Uncle likened the consciousness of humans, of which he said six sevenths was submerged below the surface, to stew. Thick, made with stock, simmered for hours with cubes of beef and carrots and cabbage and potato. A copper stew pot has a thick bottom and a long, sturdy handle, and any ingredient you put in it will instantly lose shape and melt. When steam starts to hang above the pot and vapor spreads through the air, the fronts of your eyes get cloudy. Nobody knows if I’m crying or smiling as I’m making stew, and only the cook knows if the stew is made of vegetables or a pheasant’s head or a pig’s liver or a dirty sock.
My first impression of Uncle’s wife was that—how do I say this—she looked like a young calf. Pale, pinkish skin; skinny, large, black shining eyes, frozen by fear. And over her mouth she wore a mask as if to say, I’m not ever going to eat. But she also held a fork and knife in each hand at the table, as if she were going to eat somehow. She was your typical neurotic. Apparently a big sharp fork with one bent tine weighed on the subconscious of Mrs. N, Freud’s patient, which was why she couldn’t eat and was always hungry. When she was a young girl, her father had punished her if she balked at eating a piece of meat that had grown stone cold, its fat congealed. Uncle thought there must be something like a sharp fork with a bent tine looming over his wife, too, but he was unable to discover what it was. Uncle took it slow, as if he were cooking a rice dish. Back then Uncle was radiant—I thought it was the look of a man in love. But his wife showed me that so many women don’t want to eat and that food could be the cause of the most excruciating pain. This refusal to eat is not the same as drinking around the white film that forms atop hot cocoa or milk or cooled porridge. Not eating something you dislike doesn’t bring about pain that is evocative of death.
Eating is an absolute, repetitive activity. The same as love. Once you start you can’t stop. So if you can’t eat when you’re hungry, it’s worse than being stricken with the gravest illness. Uncle’s wife, who possessed a flickering appetite, committed suicide in the most dramatic way—she slathered oil all over her naked body and hanged herself. It may have been a rebellion against things she couldn’t eat, or perhaps it was a painful ritual of self-sacrifice. Was it resignation or a holy ritual? If it was her intention to be remembered by the strongest last image, she got her wish. Even now I sometimes think of her dangling from the ceiling, her emaciated body glistening with oil.
Uncle dreamt about her often after her death, and he said that in his dreams he’s always examining her teeth. Every time I imagined Uncle stretching his neck out to look deep down her throat, I felt a pain that might split my chest in two. I don’t know if the pain came from sadness or an instinctual anxiety. I started to resent his wife. Death requires more love from the one left behind. I hoped Uncle would meet another woman, someone who knew without a doubt what she wanted to eat. But Uncle didn’t fall for anyone else and instead quickly started to depend on alcohol. It was the most definite and easy way to forget, but it was also the beginning of a disease that was nearly impossible to cure.
His doctor raised with me the issue of my noncommittal behavior toward Uncle—it wasn’t helpful to ignore and protect Uncle as he continued to drink, as it downplayed the reality that alcoholism is a real disease and may have been hindering Uncle’s recovery. And that it’s hard to continue drinking without someone condoning it. He told me all of this in a reproachful tone, as if he had actually peeked into my thermos. That’s probably why he called me to the hospital today. I wonder if I need to defend Uncle or myself.
Uncle stayed with us for six months before he went into the hospital. One day, Seok-ju came back from walking Paulie with Uncle and said, worriedly, that he kept falling down. The cabbage I was holding dropped on the floor. Thump. The dense sound rippled in the air, like a bad smell acting as a warning. Falling over is one of the first symptoms of Korsakoff’s syndrome. I don’t think we should leave him by himself, he said, approaching me and gently pulling my shoulders toward him. Six months, though neither long nor short, was enough for Uncle to acknowledge that the disease had progressed beyond his control, leading to his decision to admit himself to the hospital. Shedding his doctor’s coat, Uncle wobbled into the hospital where he’d worked.
You can say that because you’ve never seen him fall down again and again, I want to tell the doctor. Right now I’m the only person here for Uncle. What else would I be able to do for him, except to bring him this small thermos? Is that what I’m supposed to say? I don’t say anything in the end. Because I don’t want to appear oblivious. Because Uncle is the only person who knows that the taste of love encompasses the wilted, the overly ripened, the rotten, and the bitter.
Uncle is sitting on a bench, a thin camel cardigan draped around his shoulders over his hospital garb. He sits there leisurely, not waiting for me but as if he’s relaxing after a light meal. He glances back at me, his eyes squinting in the sun. Right now there’s nothing for us to do but smile at each other. He looks too thin but it may be better to pretend not to notice. Uncle must also be thinking things about me but not asking.
“So I was thinking, Uncle.”
“Hm?”
“I’m glad it’s spring.”
“Yeah, it’s already spring. But even in April, it’s still cold in the shade. Here, it’s hard to tell if the seasons are changing.”
“Then let’s leave.”
“Why, all of a sudden?”
“You’re not home here.”
“This can be as good a place as home.”
“It’d be nice if you came and looked after Paulie and other things.”
“Things are still hard for you, I guess?”
I don’t say anything.
“I’m still more comfortable here.”
“What are you afraid of, Uncle?”
He’s quiet.
According to his doctor, the most important thing for Uncle right now is to decide when to end treatment. During his stay, he repeatedly cycled through drinking and quitting—which only made him realize that nothing had changed—followed by guilt and dejection. His doctor says the mere idea of ending the treatment causes Uncle enormous anxiety.
“Have faith, Uncle.”
“Faith in what?”
“Faith that you won’t drink again.”
“You know I can’t ever have that.”
I don’t argue.
The doctor, once Uncle’s colleague, tried to reassure me by saying that treating an alcoholic was a very worthy job. I nodded, but I don’t know how worthy it really is. Never having a drink is difficult to put into practice. An alcoholic is completely cured not when he doesn’t drink a drop of alcohol, but when he’s able to control himself and drink a moderate amount. Uncle knows this. Just as he can’t completely stay away from alcohol, he can’t erase memories of his late wife. Should Uncle bury those feelings deep down, or try to forget her? If Uncle can’t regulate his drinking, it’s his choice, not the result of a lack of willpower. So it’s not up to the doctor or me to decide when to terminate treatment. All we can do is watch over him. Perhaps Uncle needs time to realize that alcohol isn’t necessary in his life and that he can survive without drinking. As his family, I have to decide whether I will participate in his treatment.
“What do you want me to do, Uncle?”
“If I think I need help, I’ll request it from you.”