Page 12 of The Way Back Home

“Does this hurt?” she asks quietly, pressing lightly at the edge of the bruise.

Ryowoon flinches but shakes his head. “No.”

“Liar,” she mutters, but she doesn’t sound angry, just kind of tired. She wraps a bag of ice in a towel and presses it to his leg, holding it there herself instead of making him do it.

I stand in the doorway, chewing on my lip, watching. Neither of them looks at me, and I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing at all.

Later, after Ryowoon’s settled with his leg propped up on a cushion, Mrs. Nam disappears into the front of the store. I hear her voice through the wall speaking down low at first, then rising and getting sharp. I can’t make out most of the words, just fragments, not right, can’t keep doing this, someone needs to. Ryowoon doesn’t look up from the floor the whole time, he keeps his eyes fixed on nothing, jaw tight.

Maybe an hour later the bell above the door jingles, and I peek out from the back to see Ryowoon’s mom standing near the entrance. I think she looks kind of small for an adult, her shoulders hunched forward. There are dark marks on her arms, dark and purple against her pale skin, and when she takes a step toward the counter she wobbles, catching herself against the shelf.

Mrs. Nam meets her halfway, taking her arm gently, guiding her to a stool. They talk in low voices, and I can see Ryowoon’s mom shaking her head over and over, wiping at her face with the back of her hand.

Mrs. Nam comes back to where we’re sitting a few minutes later, her face drawn tight.

“Seyeon,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “Go on home, sweetheart. I’ll walk Ryowoon back myself.”

I want to ask why, want to ask what’s happening, but the look in her eyes makes me think I shouldn’t. I nod and grab my shoes, glancing back once at Ryowoon, who gives me a small wave from his spot on the cushion, his mouth twisted.

I don’t sleep well that night, tossing and turning, thinking about the bruises on Ryowoon’s mama’s arms and the ice on his leg and the way Mrs. Nam’s voice sounded on the phone.

The next morning I show up at the store early, and Ryowoon’s already there, sitting on the front step with his leg still wrapped, looking more awake than he did the day before.

“Hey,” I say, sitting down beside him.

“Hey,” he says back.

We’re quiet for a minute, the morning cool still clinging to the air before the heat sets in.

“My mama and me,” he finally says, staring at his hands, “we’re gonna stay here for a few days. With Mrs. Nam.”

I blink at him. “Here? In the store?”

He shrugs, not quite meeting my eyes. “In the back room. Just for a little bit.”

I don’t understand why, but the way his voice sounds unsure and quiet and kind of sad makes my chest feel tight anyway.

“Okay,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. I bump my shoulder against his gently, careful of his leg. “I’ll come every day then. So you’re not bored.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Ryowoon and his mama go back home after five days.

After that, things go back to almost normal. Almost. Because now every time Ryowoon walks through that door, Mrs. Nam’s eyes go straight to him. She looks him over quick, top to bottom, like she’s checking. Sometimes she’ll reach out and tilt his chin up with two fingers, turning his face this way and that under the light, or she’ll grab his wrist and push his sleeve up an inch just to peek underneath.

Ryowoon hates it. He squirms and complains, tells her he’s fine, ajumma, stop it, but she doesn’t listen to him even a little bit. She keeps checking, quickly, and then goes right back to whatever she was doing like nothing happened at all.

I don’t say anything about it. I don’t really get it either, but I notice the days Ryowoon comes in looking normal, no wincing when he sits down, no marks peeking out from under his collar, are the days Mrs. Nam seems the happiest. Her shoulders come down from around her ears and she’s extra nice, tucking an extra rice cake into our hands, telling us to go run around and wear ourselves out before dinner.

We don’t go hungry that whole summer. Not once. Even on the days it’s so hot Mrs. Nam has to prop both the front and back doors open just to get a breeze going, there’s always a bowl of something waiting for us in that little courtyard. Cold noodles some days, when it’s really bad, the ice clinking against the sides of the bowl. Other days it’s rice with the banchan she has left over from selling to customers, tucked into little dishes she doesn’t bother matching up, mismatched bowls with chipped edges that she says have plenty of good years left in them yet.

Then school starts, and everything feels different but exciting. Ryowoon and I walk together every morning, meeting at the bottom of the hill where the road splits, and he waits for me even on days I’m running late because I couldn’t find my other sock. We sit next to each other in Mr. Choi’s class, and even though Ryowoon gets antsy during lessons, tapping his pencil against the desk until Mr. Choi gives him a look, we always end up walking the same way home once the bell rings.

And every day, we stop at Mrs. Nam’s.

She sets up a little table in the back corner now, low to the ground with two cushions on either side, and she makes us sit there with our workbooks open while she moves around the store, ringing up customers, restocking the shelves, but always with one ear turned toward us.