The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [117]
I pressed my handkerchief to my eyes and said clearly, “I’ve been a bad example for you. Father was right. If I’d been more attentive and willingly followed his wishes rather than being stubborn and selfish, you would’ve done the same. I apologize to you for that.” I turned to him. “I’m going to stay here. I’ll wait to get married.”
He whirled. “You’re crazy!”
“No. It’s best for all of us. Mother can’t do it all by herself. I’ll work for the Bennetts and help out at home.”
Dongsaeng approached, his eyes wide with surprised happiness, then plain and loving as he touched my damp cheeks. “Nuna, you would give up your freedom.”
“It wouldn’t be freedom if our family was in disarray.” I took his hand. “It’s my duty to watch over you. Mr. Cho will return in three years. I can wait until then.”
He stared at me and squeezed my hand. “You would wait?”
“I will. Gladly.” But a sob broke my words.
Dongsaeng dropped my fingers and walked to Grandfather’s grave. He laid his hand against the stone. “One day I will join you, Harabeoji, Grandfather,” he said. “My life planned for all this before I could hold up my own head.”
He turned to me. “No, Nuna. Go. You can help me more by finding a college that will accept me. Los Angeles has summer year-round, they say.”
“Father will never let you leave.” There was no reason to give him false hopes.
“Like you said, times change. If I marry—anyway, it doesn’t matter. Of course you must go now. Three years is too long to wait. I’ll work harder. Things do change.” His smile was guileless, as sweet as when in his childhood he’d finally admit to losing a game of checkers after denying it for several days.
I looked carefully at my brother, very nearly the master of the household, and nodded. My breath cleared. I had needed his permission to go to America more than I realized—no, not his permission, but his understanding that every action of his affected all the family, and that our individualism was meaningless without accepting our bonds of blood.
“Let’s go back,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
I touched his cheek lovingly and he grasped my hand. We stood a moment, then he tucked the scythe in the back of his trousers while I took the bucket, and we slowly climbed down the mountain path toward home.
There’s Time Later
AUGUST 31, 1934
I WOKE WHEN THE MOON STILL SHONE IN THE COURTYARD ABOVE whispered hues of dawn. It was the end of August and my wedding day. I stayed in my quilts a moment to savor the disappearing vestiges of my last sleep in this room, its familiar shadow-shapes, the smell of bed and home. I heard Mother stir. She called softly, “Your wedding day, Daughter.”
“I’m awake, Umma-nim.” I sat up and stretched, and as I rose to the day, excitement also rose.
I had said goodbye to Kira and Joong the night before, pressing into Kira’s hands precious ginseng and angelica root. “For fertility and strength,” I whispered as Kira cried shamelessly and Joong bowed low.
Cook had refused to say goodbye, insisting that she would make my breakfast the next day. “How can I sleep worrying when you’ll eat next?” Indeed, she was already awake and soon set a large tray of several steaming bowls in our sitting room. “Who knows when and what they’ll feed you there!”
I would be married today in Manchuria. Traditionally a bride would go to the groom’s house to marry, but there had been nothing traditional about our betrothal. Adding unconventionality to the wedding made little difference. The annual Far East Presbytery Conference, for which Calvin’s father was the chairman