Whispers of Refuge Box Set

CHAPTER 31-3

Mee-Kyong lay on her side, her face dry, her ribcage bound up even tighter with the linen strips Sun had cut for her. For the first time in weeks, she thought about the baby she had delivered a lifetime ago in Onsong, his wrinkled gray skin, his perfectly-formed fingers. She forced out small, shallow breaths and scratched tiny circles on her abdomen with her nail. She became vaguely conscious of a tapping outside her room but didn’t acknowledge it. A moment later, the door teetered open. Mee-Kyong didn’t move.

“I think she’s still asleep.” Mee-Kyong recognized the distinctive voice of the American woman. It wasn’t quite an accent, but a certain peculiarity she had picked up on last night while her hostess bustled about making tea.

Someone else spoke. “No, her eyes are open.” Mee-Kyong didn’t recognize the voice and tensed her shoulders. “See,” the girl said, “she’s awake.”

Mee-Kyong made herself sit up and nodded at the American who stood in the doorway holding a dainty little tray. In her periphery, she sized up the young woman standing next to her. “I’m awake.” She addressed the American but focused on the other, keenly aware she was being assessed with the same degree of scrutiny.

The American sauntered in, and the floor creaked slightly under her weight. “We thought you might like some breakfast.” Her voice was far too chipper for so early in the morning.

Mee-Kyong reached out for the tray. “Thank you.” After an awkward silence, the younger woman retreated, and the older one lowered herself onto the side of the bed, her sublime smile complementing the glossy look in her eyes. Mee-Kyong took a sip of tea, wondering what kind of house these people ran and what price they would charge her for her stay. The woman watched her eat.

“My husband would probably make me leave you alone and give you some privacy, but I just can’t tell you enough how glad I am you came here. My name’s Mrs. Stern, by the way. I don’t know if my husband mentioned that last night when you ...”

She stopped. Mee-Kyong was too hungry to pay much attention to what she said.

“Anyway, you’re here now, and that’s what matters.” The American woman prattled on while Mee-Kyong ate her breakfast. Mrs. Stern acted like Mee-Kyong had done her household some magnificent service by showing up on their doorstep, battered and exhausted. In reality, Mee-Kyong couldn’t even remember if the man last night had asked her to come with him or just carried her to his home. It was the events leading up to her escape she remembered so clearly.

“You don’t need to tell me a thing about what you did.” Mrs. Stern’s voice quivered with sugary concern, setting Mee-Kyong’s teeth on edge nearly as much as the sweetened tea. “I just want you to know that’s all behind you now. It’s not part of who you are today, and it doesn’t have to play any part in who you become. The past is a closed book here.”

Mee-Kyong didn’t recognize the foreign phrase but sensed the woman’s altruistic intentions. Were Americans really so ignorant that they reached adulthood with such a nauseating display of optimism still intact?

“I know you’ve been through a lot.” Mrs. Stern reached her bejeweled fingers out to caress the back of Mee-Kyong’s hand, hesitating only a moment as they hovered over her blood-encrusted nails. “You were so worn out last night I was sure you just needed sleep, but now that you’re rested, we have a nice hot tub down the hall, and you can take as long as you’d like.”

Mee-Kyong nodded, her mind screaming for solitude. She had spent the entire conversation with Mrs. Stern absorbing as much nonverbal information about her hostess as she could, and now she was exhausted. “A bath would be nice.” Mee-Kyong set her teacup on the flowered tray as gracefully as possible, while visions flashed in her memory of Sun’s hair billowing up in the tub around her.

***

* * * *

Benjamin splashed water on his face, hoping the cold spray would clear his mind. He rinsed his mouth and stared into the porcelain as the drops splattered into the sink. He wiped the top of his brow, his body swaying slightly from the weight of his throbbing head.

He thought about the young man he brought to the Sterns’ the night before. Had they taken him in? He listened but only heard a slight shuffling upstairs, probably Eve or Mrs. Stern getting ready for the day. He dried his face on the towel, letting the coarse fuzz scrape against his skin. He shut his eyes once, and the sound of metal clanking against metal echoed in his mind. Not now. No, please, not now. He leaned forward and held onto both sides of the sink, sucking in a deep, desperate breath.

A scream. A man’s pitiful plea for mercy. Benjamin felt his innards descend and sit heavy on the base of his spine. He reached out his hand to splash more water on his face. He felt the wetness and remembered the blood. So much blood ... dripping off his hands, staining his chest, splattering on the cement walls. “It’s not my fault,” Benjamin whispered to himself. “I was just following orders.” The agony continued to drag him down the haunted corridors of his memory. Benjamin would have never guessed a grown man could squeal so loudly. His stomach churned. He forced his eyes open, gasping like a fish abandoned on the shore. He cupped his hands under the faucet and drank heavily.

“Jesus is my Redeemer.” He repeated the phrase Mr. Stern taught him to ward off his attacks. “Jesus is my Redeemer.” The shrieking stopped, its sound replaced by the impatient water flow from the sink. The dingy cement walls dissolved, and again he was surrounded by the Sterns’ familiar off-white wallpaper.

If Jesus could bring about such great deliverance, as his employers always claimed, why was Benjamin still a slave to these waking nightmares?