“What am I supposed to do then?” Dahye croaked, trying not to cry.
“Figure it out.”
I hate you, Dahye had thought. She had wished that something terrible would happen to her so Eunhye could spend the rest of her life regretting her meanness. Though her sister was only two years older, Dahye had felt a gulf between them. It didn’t help that Eunhye had known exactly how to cut her down, to make her feel small. A skill handed down from their mother. Any time Dahye made a mistake, Omoni would throw her hands up in the air and say, “There you go, Dahye, ruining everything again.”
Even at that age, Dahye knew she had been an unexpected and unwanted surprise to her parents. Omoni had only wanted one child. Perhaps she had known her womb had only the resources to make one perfect girl …
On the phone, Bora was still talking. Dahye heard none of it. She blinked, the smell of mildew growing stronger, and touched the edge of Eunhye’s red sweater. That sweater marked the halfway point between their respective sides. It was damp.
“Oh no,” Dahye muttered. She pushed her hand past the sweater and into Eunhye’s side of the closet. Everything was wet. She pulled out one of the plastic clothes hangers and saw that the blouse hanging from it was covered in a fuzzy layer of white.
“What happened?” Bora asked.
“Ugh. The clothes in the closet got all wet!” Dahye scrunched her nose, disgusted. She moved to wipe her hand on her leg, then thought better of it.
“Your clothes?”
Dahye shook her head. “No. It’s mostly Eunhye’s things.”
“How? Where did the water come from?”
“There must be a leak somewhere in here …” Dahye peered inside. It was dark. She thought she could hear a faint trickling but wasn’t sure if she was imagining it. “Maybe from the last time it rained? I can’t believe I didn’t notice it sooner.”
“It’s meant to be,” Bora said, a grin in her voice. “Now we have to go shopping.”
“The least you could do is pretend to feel sorry for me.”
“I never said I wasn’t sorry.”
Dahye sighed. She stared at the blouse, uncertain, then hung it back on Eunhye’s side of the closet. “I can’t deal with any of this now,” she mumbled. “If I bring it up to my mom, she’s just going to blame me.”
“Don’t say anything. If it comes up, tell her you didn’t notice.”
Bora was right. But Dahye sat with her back to the closet, worry bubbling in the pit of her stomach. She thought about the way her mother’s eyebrows furrowed whenever she was angry—and how much she resembled Eunhye.
For the first few weeks after her sister’s passing, Dahye could recreate Eunhye’s face perfectly in her mind: the long lashes, thelittle gap between her bottom teeth. The way her irises turned the color of maple syrup in the sunlight. Now? That image grew more and more blurry each day. It made Dahye sick with guilt.
My fault, Dahye thought, blinking back tears.It was all my fault.
The smell of mildew was so strong.
Dahye took her hair and fashioned it into a bun. Loosened it. Twisted it up again. Her movements were jerky as Junyoung, the puppeteer behind the strings, rewound the footage again and again. He grabbed his pillow and held it over his face, letting out a muffled yell. She was so beautiful! How had he never noticed?
A soft knock came on the door. “Junyoung?” It was his mother. “Is everything alright?”
With the pillow still over his face, he said, “Everything’s fine.”
“Well, do you want to eat some dinner?”
“No. I’m not hungry.”
Her voice took on a pleading edge. “I made your favorite. Dakgalbi.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
“But you haven’t eaten yet …”
“I’m busy. Leave me alone.”