Suki Kim - The Interpreter

Presider Kang commands a prayer for everyone, three full minutes during which he hails the blessing of Jesus. “Without you, Lord, we’re nothing,” he recites into the microphone with his eyes shut, inspired by the singing trio’s lyric. “Without you, Lord, we have no home. Without you, Lord, we have no father. Without you, Lord, we are orphans.”

Your sister—I’d never seen a young woman so haunted by grief.

“Now please walk around and introduce yourself to at least five new brothers and sisters. Give them a hug and a warm handshake. We are all family, under the name of our Lord.” Presider Kang struts down the nave and puts his arms around each one; their faces light up as though Jesus himself has just descended. Suzy has no choice but to rise and attempt a halfhearted gesture of looking around. She is farthest back, away from the majority, huddled in the middle rows. But churchgoers are not shy. A few are already making their way toward Suzy with beaming faces, as though they have just found their longlost sister.

“Hi, I am Kyung Hee, welcome!”

“Hi, I’m Maria, what’s your name?”

“Hi, I am Paul, so happy to meet you!”

Suzy would never recognize any of them if she were to run into one on the street. No glimpse of family bonding. Family, from what she knows, has nothing to do with handshakes and hugs.

Finally, there’s the pastor, who is by far the oldest man in the room. With the sleekness of a pro, he quickly embarks on a heartfelt tale about how scarce the food had been when he was a kid in Korea, and how a mere apple would fill him with tears, as it struck him what wonder God had given us. He is recalling the spirit of Thanksgiving, although most Koreans do not celebrate the American tradition. She has heard it all before, the stories that begin and end with Korea, although here Jesus seems to be the preferred antidote. She rises quietly as the pastor starts reading scripture from the Bible: “The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.”

Outside, in the oversized vestibule, Suzy finds a couple of tall wooden chairs lined up against the wall under a large portrait of Jesus on a crucifix. In one of them is a little girl of about four or five sitting with her feet dangling in the air. Like an angel, Suzy thinks, the way the whispery curls frame her face. Odd that a mother would give a perm to hair so young and naturally straight.

“Hi,” says Suzy, sitting by her side.

“Is the service over?” The girl turns with a sullen face.

“No, not yet,” answers Suzy, leaning back against the green velvet cushion.

“When will it be over?” The girl keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, in the manner of a lady in distress.

“Why? You waiting for someone?” asks Suzy, amused by the little girl’s precociousness.

The girl rolls her eyes, as if she finds adults dull. “It’s so boring here. I should’ve brought my little Suzie with me.”

“Who’s Suzie?” asks Suzy, surprised at such a coincidence.

“My daughter. I’m a terrible mom, leaving her home alone to hang out in this dump!”

“So where’s the father, may I ask?” Suzy puts on a concerned face, pretending to commiserate with the girl’s maternal worries for her doll.

“There’s no father, of course!” The girl looks appalled by Suzy’s cluelessness.

“Oh?” Suzy plays along.

“Okay, promise not to tell anyone,” whispers the girl, looking around once to make sure no one is listening. “I’m not Suzie’s real mom. The real mom’s dead. Poor Suzie’s an orphan.”

Suzy studies the little girl a bit more closely before asking, “How do you know that?”

“I just know, ’cause she’s mine now.”

Then, suddenly, the girl’s face breaks into a bright smile. From the door emerges a petite woman in a yellow turtleneck and a calf-length navy skirt. The most distinct feature about her strikingly pale face is the freckles that sprout so mercilessly over her tiny button nose. Her dark-brown chin-length bob drapes her face in such stiff angles that it resembles a wig. Something about her seems unmistakably foreign, as though she could be of another origin, half Korean even. Suzy recognizes her as one of those who shook her hand inside.

“Grace, honey, have you been bothering the lady?” The woman bends down to kiss the girl several times before turning to Suzy. “The sermon’s not over yet, but I had to check on her.”

A daughter named Grace with a doll named Suzie. Too bizarre for chance, too clever for a plan. Then it occurs to Suzy that during the handshake the woman had introduced herself as Maria. Could it be ? Suzy asks hesitantly, “What’s your name again?”

“Maria. Maria Sutpen. And you are… Suzy, right?” the woman answers with sisterly familiarity, just as Presider Kang had prescribed.

“Suzy Park,” she mutters; the girl does not miss a beat and exclaims, “Like my poor Suzie!”

“Sweetheart, why don’t you go downstairs and play with the other children? They have cookies and hot chocolate down there. Mommy will come right down after the sermon.” Maria points to the stairs that lead to the Bible-study room, which also serves as a recreation corner for kids.

“I hate hot chocolate!” The girl is pouting now, realizing that she will not be going home anytime soon.

“Don’t be a baby, now; you love hot chocolate, and if you don’t get down there fast, I bet the other kids will drink it all!” It is obvious that she is a good mother. Firm but with enough sense of fun. Loving in the way that she cannot seem to stop gazing at her daughter. Something about her adoring eyes spells a single mother. It has never occurred to Suzy that Maria Sutpen might be half Korean. With a name like that, who would expect an Asian face?

“All right, I’m going, and I’m not a baby!” The girl nods proudly in Suzy’s direction, acknowledging her once before taking her leave.

“Both Mommy and Miss Suzy know you’re not a baby!” With a wink in Suzy’s direction, Maria kisses her daughter once more before letting her go. The girl runs down the stairs, out of their sight. Turning to Suzy, Maria shakes her head. “For a four-year-old, she’s a handful.”

“Quite a kid,” Suzy agrees, still looking in the direction in which Grace disappeared. “Her name, is that… after my sister? Grace Park?”

“A sister?” Maria exclaims, staring at Suzy. “Grace’s sister?”

“A younger sister,” Suzy asserts.

“I didn’t know Grace had a sister,” Maria repeats incredulously.

“We haven’t been too close,” Suzy mumbles. “But I was hoping to find her here today.”

Maria’s face tenses. “I’m looking for her too. I drove here all the way from Queens.”

Suzy is relieved that there is finally someone concerned about Grace’s whereabouts. Nothing is scarier than an absence that is never noticed.

“I tried her at home, but she’s moved.” Maria sighs. “She never misses the sermon. I’ve asked around, but no one’s seen her, and Grace is here almost every day.”

“Has something happened?” Suzy asks uncertainly.

“Something odd came in my mail,” Maria answers nervously. “A letter from her, which at first didn’t alarm me, because it was more like a greeting card, except that it contained another letter inside.”

“A second letter?”

“She wrote that I should only open it if I don’t hear from her by her birthday. The whole thing sounded so strange, although with Grace I never try to second-guess.”

Back in two weeks—Grace had asked Ms. Goldman to cover for her. That phone call happened last Sunday, a week ago. Now there’s one week left until her birthday.

“Can I see the letter? When did you receive it?”