Bloody Seoul Page 11

  I count the glowing, warm sun rays that stream in from the windows and sliding glass door. Five. They summon me out. Who am I to disregard their luminous call?

  A big yawn and stretch as I ease onto the balcony, looking forward to a peaceful view of Seoul as it wakes up. But the patio’s a mess. My heart scrambles as I tiptoe around soju bottles and half-full beer glasses strewn in an obstacle course on the tiles. There’s an empty bottle of Dad’s premium Irish whiskey on the table. An overflowing ashtray that looks like a basket of french fries. A few bowls of spicy peanuts and smoky bacon chips. I pop a chip in my mouth, perfect salty crunch, then I have to chomp down on exactly two more.

  I brush the crumbs off the loveseat cushion and plop down. The sunlight drenches my face, assuaging me. My heart beat slows. The gorgeous panorama calls to me, but my dad’s open cigarette tin catches my eye. There’s one more Marlboro. I reach for it, only because I want to crush it into nothing more than a bunch of grains. My fingers stop short when I see the folded handkerchief next to the tin. My hand changes course, and I lift the soft white cloth. Immediately I recognize its green, single thread border—Mom’s handiwork.

  The bad guys are coming! Quick hide on the balcony, under the sofa. They won’t find you there! I commando crawl under it. Wait with my toy gun at the ready, just in case.

  Mom and Dad, not the bad guys, walk out.

  Phew! But I stay put and watch.

  Mom bows to Dad, holding out a handkerchief with both her hands. “My first successful embroidery is for you,” she says. “The willow will keep negative energy away.”

  Her half smile makes me smile inside. I look at Dad, expecting the same smile. But he isn’t smiling, doesn’t smile, when he grabs the handkerchief. He runs his finger over the corner. Frowns and says, “This doesn’t fix anything. Once a cheater, always a cheater.” He crumples Mom’s gift and throws it on the tile. It lands in front of my hiding place. The solemn and graceful willow tree that Mom embroidered whispers to me. It’s so sad, Rocky.

  Dad stomps back inside. I peek at Mom. She hangs her head and cries softly. I keep my eyes on Mom as I touch the thread willow.

  I weep inside.

  I press the handkerchief to my chest. Dad kept it. That’s thoughtful, right?

  The sun grows a little stronger. Maybe there is hope.

  I skim the cloth over my cheek, then I bring it close to my nose, smell it. I swear I get a faint whiff of Mom’s jasmine perfume. I flip it over. The willow tree greets me with its rounded, drooping branches and long, thin leaves. I trace the light green and brown bumpy thread. I unfold it.

  What the fuck?

  My heart gallops because smack dab in the center is a mysterious lipstick stain. Dark purple.

  Definitely not Mom’s.

  She only wore red. Blood red.

  I inspect the imprint of the pair of lips. Touch it. A little rubs off on my finger.

  It’s fresh. So it was that kind of party, huh, Dad?

  He’s whistling. I hear him.

  I look over my shoulder, Dad’s strutting into the kitchen, towel wrapped around his waist, his hair wet. His fierce tats hiss and growl, daring me to step to him. We make eye contact, and he gives me a cocky wink and confident smile. He pours himself some coffee, humming.

  I trace the willow tree three times before I lay the handkerchief on my thigh.

  Mom made this for you…

  I spring up, march inside, glaring at my dad, only he’s not my dad. He’s just a man. A man who’s disrespected my mom. Nothing can stop the words about to shoot out of my mouth.

  I slam a fist on the counter. “How could you, Dad?” I accuse, holding up the handkerchief.

  He looks up from his coffee. He chuckles, then jokes, “Those aren’t my lips.”

  I don’t laugh, I only stare harder. In a gruff voice I say, “They aren’t Mom’s either.”

  “So?”

  “How could you let some other lady even touch this?”

  He doesn’t respond. He looks away, sipping his coffee.

  I shake the handkerchief at him. “You don’t care about Mom, do you?” I drop my eyes and mumble, “I mean you don’t even talk about her unless it has to do with me.” I whip my head up. “Do you even think about her?”

  Another sip. “Of course I think about her,” he says, his voice even but his eyes narrowing.

  I don’t believe him.

  The muscles in my face tighten. I lean forward, perfectly composed, and utter three words. “It’s truth time.” My fuse smolders when I ask, “She was using meth, wasn’t she?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Did you even try to stop her? Help her?”

  Still nothing except a sip.

  By not answering, he’s answering all right. “Bet you were glad she was using!” I yell. I glance at the lipstick stain. The thought of Dad with another woman, especially when he’s so indifferent about Mom, makes me crazy, and I forget about the crystal. “Why didn’t you stop this-this-whoever she was from doing this?”

  He sets his coffee mug down, steps forward. “That’s enough,” he says, tugging at the handkerchief.

  I don’t let it go. I tighten my hold.

  He doesn’t let go either. He pulls harder.

  My first successful embroidery is for you.

  Dad and I stare at each other. Both our faces are stone-cold, but I see red beginning to lace the whites of his eyes.

  I up the ante. “You don’t love Mom. You never have. Not really. Not the way she loved you.” I know I’ve hit the mark. The veins on his neck jut out and throb.

  “Stop. Right now,” he says, his voice low and harsh. He comes closer until our faces are a centimeter apart.

  “You don’t know anything, little boy,” he says in a voice as hard as the blade of his machete. “Go run along with your little friends, and do your little things in your little world.”

  He sounds like Freckle Boy from that night at Bar None. I put Freckle Boy in his place, didn’t I?

  I give a vicious yank, get the handkerchief away from Dad. I lift my chin. “I know more than you think.” I smirk. “I know that you don’t follow the TSP code. It’s supposed to be an eye for an eye right? But not for you,” I say and shake my head. “No. You do what you want. What’s good for you,” I pause. “I saw what you did to that American buyer. I bet you did the same to the younger one.”

  Now his breath is a blaze, it burns me like dragon fire.

  “Are you proud?” I ask. “Are you proud you’re a killer, proud you—”

  He cuts me off. “I kill people who fuck me over!” he screams, jabbing my chest with his fist. He gives me a creepy look. “I kill people who fuck me over,” he says again but this time in a quieter, sinister voice. He leans in so that our noses graze, and his woody aftershave tries to exile me in a remote cedar forest. “Anyone who fucks me over,” he snarls.

  I scoff. “I bet you do. Did Younger Uncle fuck you over? Maybe you didn’t banish him. Maybe you killed him?”

  Dad’s face gets white, not the pale, frightened ghost white but the scorching, enraged white. His entire body stiffens.

  “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  Next thing I know, Dad’s fist smashes my face.

  21.

  I’m in that confusing place between sleep and wakefulness, where my mind yawns and stretches but my body won’t move. I try to open my eyes…can’t.

  But my mind’s eye flies open. Mom appears in a spotlight’s beam, her expression wistful.

  She glides over and sits on the edge of my bed. She strokes my sixteen-year-old forehead the way she did when I was a kid, smiles at me with her eyes and lips.

  An angel.

  “How about a story before you dream your own?” she whispers.

  I nod.

  “Our favorite?”

  I nod. The first time she told me this Korean myth she showed me a faded photo of her and her mother sitting under an enormous willow tree.


  “My father took this photo near our house.” She let out a slow breath. “The willow’s branches were bent and posed in impossible ways, and it seemed to cry so many long green tears. On this quiet afternoon, my parents and I sat under it, resting our heads on the trunk. The sun filtered down through the lush canopy, a soft glow. I almost fell asleep, but then my mother spoke. ‘No matter what we lose, we can’t give up,’ she said. Then she patted the brittle bark. ‘Like this willow, all those years of drought, and it kept fighting to survive. Now look it at. It’s thriving.’ She looked at me and smiled. ‘Did I ever tell you the story of Yuhwa, the goddess of the willow tree?’ I shook my head.”

  Mom grazes my cheek with her knuckle, then she sits up straight. She clasps her hands on her crossed knees and clears her throat in the most delicate way possible before she begins. “Yuhwa was the goddess of the willow tree…”

  I smile inside, picturing the same pretty lady in an elegant willow tree. She looks like my mom. Her long, brown skirt blends in with the bark. Her green top with billowy sleeves flows into the draping branches. The wind blows a sad song, and she and the willow weep a little.

  “She was the eldest of three daughters of the river god, Habaek. She was beautiful, intelligent, and kind. One day the sun god, Haemosu, captured her. He wanted her to be his bride. Habaek was angry. How dare Haemosu try to marry his daughter without asking him for permission?”

  I nod, my eyes solemn.

  “Habaek ordered Haemosu to come to his palace to discuss the matter. Do you know what happened, my darling?”

  I shake my head.

  “Boys will be boys,” she says with a despondent laugh.

  I rub my sleepy eyes.

  “Rocky, shall I finish the story tomorrow?”

  I want to shake my head but it drops, as do my eyelids. No matter. I already know how it ends.

  Haemosu showed up in the form of a sunbeam and got her pregnant. She bore his son, Jumong…

  I open my left eye just as the first apricot rays burst over the Han, like the soft petals of a pale orange rose blooming. I drag my legs off the bench and sit up, wincing at the sudden sharp pain in my right eye. I touch it gently. A big bouncy eye blister touches back…

  Dad’s punch. Running out of the penthouse. Refuge in the arms of Seoul. Walking, walking, walking the streets. All day. All night.

  I reach for my knife. It’s there. I trace my stars, my name.

  I check my pocket watch. 5:47 a.m. Yawn. I stand and press my hands into my back to stretch my hips forward. I straighten up, do a few twists. There’s no one around, but as I corkscrew my upper body to the left one last time, my good eye lands on a flash of red. I squint. It’s a black suit with a red pocket square behind a thick tree trunk. The face is blurry.

  What the heck?

  I blink, rub my left eye, and look again. It’s only a tree. I guess I’m more exhausted than I feel. I’m seeing things.

  I inspect the tree—it’s a willow. A breeze comes and, when the willow sways, I imagine it’s a sorrowful and lonely Yuhwa.

  I look at the Han, resting my hand on the empty half of the bench next to me. The wooden slats are so cold…

  I close my left eye and pretend I’m not alone.

  Who did this to you, Rocky my darling?

  Dad.

  How could he? Oh, my sweet boy, let me take a look…

  Open my eye.

  My fingers skim my sore eye.

  Touch my good eye, then bad eye, then good eye again.

  I light up a Dunhill, take a long drag, and exhale, trying to let out more than the smoke.

  It doesn’t work.

  Smoke to forget, but get lost in regret.

  I realize I’m clutching the Dunhill tin, staring at Mom in the wedding photo. I slam it shut and shove it into my inner jacket pocket. I suck the smoke deep into my lungs and keep it trapped in there, not caring how my lungs feel.

  I hate you both!

  No, I don’t.

  Yes, I do.

  No…

  When I finally release, it’s messy like the hazy aftermath of a recently extinguished fire.

  I think about another photo, our family photo by the lovelocks.

  Wish I hadn’t destroyed it.

  I close my left eye and picture the gochujang red lovelock.

  I should find it.

  The idea flutters around in my mind.

  I should find it.

  The idea sticks, but way too hard. It makes me explode off the bench, stub my cig before it’s even a quarter done. I dump it in the trash and start marching towards Namsan Seoul Tower. When I reach a main sidewalk, I take care to step over the cracks.

  I arrive at the bottom of the hill, take a deep breath, preparing for the stairs. I start out fast and count each step as I go. Six hundred fortynine. It’s practically summer, but the Christmas feeling hits me as soon as both my feet plant on the Roof Terrace, the same way it did the day of the photo and many days before that.

  Warmth and merriment. Candy and raised glasses…

  I smile inside as I walk the length of the fence to where we stood all those years ago. There are so many more love locks. At first only my left eye searches. No luck. I dive in with both hands.

  Just when I think I won’t find it, I do. It’s under a large black lovelock with a silver skull and crossbones.

  I inspect my family’s lovelock. Our names written in black ink are long gone. But I know it’s ours for sure because of the three small scratches on one side from when I dropped it. I tap each scratch, then stand there holding the lovelock. I tap it again. Cradle it. Tap it once more.

  A gentle scraping behind me.

  I look over my shoulder. There’s a middle-aged maintenance man behind me. His face is blank, and he’s holding a broom slightly off the ground like he’s in mid-sweep. We exchange glances. He looks away and resumes sweeping.

  I turn back to the fence but begin to wobble. I’m exhausted, hardly able to reach a nearby bench before my legs give out. I plop down, then close my eye and let my head droop.

  I’m a piece of shit.

  Footsteps. Giggles.

  I lift my head, open my eye.

  A family of three strolls along the fence. The parents are arm-inarm, and there’s a stainless steel lovelock hooked on the mother’s pinky finger. The kid runs ahead, trips, and falls splat on the planks. He peels himself up, then sits clutching one of his knees. A fresh layer of blood oozes from a small abrasion. His parents sprint over and drop to his side.

  I start to yawn but shut my mouth quick because of what I see next. Or rather, who I see.

  Ha-na!

  She’s got a sketchbook tucked under her arm and a pencil on her ear. She doesn’t see me as she walks past. She sits on the next bench over. For a few seconds she watches the parents tend to their kid. Then she flips open her sketchbook, plucks her pencil, and starts drawing big lines. She looks back and forth between the family and her blank page, drawing and shading.

  I check her arms. But I can’t see even a hint of her scars because her long sleeves are past her wrists.

  The parents help the kid up. The mother gives him the lovelock. He hobbles over to the fence and snaps it in place. They each take turns saying a few words. One selfie and group hug later their little ceremony is done. They walk back the way they came.

  Ha-na turns her head to follow them, and that’s when she sees me. Her eyes widen, but then she narrows them and frowns. She looks away, slamming her sketchbook shut. She slides her pencil over her ear and shoots up. She takes long-legged strides all the way to the stairs.

  She’s booking it down when my mouth opens. “Ha-na! Wait up!”

  She doesn’t. Why would she?

  I catch up to her and slow down so that our steps are in sync. “Ha-na.”

  She stops. Looks at me with a blank face.

  “I just want to tal—”

  She cuts me off. She’s staring at my right eye. “What happened?”

&
nbsp; “Oh this?” I scramble for a face-saving explanation. “Got in a fight. It’s no big deal.”

  She squints at me. “Does it hurt?”

  I nod.

  She touches her arm, and I swear she’s smiling a slight half smile.

  Damn. An eye for an eye.

  Her fingers drift under her long sleeve.

  I’m a piece of shit.

  I focus on the ground around my feet, count the little pebbles until I get to a safe seven. Then I fix a serious eye on her. “Maybe your parents want to make my eyes equal?” I ask.

  Her eyes meet my left eye and harden. She drops her free arm and tightens her hold on her sketchbook. But then her unrelenting stare softens, and her eyes become open wounds that bleed. She rubs them dry, her expression back to unreadable. “My parents don’t know there’s anything to make equal. They don’t know…” She inhales sharply before letting out a slow breath. In a flat voice she says, “My parents see my future, not me.”

  Now there’s something I wasn’t expecting her to say, not in a million years.

  My dad doesn’t see me either…

  But I don’t say it. It doesn’t seem fair that I vent to her. Me, the bully. I don’t think I have that right.

  Ha-na tucks her chin, and her pencil dives off the springboard of her ear. It lands on a step and rolls. We both bend down. Our hands reach for it at the same time. Her sleeve pulls up at the wrist.

  She grabs the pencil first, then glances at me.

  My good eye is already homed in on her scars.