Read Online Comfort Woman by Nora Okja Keller - Free Book Online
Authors: Nora Okja Keller
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sang the last part with her. âThe river song. Iâll never forget it, okay, Mom? You sing that song, and no matter what, Iâll find you, okay? Iâll be like Princess Pari, and Iâll rescue you.â
The first Saturday after my mother died, I went to the canal. I parked at Ala Wai School, retracing the path from the playground through the park toward the canal. Still used, probably by several classes of elementary school kids since I was there, the red-dirt pathânarrower than I remembered, made by smaller feet than mine nowâwandered through the parkâs date trees and ended at my old hiding place beneath the bridge. Bending over, I crawled under one end of the bridge and fit myself onto the same ledge I sat on those many years ago. Looking down where the water of the canal licked the rocks, I saw a handful of date pits. I remembered how I would search the ground under the date palms and how if I found some of the small, hard fruit, I felt that I would have good luck, as if they were pennies, only better, because they were a gift from nature. When I gnawed the thin flesh from its seed, I would thank the Birth Grandmother for looking out for me.
As an adult, I discovered that Foodland sold pitted dates in large plastic tubs. I bought one and couldnât wait to experience the taste I remembered from childhood. I opened the tub in the car, ripping the seal with my teeth, but when I popped a date in my mouth I was disappointed. The fruit was too sweet, too thick in my mouth, and I missed being able to suck on the seed.
Next to the pile of seeds, half swallowed by the mud, was a once-white satin shoe, the kind girls wore to their wedding or to the prom. And next to the shoe, draped limply among twigs and mush, a condom. Iâd seen all these things in the canal before, along with the arms and heads of Barbie dolls, beer bottles and soda cans, shit, newspaper boats and hats, and dog-paddling rats. Occasionally I would spy a jellyfish or a tilapia, the trash fish, and before it flipped away, my heart would beat faster as I waited to see if it would sing me the river song, thus revealing itself as a soul in disguise.
The Saturday after my mother died, I watched the water of the canal lap at the trash under me and waited for something, some sign from my mother. I donât know what I was thinking, but I never caught a glimpse of a fish that might have carried her spirit.
When the time came, when she needed me, I had failed to rescue her. No Princess Pari, I could not swim to the far shores of death to pull my mother back to life; I could not even put my feet in the water.
6
AKIKO
The day after Induk called me out of the river, I went looking for the spirit I knew I could never find. Go to Manshin Ahjima, Induk said as she dipped her hand into my chest and pulled out my maum, the force of my heartbeat, and led me forward by a silver thread.
I walked and slept, walked and slept, and throughout the journey kept my eyes fixed on Induk beckoning before me. At times, her form would blur until it doubled, then quadrupled, and she would become Induk and my mother, and in turn my motherâs mother and an old woman dressed in the formal topâo of the olden days. I realized I was walking with my ancestors.
I tried running to my mother, but she shook her head and remained just outside my reach. It was then that I noticed that she held a small book, no bigger than the palm of my hand, which I recognized as the Châonja-chaek, the most basic school primer. When she began to turn the pages, I strained to read what it said, but to my surprise, I found I could not understand the words. Even concentrating on the rapidly moving pictures milked most of my energy.
As my mother flipped through the book, I saw myself and my sisters as children, hanging on to our mother as she moved through our barley field and tended to our garden. And I saw us holding on to her body as we cried the death cries
The first Saturday after my mother died, I went to the canal. I parked at Ala Wai School, retracing the path from the playground through the park toward the canal. Still used, probably by several classes of elementary school kids since I was there, the red-dirt pathânarrower than I remembered, made by smaller feet than mine nowâwandered through the parkâs date trees and ended at my old hiding place beneath the bridge. Bending over, I crawled under one end of the bridge and fit myself onto the same ledge I sat on those many years ago. Looking down where the water of the canal licked the rocks, I saw a handful of date pits. I remembered how I would search the ground under the date palms and how if I found some of the small, hard fruit, I felt that I would have good luck, as if they were pennies, only better, because they were a gift from nature. When I gnawed the thin flesh from its seed, I would thank the Birth Grandmother for looking out for me.
As an adult, I discovered that Foodland sold pitted dates in large plastic tubs. I bought one and couldnât wait to experience the taste I remembered from childhood. I opened the tub in the car, ripping the seal with my teeth, but when I popped a date in my mouth I was disappointed. The fruit was too sweet, too thick in my mouth, and I missed being able to suck on the seed.
Next to the pile of seeds, half swallowed by the mud, was a once-white satin shoe, the kind girls wore to their wedding or to the prom. And next to the shoe, draped limply among twigs and mush, a condom. Iâd seen all these things in the canal before, along with the arms and heads of Barbie dolls, beer bottles and soda cans, shit, newspaper boats and hats, and dog-paddling rats. Occasionally I would spy a jellyfish or a tilapia, the trash fish, and before it flipped away, my heart would beat faster as I waited to see if it would sing me the river song, thus revealing itself as a soul in disguise.
The Saturday after my mother died, I watched the water of the canal lap at the trash under me and waited for something, some sign from my mother. I donât know what I was thinking, but I never caught a glimpse of a fish that might have carried her spirit.
When the time came, when she needed me, I had failed to rescue her. No Princess Pari, I could not swim to the far shores of death to pull my mother back to life; I could not even put my feet in the water.
6
AKIKO
The day after Induk called me out of the river, I went looking for the spirit I knew I could never find. Go to Manshin Ahjima, Induk said as she dipped her hand into my chest and pulled out my maum, the force of my heartbeat, and led me forward by a silver thread.
I walked and slept, walked and slept, and throughout the journey kept my eyes fixed on Induk beckoning before me. At times, her form would blur until it doubled, then quadrupled, and she would become Induk and my mother, and in turn my motherâs mother and an old woman dressed in the formal topâo of the olden days. I realized I was walking with my ancestors.
I tried running to my mother, but she shook her head and remained just outside my reach. It was then that I noticed that she held a small book, no bigger than the palm of my hand, which I recognized as the Châonja-chaek, the most basic school primer. When she began to turn the pages, I strained to read what it said, but to my surprise, I found I could not understand the words. Even concentrating on the rapidly moving pictures milked most of my energy.
As my mother flipped through the book, I saw myself and my sisters as children, hanging on to our mother as she moved through our barley field and tended to our garden. And I saw us holding on to her body as we cried the death cries
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