Chapter Text
Driving, dogs barking, how you get used to it, how you make the new streets yours. Trees outside the window and a big band sound that makes you feel like everything's okay, a feeling that lasts for one song maybe, the parentheses all clicking shut behind you. The way we move through time and space, or only time.
Richard Siken | Meanwhile
★
“I’m not wearing black.”
It’s the first thing Seungmin says when he steps through the door. He hasn’t even taken his shoes off yet but already he’s opening his mouth to keep objecting — he’ll say something about how the color looks off on his complexion, how it won’t match his new highlights, how the suit doesn’t even fit him anymore despite the fact that he’s already stopped growing and the gym trips haven’t been generating as much progress as he thinks they have.
Gunil knows him. He knows the argument.
“You don’t have to,” he says before Seungmin’s words run away from his throat. “I won’t make you. Not today.” He pauses. “Not this year Seungmin-ah.”
Seungmin blinks at him slowly. “Really?”
“Yes. You’ll be an adult soon.” A melancholic reminder. “It’s about time you start making your own choices. If you don’t want to wear black today, you don’t have to. You can just wear something that you...” He stops, then gently clears his throat. “Wear something you like. I’m sure she’d prefer that today.”
Seungmin’s next inhale is sharper, cut off. He doesn’t look at Gunil as he nods, slipping out of his shoes and laying them on the rack next to the door. His backpack’s fuller than it was yesterday. The end of the term’s coming around and he’s really trying, really studying, really giving it his all. Gunil feels proud.
He doesn’t say it as often as he should, maybe. One of many regrets.
“Go change.” He swipes the keys from the bowl. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”
Seungmin lifts his head. He watches Gunil. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, chewing on a thought he refuses to say until Gunil raises his eyebrows — not so much encouraging Seungmin as much as insinuating; spit it out, like training a dog to be more independent.
“Next year,” Seungmin says quietly. His fingers are nervous on his jeans. Tap, tap tap, taptap, tap. “I don’t know if I’ll want to go.”
Gunil’s breath catches in his throat. His chest opens up.
Going, that’s never been in question. It’s a ritual. It’s a need. It’s a comfort and a hurt that’s fresh every year around the same time, the same month. Seungmin’s always been solemn when it comes to it. He’s never treated it like a duty before. Does he think it’s a duty to be checked off, now? Though it makes a little bit of sense. Seungmin was only five when it happened. Now he’s seventeen. He doesn’t remember her much, if at all.
There’s a heavy weight in Gunil’s stomach. His jaw clenches. He’s not angry but Seungmin might read it as such. He’s not very good at deciphering Gunil’s emotions, not when Gunil’s never around him long enough for him to learn.
“We’ll talk about it next year,” Gunil tells him.
It’s not a yes. It’s not a no, either. It’s not an answer at all but that’s the point. Gunil’s good at stalling, putting things off. It’s one of his best traits; inherited, too. Seungmin gets that from him.
His hand hesitates on the doorknob. Seungmin’s gaze is still on his face.
“Go change. I want to get there before five.”
“There’s no rush,” Seungmin reminds him.
Gunil exhales slowly. “There never is.”
★
They’d called him at six in the morning. The bed had been empty for hours. Her side had been colder for longer than that. The noise in his ears had been an endless crash of waves that wouldn't stop landing on the shore of his emotions. He’d felt like something had torn open in his chest, sliced him all the way down to his feet. Seungmin was only five. He was a child.
He’d gone in and stood there staring at her face with a rush of blood in his head. He’d felt empty. He hadn't cried for the first two days. He’d wanted to but he wasn't sure why he didn't, in the end — it wasn't like he didn't have reason to, they’d laid it out in detail for him, too, he should have been sobbing and screaming.
They’d told him everything. How she’d probably died on impact. How the velocity and speed of the thing hurtling at her, tons of metal and wheels big enough to crush a bus, had killed her the instant she’d stepped out onto the road. Her phone had been intact. The only thing left of her, really. Besides her face. And a ring.
The funeral had been paid for by her family. They hadn't looked at him the entire time he’d stood there in silence, unable to speak, unable to move. Her casket had shaken a little as it was lowered. Off to the side, kids sat on top of a cooler full of iced sodas and juice boxes, whispering to each other whenever the adults stepped away for a second and were too far to tell them off. Seungmin kept fidgeting. He was red in the face from the heat.
“Where’s mommy?” He’d asked Gunil halfway into the service. His eyes were wide. He smelled like her perfume, her scent, her joy.
He hadn't known what to say. He’d looked at Seungmin’s face and then at his suit and at the casket, and he’d burst into tears like a baby. The first time he’d cried since they’d first called him and all he’d managed were watery eyes. His hands were shaking. He couldn't get a word out.
Seungmin had wandered off, after that. He’d started playing with the other kids. Gunil couldn't ever figure out how to tell him that she wasn't coming back. That she was gone. One day, Seungmin just put the puzzle together.
One day, Seungmin just knew.
Every year they visit her grave. The first few times, Gunil couldn't stomach it. He’d be there for a few minutes, and then he’d get the urge to throw up and he’d leave, Seungmin hitched up into his arms until he got too big for it, his throat itching something fierce. Gradually, he’d started being — not okay with it, but at peace with it. His insides would turn, but he’d stay, he always did. Seungmin would hold his hand. It was okay.
This time, Seungmin doesn't hold his hand. He stares at the grave blankly, his mouth turned down. His breathing is steady. Gunil’s is not. He glances around occasionally at the few people around them — but eventually his attention gets drawn back down to the name on the headstone. The words written out beneath it. Loving daughter, mother, and wife. The words cannot encapsulate what she was. It feels abysmally too little for how large her presence was.
Gunil manages a whole two hours, this time. It’s a new record for him.
★
Seungmin’s into the arts. He’d begged Gunil to enroll him in a specialized after-school academy for aspiring musicians, and Gunil hadn’t had the heart to tell him no. When he asks Seungmin what he wants to be, specifically, Seungmin says, I don’t know. A singer, I think. And that’s about as much as Gunil gets out of him without Seungmin closing up and refusing to answer anything else. Gunil thinks that Seungmin has a dream, a specific one, but he’s embarrassed to tell Gunil what it is. Maybe he thinks Gunil wouldn’t approve. It makes Gunil feel a little sad that he’d think so low of his own father.
He has a small friend circle. Gunil’s met only two of them, out of what he assumes to be four from recurring names he’s heard. He’s met Jungsu; quiet kid, funny, very responsible in areas where Seungmin isn’t. He’s also met Hyeongjun. If Jungsu is quiet then Hyeongjun is somewhere near mute, although that might just be because he’s not quite comfortable around Gunil. Frankly, Gunil doesn’t blame him. He knows how he comes off, sometimes.
It’s not often that Gunil interferes in Seungmin’s life outside of their own house. He gives Seungmin a talk, and then the talk, and then has various conversations that would have likely fallen to his mother if she’d still been alive, but she isn't, so Gunil makes do. He warns Seungmin about the dangers of giving into bad habits, bad friendships, bad experiences. All Seungmin does is nod and nod and nod. He understands. Surely he understands.
Gunil doesn’t date. He tries it, once, and it goes so terribly it fucks him up for months. Maybe it’s the memory of her eyes haunting him late at night, blaming him for moving on when she can’t, when she’s stuck in the same form for eternity. He throws up thinking about her. It feels wrong to want anyone that isn’t her. Holding his own face feels wrong, too, and breathing feels even worse. He holds it in until he can’t anymore, and the release feels all the more evil for it.
He changed his sheets after she died. A month after. At first he couldn’t bear the thought of moving any of her stuff, but then it felt like too much, suffocating, claustrophobic. He’d looked around and saw her in every shadow. Seungmin had never asked him where he’d obtained so many boxes, never asked what was in them or where Gunil had even put them. He’d never talked about his mother, after. He probably didn't even remember her once he turned ten.
Sometimes the kids teased him for it. A terrible bullying problem in Korea that was only getting worse with the state of the government. Gunil had shown up to the classroom himself to do something about it; they’d promised him a stronger enforcement of manners, a more forceful approach of peace. He’d have to be content with that. He couldn't take Seungmin out of school without facing opposition from Seungmin’s grandparents.
It’d been a hard time. A rocky time. If Seungmin ever felt hurt, he never showed it. Gunil would sit him down and ask him, but all Seungmin said was that he was okay, it was fine, he understood, he didn’t care.
Gunil cared. Gunil always cared. Too much and too little; he thought that maybe Seungmin would hate him if he was too involved, but perhaps that was where he went wrong, where their relationship started straining into this half-baked, unsure, convoluted mess of a thing. He’d approached Seungmin like a father, like a friend, like a stranger. It all yielded the same result.
Sometimes he wonders. What things might have been like, if she were still here. Most days, he does not want to know. Some skeletons are just better kept in the dark.
★
Gunil gets home two hours later than usual. It’s a Saturday. He’d texted Seungmin that he’d be home late — all he’d gotten back was a thumbs up and a photo of Seungmin’s face pressed close to his front camera. And a heart emoji after. Seungmin’s way of telling him he was alright with it, or maybe more accurately, that he didn’t care.
He doesn’t knock on the door. Seungmin probably knows he’s here anyway, because the hinges make so much noise that it’s hard not to flinch at the scrape of rust. There's a faint sound coming from the television. Late-night runs of game shows and infomercials from years past that Seungmin has memorized, because he’s copying them in a low, monotone voice when Gunil steps close enough to hear him.
He’s with a friend.
He hadn’t told Gunil that. Over the low countertop blocking the entrance to the living room, Gunil can see a brush of long, dark, sweeping hair. He can hear soft laughter. Seungmin says, “Jooyeon-ah, pass me the remote,” and Jooyeon says, “okay,” about as enthused as Seungmin when he has to oversee the kiddies at their first soccer game of the season. Which is to say, not at all.
“Don’t change the channel yet.”
“It’s boring,” Seungmin protests. “It’s just animals and a stupid narration.”
“It’s cute,” Jooyeon shoots back. At first Gunil had thought he was a girl, but now he realizes Jooyeon’s a boy, his voice too similar in tone to Seungmin’s and his stance just the same. “You hate animals? I can't believe you.”
“I don't hate animals. I hate this channel.”
“It’s the same thing to me. The channel has cute animals. Hey, look, there’s a baby wolf. It’s so cute.” Jooyeon leans forward. His hair cascades over his shoulders. “It kind of looks like me, doesn't it? My mom says I’m her little wolf all the time.”
Seungmin laughs. “She’s lying to you. The wolf is cuter.”
Gunil lets them bicker for a few more seconds before he decides he just wants to sleep as soon as possible, preferably in the comfort of his bed and not anywhere near the couch. He drops the keys into the bowl. He coughs a little, mostly for Jooyeon’s benefit, and flashes Seungmin a smile. He doesn’t feel all that happy, but Seungmin probably already knows that. He’s aware of how protective Gunil gets at times, too. Helicopter dad.
“You guys having fun?”
“Yeah,” Seungmin says. He nudges Jooyeon with his shoulder. They’re sitting close enough that he can do that. “We were just watching TV. Jooyeon’s mom is working late so I told him he could stay here until she gets home in a few hours.” He makes the biggest eyes he can at Gunil; they don’t really work, because Seungmin grew out of being cute at around fourteen, but it still moves something inside of Gunil’s chest. “You don’t mind, right dad?”
“I suppose not,” Gunil concedes. “But you’ll have to clean out Baeksoo’s cage tomorrow.”
“Aw,” Seungmin whines. “Why?”
“For not telling me beforehand,” Gunil replies dryly. “I would have said yes anyway, but I would have appreciated the heads up.”
“Hmph.”
“Don’t pout,” Gunil tells him. “Or I’ll make you clean the toilet.”
Seungmin’s pout vanishes rather quickly. He slumps back into a position that will surely fuck up his spine if he doesn’t fix it before he joins the workforce, but military service is bound to get rid of it. Gunil lets it be for now.
He glances at the back of Jooyeon’s head again — the faint hue of blue around the few wispy strands that don’t stay down. He feels peeved about the fact that Jooyeon hasn’t looked at him. Not very respectful of him.
“Introduce your friend,” Gunil tells Seungmin, stepping into the living room. He still has his shoes on. Fuck, he’d meant to take them off before getting onto the carpet. Now he’ll have to vacuum. “You hadn’t mentioned him before.”
“I have mentioned him. Literally, like, yesterday dad. I told you he was in the school band, too. You never listen.”
Seungmin sighs. He nudges Jooyeon again, and Jooyeon looks over his shoulder at Gunil.
The light of the television bounces off his face. The slope of his nose feels familiar; his features are strong, his mouth full, pink, prominent. His rapid blinks signal nerves that won’t fade. His eyebrows are dyed lighter than the rest of his hair. He’s pretty. In a harsh, defined way. There’s a smudge of chocolate on his chin.
He looks like her.
Gunil’s jaw feels like it’s glued shut. His hands are trembling, for some reason. His gaze is glued to Jooyeon’s face and Seungmin is talking to him but Gunil has no idea what he’s saying. If he’s even making sense. The words wouldn’t feel relevant anyway. All Gunil can see is Jooyeon, and the slight lift of his smile, and the way his fingers push back his hair, thin and long and even there he can see her — every detail, printed out in someone else.
Jooyeon looks exactly like her. Achingly, blindly, astonishingly like her.
“Hello,” Jooyeon says. His eyes are bright. His smile is easy, soft.
“I’m Jooyeon. I’ll only be here for two more hours. Sorry for intruding.”
He has an accent, Gunil notes vaguely.
His throat feels like there’s sand pouring into it. No matter how hard he tries he can’t tear his line of sight away from Jooyeon’s face, and he probably looks insane but he can’t help it — God is being cruel, maybe. God is punishing him for something. Not being sufficiently involved in Seungmin’s life, not leaving a job that’s based on scamming elders into insurance costs they can’t afford, not donating to his local church when they ask for it after service. Something or other. He’s sorry, he thinks. He’s really sorry. He’ll do better.
“It’s okay.” He traces a line to Jooyeon’s throat. It’s easier to direct himself when he’s not looking at the reincarnation of his late wife in a teenage boy. Isn’t that a fucked up thought? The way to heaven is not through catching glimpses of the dead in someone else’s face.
“I’ll be upstairs if you need anything, Seungmin-ah.”
He makes his way to the stairs. He tries not to look back. He fails, once, twice, three times. Jooyeon meets his gaze curiously. Without fear. That, too, is of her essence. Gunil’s heart is in his throat. There’s blood boiling inside of him.
“Don’t stay up too late,” he reminds them before he disappears into his room. Seungmin makes a noise of affirmation. Jooyeon just watches him leave.
Not that Gunil thinks about it. He doesn’t. He shoulders the weight of his own guilt and doesn’t dwell, because he knows all too well where that will take him. Places he does not need to be in. Memories he’s already buried. He hears Jooyeon’s laughter echoing behind him.
At least he does not have her voice. At least he has not taken that, too.
★
She had big eyes.
Not doe eyes, just big eyes. A sharp nose, defined, a little unique. Seungmin had gotten that from her. She had a penchant for dying her hair — purple, yellow, blonde. She’d tried blue. Like Jooyeon, a hint of it over a black coloring that had only shown in the light of the sun, or television glow.
She’d liked playing the guitar. She’d liked singing. She had a full mouth, shaped into a heart when she smiled. She was full of love. She held it in her palms like it would fly away from her if she wasn’t careful enough.
Jooyeon looks like her. Gunil scrubs at his arms furiously and washes his hair and closes his eyes and that’s all he sees. He has her eyes. He’s only seventeen. When Gunil was seventeen he’d asked her out and taken her on a date, and she’d dyed her brows too light and made fun of him for his stupid bowl cut. She’d liked that he was a drummer for a local band. She thought it was hot.
They were eighteen when Gunil decided he was in love. They’d married quickly. She’d looked like him, or he looks like her, or they’re the same person in different bodies and it hasn’t been nearly long enough since then for it not to hurt. It’s only been twelve years. Only so.
His heart feels like it’s beating out of control, too fast, too slow, a single organ failing inside his chest. He’s scratching his palms hard enough to bleed, nearly. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about this so much, why it’s bothering him so much.
Has Seungmin noticed? He probably hasn’t. Gunil has no photos of her around the house, no memories to share with him. Seungmin likely doesn’t even remember her face, what she looked like, what she was like when she was happy. How gentle her hands were, how beautiful her eyes when she wanted to keep something safe.
She’d taken him to Europe, once. As a treat. She wasn’t rich, but she’d saved. He’d leased their first apartment and then she’d started working, too. Hired a nanny for Seungmin, even though he was too young for one and it wasn’t recommended. She’d still been present, though. Cooing at Seungmin before bedtime, telling him stories about the old days, the coming future. She’d never been much of a quiet one.
She’d talked his ear off the entire trip; I saw this thing in a magazine, she’d said. Apparently the French aren’t monogamous. He’d laughed. She’d laughed too. It was only funny because they both knew they would never consider something like that — it was blasphemous; devoted Christians didn't do blasphemy, of any kind.
There were values littered around the house. Homosexuality was a sin; wrong, objectively, but what could you do? Love your neighbor. Let them be, just let them know. Faithfulness was a virtue only belonging to those who were destined to be good; Gunil was good. She was good. Seungmin was born out of love, not married duty because he’d gotten her pregnant as a teen.
That had come after the ring, after a life-long promise. The way things were supposed to be. They’d had a bible set up in the middle of the house, by the living room. Gunil had put his name on the blank first page, and so had she. It had been theirs. He’d read it out to Seungmin when he was young, just the first few pages of Genesis, and he’d prayed for things to turn out good for them, he’d prayed for health, love, peace, bountiful harvests of the womb.
It had sounded less embarrassing back then, he admits to himself.
The showerhead is a pressure that falls harder on his back the more he thinks about it without reservations: she’d had the standard Seoul dialect. Jooyeon doesn’t. He’s skinnier than she was. Taller. Wider. His shoulders are a width bigger than Seungmin’s, too. Why does he grow out his hair? Maybe he just likes it. No perversion there. Seungmin had been looking at him for far too long, though; there’s dread in Gunil’s stomach.
He turns the water to the coldest it can go. The shock nearly kills his system of thought. There’s a brief fuck that flies across his mind as his body’s wracked with shivers. The way Jooyeon’s face had been washed in blue is imprinted into the back of his eyelids, like a brand burned into his retinas. Some kind of sign that he’s fucked up for lingering on it. He shouldn’t be thinking about Seungmin’s friend at all.
It’s hard to let go, though, of the mere fact that she is in him, and he is a reflection of her, and for all that is good in the world Gunil has sometimes hoped that she will come back to him, and that she will be there for Seungmin in a way that he can’t.
Soap gets in his eyes. The burn feels good, like a deserved punishment for lingering like this. It’s probably some kind of sin to mourn a death and blame it on God when it comes back to haunt him, but Gunil can’t help it. Just happens and keeps happening and won’t stop happening even as he dries himself off. He can still hear the television. Seungmin’s high-pitched laughter turning hysterical at something Jooyeon is telling him. The sound makes goosebumps rise all over his body, tense disgust at himself for even comparing Jooyeon to her.
He turns off his phone and flicks off his bedroom light. The walls are too thin. Jooyeon’s face won’t stop showing up in front of him. Like a ghost. Another one of many already haunting Gunil’s life.
★
“I have to stay later at school tomorrow,” Seungmin tells him over breakfast. It’s just eggs and leftover Chapaghetti — something Seungmin enjoys regardless of the time of day. He eats like he’s been starved. Maybe it’s because he’s still a growing boy.
“Why?”
“We’re starting our final project,” Seungmin says. He swallows hard and surprisingly doesn’t choke on the huge bite he’d taken. Gunil raises his eyebrows again, and looks at his plate pointedly, as if to say, relax, it’s not going anywhere.
“What time will you be home?"
“I don’t know. Six, I think. Maybe a little bit later. I have to figure out if Jooyeon’s idea is going to work out or not.” Seungmin pauses. “He might come over again today. That’s okay, right?” He blinks a few times. “I don’t want you to be surprised if you see him again.”
Gunil’s face feels weird. Tight. “What do you mean?”
“Yesterday. You acted all weird around him. I think you creeped him out. He was, like, all quiet after. Jooyeon’s never quiet.” He frowns. Not at Gunil, but down at his plate. “He’s really sensitive. And sweet, even if he’s a little stupid sometimes. I promise he’s not a bad person.”
Gunil’s stomach turns. He considers how to say it without Seungmin getting mad about it — but it all sounds wrong in his head, even the most gentle of words. I don’t want to see him, or, he reminds me too much of your mother and it’s fucking me up, or, he smells like vanilla and she smelled like vanilla, I can’t be around him. He’s never been any good at gauging situations, much less how to react to them properly without sounding like an asshole in the best of his intentions.
He gives up. Hopefully Seungmin understands what he means.
“I don’t think he should come over again.”
Seungmin looks up, alarmed. “Why not?”
“Because.” Gunil swallows down something heavy. “I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. And weren’t you two arguing yesterday? I don’t want a fight breaking out in my house. Jooyeon’s parents might come busting down my door if something happens to him.”
Seungmin’s jaw drops open. “We weren’t arguing! It was just. Uh. We’re friends. And friends don’t agree sometimes. I was playing around.” He frowns harder than before. “Dad, I swear nothing’s going to happen. Jooyeon’s cool. Plus, you won’t make him uncomfortable if you’re just in your room the entire time.” He goes silent, then quickly adds, “no offense.”
Gunil breathes in slowly.
Seungmin’s still staring at him, half hopeful and half upset, his whole body leaning forward like if he projects it enough he can convince Gunil to let Jooyeon come over. Though Gunil made a big deal about Seungmin growing up and taking over his own life for the next few months, he feels like he hasn’t really done anything to show Seungmin that he believes in those words. All he’s done is impose his own will. Is he a failure? Sometimes he wishes she were here to guide him, help him along the wave of parenthood. He has no idea what he’s doing most of the time.
Seungmin’s so hopeful. God. Children are a weakness the size of ten galaxies.
“No funny business,” Gunil tells him. “And don’t make a mess.” He exhales softly. “If something happens to Jooyeon, I’m taking you to clean cow dung at a facility for teen delinquents."
Seungmin’s smile is blinding. “Of course. Yes. Absolutely. I will not be cleaning out cow dung.” He stands up, like he’s going to hug Gunil, but then thinks better of it. He thinks he’s too cool for hugs with his old man. “Thank you. Ugh. I have to tell him now— okay, I’ll be right back. I have to get my phone.”
He runs up the stairs. Walks the first few steps and then breaks into a slippery jog that has Gunil worried that he’ll trip and break his nose. He almost tells Seungmin to be careful, but by the time he opens his mouth Seungmin is already gone. Too excited about the prospect of inviting Jooyeon over. Maybe that’s his best friend, more so than Jungsu or Hyeongjun. Gunil’s not sure.
It’s a terrible thing, to not be aware of what is going on with your child. Gunil’s a bad parent. He never thought he’d end up like this; he’d always pictured himself as the head of the perfect family, authority and love and values, like a real man, like a good man.
The air feels colder. He stares down at his hands, the scar on his palm and the white spot on his nail and the imprint of a ring, still clear, still there. He took it off before his morning shower. He doesn’t know how he forgot to put it back on. It feels like betrayal. To whom? To himself, maybe. A horrible, wallowing feeling.
“He said yes,” Seungmin tells him as he comes back down. He’s breathless. His smile reaches his eyes. That hasn’t happened in a long while.
“Mm.” Gunil flips over his hands. “Are you going to let him stay for dinner?”
He shouldn’t— it’s not an appropriate thing to be asking. Not about Jooyeon. There’s a pit in his stomach he can’t label that only grows when Seungmin’s eyes open wider, his mouth thin and surprised. He looks like his mother from a certain angle, but it’s different from Jooyeon.
Only one is a carbon copy, and it’s not the son.
“Dinner? Are you going to cook for us?” Seungmin’s hands are fast on his phone. “I’ll ask. His mom works sometimes, like, really late. She might let him sleep over.” He glances up again. “If that’s okay? I don’t want to push it… I know you’re already kind of letting me do a lot.”
Gunil’s mouth moves on autopilot, before his brain even registers what he’s saying. “It’s fine. He’s your friend. I want your friends to feel welcome here.” His tone is too flat, too off. Is it noticeable? “We have a spare toothbrush, I think. I’ll dig it up.”
“Really?”
Seungmin’s eyebrows knit together in surprise. He doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, though. His smile is hesitant, small. “Okay, I’ll tell him that too. He’ll probably say yes. I promise we’ll be quiet when you’re sleeping, I’ll tell him to whisper.”
You don’t have to, Gunil wants to say.
He doesn’t. He plasters on a fatherly smile, one he’s had trouble putting on since Seungmin turned fifteen and pointed out how absent he was, and gets up slowly. His stomach keeps twisting. He feels nervous, though he shouldn’t, and guilty, though he has no idea why. He’s a terrible person. He’s aware of it.
“Be good.” He ruffles Seungmin’s hair. Highlights he got behind Gunil’s back. Sometimes he thinks he’s rebelling but Gunil has no idea why he thinks changing his appearance is rebelling; his mother did it too, Seungmin’s just an apple from a tree that was cut down before he had the chance to glimpse it.
“I’m always good,” Seungmin tells him. “All the time.”
“Sure,” Gunil says, laughing a little bit. “I believe you, Seungmin-ah.”
★
There are boxes tucked under his bed. Seungmin doesn’t know they’re there — or he might, Gunil has no idea if he’s snooped. Teenage boys are awfully nosy. Gunil would know; he was a teenage boy once, too, as hard as it is to believe it.
He’d put everything in there when she’d died. Shirts. Dresses. Photos where Seungmin was hitched onto her hip and the smile on his face was big and toothy. He’d just gained some money off the tooth fairy, a few won he had no idea what to do with; all he knew was that currency was exchangeable for sweets, and he loved gummies. His mother would handle the rest.
There’s dust atop the boxes. Some of them are labelled; one is baby sumi, the other is wedding day. There’s engagement party and anniversaries. There’s one that has no label, but Gunil knows what it is. How could he not? Her face is plastered in every corner, photos he took of her during their trip to Europe and their stay in the States with his parents. Photos at the beach. Shots of the sun lit up at her back and her bikini bright pink, a joke at first, no longer when he’d stared at her too long and wanted her then.
Come on, she’d said. Come get me. Her smile had been small, private. Her eyes so big, lashes downturned against her cheeks. She tilted her face up at the sun and there had been light on her brow, a hue of orange he savors when he closes his eyes again, a memory he can almost taste on his tongue. She smells like sea salt and an oncoming cold. Laughter tucked in her cheek, bitten into when he’d come too close. Sand on her thighs, on her legs, firm beneath his palms.
Closer, she’d said. She’d felt whole under his hands. She’d been a weight anchoring his lap down to the ground and he’d kissed her like he meant it, because he always did. Her nose was sharp, beautiful, a curve to it that he’d slid his thumb over carefully, affectionately. He’d licked the cut on her lip. She’d tasted like spicy crab from lunch, margaritas downed after leaving Seungmin in the care of Gunil’s parents for the day.
She’d run across the beach. Her hair was long, dark, only light under the right conditions. Those had been the right conditions. His eyes are closed but the vision feels more vivid than reality itself.
Come— she says, now, come— come get me— she says, and it’s her, it’s her mouth, it’s her eyes, it’s her hair, it’s— Jooyeon’s voice, he realizes. It’s too low a timbre, too rough an accent. The words too weighted. Weird. She looks like him or he looks like her and it’s starting to scare him. He’s wearing her clothes. It’s him. It’s her. His nose. Her gaze.
His eyes snap open. He scrambles back on the floor, box still wide open to photos he can’t stomach. He thinks he’s going to throw up. He’d pictured Jooyeon and he hadn’t even been meaning to— fuck, he thinks, heaving into his palms. He’s fucked up. He feels fucked up, terrible, horrible, indicted by guilt he can’t keep down. It rises all the way up his throat, keeps rising until he can feel it in every breath he takes in, every exhale he releases.
He’s not her. He’s not. He’s Jooyeon and Gunil doesn’t think about Jooyeon, because they look exactly the same but they’re not, he reminds himself frantically. They’re not the same person. She’s dead and he’s a boy, just a boy, someone he does not know.
The therapist had told him, years ago, that one day it would come upon him like this. Some sense of panic; he’d think about her for unrelated reasons and maybe he’d start feeling like this, claustrophobic and trapped by his own body, his own mind. She’d talked him through what to do, then. He can’t remember anything she’d said.
His breathing is harsh, audible, drowning out every thought in his head besides the panic that has settled in the crevices that memory can’t reach, can’t touch. His chest aches so painfully he thinks he might be dying, maybe; he can’t, he thinks vaguely, somewhere beyond the pain, he can’t die, who’d take care of Seungmin, then? Who’d pay rent? Who’d live here, or remember her when her parents are gone?
The thoughts come like a whirlwind, fast and big and storming across the front of his mind, sweeping everything into chaos. His cheeks feel wet. He hasn’t cried in a long while, but it begins to hit him now, again and again. It’s her face but it’s also Jooyeon’s face; it’s her voice but it’s also Jooyeon’s accent; it’s her scent but he has that too, the vanilla, the seasalt, the low gaze from under lashes that are too long, too dark.
It’s all wrong. Gunil’s so fucking wrong for this and he knows it, he’s aware, it’s all fucked up and he can’t— he shouldn’t be lingering. He’s better than this. She doesn’t deserve the comparison. She should be in peace, and he just won’t let things be. He’s wrong. He shudders. He’s awful.
It’s not Jooyeon’s fault that he looks so much like Gunil’s late wife, after all.