Page 43 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

The minute the liquid strikes the table, I jerk into motion, sweeping the photos up. Boyoung throws napkins on the pool of cold coffee. A café worker runs over with a cloth, but it’s too late. The photos are drenched. I shake them out, spraying tiny droplets of coffee-flavored water into our faces while Boyoung apologizes profusely, her English slipping into Korean.

Anxiety is building and my stomach begins to roil. I bite my lip. It will be fine, I tell myself. These photos will dry and nothing will be ruined. The spill is mopped up, the glasses taken away, and Boyoung collapses in her seat, a pained expression on her face. Is it a reflection of mine? I feel frozen and full of dread. Do I even want to look at the photos? We sit back down and spread the pictures onto the now-dry table. “It will turn out okay,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Hara. I’m jinjja, jinjja sorry.” Her hands shake as they hover over the photos. I want to push them away, push her away, but it was an accident.

“It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.” I’m reassuring both of us at this point.

Her phone rings and then rings again. She has to go. “Let me take these with me. I will find a shop that restores photos.”

“No.” The denial comes out too sharp. I try again, this time with a forced smile and a nicer tone. “No, thank you. Once they dry out, it’ll be fine.” I fold a protective hand around the images.

“Text me if you need anything,” Boyoung begs as she leaves. “I’ll help you whatever way I can.”

I can’t bring myself to view the damage, not here in the ttalgi café surrounded by all the cute decorations. I wait until the images dry, stuff them into my purse, and run home, barely noticing the steep climb up the hill. Burning calves are no match for my panicked heart.

Once home in the empty flat, I dump out the contents of my purse onto the bed. As I’m laying out the photos one by one, I repeat my mantra that it will all be fine. No matter how many times I say the words, though, the outcome is unchanged. The photos are ruined. On two of them the colors of the photograph have bled together and the women’s faces are no longer distinguishable. The names are smudged as well. The remaining three have curled corners, but the faces aren’t damaged and I think I can make out some of the characters on the back. Maybe Anna remembers them.

I’m angry and upset and I sort of want to call Boyoung and yell at her, but it’s not Boyoung’s fault. It was an accident. There are still three photos that are in good condition, so I start with them. I take out my phone and photograph the front and back—something I should’ve done before I left the apartment. Then I carefully transcribe the names:

Kim Eunshil

Kwon Hyeun

Kim Jihye

Lee Mi—

Na Y—

The last two on the list are likely wrong because the ink smeared, but it’s the best that I can make out. The final Hangul character appears to be a vowel, but it could also be ya or yae or ae or eo or yeo. Hell, I don’t know. I find the Naver app and type in the names. I can’t read the Hangul, but I scroll through the pictures, hoping one of them sparks recognition.

Boyoung said there was some of Lee Jonghyung in me, but I couldn’t see it at the funeral and I don’t see it now. While I don’t like admitting this, part of me thought that if I saw one of my biological parents, I’d immediately know them. Some part of me would acknowledge some part of them. As I scan the results, all I see are words I don’t understand and people I don’t recognize.

Frustration and self-loathing creep through me. Why am I so dumb about everything? Why didn’t I scan these photos into my phone before taking them out? Why didn’t I learn Korean at some point in my life? Why do I even care so much about what anyone thinks, especially my dead dad—either of them? Who cares? Who cares? Who cares? I drop the phone and squeeze my nose bridge.

My heart is racing and a damp sweat breaks out along my hairline. The usual bindings I have wrapped around my emotions are fraying. I close my eyes and take a breath . . . and then another.

Get a grip, Hara, I order. You have a translation app. There are people who will help you. Stop dramatizing things.

I inhale again and pick up the phone. The first thing is to triangulate the age of the women I’m looking for. My birth mother was likely young and unwed, so I need to be searching for people within the ages of forty-three and, maybe, forty-seven? That narrows it down. And I have names. Granted I can’t fully make out two of them, but three names and an identifiable year of birth are a lot. I pull out a notebook and make five columns. This is going to be challenging but not impossible.

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