“I don’t know, but that’s the only thing I can think of.”

Soon they sat in a thick silence with only the ticking of the turn signal, the hum of the car’s engine between them. For the rest of the drive, Margot sped home through the dark, thinking of the woman’s face—a perfect oval that shimmered softly like a pearl. The man’s hands on her waist.

Mary and her mother had such different lives, and yet it was as if Margot could hear Mary suffocating under all that rich light, straining as if she’d been trapped like a perfect specimen inside of a jar.

Mina

Fall 1987

IN MR. KIM’S BLUE STATION WAGON WITH VELVETY seats, a paper pine tree dangled from the rearview mirror. The moon glowed silver and bright, peeking behind a faint cloud. Staring out the window into the dark, Mina wrapped her sweater around her body. She realized now how sullen she had been the past couple weeks when Mr. Kim had been avoiding her after her rejection of him following the last time they went to visit Lupe. As a result, she was learning Spanish to distract herself from how unhappy she had been, how impossible life could sometimes be.

The air freshener hung like an amulet. She yearned for some sign from the universe that said, You are doing fine.

“So, where do you feel like going?” Mr. Kim asked, breaking the silence. “Do you feel like anything in particular?”

“No. I’m okay with anything.”

“There’s a restaurant that I like, Hanok House. They’ve got pretty much everything—galbi, jjigaes.”

A longing to somehow touch him crept up, like vines attaching her to this man beside her, to this world. She wished she could incinerate the shoots and tendrils, but she would risk destroying herself. What was she doing? It had been a year since her husband and daughter had died, since burying them in the ground, a single tombstone, together. What was she doing in this car, far away from them, far away from home? She wanted to ask Mr. Kim to turn back, but as soon as she looked at him, the inside of her mouth felt parched. She couldn’t. She wanted to be here now.

As they pulled into a narrow parking lot, she almost clapped her hands at the sight of the restaurant that resembled a traditional Korean house. Its decorative wooden beams and curved, gray-tiled roof were charming and lovely compared to the drab concrete and graffitied stucco of Los Angeles.

Inside the restaurant, which smelled of seafood, peppers, onion, garlic, and sesame oil, Hahoetal masks grinned on the walls beside booths made out of dark slabs of glazed wood. Early still for dinner, the restaurant was mostly empty except for another couple in a far corner of the dining room and an older man, sleeves rolled up, carefully sipping from a boiling-hot jjigae by himself.

As they sat down, a waitress greeted them with two sticky laminated menus. Mina studied hers, avoiding eye contact with Mr. Kim.

“I’m having the maeuntang,” he said. “I always get the same thing.”

“Oh, that sounds delicious.”

“What looks good to you?”

“Ahl jjigae.” Her mouth watered at the thought of fish eggs boiled with tofu, onion, and mu in a spicy stew. “I haven’t had that in a long time.”

“One of my favorites, too.” His arm moved on the table as if resisting the impulse to hold her hand.

The waitress returned with a pot of barley tea.

“So, how long have you been in LA?” she asked.

“Gosh, over ten years, I guess. I came here after college.” He brushed his full black hair back with his hand. “I was going to do my master’s degree, but that didn’t last long.” He smiled, crinkling the skin around his soft brown eyes. She loved looking at him.

“How come?” she asked.

“Oh, just wasn’t my thing. It was an excuse to get over here.” He winked. His lips were perfectly sized. A sensation of warmth pressed her chest like the sun shining on new leaves—tender and bright green. She could feel the sap coursing through her body. “It sounded good to my mother. My poor mother.” He shook his head, pouring her tea. “How about you?”

“Me?”

“How come you’re here? Or why does your family think you’re here?”

Steam rose from her cup of barley tea. She closed her eyes and could feel the grip of her mother’s hand, and then the sudden absence of that pressure on her skin. Even if she had her own family, a husband, a daughter, for several years, she didn’t belong in this world it seemed. She never did.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

The waitress returned, spreading banchan on the table—mak kimchi and kkakdugi, seasoned soybean sprouts and spinach, soy-glazed lotus root. With his metal chopsticks, Mr. Kim sampled the spinach, chewing thoughtfully as if admiring its composition—garlic cloves, green onions, soy sauce, sesame oil. The tanginess of the mak kimchi, which she always tried first, opened her palate. She bit into the candy of the lotus root, crunchy and chewy, for comfort. There was a startling familiarity to the banchan as if she had tasted the specific character of each dish, every different taste and texture, someplace else recently, but she couldn’t name where.

“What did you study?” she asked, pouring him tea.

“Economics,” he said. “I guess I still kind of ended up in economics. Business, sort of.” He smiled again.

“Not quite what you expected, though.”

“Nope, but that’s okay. That’s how it is.” He sighed. “We come here thinking that we’ll work hard and sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t. That’s life.”

“You’re still young.”

He blushed. “Young? Not really. I haven’t been young for at least ten years.”

“Well, young enough. If you wanted to start over, you could.”

“That’s true. I’m not tied down or anything.”

“Were you ever married?” The words slipped out of her mouth.

“Yes.” He sipped his tea. “For about a year. Not long.”

Hands shaking, she lifted the pot to refill his cup. “She passed away,” he said, eyes downcast. “She had stomach cancer.”

“I’m sorry.” She exhaled out loud. “That must have been very difficult.”

The waitress arrived with two heavy stoneware bowls filled to the brim with piping hot stews redolent of the earth and sea—snapper, fish eggs, and clams, zucchini, ginger, and garlic. Mina watched hers bubble while Mr. Kim, adventurous, spooned a bit of his soup, blew on the broth, and sipped. She bit her lip, wishing she could scarf down her ahl jjigae. So much of Korean food was about patience as the volcanic soups settled down, building the diners’ anticipation with the bright colors of the red pepper and green onion, the smells.

“Is it good?” she asked.

“Yes, try some.” He nudged his bowl toward her.

“I will in a little bit. Please, go ahead.”

The broth burned her tongue but tasted like it would at any restaurant in Seoul, perfect in its depth and brininess from the roe. The fish eggs crumbled inside her mouth, and she washed them down with a spoonful of delicate mu that had become perfectly translucent.

“You?” he asked, not looking up from his bowl.

“Yes?”

“Did you ever marry?” He sniffed from the heat of the spice.

“Yes,” she said, surprising herself. “He died, too.” Those words wrung her heart. If she were to mention her daughter, she would completely fall apart. She would run out into the street screaming. She would beat the bottom of her fists on the ground, as if trying to break her daughter free. She never intended to tell him about her husband and daughter at all, as if she had been ashamed of the tragedies that had rent her life, her family. Wasn’t that how most people treated her back home—like her sadness was a disease that could spread?

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She wanted to get out. But she couldn’t. On the walls, the Hahoetal masks seemed to be laughing at her. How could she leave now?

“Are you okay?”

“I need to use the restroom. Excuse me.”

Standing at the sink, she cried, wiping her eyes. She splashed her face with cold water and waited a few minutes until she caught her breath and most of the red had left her skin. She couldn’t. She couldn’t do this. She didn’t belong in this life, this dream. Her husband and daughter’s deaths were proof of this fact. She was made for nightmares. She would work and go to church until one day she died and went to heaven. That was all there was left to hope for, that was all there was left to long for in this world.

She returned to the table where Mr. Kim had refrained from eating in her absence. Her ahl jjigae had gone lukewarm.