The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [120]
“Don’t talk. No need.” We walked, Mother stepping stiffly with arthritic knees, humming bits of hymns.
Her quiet singing filled my throat with pain. How long would it be before I would have her beside me again? To chase away sad thoughts, I said, “They have the same hymns at the Presbyterian church.” In deference to the Bennetts, I’d attended their church and had come to understand Calvin’s curiosity about the different Protestant denominations, since the order of worship was virtually identical. I remembered my first walk in the garden with Calvin and our conversation about suffering and the origins of his name. And at that moment I sincerely thanked God for Calvin and the probability that if all went well with my papers, such subjects would be thoroughly discussed on the long passage east.
“A Presbyterian wedding!” said Mother. “I hope someone will show you where to get ready and what to do. Write as soon as you can to tell me about your mother-in-law.” I would not meet Calvin’s mother until the next day, after my papers were secured. I was told she was too frail for the journey, and I wondered about her ailment, which seemed continuous since Calvin’s youth. When we passed the hospital, Mother said, “That baby will miss you.” Mrs. Bennett had delivered a blond, three-and-a-half-kilo boy the previous month, and I had helped with his care. When I first visited Mrs. Bennett at the hospital, I was astonished by the baby’s pure whiteness. I visited every day, once dragging my mother along to see his porcelain skin. I’d nicknamed him “Little Turnip.”
“Perhaps, but I’ll miss him more. And home—” My voice broke and we couldn’t look at each other.
At the station, we found Reverend Bennett waiting for us. He was now nearly fluent in Japanese and his Korean was also quite good. He still bowed in his funny bobbing way, his skin as pink as ever. I said a sad goodbye to Byungjo and watched him leaning forlornly against his empty cart while the train pulled out, until he was only a dot on the platform, lost among the other dots of people left behind in Gaeseong.
MY MOTHER AND I held hands on the train ride like girlfriends. In Hsin-ching, Dongsaeng stored my luggage while Mr. Bennett hurriedly walked with Mother and me toward town and church, where we were met by four American ladies whose loud congratulations and fussing hands took over. My mother sat patiently in a large room with maroon velvet furniture they called the parlor, while I changed into the dark blue cheongsam and had my passport picture taken. I longed to ask for a portrait of my mother and me, but propriety prevented this. The church ladies kept saying, “Everyone is waiting,” and were so eager to dress me that there wasn’t a moment to say another word to Mother. Reverend Bennett knocked and said that Dongsaeng had successfully found the church from the train station and was sitting in the front pew. He escorted my mother to the sanctuary. The complicated Western undergarments were donned, snapped and secured, the donated ivory dress hooked to the neck, the veil attached, and then, with mincing steps in tightly tied and too-big white shoes, I followed the ladies to the sanctuary, my head spinning like a fallen bowl.
In the narthex someone gave me an awkwardly shaped bouquet of white gladioli and chrysanthemums, and my free hand was firmly taken by Calvin’s mentor, Dr. Sherwood. With the veil on, I could only see his large outline, but when he bent to murmur, “Miss Han, it’s an honor to deliver the charming bride to my most promising graduate,” I saw white sideburns and full lips stretched over