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“I will wait downstairs,” Boyoung says, likely thinking I need privacy to change, but when the door closes and I’m left alone with the black dress lying at my feet, I can’t move.
Pat was big into all sports. He didn’t measure time by months or seasons, but by sports. Football was in the fall. Basketball took over in the winter and ended in June. Baseball was in full swing by then. He tried to get me interested, but I was afraid of small balls and would duck whenever Pat threw one at me. My legs weren’t very long, so track was out. In a desperate attempt to prove to my father that we had similar interests, I professed a deep interest in hunting. In truth, I was as scared of guns as I was of balls, and the idea of killing anything as cute as Bambi made me want to barf, but my love for my father and my need for his approval outweighed all of that.
I went through a six-week training class to learn about gun safety. After getting my certificate, I went to the range and fired the shotgun three weekends in a row despite the kickback causing so much bruising on my right shoulder that I had to carry my backpack to school with my hand. Despite all of that, I looked forward to winter for once. We were going on a big weekend trip together. When the first snow fell, Pat got me up at four in the morning and we drove to a field. Dressed in an orange hunter’s jacket that was two sizes too big for me, I walked along the tree line behind my dad, clutching the shotgun in my hands. It was so quiet that I could hear the freshly frozen blades of grass crunch beneath my boots.
Pat found a valley and put me at the top of it. “Don’t shoot anything without a rack because I’m not hauling a doe out of the valley.”
I nodded and tried to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Pat chucked me on the chin and said, “Good girl. I’ll see you at lunch.”
He wasn’t joking. I didn’t hear or see him for the next six hours. At some point, I’d dozed off despite the cold seeping through my several layers of clothes. A loud, booming, echoing sound woke me up. Something brown and fast bolted, tearing through the clearing and up the hill. I clutched the shotgun to my chest, the smell of gun oil and powder tickling my nose. Another shot rang out, followed by a thud.
I didn’t even see the deer. I only heard the fall of the body onto the forest floor. By the time Pat arrived, the carcass had been hauled away, leaving behind streaks of rust and brown in the snow. I started crying and couldn’t stop. I’d made such a racket that the hunter who had killed the deer complained that I was scaring the animals away. I was eleven. Pat had been furious—both at losing the deer and at having to cut the hunting trip short. Crying over a dead deer was dumb, he’d fumed. Killing a deer was the whole point of hunting. That night I dreamed Pat was chasing me through the woods, telling me to stop crying. It was the last time I’d gone on a trip with him. The last time I’d cried, too.
I rub my fingers under my eyes. They come away dry. Why should I cry over a man I don’t know? It would be more unusual if I did cry. I know nothing of Lee Jonghyung other than his name. I don’t know what he looks like and I have doubts I would be able to pick him out of a lineup. My eyes catch my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Would he have my eyes or my chin? Or rather, would I have his eyes or his chin? The tiny drum starts thudding again, but this time it’s at the back of my skull. My throat feels scratchy and my face feels heavy—as if the day’s news is physically dragging the corners of my mouth to the floor.
I dig the knuckles of my thumbs into my eyes and command myself to move. There’s no point in wallowing in self-pity. No amount of feeling sorry for myself will change my circumstances.
I pick up my towel and toiletry kit and make my way down to the bathroom. Thankfully, there’s no one signed up for a shower time slot right now. I strip and brush my teeth. A hollow-eyed shell stares back at me.
“There’s no reason to be upset about this,” I order my reflection. “You never knew the man. He abandoned you, for crying out loud. Your mother had to give you up because this penis wouldn’t step up to the plate and parent you.” I slap myself lightly. “You’re tired. You’re emotional because you’re tired and attending more than one funeral a year at the age of twenty-five is an affront against youth.”
