a story. The background is plain. He’s wearing a collared shirt with the top button undone. It’s not quite DMV quality but it’s not much better. There’s a grainy texture to the portrait, as if someone took a smaller picture and enlarged it. Maybe that’s why I don’t recognize him. He has a thin face and even thinner lips. I touch my own fat lower lip. I wonder where you got that. Not from your father. His eyebrows need grooming. They’re dark and unruly. It gives him a slightly sinister expression.
His hair is dark, his eyes brown. That’s as much as I see of myself in him. Is our DNA match really 98.2 percent? Shouldn’t I see something of myself in this picture? Shouldn’t it be like an actual damn mirror? I want to pick it up and run to the bathroom so I can do a side-by-side comparison. I want to turn to the people in the room and ask them to point out the similarities.
I stare at the image for a long time, cataloging a mole on the right side of his neck and a scar near the left earlobe. I press my hands against my cheekbones, pulling the skin tight, and then drag a hand down my chin, trying to feel a connection, but there’s nothing. No flare of recognition. No immediate sense of belonging. I rub my eyes and look again. Still nothing.
Disappointment leaves a lump in my throat. I get to my feet, bow twice, and then straighten. I don’t know what to do now. I thread my fingers together and bow again. I might’ve kept bowing had Boyoung not come over to take my hand and escort me from the room. She leads me into a large common area where small wooden tables about knee-high are surrounded by black-clad mourners. Boyoung finds an empty table in the corner and folds herself onto a mat. Silently, I follow suit.
A server comes by and leaves a small collection of dishes—soup, some sides, rice. Boyoung makes a request and the hanbok-wearing waitress returns with a green bottle. “Soju,” Boyoung explains. “It’s how you get through one of these.” She twists off the cap and pours the clear liquid into a small glass in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Of all the things I imagined experiencing here in Korea, attending the funeral of my father wasn’t one of them.
Boyoung tips her head. “For what?”
“This can’t be any fun for you.”
