Counsel Culture

To Mr. Seong-mok Lee:

Hello, it’s Haesoo Lim.

It may surprise you to receive this letter. Or perhaps you’ve forgotten my name altogether. An event that’s easily forgotten by one person remains indelible for another, even in death. Isn’t it astonishing that the one who cannot forget dies on the inside while the one who has forgotten goes about their life as if nothing happened?

Then again, perhaps to live is to learn to do much worse.

Pretending to be alive. Living, but more or less dead. Looking at myself now, I see that these things are possible. I’m sure you can guess the reason why.

Even now, I can go on the internet and see the articles you wrote. The articles about me. How you could write these articles without the most basic fact-checking, I cannot understand.

Why my request that you take down the article—just a patchwork of rumors floating around—keeps being turned down, why you rebuffed this reasonable demand

Haesoo pauses here and puts down her pen. The smudge of ink on the back of her hand leaves a black mark on the bottom of the page. The letter is ruined. She has to start over. But she knows that it’s not the ink stain that ruined it. It is simply not enough. This vocabulary, this polite, smooth language will not convey her message.

She looks down at the words she chose. Then she picks up the pen and strikes out the words perhaps and indelible and dies on the inside. Cannot forget becomes will not forget. Name becomes existence. But the cautious, unsure tone imbued in the letter does not lift.

These simple words and sentences cannot express the feelings that overwhelm her so often. They are not enough. Instead, something sharp and scorching. Something to keep the sparks burning.

She’s always had a habit of hiding her feelings. There are moments she can’t bear, of course, but they are generally tolerable, and she forgets easily. She has always thought herself to be in control of her emotions. That it is her own power and will that make this control possible. But now that everything seems impossible, she has to admit it was the circumstances built around her that made control possible.

Haesoo folds the letter in half, then again, puts it in her pocket, and leaves the house. It’s the hour when people out for a late-night walk have gone home. In front of a store, a few drunk stragglers pass around a pack of cigarettes, their flushed faces illuminated in the headlights of passing cars.

She makes her way out of the narrow alley, crosses the four-lane street, and heads to the park. It’s dark and deserted. Until a few years ago, this area was the battleground of run-down stall bars. At dusk, colorful strings of lights switched on and sliding glass doors covered with contact paper would be left open for customers all night long. The glimpses inside were slipshod, perverse, somewhat sad. This place was a harbor—all discarded things washed up here.

Now there is no trace of all that.

Now there are apartment buildings spaced out evenly, stores with plate-glass windows you can look into, spacious roads, clean sidewalks. People come and go as though they have forgotten what used to be here. But then again, those who know what this place used to be don’t live here anymore.

She walks the long length of the park. In adequate stillness and gentle light, she tries to look for inner peace. Spring is near. She focuses on the air surrounding her. The shadows of the trees quiver faintly when the wind blows. The shadows, mere lines through winter, are slowly building their shape. In the next few months, they will begin to bulk up and grow.

A late-night walk can be beneficial in many ways.

During the day, when everything is exposed, people like to talk about exposed things. Perhaps it is only at night when visibility is low that people’s terrifying curiosity takes a rest. She begins a second lap around the park, choosing the darker paths, then stops at the garbage can by the entrance. She removes the folded letter from her pocket and tears it over the bin. As if to discard her feelings there. As if to vow that she will never let these feelings seize her again.

When she returns to her street, she finds two neighbors arguing.

Why do you keep putting food out by my house? The voice comes from a woman’s small frame with a stooped back.

Ma’am, this isn’t by anything of yours. This is the street. Street’s for everyone’s use, answers the taller of the two silhouettes.

That’s what I’m asking. Why are you leaving food out for cats in the street that everyone uses? Leave it by your own house if you like them so much. Why are you bothering people in this neighborhood?

When did I bother anyone? These cats need to eat, too. How am I bothering you by feeding cats? You’re the one bothering me, ma’am.

One voice attacks, the other defends. One is a lance, the other a block. Neither is ready to yield.

A car drives by, blaring a hit song. The plaintive, mournful melody slowly fades as the car turns a corner. Haesoo presses close to an illegally parked truck. To reach her house, she has to pass the two people in confrontation, and one of them might notice her walking by. They might even talk to her. Ask her to take sides, ask her questions that put her in a difficult position. Say things she should not have to hear.

A few days earlier, Haesoo was subjected to just such an attack.

She was browsing the produce section plastered with signs that said BOGO, Unbeatable Prices, Everything Must Go. Someone stealing glances at Haesoo as she stood in front of the romaine and celery approached.

Aren’t you Dr. Haesoo Lim? You are, right? It’s so weird to see you at a place like this. Do you live around here?

The woman wore a blue cardigan with a yellow tote bag slung over one shoulder. The large pair of sunglasses she was wearing on her head seemed ready to slip off at any moment.

Haesoo did not respond, but the woman made eye contact with her as she added, This may not mean much to you, but I don’t think what happened was entirely your fault. People talk, but they don’t really know what they’re talking about. They just like to talk. Don’t mind them.

Haesoo smiled gently at the woman. Or rather, she tried to smile. She felt the muscles on her face tighten as if paralyzed.

Here’s what I really think. Back when the articles were pouring out about you, you really should have taken a firmer stance. You need to be aggressive with people like that, or they won’t shut up. If you give them the impression that you don’t know what to do, they’ll tear you apart. These people are incorrigible.

Haesoo fixed her eyes on the pyramid of lettuce. She had to get through this moment. If the head of lettuce delicately balanced on the top had not rolled off, if a few more had not gone down with it, causing an avalanche of lettuce heads and panic among the staff, she would have had to stand there and listen to all these thoughtless comments the woman was pum-meling her with until she decided she was done.

I’m not like these people, she thinks. I’m different from these people.

There are words that draw lines in the sand. Words that drive others away. Words meant to show one’s moral superiority and sense of justice. All of these words are the same to Haesoo—they are a reminder of the past, proof that nothing has been forgotten, a warning that her name will come up again and again in this context. Perhaps she is self-conscious and indulging in victim mentality. But she doesn’t want to get involved, whatever it is, whomever it’s with. She doesn’t want to be associated.

When she turns her head, a yellow creature dives and vanishes under the parked truck.

Haesoo follows a regimented routine.

She gets up at eight in the morning, does some light stretching in bed, brushes her teeth, and drinks a glass of water. Then she opens the windows and has a cup of coffee as she listens to the radio, usually programs that share little stories about the listeners’ lives. She has a late breakfast before ten, then does chores around the house until noon. In the afternoon, time passes quickly. Two o’clock and three o’clock slip by in quick succession. Then comes evening.

Before dinner, she usually writes a letter. This is the most important task of her day. She begins each letter with Hello, then places carefully chosen words like stepping stones into a disorienting maze of expressions. When night falls, she takes the unfinished letter with her on a walk. She strolls around the park for about an hour, disposes of the scrupulously worded letter, and comes home relieved that another day has gone by.

Her days flow calmly and quietly, or so it seems on the surface. On the inside is brittle glass that breaks at the gentlest impact. Any damaged part cannot be returned to the way it was. She knows this to be true, but she cannot abandon hope that she will recover the inner self she had before.

An unattainable wish. An improbable dream.

This belief may be the reason Haesoo is able to maintain her disciplined routine.

At night, she sees that creature again on her way back from her walk. The yellow thing that hid under the truck. She squats, leans down. A cat is balled up under the truck. It looks at her, its eyes two gleaming lights in the darkness.

So, it’s you. You’re the reason people are fighting around here.

Haesoo mumbles to herself and extends a hand. The balled-up cat opens its jaw a little and makes a chary gesture. The cat is small. Not a kitten, but it doesn’t seem fully grown either.

Here, kitty.

Haesoo gets closer to the ground and extends her hand again. She hears voices approach, then fade away. Two motorcycles zip past as if they’re racing. Both ears flat against its head, the cat glances around in fear, maintaining a vigilant distance from Haesoo.

You’re a scaredy cat, aren’t you?

Haesoo is just about to get up when the cat cries. She ducks down and looks more closely. The cat cries again.

There is a red spot on the cat’s forehead. Dried blood. Haesoo turns her head sideways and carefully studies the cat’s wound. A red scab the size of a coin has turned dark, a white ring of infection spreading out. One of the cat’s front paws is swollen as if it’s wearing a boxing glove. When she leans in to take a closer look, the cat tucks its paw under its body.

At a nearby convenience store, Haesoo buys a carton of milk and a packet of chicken breast to ease the hunger of that small being. To save it from the cigarette butts, the plastic wrappers, all the garbage filling the darkness. Haesoo projects herself onto the cat and reverts to self-pity again.

She sees her own reality in the cat huddled under the truck and is reminded of her own misfortune. How easy it is to see her sadness, anger, and injury in an alley cat that has nothing to do with her. The self-pity she feels seems boundless.

When she returns, the cat is gone. She waits for a long while, but the cat has seen through her intentions. Haesoo goes home and puts the milk and chicken in the fridge.

Haesoo has no complaints about her routine. She has stuck to it for almost a year.

But she knows she is not suited for a monotonous life. She knows better than anyone that she will not be able to settle for boredom. All the things she wanted from life. She never imagined it would be reduced to such a bland, unremarkable thing.

Her life has become just another life. It might as well be someone else’s. She is no longer the master of it.

The next evening, Haesoo sees the cat again. It peers out from under the truck, then darts back underneath when it sees her coming. She approaches slowly, pours the milk into a paper cup, and offers the chicken breast whole.

Go on. Come have a bite, she gently encourages the cat, but it does not move. Its bright, gleaming eyes track her movement. Is this unrelenting guardedness toward others an innate quality? Or was it learned out of necessity? Whatever it is, it doesn’t change the fact that it makes for a lonely, tiring life. Feeling herself slip into self-pity, Haesoo gathers herself and takes a step back.

The cat stretches its neck and sniffs at her offerings.

Uh, hello, a voice calls to Haesoo. She turns to find a little girl standing behind her. She is maybe too big to be a little girl, actually—elementary school? Middle school? Haesoo tries to guess as the two of them make eye contact.

I don’t think the cat can eat that thing whole. Cats have small mouths. Isn’t that chicken breast? He had cat food just now.

Do you know this cat?

When Haesoo gets up, the girl seems smaller.

She transfers a large duffle bag to her opposite shoulder and lightly hops in place. This cat? I know him. Is that chicken breast for people to eat? You can’t give cats people food. It’s seasoned, which is bad for cats’ kidneys.

Is that right? Haesoo says, glancing at the murky-white piece of chicken on the ground. It might have looked tasty on a plate, but here it seems out of place. Haesoo isn’t sure if she should pick up the meat or leave it there. The girl ducks down to inspect it for herself. The duffle bag tips forward, rattling its contents.

Oh, this is fine. It’s not seasoned. I eat this sometimes, too. It tastes like nothing, the child says. She sits down and starts fishing around in her bag. Her movements are ungainly and abrupt, heedless and natural. Unmindful of others. This disarms Haesoo for a moment.

When you see him next time, why don’t you give him one of these? He loves them.

What’s this?

Churu. It’s a cat treat. If you get it on your hand, it stinks really bad.

A black sedan honks as it drives by. Haesoo and the girl press close to the truck. There is a sheen of sweat on the girl’s face. A sour smell of sweat wafts up from her body, a smell one would expect from someone who has endured a day of hard labor. Haesoo’s gaze cautiously takes in the child’s sports socks, the sports band on one wrist, the hair pulled into a tight ponytail.

Tear this part a little bit and squeeze. He won’t come