The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [17]
I couldn’t avoid the petulant swell to my lips.
“It’s simply a fact. Understanding your weaknesses will improve your character. It’s nothing to be ashamed of—merely something that needs improvement. You must always put others before yourself. Remember: think ahead about others first.” She led me to a bench beside an enormous bush of second-blooming yellow roses. “Let’s rest a moment.”
Anxious that we’d stopped walking, I kicked my free-hanging legs rhythmically until she touched my knees. The rising sun deepened the morning’s long shadows and dew evaporated from the roses, emitting sweet perfume. My mother breathed in, her eyes closed, a faint smile spreading peace through her features. “Najin-ah, you’re going to be a nuna.”
A boy would call his elder sister Nuna. I smiled wide at this unexpected news, exposing many teeth, then quickly covered my mouth and said through my fingers, “You’re having a baby? A boy!”
“Yes, in the second month next year. Our prayers for a son have been answered. Born in the year of the sheep in the earth phase—a good match for you. Soon you’ll see my stomach growing and you’ll be able to feel him kick, like you kicked before you were born.”
A perfectly curled rose petal, vivid yellow in the sun, floated onto the wooden bench within inches of my wrist. Although bursting with delight and questions—what would Father name him, and how did Mother know it was a boy?—I heeded my manners and kept quiet.
“I’m healthy and strong—a good omen. I thank God for this baby, and that on this day, your birthday, you begin your education.” We all celebrated our birthdays on Sollal, the first of each year, so her acknowledgment of today, the actual day, felt like a special blessing. She bowed her head, and the bun at the back of her neck reflected blue highlights in the sun. “We receive the bounty of your blessings, merciful Father, and are grateful. Amen.”
I touched the rose petal lightly and it rocked like a miniature cradle. My feet began kicking again, flashes of white toes back and forth.
She stood. “Let’s go, it’s almost time.”
To show something of my happiness, I held her hand tightly all the way through the neighborhoods and up the hill.
We approached the school, a long building of orange-brown brick with evenly spaced metal-framed glass windows. “I won’t go farther,” said Mother. “See if you can walk at least part of the way home with someone. Be well-mannered and respect your teacher.”
I turned, panic rising, my braids lashing my shoulders.
She stooped to look calmly into my eyes. “Perhaps I’ll send someone to get you later.” Her fingers lingered on my shoulder. “The neighbor’s boy, Hansu. He won’t mind.”
I gripped my lunch tied in the square of cloth I’d sewn and decorated with my own ivy pattern. “Thank you, Umma-nim, but I will walk home myself.” I turned to enter the school’s varnished double doors and felt the departure of warmth when my mother’s hand dropped from my shoulder.
Secret Flags
WINTER, EARLY 1919
I WOKE TO AN UNFAMILIAR RASP—THE FRONT DOOR SLIDING OPEN and shut. Since my room was next to the vestibule, I sleepily wondered why I’d never really heard the door before. How easily something so common could go unnoticed! In other seasons, humming insects, nocturnal creatures crying, breezes swishing through trees, or leaves scratching the courtyard masked the sound of the door. But heavy new snow had wrapped the night in deep stillness. I heard my father giving instructions to someone outside and opened my eyes.
Easing out of bed, I saw that no lamp burned in my mother’s room down the hall, meaning it was unusually late. Moonrise marked