“That Unfamiliar Night” by Lim Sunwoo

When I saw Geumok again, it was in front of Exit 4 at Sinchon Station. I didn’t recognize her right away. I merely thought, She looks familiar . . . and nothing more.

The first thing I noticed was her huge cross. I had come up the escalator to find a cross standing still amid a current of people rushing by on the sidewalk. I stared at it and ended up locking eyes with the woman below.

She was wearing the giant cross on her back shouting loudly at people walking by. Be born again with a new spirit! That was when I remembered her. Geumok. I hurried past as quickly as I could, but then heard, Is that you, Huiae?

Geumok, whom I hadn’t seen in twenty years, was very small. She was tiny when we were in junior high, and it seemed she hadn’t grown an inch since. She grabbed me by the wrist. It is you. It’s really you, Huiae. My Father must have listened to my prayers. For a split second I thought of Geumok’s father but then figured she must not be referring to him.

I can’t believe I bumped into you here, I said. I’ve been in Seoul for a few years now, Geumok replied, then said without pausing to take another breath, You know, Huiae, I was saved by my heavenly Father. You remember those dogs? I helped them get saved, even the tiny newborns. Her hand tremored as she spoke and I found myself pulling my wrist out of her grasp. Sorry, Geumok, I’m late, I said. It sounded like an excuse even to me. She took something out of her back pocket and pressed it into my palm. It’s my business card, she said. Call me.

Blue towel, then white towel. White towel, then blue towel. I was sitting on the couch, folding towels. Before we got married, back when we were just living together, I had asked my husband for one thing and one thing only. Let’s use separate towels. He was extremely hurt. But I couldn’t blithely brush away the germaphobia I’d developed during my long years of dorm living.

I began drying myself with his towel last year, without prompting, after we realized we were infertile. We had used birth control for the first two years of our marriage, and then had been trying for a baby for the next two, but it wasn’t working. People said you got pregnant when you were ready. Two years ago we stretched our budget to buy a three-bedroom apartment. We had sex like clockwork, timed to when I was ovulating. No baby, though. As time ticked on, I tried to show the universe how ready we were by taking on increasingly trivial things.

My father-in-law suggested around that time that we consult a doctor. They say it gets harder when you hit thirty-five, but you’re already pushing forty, he said. So’s your son, I replied in my head. But now I had no choice but to go to the doctor he recommended.

Once my father-in-law learned that we had been trying for two years, it became harder and harder to decline his kindness, though it certainly didn’t feel like a kindness. I took mystery medicinal herbs he procured for me and responded to texts that pinged at all hours about how he had his fingers crossed for happy news. I ruminated about it all until I noticed that I was folding the towels sloppily. I unfolded and refolded them. This time, Geumok popped into my head. I wouldn’t have bumped into her if I hadn’t been going to the doctor my father-in-law had recommended.

I found her business card in my bag. Inside a sky-blue circle was a picture of Jesus, his arms open wide. Jesus inside a circle—this was the cult that had been on the news a few times. The card was printed with the same slogan Geumok had been shouting in front of the station. Be born again with a new spirit. 

The bottom right corner had a blank white box, in which she had written her name and phone number. I had never seen a business card like this. It felt alien, and I found myself slowly rubbing the name Choi Geumok with a finger.

A truck was what came to mind when I thought of Geumok. When I was younger that truck had ballooned larger and larger in my mind until it later became as large as a house, and only after I was grown did I acknowledge to myself that the size of the truck had been a trick of my imagination so that I would feel less guilty.

It was during the last drawing contest of junior high. Everyone had scattered around the reservoir near the school, and a few were headed to the empty lot to smoke when they discovered the dilapidated truck. They checked it out and determined that everyone had to see it, so they called everyone over, loudly.

Its front wheels were stuck in the mud by the road. Once a crowd gathered, one kid picked up a stick and used it to move aside the tarp hanging over the cargo hold. Only then did I understand why they had been so amped up. Inside the truck were dogs, sixty tiny puppies that had died in the heat. A terrible stench assaulted our noses; they had already started to decompose.

Things unfolded quickly from there. We learned that the truck was owned by Geumok’s father, a dog breeder, and Geumok became persona non grata. I was Geumok’s best friend, but I was also included in “everyone.”

Once, I watched a video of how an ice cream bar is made. In the machine, the stick was inserted into liquid, frozen, spun, and wrapped. Geumok’s fall from grace proceeded just as smoothly. Fourteen-year-old Geumok went through the process of being whispered about, cursed, and excluded, step by excruciating step. The video ended when the ice cream was sealed in a pretty wrapper, and just like that, my memories of Geumok were hermetically sealed in junior high.

Feeling out of sorts, I picked up my phone. I texted two junior high school friends I had stopped talking to two years ago. I met Geumok today. Remember her? Seconds before I hit send, I changed met to bumped into.

I started using a different exit after I’d bumped into Geumok. It added five minutes to my walk but that was preferable. I couldn’t bring myself to see her wearing that cross again. That first day, my old friends texted back like molasses. Who’s Geumok again? said one. OMG in Seoul? the other said; she knew even less than I did.

I decided to cast her out of my mind. I was distracted anyway because we were trying artificial insemination for the first time. I had to inject myself every other day. I had to get a sonogram during my period. I didn’t have any room for Geumok in my life. For a whole day it felt like I had a stitch in my right side. I told my husband, and he thought it was a positive sign. I felt my belly and it was a little bloated. I was two days late, too.

On the morning of my blood test I woke up an hour earlier than usual. My husband was about to get ready for work. He held my hand for a quick prayer. I told him to focus on work. After he left, I washed my face for a long time with cold water. Even so, the moment I stepped outside I couldn’t catch my breath; the heat was oppressive. Last week hadn’t been this hot.

It was worse on the subway. I ended up in the car with weaker AC. There were too many people; I couldn’t move to another car. I kept bumping into the people next to me, so I wrapped my arms around my belly. I’m being ridiculous, I thought, but didn’t lower my arms.

8.5. I stared at the 8 and the 5 written on the test strip. They said the number had to be more than 100 for a pregnancy to be possible. I told my doctor that my period was late and that my side ached. The doctor said it was probably from superovulation. I left the clinic and took a few steps when I felt a dull pain in my lower belly. It couldn’t be. I headed to the bathroom on the first floor of the medical building. My underwear was streaked with blood. I hadn’t even brought a pad, in case I jinxed myself. I went back up to the doctor’s office for a pad.

On the verge of tears, I went back into a bathroom stall. But I couldn’t cry. Instead I had to squat on the floor of the stall for a long time because of the pain. The pain didn’t go away; my calves ended up numb. I finally got up and headed to the closest subway entrance. I spotted Geumok from far away but couldn’t turn back. The heat and the pain made my vision cloud over.

Huiae, you look like you’re going to faint. Geumok’s voice sounded far away, even though she was standing right before me. I felt her holding me by the shoulders and studying me. I think you need to go to the doctor right away, she said. I told her I had just seen the doctor. It’s just cramps, I said. I got my period. Then Geumok said something to someone beside her, and helped me along the sidewalk.

Where are we going? I asked. Geumok said she lived nearby and that I should lie down for a short while. We went down an alley, climbed a small hill, and stopped in front of a tiny corner store. She put her key in a green metal gate next to the store which opened to reveal stone steps. We went down the steps and opened another door. That was where she lived.

Geumok’s place was less a house than a room, less a room than a storeroom. It was just a single room with a sink in it. She unfolded her mat and blankets for me as soon as we stepped inside. I lay down, and it smelled like fabric softener. The room was so tiny that I could see everything she was doing.

First she put the cross down. A loop was secured to the top of the cross, and when she hung it on a nail the cross filled the entire wall. I feel like I’m an offering or something. I had meant to think that to myself but it ended up tumbling out of my mouth. Geumok laughed out loud. I guess you’re not feeling that awful, Huiae.

Geumok said it would be good for me to eat something warm and brothy. I told her I was fine, but she said she had to eat, too. She washed her hands and began peeling potatoes. I watched her quietly. As she peeled potatoes and sliced young zucchini and chopped onions, she seemed to become an entirely different person from the one I had just seen on the street. She’s just like how she was in junior high, I thought, then dozed off.

When I opened my eyes, she had laid out a whole spread. You should have woken me up, I said. You woke up at the perfect time, she said, placing her spoon down. She asked how I was feeling, and I told her I felt a lot better.

Steam was curling up from the freshly made gochujang jjigae. I tried a spoonful. It was shockingly delicious. The potatoes in the jjigae were soft and warm. There was also roasted seaweed and stir-fried julienned potatoes, and I kept reaching for the potatoes, seasoned simply with salt. All of this is so good, Geumok, I told her again and again. I ended up emptying two bowls of rice. After the dishes were cleared away, we sat across the small, low table. She handed me something warm to drink. I took it, thinking it was coffee, but it was sungnyung.

Geumok told me she had come to Seoul five years ago, after burying her father. She initially stayed in one inn after another but then got a job as an assistant at a Sinwol-dong beauty salon. The owner paid her a very low wage but let her sleep in the supply closet. Geumok said she had once spent up to ten days in the beauty salon without stepping foot outside. She felt so nauseous from the chemicals that she lost eight kilos. That was when she’d met Suhui. Suhui was the only one in the salon who could cut short styles, and she was also the only one who called Geumok by name. That was the sole reason Geumok was drawn to her, and they soon grew very close.

What happened after that was as I had suspected. One weekend, Geumok went to a gathering with Suhui and was surrounded by people who smiled like Suhui, spoke like Suhui, and called each other by name kindly. It was such a typical initiation into a cult that I found myself glad nothing terrible had happened to her.

For a really long time, Geumok started again after a pause, I wondered where things had gone wrong. That was when I realized it was because I had committed a grave sin. Huiae, when you start believing, things that used to be hard aren’t hard anymore. She gazed at me quietly. I chugged down the cooled sungnyung so I could get out of there.

The days of sex becoming homework and a period indicating failure continued. At the doctor’s office they referred to sex as homework. You should do your homework on this date, the doctor would say without even a hint of a smile. After the first failed round of artificial insemination, I too stopped smiling at that expression. We went straight into the second round. I made my husband promise not to tell his father.

I became touchier as I was injected with more hormones. The day before, I discovered a spot on the water glass I was about to use and almost threw it at the wall. I kept dreaming that I was sitting alone in an empty classroom. Sitting smack in the center, I trembled with fear that I would die the moment someone stepped inside the classroom. I had this same dream every time I was stressed. So I nearly shrieked as I walked out after a sonogram, when someone grabbed me by the shoulders from behind.

I was so startled that the girl who had grabbed me kept apologizing. I said it was fine and asked who she was. You’re Geumok’s friend, right? she asked. She looked like a college student. She said she was doing missionary work with Geumok, and had seen us exchanging greetings from time to time. After eating a meal with Geumok, I had gone back to using the exit she was stationed at. This girl must be one of her colleagues.

The girl said she wanted to chat with me. Should we grab coffee nearby? she asked. I didn’t answer, instead casting around to find Geumok. I saw the cross looming above the crowd a distance away. I told the girl I would talk it over with Geumok first. Geumok saw us and ran over.

The girl suggested to Geumok that we all go sit somewhere cool and talk. It’s too hot out here, she explained. I made an uneasy face. Geumok glanced at me and said we had plans today. The girl asked if she could come along, but Geumok said, Next time.

Thanks, I told Geumok. We had walked away to avoid the girl and were now heading toward her place. Why don’t we grab a bite since we’re already here? I’ll make you kimchi jeon, Geumok said, and I didn’t refuse. After all, we couldn’t go to a restaurant with her cross. I asked to use the bathroom once we got to her place, but I looked around and didn’t see one. She told me it was on the second floor of the building, and handed me a roll of toilet paper.

It’s not an ideal place to call home, Geumok said when I returned. It’s really a storeroom for the corner store. But it’s my own place, my first studio in Seoul. She had lived in so many places since arriving. The beauty parlor, the youth lodging facilities, and now here. She said that she began living in the youth lodging facilities after she was born again. And that she had found herself a place of her own, here, for the very first time in her life.

Geumok told me to sit away from the portable stove, since the oil would splatter. I watched as she fried jeon on the low table. Is there something in Sinchon that brings you here so often? she asked. My in-laws are near here, I said, and she turned to look at me. Oh, silly me. I didn’t think you’d be married. I told her I’d been married for four years. You must have looked beautiful in your wedding dress, she said. I quickly told her I didn’t know how to get in touch with her to invite her to the wedding. She nodded. I only got a cell phone when I came to Seoul, she said. I never needed one before.

She had fried up three kimchi jeon in the blink of an eye. How did she make them so crispy? Her jeon were crispy all around. She let me in on a secret, that you had to add just a little oil to the batter. We had Sprite with the kimchi jeon. They went surprisingly well together. I told her it was delicious and she murmured, I know you’re just being nice. When you really like something, you clap with your spoon and chopsticks.

What was she talking about? Then I remembered. She was talking about my habit from back in junior high. Oh, I stopped doing that in high school, in the dorms, I said. We had a really scary dorm teacher. Geumok said she’d liked the sound I’d made, clapping my spoon and chopsticks together. It makes the food taste even better when you hear that, she said.

As I started in on the second kimchi jeon, I asked Geumok what the youth lodgings were like. Really tight, she said. Eight of us slept in a room this size. It was so cramped that we had to keep our shoes stacked one on top of the other. Geumok placed one hand over the other to show me. I was having a hard time imagining a space smaller than this. But I liked sleeping there, she said. You’d sleep, holding hands with the girls sleeping next to you. We held hands and prayed together. Then everything felt less scary.

After leaving the youth lodging facility, Geumok told me, she couldn’t sleep for a month. Her hands had felt adrift. So she developed the habit of sleeping with her hands clasped together. Still, it gets a little lonely here, she said. Will you come and share a bite with me when you have time? I pondered her question for a moment, then told her I would.

When I got home that night, I gently held my sleeping husband’s hand. I held it until my palm got sweaty. Still, my anxiety didn’t go away. Words like forever and eternal swam around my head. I rubbed my belly that had been shot up with ovulation-inducing medication. As I was about to slip my hand out, I felt my husband tighten his grip. Maybe I did understand what Geumok was talking about.

From then on, I had a meal with Geumok every time I went to the doctor. Usually it was once a week, but sometimes it was two or three times a week. We never made plans to meet. Geumok was always there when I came out of the doctor’s office; I would go up to her and say hi, then wait for her in the nearby McDonald’s with a cheap cup of coffee. Then Geumok would come find me about half an hour later.

I learned why I always bumped into Geumok. She proselytized in front of Exit 4 at Sinchon Station from nine in the morning to six in the evening, Monday through Saturday. She was there all day, other than to break for lunch, which they took in shifts. As I began frequenting Geumok’s, we settled into a natural routine. She would cook and I would do the dishes. I could bring groceries if there was something specific I wanted her to make, but nothing could cost more than ten thousand won. Ten thousand? I asked, and she said firmly that anything beyond that was too much.

I set certain strict rules, too. Don’t proselytize to me, I said. But—Geumok trailed off. Otherwise I’m going to feel too uncomfortable to come over, I said, and Geumok replied earnestly, I won’t, I swear. Not that she never talked about religion. I know that my Father has sent you to me, Geumok said as she sliced scallions for stir-fried squid. I would have died if I weren’t saved, Geumok said as she rehydrated seaweed. We wouldn’t even need laws if everyone believed, Geumok said as she seasoned bean sprouts.

Each time I changed the subject swiftly. Can you add red pepper powder in the bean sprouts? I would say. Then Geumok would stop and look for red pepper powder. It wasn’t too bad if the God talk stayed at this level. Most crucially, in this five-pyeong room, for a brief moment, I could be free from baby fever. All I did was watch expectantly as a dish was completed and eat it with gusto. That was all that could happen in that room.

When the second round didn’t work, I was able to accept the results more readily than the first time. Maybe it was because I now had a relief valve. Everyone else around me turned intense. The doctor began actively recommending IVF and my husband became noticeably anxious. He even skipped dinner the day we heard the second round hadn’t worked. Then he parked himself in front of the computer all weekend to look for new doctors.

We argued, too. Because I said I didn’t want to do IVF. But we should try everything we possibly can before giving up, he insisted. But I’m the one getting the procedure, I said. I get to choose whether to do it or not. He went outside for a cigarette. He had quit smoking two years ago. The next day, I bought tteok and cheongyang pepper after my appointment. I want really spicy tteokbokki today, I told Geumok. She said she had also been craving something spicy. We agreed to add five peppers to the sauce.

I had to throw open the window while the sauce cooked down, unable to handle the spice any longer. My nose was running. It’s because we’re getting older, Geumok said, placing the tteokbokki pot on the table. Now, when I eat something spicy, I end up having to wipe my nose the whole time, she said. With each bite of tteokbokki we had to take a sip of water. We ate like that for a while, then Geumok suddenly sprang up. She grabbed a bottle of soju from the fridge. The bottle was already half empty.

Let’s just have one glass each, she said. We downed the water in our cups and poured soju. I felt buzzed despite barely wetting my lips; it had been a while since I’d had a drink. I told Geumok that I was going through a rough patch with my in-laws and might not be able to come by for a while. Geumok said she was also going to be busy because she was in last place this month. Last place for what? I asked. Just last place, she said. We’re both a mess, huh? I asked. Looks like it, she said. Cheers, I said. Before we do, Huiae, come by sometime, even if you don’t make up with your in-laws, okay? Geumok said. Okay, I told her. Then let’s cheers for real, Geumok said. Okay, I said.

I felt a cool breeze when I opened the window. Fall had arrived earlier than expected. The season of Chuseok. My head pounded just thinking about going over to my father-in-law’s. I had to go over the day before Chuseok to start cooking, and early on the morning of I would have to prepare food for the ancestral rites. Ever since I got married, I had done this every year without fail.

I went out to the living room and found that my husband had set out breakfast for me, along with a note. Hope the appointment goes well today. I’m sorry. A sliced omelet made with minced carrots and ham was arranged in a pretty rectangle. Still on my feet, I cut a piece and put it in my mouth. The carrots were hard, not cooked all the way through. Thanks for the omelet, it’s great. I texted my husband and put the rest in the fridge. I couldn’t eat anymore because of my nerves.

Today was the first day on our IVF journey. A few days ago, I had watched a TV show featuring a comedian who was in front of the camera for the first time in three years since having a baby. She was giving a tour of her place. She was interviewed at her kitchen table, and I noticed the foam protectors on each corner of the table. Bright yellow pieces of round foam were glued to the wood table. I stared at them until the interview ended. And I thought, I can handle a little more intervention if it’s to make a life filled with things like that.

On my way out of the doctor’s office I found myself yearning for Geumok’s place. I had heard a litany of instructions and possible side effects, as though something bad could happen the very next day. So I gave an uncharacteristically huge wave with both hands when I spotted Geumok standing in front of the station. You were acting like a little monkey, Geumok said with amusement as we walked toward her place. I laughed. Is there something you want to eat? she asked. Anything, I told her. I have eomuk at home, she said. Great, I said. Okay, she said.

But her braised eomuk tasted funny. She tried a bite and frowned. I must have added vinegar instead of cooking wine, she said. I told her it was fine but she insisted on ordering two bowls of jjajangmyeon. The food arrived almost instantaneously. Eomuk would taste amazing with jjajangmyeon, I said. I mixed the jjajang sauce into the noodles, then tried some with a piece of eomuk on it instead of pickled radish. It didn’t taste amazing.

Geumok barely touched her food. Aren’t you going to eat? I asked, and Geumok put an eomuk in her mouth, but quickly spat it out. It’s inedible, she said as she put it in the sink. That’s okay, even monkeys fall out of trees sometimes, I reassured her. That’s not it, she said. She gripped the sink and stood still for a moment. I looked up from my bowl.

I think I’m going to be moving far away, she said. Last week, after service, the lead missionary had pulled her aside and suggested that she wrap things up within the month and move to a farm owned by the group. You see, I haven’t converted anyone in months, she said. He told me I would be given a chance to be born again as a new worker, through farming.

The problem is, Geumok said, then paused. There’s nothing there. They say even the cell service is spotty. There are still places like that these days? I asked. Right? she said. She sat back across from me. Should I go? I hedged at her sudden question and said, I don’t know, but she waited stubbornly for my answer. If you want to, wouldn’t it be good to go? I finally managed.

Geumok told me not to do the dishes today. She said it was only fair that I don’t do the dishes since the eomuk came out bad. I glanced at her face, then said okay. She had turned quiet after bringing up the move. She said she was going to skip her afternoon shift. All I could do for her on a day like this was to leave early. I told her I could see myself out.

As I placed the jjajangmyeon bowls by the green metal gate, I discovered a small black doodle on the gate. I looked at it more closely and realized it was a drawing of a snail. I’ll show Geumok next time, I thought. She would definitely like it; whenever she sent me a note in class, it had always been something meaningless. Once, I unfolded a note from her to find a drawing of just a single acorn, which made me burst into laughter. I’m sure it’ll be fine, I thought as I walked down the hill. I’m sure she’ll figure it out.

It’s looking good, the doctor said, looking at the sonogram. Three follicles were growing on the right, and five on the left. I followed the doctor’s finger to stare at those eight black circles. I would have to wait until they grew to be at least two centimeters in diameter. I made an appointment for two days later, got my prescriptions, and walked toward the subway station.

I slowed down as I approached Exit 4. In front was a hunched woman selling chewing gum. I went over to check her face. It wasn’t Geumok. I hadn’t seen Geumok last time, or the time before then. Once I even waited for her at McDonald’s for over two hours. I wondered if she’d gone to that farm she’d mentioned, so I asked the girl who’d been out there with Geumok, but she didn’t know.

As soon as I got home, I went into the bedroom and rummaged through the drawers. Thankfully I still had her business card. I called the number. As the phone rang I spat out the acacia gum I’d been chewing. I’d chewed it all the way home and it still had a hint of flavor. I couldn’t get through. I texted her. It’s Huiae. Call me when you get this.

I went back to the doctor two days later but I still hadn’t heard from Geumok. I tried calling again as I waited my turn. Her phone was turned off. The nurse called out, Ms. Kim Huiae, come on in. The doctor told me the follicles were looking great and asked me to return with my husband the next day. They would collect them as planned. Hope you have good dreams tonight, the doctor added. I said I would.

Again, Geumok wasn’t anywhere to be seen in front of the station today. I took a deep breath before letting it out. Then I headed the opposite way. I went down the alley and climbed the small hill until I reached the corner market. I banged on Geumok’s green metal gate. That was all I could do, as there was no bell. Hey, Geumok, I called, banging. Geumok. Are you home?

I pounded for a long time, and the sliding door to the corner market opened instead of the gate. You’re going to make my store collapse, admonished an old woman, her white hair combed back. Do you know Geumok, young lady? I said I was her friend. That can’t be, she muttered. I’m sorry? I asked, taken aback, and the old woman said, You look at least ten years younger than her.

She invited me to wait in the store. She had thought it odd that she hadn’t seen Geumok in over ten days, but then she had finally bumped into her the previous night. It looked like she was coming back after a trip, the old woman said, and she’ll be home today. I sat in the chair the old woman offered and was surprised. It was heated even though it was only September. This chair’s so warm, I said. I keep it warm all year round, the old woman said. Even in the middle of summer? Yeah.

I thought I would get too hot sitting there, but that wasn’t the case. I felt comforted. It’s nice to sit in a warm chair even when it’s not cold, I thought. I looked out the sliding glass door. People walked past the large gingko tree out front. I was watching the tree when the door slid open and a man with dyed yellow hair walked in.

The old woman glanced at him and whispered to me, Jin Ramen. And indeed, he bought a five-pack of Jin Ramen. When a tall woman stopped in, the old woman said, Homerun Ball and Bacchus. And indeed, the woman bought a packet of Homerun Ball and two bottles of Bacchus. When a bearded man opened the sliding door, I reflexively glanced at the old woman, who looked up at him but didn’t say anything. And what about him? I asked, unable to wait. How would I know? she said grumpily. I laughed out loud without meaning to. The bearded man glanced at me while he selected his beverage: orange juice.

When he left, the old woman turned toward me. I initially thought Geumok ran off without paying rent, she said. But I knew she wouldn’t do something like that. I told her she was right, that Geumok would never do a thing like that. So why did you come over without giving her a call? asked the old woman. Did you wrong her somehow? It did feel like I had wronged her somehow, so I told the old woman she was right.

The old woman stared at me, then tapped my chair. So you sit here and reflect, and when she comes you tell her you’re sorry. I said I would. Around the time the edges of the gingko leaves started to blend into the darkness, we heard the metal gate rattle. Go on, the old woman said, lightly squeezing my hand.

Geumok, I called, and Geumok jumped and turned her head. Her eyes darted all around. What’s wrong? I asked, and she said it was nothing. But she tugged me in by the hand and quickly locked the gate behind us. We went down the stone steps without speaking. Only after we entered her place did I manage to open my mouth. Is something wrong? Geumok said no and turned on the light. Where have you been? I asked. Geumok didn’t answer, then hung her jacket on a hanger and said something shocking. I went away with my boyfriend.

You have a boyfriend? Yeah. Why haven’t you told me? I didn’t have a chance. Where did you go? Incheon, we went fishing and ate raw fish. You know how to fish? Of course. I sat on the floor and watched her change out of her clothes. Are you telling the truth? I asked. Yes, I swear, she said. Now in comfortable clothes, she sat across from me. She said she had nothing to eat at home, let alone to drink. I’m sorry, she said. I told her it was fine, that I had to get going soon anyway. Okay, she said, and stopped talking.

A brief silence stretched between us. I stared at Geumok’s face as she looked silently down at the floor. Geumok, I blurted out. How was Incheon? She looked up. It was good. So you went fishing—did you catch anything? Yeah, it was as big as your arm, Huiae. My arms are still sore from pulling it out, she said, massaging her arm playfully. Did you eat it? I asked. Eat what? The fish, I said. Hey, do you think all I do is eat? Geumok asked, laughing. I laughed, too.

Then I said, Fourteen-year-old Geumok couldn’t even kill an ant. Geumok stopped laughing and looked at me. I was starting to feel uncomfortable when she finally spoke. Well, Huiae, she said. I nodded encouragingly. That was a long time ago, she said.

My legs were starting to cramp. I massaged my calves and told her I should get going. I’m sorry I can’t see you out, Geumok said. I told her it was fine. But Geumok, I said as I put my shoes on. Next time, when you go on a trip or something, can you let me know? Yeah, she said. I stood up and looked at her. Somehow she looked shorter than when I’d first seen her on the street. As she said goodbye to me, I realized what it was. The cross that should have been hanging on the wall behind her was gone.

The day after my eggs were retrieved, I packed a few things. My husband kept trying to convince me out of it, wanting me to rest at home this Chuseok. I told him I was feeling okay and that he shouldn’t fret. Only after we argued did he concede that I should do as I pleased. I placed my socks on top of my things and zipped up my overnight bag. I knew what would happen if I didn’t go to my father-in-law’s house. Next Chuseok, and five years into the future, he would talk about how lonely he had been that one Chuseok. I wasn’t sure I could listen to that over and over again.

We arrived in time for dinner. I smelled food cooking when the door swung open. Father, did you cook? I asked, taken aback. It had always fallen on me to cook after my mother-in-law passed away three years earlier. I headed into the kitchen to discover that he had already made toran guk.

I told my father-in-law that I would wash up, then dragged my husband into the room we stayed in. You told him we’re doing IVF? I demanded once I closed the door. He didn’t answer. When did you tell him? My husband said he’d told his father yesterday. That he’d had to say something because he wanted me to rest after the egg retrieval. I tried to calm down but I couldn’t speak for a while. Then let’s pretend that I don’t know that he knows, I managed. Chastened, my husband nodded.

I acted as though I wasn’t aware of anything. I was surprised and apologetic when my husband volunteered to do the dishes and when my father-in-law personally cut melon for dessert. I pretended I didn’t hear when my father-in-law almost brought up the topic of babies before trailing off. With my defenses up like that, I was exhausted by the time my father-in-law retired to bed. The bottle of lotion I picked up after washing my face felt like lead.

My husband had been quiet all night and he maintained his silence when we were alone in our room. That was his way of telling me he was mad. He refused to speak until I figured out why he was angry and apologized for that precise thing. I tried to pinpoint when he’d gotten mad but gave up; I didn’t have the energy to think. I took my medication and lay down. The blankets smelled musty. Though I’d expected to toss and turn all night, I quickly fell into deep slumber.

When I woke up, it was the middle of the night. My husband was asleep next to me. I went to the kitchen and filled the coffee pot to the brim. After the procedure I found myself constantly parched. I waited for the water to boil and glanced at the desktop calendar on the kitchen table. The fertilized egg would be implanted in two days. But there was a blue circle around September 2. Underneath, in small letters, was the word family.

What was September 2? There hadn’t been any other family gathering this month because of Chuseok. Everyone’s birthdays were in the winter, too. I mindlessly flipped to the previous month. Many more blue circles in August. Circles came one after another on the fourth and fifth weeks. I studied them, then slowly turned to the previous page. And again. And again. The blue circles paraded on. My eyes welled. I thought I knew what those circles indicated. They had started even before we’d opted for artificial insemination.

In the taxi, I called Geumok. She picked up after a series of rings. Were you asleep? I asked. No, Geumok said, her voice still sleepy. Can I come over? I asked. Now? she asked. When I said yes, she told me to come on over. I hung up and told the driver to take me to a different address.

The green metal gate was already ajar, propped open by a rock. I removed the rock and went downstairs to knock on the front door. I rapped twice lightly, then twice harder. The door opened. Huiae, you’re in your pajamas, Geumok said when she saw me. I looked down and discovered that I was.

I took off my shoes and went inside. Geumok stopped smiling and sat next to me. She sat quietly until I could speak. My head feels like it’s going to split open, I said finally. She got up.

I thought she was going to get me some pills, but she opened up the small table. Then she came over with the pot, the old pot she used to make soup, to boil noodles, or to cook tteokbokki. I made this when you called me, she said. You have to eat something before you take any meds.

I opened the lid and found steamed egg. I spooned up a bit, causing white steam to curl up. I tried a bite. It was soft, warm. I spooned it silently and ate, then clapped with my spoon. Geumok laughed.

We laughed together, then began talking, slowly. We talked for a long time, and we took long breaks. When one of us spoke, the other didn’t say a word until she was done. We looked into the other’s eyes, demonstrating with our entire bodies that we were listening intently. We were moving past something together as we continued to talk. Slowly, but toward a clear direction, moving past time that swelled gently, that lacked sharp edges. For the first time ever, we were reaching a destination we longed for.