Her mother’s yellow dress lay crumpled on the floor. It was but a piece of silk, a dress her mother had sewn so she would feel beautiful, something different from the cotton dyed with unripe persimmons she wore on the island. She remembered her mother humming as she sewed. How she said it had been so long since she looked pretty for a man. She’d sewn a matching dress for Lucy, but Lucy dug in the dirt in it, scrambled up rocks and ridges in it, splashed in the creek in it; she’d torn and dirtied it until there was no more wearing of it. There was no wearing of her mother’s dress, either. Lucy gathered up the silky material and pressed it to her face, inhaled the lavender and lemon scent, then in a fit of anger, she ripped it to shreds.
When the man came, Lucy’s mother forgot the strength she had on the island. How the Jeju women would free-dive into the cold waters to gather abalone and conch and sell them to make the money needed—they were called haenyeo, sea women, strong and brave. Lucy visited the island three times with her mother, the last time to bring Grandmother back after the cancer overtook her. Lucy never forgot the sight of her mother and grandmother diving into the water at Jeju; she thought them both the bravest women ever. She’d refused to dive. Her grandmother attempted to tease her into it, but she pretended she was bored, not afraid.
She’d said, haughtily, in English, “I’m American. Americans don’t do that.”
In Jeju dialect, her grandmother answered, “You are a part of me, too.”
“She’s so like her father,” her mother said, then quickly turned away.
Lucy didn’t remember her father, only knew him from grainy photos in sepia tones, an American with intense eyes and a smiling mouth. Lucy’s mother would not tell Lucy about him, and until she’d grown too old for it, Lucy made up stories about him, ones where he was brave and true and came to rescue her mother on his white horse. His legacy to his family was the log cabin nestled in a cove on a mountain, where he’d swept away Lucy’s mother from Jeju to live. There was a beautiful willow tree near the creek; her father had planted it himself when he was a boy. The tree was in the photos, first small, and then full and beautiful with its long leaves blowing in the wind, tickling her father’s face, as it did Lucy’s.
Grandmother called out, “There Lucy is again, off in the worlds in her head!” She’d held up a conch shell in triumph. “This for you, Lucy.”
Lucy shrugged, as if she didn’t care about diving for her own conch shell.
Her mother said, “Leave her be. When you come to America, you will understand.”
Grandmother answered, “I understand many things.”
On the flight back to America, Lucy’s grandmother told her about the Three Abundance: The Seokda (rocks), Pungda (wind), and Yeoda (women). How the seokda came from Mt. Halla’s volcano, and how the people worked hard to clear them away; how they constructed the walls for protection against the wild blowing wind; and how many men were lost to the sea, so it was up to the yeoda to be strong and brave and to work as hard as the men, or harder.
Grandmother said, “Jeju people are independent and value honor; their lives connected and strong on the island, just like the mountain people where we go now. I am not afraid.” She had then folded her hands over her lap, and fallen asleep.
Lucy’s mother leaned over and whispered, “And just like the mountain, tourists are now everywhere on Jeju!” She’d laughed.
Lucy only thought of regret. She should have been brave and dived into the water.
When they arrived home, her grandmother said if she squinted her eyes just right, some things seemed like Jeju—the rock, the wind, the mountain, the women. But she loved the willow, just as Lucy did.
Lucy’s mother and grandmother’s long hair fanned in the breeze as they hung sheets on the line, the white linens undulating like angel’s wings, and later the sheets smelled like the sun. At night, Lucy listened to the sound of the bobcat screaming, the coons chattering over the apples she left on the porch, the song of the creek as it rushed. Her grandmother and mother spoke wistfully of Jeju, but for Lucy, the mountain was all she needed, all she wanted. Still, the waters of Jeju called to her, because she had not dived, she had not been brave.
One day, her grandmother asked, “Do you believe, Lucy?”
“Believe what?”
“In the Three Abundance. In the power you hold as a woman?”
“I guess so.”
“Oh, Lucy.” Her grandmother shook her head. “Just trust in your strengths.”
Lucy’s mother said to Grandmother, “It’s different here. You don’t understand.”
Grandmother shook her head again. “It is no different.”
The herbs her grandmother made helped the cancer pain. Grandmother said, “These help me to be with you longer, so I can rest against our willow and look at the mountains.” Her Grandmother died under the willow tree with her back against its bark, her face holding songs of the island, her lips curved in a smile.
A year later was when her mother sewed the dress. Then, the man slipped in to live with them on the mountain. Everything changed. As soon as she could, Lucy left the mountain. She had to.
Seven evenings after she’d ripped the dress, Lucy’s returned from work to find at her apartment door a box tied with blue ribbon, her name written in silver ink. She lifted it, untied the ribbon, opened the box, and familiar scent wafted. Inside laid a large silver locket. Etched on the front was a willow tree growing on a rock that stood in the ocean, and a piece of rolled parchment paper.
She went inside, sat on her sofa, carefully unrolled the paper, and read, “Remember the Three Abundance.” When she opened the locket, powder sifted onto her lap. She sniffed it—her grandmother’s herbs. She scraped up the spill, poured it back into the locket, and closed it.
Her mother must have sent it. She dialed up home, and the man answered the phone. Lucy wanted to hang up, but she asked, “Where is my mother?”
“Where’s the check, girlie? We had a deal.”
“I mailed it.”
“Wale, I ain’t got it yet.” She pictured him cleaning his nails with the old rusty pocketknife, the one he’d once poked her mother’s skin with when he was drunk and displeased.
“You’ll get it. Now, let me speak to my mother.” Lucy’s stomach roiled. Their deal: she sent the man a check every month to help take care of her mother. Her mother did not know.
She heard him blow cigarette smoke, and imagined his yellow fingertips curled into his palm as he made a fist. “You got no business running off and leaving us alone. Think you’re too good.”
She heard the tinkling of ice against glass, the cold sound of sorrows. A picture flashed, the man rearing up like an enraged bear, cuffing her mother with his big paw. The smell of whisky poisoning the air. Running outside to hide behind the leaves of the willow, young Lucy had felt shame for her mother.
Her voice commanded, even with its tremor she knew he heard, “Let me speak to my mother.”
“Uh huh.”
She listened as his chair scraped ridges into the wood floor, and imagined Grandmother’s ghost watching him with angry eyes as he disrespected their home.
Her mother’s voice brought burning to Lucy’s eyes. “Oh, Lucy! Are you well?”
“Yes, mother, I’m well.” They talked about her job at the museum. Lucy asked about her willow, and learned it was weeping. They said their goodbyes, and Lucy placed the phone on its cradle. She knew she should go home to her mother, her willow, but she could not.
For seven nights she dreamed her grandmother stood underneath the willow’s branches, their hair wild and blowing. The seventh night she called out, and Lucy awoke to her own voice answering, “Yes. I’m Lucy. I’m your granddaughter.” Clicking on the lamp, she picked up the silver locket and turned it over, watched her reflection waver on the smooth mirrored backside. On the front, she more closely studied the etched willow tree, and noticed how it seemed as if the branches were moving, ethereal, lighter than the heaviness. Blown by breaths of wind.
The following weeks she worked at the museum, among the dead and lost, among the ancient ways, among the silence she craved. The dream nagged; her mountain called. She belonged there. He did not. Her anger surfaced, like foam on water after the wave curls.
An evening when the sky held bloated clouds, she lay in bed with her photo album and held the picture of her mother and she under the willow, when Lucy was seventeen. That was after her mother had the man arrested, and he went to jail. Then, the two of them were happy again. They’d gone for long walks, watched the deer grazing with their delicate muzzles to the sweet grass. They’d sat at the kitchen table, drank strong bittersweet coffee, and ate the bread Lucy’s mother baked. Her grandmother’s spirit was happy.
When the man returned with fools-golden promises, his face cleared of his mistakes, the booze poured out where it mixed with the New River, her mother felt sorry for the man’s loneliness, and let him slip back in. Lucy couldn’t bear it.
Seven weeks passed since she received the strange locket. Her grandmother’s scent was everywhere. She supposed people experienced these things when regret would not release. She supposed people conjured up strange occurrences when guilt prodded.
She dreamed of her mother and grandmother diving at Jeju. On the seventh day of the seventh month, she dreamed the willow and mountain were lifted up and deposited on the island, combining her life, her mothers and her grandmother’s life. She climbed to the top of the tree and dived into the water, searching, searching and not quite finding.
The phone awoke Lucy, and her heart skittered. She put her hand on the receiver, her head still heavy against her pillow, expecting to hear the man’s voice full of smoke, whisky, and anger, for she had not sent his latest check. She had instead written a fury-filled letter. She wrote how she was coming to help her mother. She raged all the swallowed words, her pen heavy against the paper, tearing it in places. She wanted to hurt him, she wrote, that she had a fury against him she couldn’t tame. She’d sprinkled herbs from the locket into the envelope. She’d sealed it and mailed it and scheduled her flight.
The phone screamed again.
She picked up the receiver, and before he could say a word, she said, “I hate you. I will never see what my mother sees.”
A female voice said, “What?” Then, “This Lucy?”
“Oh! I’m sorry. Yes, this is Lucy.”
“This here’s Lou. Down the road. Your daddy, he done passed on this mornin’.”
“What? I…he’s not my father.” She sat up.
“Well, don’t know ‘bout that.” A sigh, then, “He was tryin’ to cut down that willer tree. Cussin’ up a storm, he was.”
“He cut down our willow?” Lucy’s heart constricted.
“Well, no, ‘cause guess he cut hisself. I didn’t see that part; I had to get on lookin’ for my old cur, but your momma rang me up. Said she didn’t want to wake you up in so early in the morning. Said to wait ‘til seven.”
Lucy gripped the phone.
“She’s up to the funeral home. Said for you to come on home now.”
Lucy picked up the locket, and it felt as warm as if it had been held in a palm, close and tight.
“Your momma were the onliest one took time to help that poor mean man.”
“Yes. She was the only one.”
“Well, guess I oughter get back to my beans.”
“Thank you, Lou. Goodbye.” She replaced the receiver. She kissed the locket.
At the funeral, her mother stood straight and tall in a plain cotton dress. She looked at Lucy and Lucy saw a flicker of something in her mother’s eyes—something wild and dangerous, just as she’d looked when she’d dived at Jeju.
Later, Lucy asked, “What happened?”
Her mother looked at her a long time, then said, “Your father was a good man who loved us both fiercely. I wish you remembered him. He had green eyes, and a gentle touch. He died one night trying to get home. His car ran off the road.” She closed her eyes, opened them. “I always felt guilty that he was trying to get home to us on those curvy roads, and so late at night. I was a young bride. I put pressures on him.” She pressed her lips briefly together, then said, “I don’t know where I’ve been these last years, as if I’ve been punishing myself.”
“No, Mother. I have.”
She grabbed Lucy’s hand. “I did what had to be done. For us.”
Lucy nodded. “I did, too.”
Lucy knew what her mother required. The purifying feel of water, the cleansing wind, the steady rock. She went back to Boston to gather her things.
Seven days, seven hours, seven minutes later, Lucy reached her mountain while the moon was heavy and unclouded. She set down her suitcases and inhaled the scent of lavender and lemon. She was home. She had two tickets to Jeju—one round trip for her, and a one-way for her mother. They’d leave on the seventh. Lucy already felt the weight of the water as it closed around her, and then released her as she broke surface. She was not afraid.
Outside, her mother stood beside the willow tree, her hair blowing in the wind. Lucy joined her. They sat against the trunk, the bark tattooing upon their back the willow’s stories. She thought how the willow would again gather strength from her care, as she gathered rest and shade from it. She leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder.
Lucy said, “Grandmother is here.”
Her mother said, “Yes. I know.”
The strength of rock, the force of wind, and the bravery of women. What powers came from the Three Abundance? Many. Enough.
End
