The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [175]
“How—?”
He clasped my hands and said, so softly I wasn’t sure if I heard correctly, “Forgive me. Never again. Never.”
Dongsaeng ran from the Jeep parked on the road. “Look who I found! Harabeoji! Halmeonim! Yuhbo! Make coffee! Hyung-nim, Brother-in-law, come in. Nuna, don’t just stand there. Make him welcome!”
I was aware of my faded dress, the tattered shoes, gnarls on my palms and deepened lines on my face. The broken bowl forgotten, I drew him indoors, my heart beating as if for the first time.
Calvin greeted my parents with a bow to the floor. “My deepest respects, Jangin-eurun, Jangmo-nim, Father- and Mother-in-law. Profound regret for the hardships you have suffered.”
“Yes, yes. Look at the prodigal son, come back as an American soldier!” Grandfather reached for Calvin’s hand and held it a moment in both of his. “Come in, come in. Daughters, something to eat and drink!”
“I found him at the Bando Hotel! Can you imagine?” Dongsaeng crowed. “We came right home.” Amid the confusion of introductions to Meeja and baby Sunok, the surprise of his monochromatic army uniform beneath his coat and the repeated cries of wonder, I dashed to the kitchen, patted down my sleeves and skirt and hastily wiped water on my face and hair. I slapped my cheeks, as much to ensure I wasn’t asleep as to put color in them. In the sitting room, as I served drinking water and a tin of cookies—another gift from Pfc. Forbes—I saw that Calvin kept his eyes on my every move, and I felt him smile when I smiled as Grandfather took three cookies for Sunok in his lap.
“I’m sorry that I come unprepared,” said Calvin. “My hands are empty today, but my heart is full.”
If I hadn’t been completely stunned by his presence, I might have been embarrassed by the tears that wet my husband’s cheeks once more. When I sat across from him, Grandmother nudged me to sit next to him. Preferring to see his features, to watch him sitting in this room talking, drinking, breathing, I didn’t move. Grandfather asked him to pray.
“Father in Heaven,” said Calvin. “We give thanks for this joyful reunion and are humbled to witness thy mystery and grace, which has gathered us here together in the most extreme coincidence. We pray in thanksgiving for this reunion …” He paused a moment to collect himself, and I peeked at his face. His cheeks seemed rounder, his jaw softer, his mouth fuller. His eyebrows were a little wild, but his skin shone with the same polished gleam that I remembered from when I first saw his photograph. He prayed, his voice sounding deep and as solemn as what I’d heard in my head when I read his letters years ago. A thousand questions flooded my mind, and I wished he’d finish praying so I could learn how he’d found us, how he managed to get here, was he a minister now, did he really know how to drive a Jeep, and what was the meaning of those colorful patches and bright insignia on his clothing? I closed my eyes, nearly laughing out loud at the sheer joy and shock of him, and at my mounting impatience for him to quit praying so we could talk!
He mentioned Unsook and the Gaeseong house, and I was glad that Dongsaeng had briefed him on all our major life events, which allowed me to sidestep speaking to him about hardship. I kept sneaking looks as he prayed with his head bowed, hair parted as before, still thick on top and cut short around the ears and neck, his eyes shut, frowning, tears coming now and then. Finally, I sensed he was winding down, and I closed my eyes as he prayed for our liberated country. “That its leaders find the strength, compassion and wisdom they need to undertake the tasks of rebuilding and uniting us as a democratic, self-determined free nation. We ask this in the name of thy son, Jesus Christ, who taught us to pray, saying …”
During our recitation of the Lord’s Prayer, I remembered our years-ago conversation about the Protestants and self-determinism, and excitement sparked when I thought that discussions barely begun could be continued.