The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [32]
“Hold him thus.” Kira repositioned the baby in my lap. He instinctively turned toward my heartbeat and flailed his arms at my chest, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“Take this and knot it, see?” Kira dipped a twisted cloth into the soupy mix Cook had set before us. “It should be neither hot nor cold. You shouldn’t really feel it.”
I felt nothing of the moisture Kira dripped on my inner wrist and realized I didn’t feel anything at all—not the roundness of the baby in my arms, his fists floundering at my unformed breasts, the temperature in the kitchen, my own weight on the bench. I took Kira’s words to mean that I wasn’t supposed to feel anything, and was relieved.
The baby quieted, rhythmically sucking the knot I repeatedly dipped for him. Kira left to replenish the cisterns from the stream while Cook prepared a breakfast of porridge and sautéed greens. I began to feel the kitchen’s heat and hoped that this warm day might make my father suffer prison a little less.
I played aimlessly with the baby strapped to my back all morning, wandering through the courtyard and gardens, dawdling by the locked front gate, jealous that besides my brother’s need for Mother’s milk, he was unaware of our missing parents. I fed him twice more with the cloth and rice-water solution before Mother returned with Joong.
Mother kept her cloak fastened despite the warmth. Reassured that she acted calm, I saw that she also looked drawn, and fragile. Cook immediately set about preparing food for her. Mother held the baby a moment then gave him back to me. “Wait for me in my room,” she said. “Ask Kira to bring bathwater. I have a few more things to take care of before I can feed him.”
Mother spent some time in Father’s sitting room. I heard her call for Joong, who hurried across the yard swallowing and wiping his mouth.
Between arranging flat pillows beside my mother’s eating table and bouncing and tickling the baby to distract him from hunger, I paced the room. From the window I saw Joong again crossing the yard, stuffing letters into his vest. Mother finally came in and removed her cloak, revealing the front of her blouse and skirt stained dark with wetness.
“Is that blood?” I almost screamed.
“Heavens, no! It’s milk your poor little brother didn’t get to drink. Help me undress and bathe, so I can feed that hungry boy, will you?” She touched my cheek and let me gaze at her calm, tired eyes. “Your father’s alive, in jail, although no one can say how he is. I haven’t seen him, but the deacon and our friends are working to get him, the minister and others released.”
My hands shook with relief as I helped my mother disrobe. I bathed her elegant neck and narrow shoulders, and with each stroke of the washcloth, I felt I was reclaiming a small amount of our lives from before. Mother said she’d keep the baby and rest, that I should thank God that Father was alive, and pray hard for his quick, safe release.
In my room I knelt on the floor, clasped my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. I tried to do as Mother said, but my head was filled with confusion and angry questions, my body anxious with fears that prayerful words couldn’t assuage. The mat felt rough against my ankles, and I wondered if my father’s prison cell had flooring. Was he alone or with others? I hoped his stomach wasn’t bothering him as it did when he was upset with me. I promised God that I’d be respectful to my father forever and would always be ladylike, someone who’d never be a bother to him again. I’d never forget he needed elegance and beauty around him, and I’d do all I could to provide that. I would eliminate my gangly manners and unruly ways, if only he would come home safely. The more promises I made, the more I felt alone and incompetent. I knew it was bad to think that God didn’t really care about my family or me, but it seemed an easy truth.
The remainder of the day passed with unusual quiet. Joong came and went once more with letters, and Mother kept to her room with the baby, praying.