Almond Page 6

  27

  The room was decorated with various flowers. Little light bulbs gave off a warm glow here and there. It was nothing like the six-patient ward Mom was in. It looked more like a hotel room from the movies than a hospital room. Mrs. Yun must’ve loved flowers. Their smell gave me a headache. Even the floral wallpaper was dizzying. I thought we weren’t allowed to bring flowers into the hospital, but apparently, there were exceptions.

  Professor Yun put his hands on my arms as we walked over to the bed. Mrs. Yun lay there, surrounded by flowers like she was already inside a coffin. I took a closer look at her face. She reminded me of those terminally ill patients from the movies. Even the sunrays from the window weren’t enough to lift the gloom over her features. She stretched out her stick-thin arms toward me, her hands touching my cheeks. They felt lifeless.

  “It’s you, Leesu. My son. My love. After all these years . . .”

  Tears streamed down her face. I wondered how she could still manage to cry with such a frail body. As her body heaved, I kept thinking she would turn into ashes and disappear.

  “I’m sorry, honey. Mommy wanted to do a lot of things with you, really. I wanted to travel with you, eat with you, and watch you grow by your side . . . Things didn’t work out as I’d hoped. But I’m still grateful to see you’ve grown up so well. Thank you, my son.”

  She said “thank you” and “sorry” about a dozen more times before crying again. Then she forced a smile. Throughout the thirty minutes of this whole thing, she kept holding my hands and stroking my cheeks. She seemed to pour all her remaining strength solely onto me.

  I didn’t talk much. When she stopped talking, and Professor Yun gave me a look, I just said what I had been told to say. That I was raised in a good family with not much trouble, and now I would live with Dad and study hard. So please don’t worry. And I gave her a quick smile. She seemed to have tired herself out, as her eyelids began to droop.

  “Would you let me hold you for a second?”

  Those were her last words to me. Her thin, branch-like arms squeezed me. I felt as if I were caught in a strong trap that I couldn’t escape. I heard her heart beating close to mine. It burned. Her arms slid off my back. She’s just asleep, said the nurse from nearby.

  28

  Professor Yun said Mrs. Yun had once been a successful reporter. Vigorous and daring, she wrote witty articles and asked bold questions that caught her interviewees off guard. But there was always a sense of guilt in her heart, as she relied on nannies to raise her own child.

  That day, she took off from work for once to take her son to an amusement park. Just the two of them. She went on a merry-go-round, holding her child on her lap. It was a fun outing on a bright, sunny day. Then her phone rang. The child wanted one more ride, but she took him by the hand and led him down. It was a short call. When she hung up and looked around, her boy was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t even remember letting go of his hand.

  There weren’t as many surveillance cameras back then as there are now, leaving many blind spots. The police investigation went on for a long time but to no avail. The Yuns did everything they could to find their son as their hopes slowly faded. Please just keep our son alive, and hopefully with a good family, they prayed, but horrific thoughts would haunt them day and night.

  Mrs. Yun constantly blamed herself and realized the success she’d been chasing after was nothing but a mirage. The thought slowly made her sick. Professor Yun also thought she was hugely responsible for losing their son, but being a lonely man, he didn’t want to lose her, too. But it’d been a long while since he’d last told his wife their son would return.

  A few days before I met Professor Yun, he had gotten a call from a shelter saying they might’ve found his son. He went there to meet his son for the first time in thirteen years. But the boy he found was nowhere near ready to meet his mom. Because that boy was Gon.

  29

  Maybe Mrs. Yun had really used all her remaining strength on me. The day I paid her a visit, she went into a coma, and died a few days later. Professor Yun relayed the news in a low, quiet voice. Not many people would be able to share the death of a loved one like he did. Only people like me, whose brain was damaged, or those who had already bid their farewells in their hearts. Professor Yun was the latter.

  I had no idea why I’d gone to her funeral. I didn’t have to, but I just went. Maybe because she had hugged me so tightly that day. Mrs. Yun’s funeral was very different from Granny’s. Granny’s was an impersonal, joint memorial, with only me standing in front of her portrait. Mrs. Yun’s funeral reminded me of a reunion. The guests were all in nice suits. Their job titles and conversations would be described as “sophisticated.” I heard them calling each other professor, executive, doctor, and president many times.

  Mrs. Yun in the portrait looked completely different. With her red lips, full hair, plump cheeks, and eyes as bright as candlelight, she looked so young. The portrait must’ve been taken in her thirties. But why would they use this photo?

  “This picture was taken before we lost our son. I couldn’t find any photo where she was smiling like this from after the incident. She wanted it this way.” Professor Yun said, as if he had noticed my lingering question.

  I offered incense and bowed at the funeral altar. She had fulfilled her wish before she died. She met her son. At least that was what she had thought. Would she have been devastated if she had known the truth?

  Anyway, my job was done. I was turning to leave when I suddenly felt a rush of cold air quickly spreading throughout the place. Everyone either shut their mouths, as if they had been assailed by a powerful silence, or froze with their mouths open. As if on cue, all eyes swiveled to one direction. The boy was there.

  30

  The skinny boy stood still, his fists clenched tight. His arms and legs were much longer than his short, stocky body, a bit like Joe’s from the cartoon Tomorrow’s Joe. But the boy’s body wasn’t the kind toned from frequent exercise. It was more like the body of third-world children I’d seen in a documentary. The kind trained for survival, rummaging in trash bins and begging tourists for a dollar. His dark skin had no luster. Below his eyebrows, as dark as shadows, his eyes glinted like black pebbles, glaring at everyone. It was his eyes that silenced the room. He was like a wild beast killing his own cub first and baring his teeth at people who had no intention to harm.

  He spat on the floor. Like spitting was his way of greeting. He’d done it before, when I had first met him. In fact, the funeral was my second time meeting him.

  * * *

  A few days earlier, a new student had come to our class. The homeroom teacher slid open the classroom door, revealing a skinny boy standing behind her. He folded his arms and leaned on one foot, a sign that showed he wasn’t intimidated at all in front of complete strangers. The teacher staggered and babbled rather, as if she were the transfer student, then asked Gon to introduce himself.

  “Can you just do it for me?” he said, shifting his weight to his other foot.

  The kids burst into laughter. Some of them cheered, clapping and roaring. The teacher flapped her hands at her flushed face.

  “This is Yun Leesu. Now, why don’t you say hi to your classmates.”

  “Well . . .” Gon cracked his neck and pushed his tongue into one cheek, then the other. He smirked, turned his head sideways, and spat.

  “Done.”

  Everyone cheered louder. But some cursed, in which case the teacher would normally give a warning or take them to the teachers’ office. But for some reason, the teacher just turned her head, silent. Her face was even more flushed now, from trying to swallow the words she wanted to spit out. An hour after Gon’s introduction, he left school early.

  Kids started tracking down Gon’s background, and in a mere thirty minutes, the whole class knew what kind of life Gon had been through.

  One kid told us what he had heard from his cousin. Gon had attended the cousin’s school right before ours, afte
r he’d served a term at a juvenile detention center. The kid made a call to his cousin. At everyone’s request, the call was put on speakerphone. Kids surrounded him with a sense of solidarity that hadn’t been seen in months. Some stood on the desk to hear better. I was sitting far away, but I heard this much clearly:

  “That dude is a total gangster. He must’ve done everything except murder someone.”

  Someone teased me, “Too bad for you, retard. Your days are gone now.”

  When Gon slid open the classroom door the next day, everyone went dead silent. He swaggered along to his desk without a word. Kids either avoided his eyes or buried their heads in their textbooks. Gon broke the silence, flinging down his backpack.

  “Who was it?” It seemed he somehow became aware of the gossip from yesterday. “Who the fuck ratted me out? Speak up before it’s too late.”

  The very air quivered. Our primary source stood up, trembling.

  “I, I just . . . m-my cousin said he knew you . . .” His voice dissolved.

  Gon pushed out his cheek with his tongue as if it’s a habit of his. “Thanks. Now I don’t need to introduce myself. That’s who I am.” Gon plopped down in his chair.

  The day I heard about Mrs. Yun’s death, Gon was absent from school. They said one of his family members passed away. Even then, it didn’t hit me. That Gon was the boy. That he was the real son of Mrs. Yun, who had mistaken me as her dream son.

  31

  Gon passed through the crowd to bow before the funeral portrait of his mom. Nothing in particular happened. He followed after his father to burn incense, place a glass full of soju on the counter, and bow again. All his gestures were so quick and he bowed only once before standing up with a curt nod. Professor Yun gently nudged Gon’s back, suggesting Gon was supposed to bow once more. But Gon shrugged him off and disappeared.

  Professor Yun asked me to sit down and eat before I left. The food was similar to Mom’s holiday dishes—hot yukgaejang, jeon, kkultteok, and fruit. I hadn’t noticed I was starving until I found myself gobbling it all down.

  People don’t realize how loud they can be when they gossip. Even when they try to whisper, the gossip always goes straight into others’ ears. Throughout the entire meal, stories about Gon floated in the air. That he’d come two days late because he refused to come, that he’d gotten into trouble the moment he was released from the center, that his school transfers cost however much, that another boy was pretending to be their son. All these stories gave me a headache. I just sat in the corner quietly, my back to them. I didn’t know why, but somehow, I felt I had to stay.

  As night fell and most of the visitors left, Gon returned. He walked toward me, staring daggers at me as if he was singling me out with his eyes. He sat at my table, his eyes still fixed on me. He slurped two bowls of yukgaejang at once without a word before he wiped his face.

  “You’re the son of a bitch that took my place as their son?”

  I didn’t have to respond, because he continued, “Brace yourself for some trouble. Who knows, it should be fun.” He smirked and left. The next day, it was the real beginning.

  32

  Gon started to have two guys around him. There was this scrawny one that acted like his assistant, relaying whatever Gon had to say to the others, and the bulky one, whose job was clearly to show off their power. The three of them didn’t really seem close. It looked like they had teamed up out of an agreement or for some shared goal, rather than friendship.

  Anyhow, it was quite obvious that Gon started his new hobby, which was bullying me. He would pop up in front of me out of nowhere, like a jack-in-the-box, wait in front of the cafeteria to punch me, or hide at the end of the hallway to trip me. Each time he executed one of his little schemes, he giggled out loud like he’d received some huge present, while his minions awkwardly laughed along with him like hitting an off beat.

  Throughout all this, I didn’t react. More and more kids were scared of Gon and took pity on me. But no one told on him to the teacher. Maybe because they were worried they might be his next target, but probably because I showed no sign of needing help. The consensus seemed to be, Let’s just see how it goes for both these weirdos.

  The reaction Gon wanted from me was obvious. There had been kids like him in my elementary school and middle school. Those who took joy in watching the weak suffer. Those who wanted to see the bullied cry and beg them to stop. They usually got what they wanted through their power. But one thing I knew for sure was that, if Gon wanted to see a change of expression from me, he would never win against me. The more he tried, he would only wear himself out.

  * * *

  Not before long, Gon seemed to realize I was no easy match. He continued to rile me, but he seemed no longer as confident as he was before.

  “Is he chickening out? He looks totally nervous,” kids whispered behind Gon’s back. The more I didn’t react, and the longer I didn’t ask for help, the higher the tension mounted in the classroom.

  Gon must’ve gotten tired of tripping me up or slapping me on the back of my head. Instead, he announced that he would have it out with me, once and for all. As soon as the teacher dismissed the class and left, the scrawny lackey ran up to the chalkboard and started scribbling something on it. In crooked letters, he wrote:

  AFTER LUNCH. TOMORROW. IN FRONT OF THE INCINERATOR.

  “I’ve warned you,” Gon shouted pompously. “It’s up to you now. Don’t wanna get beat up? Then don’t show up. I will just assume you’ve chickened out, and I won’t bother you anymore. But if you do show up, you’d better brace yourself.”

  Without responding, I stood up and slung my bag over my shoulders.

  Gon hurled a book at me from behind. “You hear me, asshole? I said, get out of my way or I will knock you out!” Gon fumed, his face getting redder from holding back his anger.

  “Why do I need to get out of your way? I’m just gonna go about my way as usual. If you’re not there, I won’t see you. If you are there, I’ll see you.”

  I turned around to leave as he hurled curses at me. All I could think of was that Gon was bullying himself in an exhausting way.

  33

  By the next day, the whole school had heard about the showdown between Gon and me. The campus was already loud in the morning. The occasional chitchatting hinted at what would follow during lunchtime. Someone said, “Man, time drags.” Some other kid said, “There’s no way he’s gonna show up there, don’t you think?” Some kids even bet on who would win. I just focused in class as if nothing was happening. To me, time went by as usual, neither slow nor fast. Then the school bell rang to signal our lunch break.

  Nobody sat next to me in the cafeteria, which was normal, until after I finished lunch and stood up to leave. A few kids started following me. As I walked, the group behind me grew bigger and bigger. I walked out the exit door. The shortcut to the classroom involved passing by the incinerator. I plodded on. And there stood Gon. Alone without his minions, he was kicking the trunk of a nearby tree when he stopped at the sight of me. I could see him clenching his fists from afar. As the distance between us was getting shorter, the group behind me scattered one by one like useless dust.

  The expression on Gon’s face was somewhat conflicted. He was too tight-lipped to look angry, yet his eyes were too upturned to look sad. I had no idea how to read his face.

  “He’s definitely scared, what a chicken, Yun Leesu!” someone shouted.

  Now I was just a couple of steps away from Gon. I kept walking, steady as usual. I would get sleepy after lunch, so my only thought was to take a nap back at the classroom. Before I realized it, I had passed by Gon like he was merely part of the scenery. I heard the kids shout Wow, before I felt a light shock in the back of my head. He must’ve slightly missed me because it didn’t hurt. But before I could turn around, a kick knocked me over.

  “I said, get, outta, my, fucking, way!” For every word, he gave a kick, ringing my body like a steady ticking of the clock. “You, deserve
, it!” The kicks became harder and harder. I was already lying on the ground, moaning, blood oozing inside of my cheek. But I still could never give him what he wanted.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, you asshole!”

  He screamed at me, crying almost. The crowd watching us started to mutter. Hey, he’s gonna die, call the teacher! When a few voices stuck out from the murmuring, Gon turned to them.

  “Who was that? Don’t talk behind my back, you cowards! Say it to my face. Assholes! Come on!”

  Gon grabbed whatever was on the ground and started throwing things at them. An empty can, a wooden stick, an empty glass bottle flew across the air and crashed. The kids ran away, screaming. This was familiar. Granny. Mom. The people on the streets that day. It had to stop. Blood was spilling from my mouth. I spat it out.

  “Stop. I can’t give you what you want.”

  “What?” he asked in a huff.

  “I have to act to give you what you want, and I can’t. It’s just impossible. So please stop now. Everyone’s acting like they’re scared of you, but they’re actually laughing at you.”

  Gon looked around. A beat of dead silence, as if time had stopped. Gon’s back arched like a hostile cat.

  “Fuck, go fuck yourselves!” He started screaming. Every word that came out of his mouth was obscene. Curses, swearwords, and sheer madness that those words couldn’t contain.

  34

  Gon’s real name was Leesu. It was his mother who gave him that name. But Gon said he never remembered being called by that name. He didn’t like the name because he thought it sounded weak. Out of the many other names he’d had, his favorite was Gon.

  Gon’s earliest memory was of people who weren’t his parents speaking loudly in a strange language. He had no idea why he was there. Noises everywhere. He was with an elderly Chinese couple in a shabby ghetto town in Daerim-dong, where they called him Zhēyáng. For a few years, he never went out of his house. That was why there was no record of his early years.