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“And what did you tell Wansu about me?”
“That you were doing well. That you watched a drama with me. That . . . your father died. That you had contact with Lee Jonghyung.”
That bitch hadn’t mentioned a word of any of it to me. “How do you know that Choi Wansu paid for everything?”
“She told me. She told me because after I met you, Hara-ya, and we became friends, it was very hard to do this thing.” She leans close and her eyes plead for my understanding, my forgiveness. I stare stonily back at her. “She told me that she had provided for you all her life and this is the payment she wanted in return—to know that you were well and healthy.”
“That is enough for tonight, I think,” Yujun says softly. “Let’s eat.”
“I can’t.” I shake my head. The thought of putting any food down my throat sickens me.
“I’m sorry.” Bomi takes my hand again. “Please, Hara, I did not mean for any of this to hurt you. My family is—they need me. I did this for them, and you lived so well, it seemed like a small harm, but now I see that it is very large and I am sorry.”
I wish I had more compassion in me. I wish I was a better person and could tell Bomi that it doesn’t matter, but it does. It fucking hurts. I can’t even say anything because the words I have are angry ones and I’m afraid if I open my mouth a torrent of hateful things will fall out. I gently remove my hand from hers and get to my feet.
“I’m going now.”
“I’ll come with.” Yujun starts to rise.
I look at him, the son my mother loved and cherished, and shake my head. “No.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
There are people at the river. I had thought it would be empty like before but, no, tonight, of all nights, it’s crowded. Rationally, I know that in a city with ten million inhabitants, it’s going to be more rare to find places that are empty, but right now seeing people in my spot is maddening. Also maddening is that Yujun has followed me.
“Are you worried I’m going to jump in?” I say without turning around. I saw him climb out of the taxi two cars behind mine. He didn’t come and join me right away, opting to hang out at street level while I staked out a space below at the railing and stared moodily into the river.
I guess he got tired of watching me because he finally descended the stairs.
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Well, I’m not jumping, so you can go.”
He doesn’t leave, but neither does he say anything, and I don’t know if that makes me happy or madder. “Don’t you have any advice?” I say sarcastically and regret it immediately. He’s not at fault, but he’s here and I’m hurting.
“I don’t know that I’m the right person to give you anything—even comfort. But I’m here if you need me.”
I drop my head to press against the backs of my hands. His response is so classic Yujun—kind and understanding. I wish he was anyone’s son but hers.
“My eo—someone told me that my worst trait is talking too much.”
He was going to say his mother—our mother, I mentally correct. Head still down, I say, “I thought listening was your best skill.”
“That was a learned trait. I wasn’t always good at it. I guess once I stopped stuttering I wanted to prove how good a talker I was.”
He’d stopped stuttering because of Wansu. He never refers to his father. It’s always his mother. She was the one who told him listening was his best trait. She helped him to stop stuttering. She’s why he left a job in the US to return to Seoul.
“You love Wansu, don’t you?”
“Yes.” His response is a bare whisper, as if he’s concerned I’ll run off if he says it too loud.
“I don’t understand how she can be so good to you and have never once tried to find me. She’s out here mothering you and Boyou—Bomi. Her countless other rescues, but why not me?” I sound pitiful and I hate it.
Yujun practices not talking, and during his silence I try to gather my composure. I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at the world.
“A Korean’s life is centered around food. We don’t all believe in the same god or the same economic policies or the same dreams of the future, but we all believe that food can heal.” There’s a crinkling sound and then a small fish-shaped pastry appears in front of me. “It’s bungeo samanco. There’s cream inside the wafer. Someday, you’ll have to have bungeo ppang. That’s kind of like a pancake with ice cream inside, but for now, this will do.”
Someday? He still talks like there’s a future between us. My stomach squeezes, reminding me that I haven’t eaten much other than some fish cakes that Jules and I bought from a street vendor when we were shopping for my gifts.
