“She was like a lot of us. Lonely. But that’s what it’s like for women like us. That’s why . . . we were the way we were. That’s why we make the decisions that we make. So that we can survive. We can get by. We can protect each other.” Mrs. Baek sighed. “She would’ve done anything for you. You kept her safe. You saved her.”

Margot couldn’t hear any more. Gasping for air, she stepped out of the apartment, descended the stairs, and rushed through the courtyard into the street. She waited in the car, catching her breath. A single lamp beamed onto the vacant sidewalk.

Women like us.

Margot’s brain was a wild animal, clawing out of her head. The net that wrapped around Margot’s ankles, threatening to drag her into the sea.

You saved her.

But she hadn’t. She had been too late.

Margot wound her way past MacArthur Park, its black lake glowing with smeared reflections of light, toward 10 West, realizing now that she never owned a car in Los Angeles, that her whole life until she moved away at the age of eighteen had been confined to buses, walking, and riding with her mother on surface streets. And yet she could always find the freeway, at least I-10, as if the signs toward them had somehow been imprinted on the map of her memory, the bones of her hands and feet that drove this car now to the ocean.

She had never taken a car onto the pier, which jutted like a driveway onto the sea toward the horizon, a visual cliff. The wheels rumbled beneath her over the boards. She imagined gassing it, a Thelma & Louise end, flying through the metal handrails and over the edge. She’d be weightless and free before plunging into the terrible deep. Inhaling the salt and water would be both the end and a great relief.

In the pier’s parking lot, she turned the car off and stared at the dark ocean and the Ferris wheel, a many-spoked strobe that throbbed like the heart of this place, dreamlike, up and over and around, dipping the rider back into life and out again. She got out and jogged toward the ticket booth, empty at this time of night. Standing in line for the Ferris wheel, alone, the salt air and the carnival food cleansed her head.

After stepping in one of the tubs, which swung beneath her, she waited as the others boarded, and she rose into the black night, light, eating air.

Mina

Winter 1987—1988

MINA THOUGHT ABOUT THE FIRST NIGHT THEY HAD kissed on the Ferris wheel, how the car had swayed beneath them as they revolved again and again at a steady pace, floating in the night sky. Teeth chattering. Salt air and hot chocolate. His breath close to her ear and neck. She had been terrified of both the ride malfunctioning and the free fall of plunging into the depths of what she could feel, her body and her lips pressed against his.

She had been taking an inventory of his kindnesses—the way he had given her his jacket that night, brought her a drink to keep her warm, hadn’t teased her for closing her eyes when the wheel started to turn. Her husband would’ve done that, not out of cruelty, but because he enjoyed innocuous jabs, jokes, laughter—a quality that appealed to her more serious self.

But what if this was a ruse, this thing between her and Mr. Kim? What if she allowed him to get close, showed him love, only for him to change? What if she were to lose herself in the feelings, the illusion of potential happiness again? What if, what if, what if?

Since riding the Ferris wheel, they had spent many nights together, even a weekend celebrating the holidays in Las Vegas—a neon place of lush, dizzying distraction. She had played the slot machines, lost money and won it back again, witnessed a kangaroo box with a man in a circus ring as cowboy clowns chased each other around the stage. At a dinner buffet, they gorged themselves on American food—breaded chicken, grilled steak, macaroni and cheese, all kinds of potatoes (baked, fried, roasted). She refused to drink, mostly because she didn’t like to, but also because she had become afraid of losing herself again.

After her husband and daughter’s deaths, she had spiraled out of control for almost a week, crawling around the apartment on her knees and elbows, only to throw up in the restroom. Drinking was the lone response she had for pain. And drunkenness gave her permission to express her anger, her rage in flashes of tearing clothes or smashing plates. When she couldn’t drag herself to the store, the cough syrup in the medicine cabinet could bludgeon her mind enough to get her through a night.

But now, with Mr. Kim, in a tangle of sheets on the bed, at restaurants, by the turquoise pool of a motel, she hadn’t felt this good in a long time. She often caught herself smiling for no reason, checking her hair and makeup in mirrors that she passed by.

Both Mrs. Baek and the landlady noticed the shift in her appearance, her demeanor, and habits. The landlady bestowed upon her a knowing smirk or a nod of approval every now and then, but Mrs. Baek never shied away from asking direct questions, even though Mina didn’t feel ready to talk about Mr. Kim yet.

Some nights, Mina didn’t have the energy to avoid Mrs. Baek. They shared the same kitchen, the same bathroom. Less than ten feet separated their bedroom doors.

“I grilled some mackerel. Do you like mackerel?” Mrs. Baek asked two days before the end of the year.

“Yes, I do.” Mina loved the fish’s oily and sticky smell, the beauty of its dark stripes, the crispiness of the skin when grilled.

Mrs. Baek had prepared a feast—seasoned spinach and soybean sprouts, baechu kimchi and kkakdugi, pickled perilla leaves, and two types of jjigae—compared to their usual meals of maybe two or three banchan and soup.

“Go ahead.” She motioned to Mina.

Picking up her chopsticks, Mina tasted the kimchi—rich and tangy with hints of pear and shrimp.

“How’s your boyfriend?” Mrs. Baek asked, adjusting her position on the bench.

Mina tried to smile. “He’s okay.”

“Has he been nice?”

“He’s been fine. Yes. He’s nice.” The mackerel’s f lesh slipped away from the bones, melted like butter in her mouth. How this fish tasted like comfort on a winter night even here in Los Angeles. “How about you? Are you interested in anyone?” Mina only now remembered that Mrs. Baek had once said, I don’t think I’ll trust any man again.

“No.” Mrs. Baek laughed to herself. “I have books. I have music. I don’t need a boyfriend. I’m busy.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that you seemed bored before, that’s all. All you did was work. I’m not bored. I’m never bored.”

“I see, because you’re so interesting.” Mina placed her hands on the table. “Educated.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Mrs. Baek said. “I wasn’t talking about you. I was referring to myself.”

Mina slid off the bench and cleaned up her side of the table.

“Just leave it there,” Mrs. Baek said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’ll put this soup back. I haven’t touched it.”

“Don’t do that.”

She grabbed the bowl and Mrs. Baek pulled it back.

“Please sit down. I’m sorry.”

Mina realized then how much she had been a little frightened by Mrs. Baek—her quick mind and mouth, carefully drawn brows, her relaxed sense of self, sprawling like the city itself. But at the same time, Mrs. Baek had been too generous, too helpful, and, yes, maybe even too interesting to deny from her life. And she made some of the most delicious banchan. Something as simple as a leaf fermented could create a moment, a meal that resembled a home, even if you never really had one.

Mina sat down again, gazing at what remained of the mackerel—the brown meat at the belly, the clear bones pronounced.

“Anyway, I was wrong, okay? I didn’t mean what I said. It has nothing to do with you. I’ll never trust men. I don’t know how anymore.”

“Were you married before?” Mina asked.

“Yes, yes, I was.” Mrs. Baek’s face grew red. “He was terrible.”

“Do you talk to him still?”

“No, God, no.” Her nostrils flared. “He lives in Texas.”

“You ran away?”

“Yes. I didn’t have a choice.” Her voice trembled. It was the first time that Mina had seen Mrs. Baek this vulnerable.

Mina reached out her hand and rubbed Mrs. Baek’s wrist with her thumb.

“Maybe I’m just a little bitter sometimes,” Mrs. Baek said. “I wasted so much of my life. And now what?”

“You’re still alive,” Mina said, both to Mrs. Baek and herself. “Isn’t it a miracle? That we’re still here?” Tears filled her eyes. “No one would have expected this of us. We surprised them. We surprised ourselves.”

Entering the kitchen, the landlady said, “That smells good.”

“Do you want to join us?” Mrs. Baek asked, pulling her arm gently away from Mina, who lowered her head, wiping her face.

“No, I’m fine. I already ate. I’m just making some soup now for tomorrow.”