Anxiety is twisting me up inside and I’m not sure what I’m most leery of—not finding out information or discovering something new. Either way, I feel like I could throw up.
“We don’t have to go in,” Boyoung says quietly at my side.
“No. I do have to go in.” I push open the doors and let the air-conditioning blow away my nervous sweat. The first floor has a few tables and they are all full of people far too young to have given birth to me.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Yeah, but I can order.” I’ve watched Boyoung do this before. I get my card out and ask for an Americano, which is espresso with ice and water, not because I need the caffeine jolt but so I’ll have something to hold on to. Boyoung takes the buzzer as I scan the room a second time.
“Maybe she is upstairs?” Boyoung suggests when I come up empty.
“Yeah.”
“I can wait here.” Boyoung holds up the buzzer. “I’ll bring the order up when it’s ready.”
“Sounds good.” I’m not sure why I’m nervous since I’ve already met Kwon Hyeun before, but my feet feel encased in cement as I climb the wooden stairs to the second floor of the coffee shop. I spot her immediately, sitting at a small table overlooking the street. Her face is pointed out the window; perhaps she is looking for me.
I study her for a moment. Is there something familiar in the slope of the small nose, in the shape of those lips? Is her forehead four fingers or three? It’s hard to tell from this angle. When Kwon Hyeun senses me staring and turns toward the stairs, I see nothing but the pretty face of an older Korean woman.
I walk over and bow slightly. “Annyeonghaseyo.”
I must be getting better at my pronunciation, because approval briefly flits across Kwon Hyeun’s face. She rises halfway out of her chair and gestures for me to take a seat. “Annyeonghaseyo. Please sit. Did you get something to drink? I can order for you.”
“No. I’m fine.”
There’s a small cup of coffee in front of Kwon Hyeun, but it looks untouched. Now that I’m sitting across from her, I see she has a three-finger forehead—like mine. Her hair is long, parted in the middle, and tied in a bun at the base of her neck. Her face is unlined and she’s wearing minimal makeup—light gloss, some eyeshadow at the corners. A beige silk shirt that’s almost pink flows around her fine-boned frame. Dangling from her neck is a simple gold necklace with a star pendant that glimmers in the light. On the ring finger of her left hand, there’s a solid-gold band. No one element is ostentatious or gaudy but she gives off an aura of wealth.
If Kwon Hyeun did give me up for adoption, I’m going to be mad.
“I am sorry about yesterday. I was not prepared. May I ask how you found my address?” One of her hands is lightly curled around the coffee. She looks relaxed and at ease, which makes me think she isn’t my mother, because if we were meeting formally for the first time, shouldn’t she be a basket of nerves like me?
I clear my throat a couple of times before explaining, “My friend Jules knew a person who was building a digital genealogy database. They ran a search of names, potential dates, and locations. There weren’t that many Kwon Hyeuns around the district where my father lived twenty-five years ago.” I’m fortunate, too, that in Korea, women don’t change their names upon marriage.
A rueful smile touches her lips. “Our country is too connected. I was at my husband’s father’s house. They would not have understood.”
My mouth grows dry. So she is—
“I am not your mother, but”—she pushes a piece of paper across the table—“I may know who you are looking for. This woman was with Lee Jonghyung for a short while. They were together when he was with me. It was not a happy time for me. My parents did not approve, but I told them he was a good man. Then I found him with this woman. They were at a café, holding hands, in Itaewon. Back then no good Korean girl would go there, so they thought they would not be discovered.”
I don’t know what to say, my tongue frozen in my mouth. It doesn’t matter. Kwon Hyeun isn’t interested in hearing from me anyway. She’s lost in her own memories.
“Choi Wansu and I went to the same school. She wasn’t Choi Wansu then. Her name was Na Wansu. She was a scholarship student with a remarkable aptitude for language. We were the only two that spoke English well. Jonghyung-oppa ran a food stand right outside of the school. He would give you free samples if you were a pretty girl. If you were a pretty girl, he would slip you some soju or a cigarette. Do you understand what I am saying?”