Gathering of Pearls (15 page)

Then Peggy Stone stepped up and embraced me. "I'm working in the city, now," she said. "Here is my address. When you feel up to it, come visit and we will go up to the top of the Empire State Building. You should see all the lights from there! I know how you always loved seeing all the candles glow in the dining room." I listened and nodded at her gentle attempt to cheer me up.

I thanked everyone again, but said that I just wanted to be by myself for a while. Perhaps I would visit everyone later in the summer.

For the next few weeks, I got up at dawn every morning and joined the nuns in their morning prayers before Mass. I was comforted by their high-pitched hymns reverberating in the domed chapel.

After Mass, I worked at the office without a break until five o'clock. I needed to have something to keep my hours and days filled. I felt detached from reality. It was as though I had been separated from my body. I felt as if my body were going about my daily tasks all on its own, tending to all my work, and smiling and chatting and getting through the day. But at night, I was alone in the quiet of my room. I was alone with my grief. Huddled in a corner, I cried and cried.
I'm an orphan now,
I kept thinking. I was all alone in this big world.

After a few weeks, I finally remembered to check my mail, and found a small package from Inchun. I slowly read his letter.

Dear Nuna,

I thought you might want to have Mother's reading glasses, so I am sending them to you. Father Lee told us about his visit with you and the nuns. He said Mother and all of us would have been so proud to hear what the nuns had said about you. I'm not surprised. Mother knew, too. She was always very proud of you.

It is still so unreal to me. Life seems so meaningless. But I know Mother would want us to pick ourselves up, and carry on. I can still hear her voice in my head telling me what to do. In that sense, she is still with me, and I am grateful for that. I'm going to study hard, and keep my promise to her to become a good doctor. I only wish I were a doctor already so that I might have helped Mother when she was sick.

She told no one about her illness, and then she suddenly fainted one evening. Who knows how long she suffered alone? When Mother came to, she emphatically told all of us that she did not wish you to hear any bad news from home until you had finished your freshman year. She wrote her last letter to you in the hospital and told me when to mail it. I think she knew then that it would be the last letter she would ever write to you.

You know that she wants you to continue your studies in America and fulfill your dream. That would please her. Do it for me, too. Please do not come home until you finish your studies. We are all doing okay here. There is nothing you can do for us. So don't worry, and take care of yourself.

Your little brother, Inchun

I stared at Mother's glasses for a long time. Sending them was Inchun's way of telling me he knew my sorrows and was thinking of me. Tears streamed down my cheeks. He needed me, and I was not able to comfort him. Now, it was my little brother who was comforting
me.
He should have kept Mother's glasses. He was the one who had stayed with her. I wished I could be with him. We had come through so much together, and I felt terribly alone without him during this difficult time. I pushed his letter deep into my pocket.

As the weeks wore on, I received postcards and letters from Marci, phone messages from Ellen, flowers and cards from Kyle and Tom, a box of cookies from Marci's mother, drawings from Sarah, and a sympathy card from Jimmy, which his mother must have bought for him. Ellen's mother sent me pink pajamas with a note that said, "I am always here if you ever want to talk or visit. Hope it won't be too long until we see you." I was grateful to all of them for caring so much about me. I would write them sometime, but not now.

No letters came from any of my older brothers. I wished they would write. I wouldn't have cared what they said. I just needed to know that they were thinking of me, and that we were all going through this together. I wanted to scream and shake them. I needed them to say something—anything—to me now.

But I was being silly, I realized. They couldn't share their pain with me. They had to appear strong and dignified. They couldn't let their little sister know how sad and helpless they felt. I knew that each of them probably cried at night when no one else could see. I knew how they must hurt. But they would not write or call until they felt they were strong enough to be of help to me. I understood, but it hurt me all the same.

One day I found a small envelope in my box. The handwriting was Bokhi's.

Dearest Sookan,

Forgive me for not writing to you all this time. The first few months after you left, I was over at your house often, and your mother filled me in on your life in America. But then, life changed for me. Perhaps your mother told you. I am now engaged to a man who my family believes is a perfect match for me. I am sure I will learn to love him. I have met him, and he seems to be a good man. I trust my aunt's judgment.

How can 1 express my feelings at this tremendous loss. I loved your mother as if she were my own. After you left, I felt she had sort of adopted me as her new daughter, and I was so happy being with her.

My aunt and I attended the funeral. The whole neighborhood was there. The church was packed, and people were standing in the doorways. People were wailing and beating their chests shamelessly. I was too sad and numb to even cry. Why must such a lovely person die so early? How could her kind God do this? Now, I am full of bitterness. I know your mother would scold me, but I can't help it. Everyone I love has been taken away from me, time and time again. Sookan, how I miss you and wish you were here!

I will write again. Our paths are now different, but I know you love me and I will always love you. I cherish our friendship. Be well and be strong.

Your best friend, Bokhi

Hidden behind Bokhi's letter had been one from my sister. I decided to wait, and put the letters in my bag. When I got back to my dorm room, I reluctantly took out my sister's note.

Dear Sookan,

I grieve for Mother and I pray for her night and day. Although you have not taken the time to write to me personally, I have been following your life as best I can from reading your letters to Mother.

As soon as Mother fell ill, I wanted to write you. How worried our brothers and I were about Mother, and how we wished you had been here. But during that short period of time when Mother was able to talk to us clearly, the most important thing she wanted to tell us was that we should not disturb you until you had finished your first year of school. I hope you realize how deep her love for you was.

Mother's death was very peaceful. She was smiling as she slipped away. But how we all wept as she left us. Our brothers cried for days. I am still crying. I cannot believe Mother is gone. I remind myself that she is in Heaven with God.

Now that Mother is gone, it is you and I who must look after our brothers. Our responsibilities are greater than ever before. We must make sure that they are taken care of, and have all that they need.

When the coffin was being lowered, many of our relatives and neighbors took off their lace veils and placed them on the coffin. It was a lovely gesture. Lace is very expensive here, and it was dear of them to part with such prized possessions. I would like you to replace their veils for them. I will send you their names and addresses.

After the burial, we spent hours fixing mother's tomb. We even went back the following day to do more work. Her tomb is on the top of a hill overlooking the Han River. It took us so long to climb up and down that my legs are still sore. It was a sad two days of planting flowers.

I pray that you are well and that God will bless you with peace.

Your loving sister

I regretted that I had not been at Mother's side for the past ten months. I wished I had been there to talk to her at the hospital. If only I could have attended her funeral and helped to decorate her tomb. I still could not comprehend it all. As I read my sister's letter, it still sounded so unreal to me.

I took a deep breath and thought of my mother, who was always so gentle and calm. I
must get hold of myself,
I kept thinking. But I couldn't. I missed her, and I couldn't stop thinking about her.

I felt at once guilty and sorry for myself for not being with the rest of my family to share the sorrow with them. I could tell that my sister resented my absence. I was hurt that she did not understand how painful it was to be away from my family during such a difficult time.

But I remembered what Mother had always said about not being able to change someone's nature. Father Lee was right; that was one of Mother's fundamental beliefs, and because of it, she accepted all of us for what we were. Mother understood my sister, and accepted her. But it was clear now that Mother also knew how my sister demanded things of me. That was why Mother had asked everyone not to disturb me until the end of the school year. It was uncharacteristic of Mother, for she almost never interfered in our relationships with each other. She usually trusted each of us enough to let us handle our own affairs. But she knew that the news of her death would overwhelm me. She wanted to make sure she had taken care of everything for me before she died.

I realized I must accept my sister, as my mother had done. Nothing would change her, not even Mother's death. I saw now that she had her own shortcomings, insecurities, and anxieties. It was my responsibility to try to understand her as a human being. I was older now. I had to realize that no one was infallible. I could respect Theresa without obeying her blindly. And beneath it all, I knew she cared for me in her own way and was doing the best she could. No matter how hard I tried, I could not sever our familial ties. She was my sister, and we were bound by my mother's love for us.

As I had done so many times before, I took out Mother's last letter to me. I reread her words of encouragement and trust. She knew how I would feel, and did not want me to be consumed with sorrow and bitterness. She wanted me to turn my pain into pearls of wisdom and understanding. "Tough times are the times when one gathers one's pearls," I remembered hearing Mother say to me long ago, as we worked together in the kitchen. I would make myself stronger within, I resolved, and then, perhaps, I could be more forgiving and accepting of my sister. That would make Mother proud, I thought. I would do as she wished for me. I would gather my pearls and forge ahead. I would finish college and figure things out from there. I didn't know what my future would bring, but I would do as Mother had always told me. I would follow my heart.

With new determination, I piled up all the letters I had received from home and wrapped them tightly with the blue silk scarf Mother had made. I put them deep into my desk drawer. There, I saw the little box of loose pearls, still waiting to be fixed. Feeling resolute and newly calm, I sat at my desk and began to restring my pearls.

Born in Pyongyang, North Korea, Sook Nyul Choi spent two and a half years as a refugee in Pusan during the Korean War and later immigrated to the United States to pursue a college education. She now lives in Boston, Massachusetts, and is a full-time writer. She is the author of the highly acclaimed
Year of Impossible Goodbyes,
which
Kirkus Reviews
called "a vividly written, compellingly authentic story" and
Publishers Weekly
called an "account of the triumph of the human spirit in an unjust world."