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At this moment, as my legs grow numb and my eyes begin to water from staring at the glass doors of the office building in front of me, I feel a little like the ship captain looking endlessly for someone and coming up empty-handed.
Paper crinkles in my grip. Okay, not literally empty-handed because in the three hours that I’ve stood in front of the building, I’ve had about fifteen flyers shoved in my hand. People stream in and out and it’s hard to track everyone. All I have is a small screenshot of Kim Jihye’s face and I’m not sure I could pick out Ellen’s face from this big crowd.
Perhaps I should go inside. I could say I was delivering flowers or that I was bringing over a business proposal from America. Of course, that would require someone inside to speak English because I have no idea how to say any of that in Korean. Those weren’t options on the list the girls prepared for me. I should’ve brought Boyoung, but I had this wild idea this morning that I could do this on my own. I found Namsan Tower on my own! I could make out the Hangul letters! I was fluent! Not really, but a few hours ago I had convinced myself of my own power. Now, not so much.
Straightening my shoulders, I decide to brave the building. It becomes immediately apparent that I’m not dressed appropriately. Everyone who has entered or exited the high-rise has looked polished with their nice dress shoes, dark pants, and white shirts with the lanyards strung around their necks. I’m wearing a black cotton dress with thin white stripes, a black cardigan, and a pair of sandals, which were perfect for my day of sightseeing, but it doesn’t say “smart businessperson,” which is the attitude everyone but me is selling.
No one pays a dot of attention to me as I enter the building. I aim straight for the lobby desk manned by two men wearing dark suits. Neither smiles as I approach but one dips his head and says something in Korean that I don’t understand, as per usual.
“I’m sorry. I don’t speak Korean, but I’m looking for this woman.” I hold up my phone. “Can you help me?”
The man’s face shows a flicker of surprise and he exchanges a look with his coworker. They both peer at the photo.
“Fourth floor. Daehoon Group is on the fourth floor.” He points upward.
I almost drop the phone. I didn’t expect them to answer. “F-fourth?”
I’m not sure why I’m surprised. I’m standing here in the lobby of this office building because the internet told me that Kim Jihye works here. But suddenly my heart is beating faster and my stomach begins to somersault. I’m standing in the same building as my mother. We’re breathing the same air. She’s four floors away.
I press shaky hands against my face. The cell phone feels overly warm against one cheek. I bow and then move toward the elevators. One of the men speaks sharply to me. When I turn back, I see him pointing at my chest.
“ID,” he says.
ID? I blank out for a moment and then fumble in my purse for my passport. “Here.” I hurry back and show it to him.
He scrutinizes it and then picks up a phone. Oh. He’s calling Kim Jihye. That’s not good. The woman won’t know who I am. She won’t let me up. My mind empties out and I react in panic, grabbing my passport from security and motoring toward the elevator. Someone behind me shouts but I don’t listen. I’m too close and I won’t be stopped because of some office protocol that does not apply to me. I speed around the corner, ignoring surprised office workers who stop to watch me scurry to the elevator bank. Once there, I jab the up button repeatedly. I hear footsteps racing toward me.
“Come on. Come on,” I mutter, watching the lights above the elevator doors count down to the lobby floor.
The doors slide open, but before I can climb on, a whole mass of people pours out of the cab. Irritated looks drive me backward and into the arms of a security guard. He glares at me and points to the exit.
No. Not today. I dart inside the elevator and smack into another person, who screeches and falls backward. I grab the woman’s arm and pull myself upright.
“Jamsimanyo,” the woman says. Wait a minute.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out because I’m staring at the face of Kim Jihye—the woman with the three-finger forehead and the oval face.
“It’s you,” I blurt out.
Kim Jihye blinks at me and then says something else. I can’t respond, and for the umpteenth time I mentally slap myself for not learning my mother tongue.
“I’m sorry. I don’t speak Korean. I’m from America. I’m . . . adopted.” The word falls from my lips, half apology, half accusation.
