Page 42 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

The disc on the table buzzes. Boyoung hops up. “I’ll get the drinks.”

While Boyoung is off at the counter, I look through the photos again, wishing that they were taken closer so I could better make out their features. Why don’t I recognize even one of them? I hold up the third one, the one that Boyoung stopped at, and wait for something to stir inside me. Is that my nose on the woman? Is that my forehead? How about the neck or the fingers? We have a similar figure, fairly straight and not much on top, although the woman in the picture is more slender.

“How will you find these women?”

I jolt in surprise, the photos falling out of my hands onto the table. I hadn’t realized Boyoung had returned.

“Do internet searches, I suppose.” I take my iced Americano and gulp down a good dose of cold caffeine. “I emailed the DNA company yesterday and told them I deserved to know if there were any other matches—brothers, sisters, cousins.”

“What about those other people? What if their families don’t know that you were given away?”

This gives me pause. I hadn’t given thought to the other people—only me—and it hits me how selfish that is. “I want to know,” I say slowly. “I don’t want to interrupt their lives or take anything from them. It’s just . . . if they’re out there, I want to know. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you want to know the story? Wouldn’t you want to know if you have sisters and brothers out there? Or cousins or aunts and uncles?”

“Family isn’t all good. My uncle is a drunk who beats his wife,” Boyoung says bluntly. “It broke my mom’s heart to see her sister like that. It was the one good thing about her dying. She didn’t have to face that anymore.” My friend tilts her head to study me. “What will change if you know?”

I don’t know how to respond to this. I tip a cube of ice into my mouth and chew—on the ice, on Boyoung’s words, on the concept of “knowing.” From the very beginning, Boyoung has wondered what I’m looking for, but what does it matter? Do I have to have an answer now? Don’t you conduct a search to result in a find?

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll know until we meet. It could be Oprah good or Maury bad.”

Boyoung doesn’t get those cultural references so I explain that both are talk shows that make people cry except Oprah brings people together and Maury brings people to fight.

“I didn’t see those shows in the US.” Boyoung sounds disappointed. “But we do have Hello Counselor. Famous people go on it and give advice to regular citizens.”

“Famous people . . . like singers?” I think back to Ahn Sangki, who hadn’t wanted to go down to the first floor for fear of causing a riot.

“Yes. Like singers. Idols, soloists, rappers, actors, MCs. Those types of people.”

“Has DJ Song been on any shows?”

Boyoung’s eyes widen. “DJ Song? You know him? I didn’t realize he was internationally famous. I mean, you don’t know anything about Korea—”

She cuts herself off in embarrassment.

I shrug it off. “No. You’re right. I met him last night at the club.”

“DJ Song was there?” Boyoung says his name as if I’m uttering the name of a minor deity.

“He was there at the club to support his friends who were performing.”

“And you met DJ Song?” She keeps repeating his name. “I’m surprised he wasn’t getting mobbed.”

“I was outside getting some air and, wow, so this is a convoluted story, but when I was at the airport I mistook someone for the driver you sent, and well, a very nice guy drove me to the rental. I know it was stupid to get into a car with a stranger,” I hurriedly add as Boyoung’s face turns from awed surprise to horror. “But he was a stand-up guy—rich, I guess, based on the car. It was nice inside. Anyway, when I was at the club, I was outside getting some air because the funeral kind of”—I wave a hand beside my head—“messed me up and I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a rave. Outside was this guy, Choi Yujun, and apparently he was waiting for Ahn Sangki. They’re friends.”

“Ahn Sangki and Choi Yujun . . .” Boyoung trails off, her voice growing faint, her pale skin going from pearl to porcelain.

Boyoung raises her arm, and while the scene unfolds as if time is being stretched like an elastic band, I can’t react quickly enough to stop the disaster I see unfolding. Boyoung’s arm rises. Her elbow pushes out. It strikes the glass of iced Americano that has been sitting long enough that much of the ice has melted and a sweat circle has formed on the tabletop. The glass, which is still half-full, tips over. I reach for it at the same time that Boyoung notices. Our hands collide and the glass totters. We both gasp and watch in horror as it falls over, spilling onto the pictures.

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