by Ae-ran Kim
Seungchan frowned. Narae jumped in. “Otherwise his face won’t show up onscreen.”
Dad nodded but said, “But he doesn’t like taking it off.”
“We completely understand,” Seungchan said. “But on TV, you have to show your face. People like to know who it is they’re helping.”
My dad seemed anxious about my comfort. His magnanimous talk last night about being handsome and whatnot had evaporated. Mom was tense, too, though she wasn’t saying much. They didn’t seem convinced that this was the right way to pay for our hospital bills. I was worried that people would be repelled by how I looked. I couldn’t look too healthy or too repulsive; I needed to make my misfortune palatable enough for people to watch. But it made sense that people would want to know who exactly they were helping. You didn’t get anything for free. I nodded at my parents to show that I was all right and took my hat off.
Seungchan looked really cool, from the way he called out “Cut!” to how his profile looked troubled before he made a decision. Mom seemed to notice, too, her pupils dilating and shrinking moment by moment, as though startled by light. Next to Seungchan’s dynamism, my parents seemed older than usual. I had believed that they were at their peak at thirty-two, too young to have a sixteen-year-old kid, but compared to Seungchan they looked half a dozen years older. Maybe it was their clothes or their tired expressions. Mom kept glancing at Seungchan, not appearing to notice that my dad was watching her.
The camera operator kept using the word “picture,” saying, “The picture isn’t coming out well” or “That’s a good picture.” It bothered me at first but soon I became used to it. I answered the questions calmly. Whenever I felt melancholy, I would touch the patch of light on the floor while the crew did what they needed to do. When Mom’s turn came, she answered in short phrases, perhaps believing herself to be not well spoken, trying to give the crew what they were looking for. Narae reminded Mom that she didn’t have to talk only about the hard times, and encouraged her to share different anecdotes in a relaxed way, so that our story would be more vivid and rich.
“Oh, really?” asked Mom.
“Yes, often we get great stories like that.”
“Oh … I don’t know what to tell you.”
“How about something funny that happened when Areum was little?”
Mom thought for a moment. “Oh, once, when Areum was five, he was watching cartoons. He ran up to me, looking surprised. He was out of breath, saying, ‘Mom, Snow White! Snow White!’”
“Yes?”
“I thought he was horrified that she was poisoned. So I said, ‘What about her?’ He was like, ‘The apple, the apple!’”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Then I said, ‘Yeah, what about the apple?’ He said, ‘Snow White didn’t peel her apple!’ I remember laughing about that for a long time.”
The mood softened a bit. Seungchan smiled; maybe he was thinking about his own child.
“What else?” Narae nodded encouragingly.
Mom thought some more. “There was this one time when we were watching TV. Some doctor came on and said cookies are bad for you. Areum asked me, ‘Mom, do you die when you eat too many cookies?’ That was around the time he was asking so many questions about everything, and I was exhausted. I said, ‘Yeah, you do.’ The next day, Areum came home, close to tears. I said, ‘Areum, what’s wrong? Did someone hit you?’ And he burst into tears, saying, ‘Mom, the kids keep giving me cookies. They want me to die.’”
I laughed. I hadn’t heard this story before. I could listen to stories like that for days on end, but I realized I was the only person laughing. The mood soured. Maybe because my mom was talking about death. The crew didn’t seem to know if they should laugh or not.
“Um…” Mom looked around, uncertain. “Was that not funny?”
“Oh, yes, it is. It’s funny,” Narae said quickly.
* * *
Dad was the most ill at ease in front of the camera. He stuttered no matter what he was saying, then he would end up saying something completely out of context, stumping everyone.
“I understand you’ve held multiple jobs over the years,” Narae began.
“Yes.”
“And what kind of work have you done?”
“When I was younger, I worked in vests.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know, I did work where you need to wear a vest. Like at a gas station, or a convenience store, as a deliveryman at a Chinese restaurant, that kind of thing.”
“Ah, I see.” Narae checked her script. “And now you’re working at a moving company. It must be difficult to make ends meet.”
“I make enough for us to live off of,” Dad said defensively.
“Cut!” Seungchan scratched the back of his neck. “Sir, you can’t say it that way.” It was unclear if he was scolding or begging him.
Dad frowned, looking displeased that someone his age was calling him sir. “That’s just the truth.”
Narae jumped in. “We’re not asking you to lie, of course. What I meant was, even though you can make ends meet, isn’t it tough to pay for the hospital bills?”
Seungchan nodded.
Dad feigned indifference.
Narae managed to keep going. “As Areum’s father, when was the hardest time for you?”
Dad looked baleful. “Today.”
“Cut!” Seungchan pressed his hands against his temples. “Daesu. Please. Answer seriously.”
Dad turned serious. “People aren’t going to get it even if I talk about it. What’s the point of talking about something nobody will understand?”
“You have to,” Seungchan said firmly.
Dad refused to speak.
“Even if nobody understands you, you have to talk about it.”
When the silence turned awkward, he called out, “Let’s take a smoke break!”
They had a little standoff, my dad and Seungchan, right by my window, in the same spot where Seungchan and Narae had smoked before. I could see Seungchan’s Converse sneakers, this time green. My dad’s worn, crumpled shoes, resembling silkworm pupae, were next to them. Seungchan was polite but insistent, and Dad was defiant and sullen. They were arguing quietly, whispering, but their tension trickled into my room. Mom asked the crew if anyone needed anything, though she was distracted by what was going on outside. Seungchan went on about how people posted about their situations on message boards, how they got inquiries from Koreans living abroad, how so many applicants want to be picked for the program. I worried that Dad would punch Seungchan in the face. But in the end he acquiesced when Seungchan talked about how I needed to be hospitalized. “But if you are still uncomfortable, we can stop filming right now.”
Dad was quiet. Then again, he had never won an argument since the day I was born.
We resumed filming. Narae continued. “Your wife said you found out about Areum’s condition when he turned two.”
“Yes.”
Narae glanced at Dad, who looked defeated. “Could you talk about that time?”
“What time?”
“When you found out Areum was sick.”
Dad thought for a while, making everyone nervous. He began slowly, as if he had come to a decision on something. “Oh, that. I remember that day so clearly.”
“Yes?” Narae said expectantly.
“It was spring. It smelled like loach soup in the streets.”
Seungchan looked nervous.
But Dad continued quietly, his demeanor no longer antagonistic. “That was the first time we were going to such a big hospital. We were both nervous. It can make you so anxious, going somewhere for the first time, you know? You don’t know the way, the hospital is confusing, there are so many people and cars, it’s loud. Anyway, we found out in Seoul what we hadn’t known for a whole year at our local hospital. We couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what to think at first.”
“Mm.”
“Areum was talking up a storm. I thought we should go get him somet
hing for lunch.”
“Go on.”
“We came out of the hospital and we went into a loach soup place nearby. The kind of place where you take off your shoes to enter. It was late for lunch, so it was pretty empty. Next to us was a young couple with a baby. Maybe he was around one? He was cute. Chubby. Before, when I saw little kids I would just think, Oh, kids. But after we had Areum, I could see how hard the parents worked to keep the babies washed and dressed and fed. I’m sure you’ll feel that way when you have kids yourself.”
Narae smiled. “I’m sure.”
“These parents were totally in love with their baby. They were rolling a cup toward him, and when he pushed it they picked it up and rolled it toward him again. They were laughing and playing.”
I didn’t know why he was talking about some other kid, but I was impressed that he was speaking articulately. So he is an adult, my father.…
Seungchan was looking relieved.
“After getting the bad news and everything, we weren’t talking. We were just waiting for our food. Areum was looking at the aquarium, asking all kinds of questions like always. I kept looking at the couple next to us.”
“Why?”
“After a while, it dawned on us. They were deaf. They were signing to each other.”
“Oh…”
“And that was when I realized why the father kept rolling the cup to the baby.”
“Yes?”
“He wanted to have a conversation with his baby. Imagine how much he would have wanted to hear his own child’s voice! I know I would have wanted to, just once in this lifetime.”
Narae smiled faintly.
“And then our food came, and we ate. And … well, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You asked what I felt when we found out about Areum’s condition, right? When I think about that time, I can’t remember anything, really. I just remember that father rolling the cup to his baby. It wasn’t like I thought we were better off than them, or that I felt some kind of kinship, but I can’t forget them. Anyway, that’s all I have to say about that.”
Narae seemed taken aback. “So you mean…”
Dad cut her off. “Actually, can we edit that out?”
“Why?”
“Well, it doesn’t relate to anything.…”
* * *
I noticed Little Grandpa Jang hovering by the door behind the camera. I hadn’t seen him arrive. Maybe he was interested in the camera and equipment, but he kept peering at us, looking eager to butt in. Mom frowned and glared daggers at him, but he ignored her. Finally, when nobody gave him a second glance, he announced loudly, as if dropping a bombshell, “I know that Areum very well!”
Everyone turned to Little Grandpa Jang. My parents looked dumbfounded. Seungchan took a short break to have the camera focus on Little Grandpa Jang, maybe figuring they could get something good out of him.
“You’re the next-door neighbor?” Narae asked politely. “So what kind of kid is Areum?”
“Areum? He’s a really bad kid,” Little Grandpa Jang said grimly.
“I’m sorry?”
We all stared at him.
“He treats me like I’m some neighborhood kid. He must have been raised without any manners. He seems to think we’re peers.”
Trying to get back to the real interviews, Narae asked out of politeness, “Does Areum really treat you like another kid from the neighborhood?”
“Yes,” said Little Grandpa Jang, looking hurt and offended.
“And what would you say Areum is to you?”
Little Grandpa Jang’s voice turned shy and quiet. “My friend.”
* * *
The rest of the day progressed smoothly. What we filmed at the playground wasn’t vastly different from what we did at home; we were just avoiding monotony. A few middle school kids smoking behind the public bathroom scuttled away when we arrived. The director clucked his tongue in disapproval. I sat on the bench under bright lights, and my mom handed out herbal drinks to everyone. A few passersby stopped to watch. I was used to it, since people often stopped to stare at me in my regular life. I never did get used to the lights. They were so bright that I felt hounded and nervous, and I grew tired quickly. My eyes throbbed and my head ached, but I tried to hide how I was feeling. It was just one day, and we were almost done. I thought about the years of my parents’ labor to be saved if this one day went successfully.
At the hospital, the doctors were interviewed and they filmed me undergoing a checkup. The program would air two weeks later, on Tuesday at six. They said it usually took a month for an episode to be aired, but Seungchan had pulled some strings. The crew left as we stood by the entrance of the university hospital. The sun was already setting beyond the hill.
Seungchan said goodbye to my parents, then bent toward me. “Hey, Areum?”
“Yes?”
“Good job today.”
“Um, Mr. Chae?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think people will want to donate even though I have an incurable condition?” I had been wanting to ask him this all along.
Seungchan was silent for a moment. “Do you want the truth?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Narae was already in the car, watching us.
“I’m sure people prefer to give money for diseases that are curable, because they want to believe that they helped change the world for the better. We’ll see what happens, but what’s important is making viewers like you as a person. Today you did your part.”
I knew I had done my part. Even as I answered questions, assuming an indifferent expression, I’d tried very hard to show that I was a good person. That what you saw wasn’t all of me. Even though clichéd sayings like that made my face burn.
“Does that answer your question?”
“Yes.”
Seungchan smiled and offered his hand. “Areum.”
“Yes?”
“See you around.”
I hesitated before shaking his hand. It had been a long time since someone said that to me. Narae waved, and I awkwardly waved back.
“It’s been a long day, huh?” Dad said, his hand on my shoulder.
The crew van and Seungchan’s car grew smaller as we stood there, watching until they disappeared. We walked out to the main street and caught the bus home. There weren’t that many open seats during rush hour, so we sat apart from one another. Leaning back in our seats, spent, we looked out the rattling windows at the sunset over the city, not knowing what the others were thinking.
13
“What are you doing, Areum?” Mom poked her head in my room, startling me.
“Mom! Knock!”
Mom looked guilty for a moment. “Don’t you want to watch? It’s starting.”
“Is it already time?”
“Yeah, they’re on commercials. Hurry.”
I had seen the trailer online, and felt a mixture of excitement and embarrassment, but the overarching feeling I had was this: “I look so much better in real life!” I felt wronged. People said that celebrities are more beautiful in real life, so it was no wonder how much more awful it was for regular people like me. Just being filmed this one time had made me feel so uneasy. It made me think that you would have to love yourself a whole lot to be a celebrity.
“Anyway,” Mom said, still hovering by my door, “why are you so jumpy? Were you watching something weird?”
“You think I’m Dad?” I grumbled sullenly.
Her eyes bulged. “Dad? Dad watches those things?”
“What things?” I said, brushing her off, and told her to close the door behind her, that I would be right out.
She left, looking suspicious. I closed the news site and went to watch the trailer again. Sixteen years old, but his physical age is eighty. Areum, a boy who had to grow up faster than anyone else, is sicker than anyone else. Areum, who suffers from various complications, but smiles through it all, is struck with misfortune.…
It still
felt odd, watching it. Sixteen, eighty, complications, smiles. All of that was true, but neatly lined up like that, it didn’t seem like the truth at all. Was it a mistake to do the show? It would soon be beamed throughout the nation. I couldn’t believe I was going to be in front of so many people who didn’t know me.
The show began at six on the dot. We stared at the TV, holding our breaths as if we were in a movie theater. A few ads flashed by on the screen.
“Mom, can we have some dried filefish?” I asked.
“That’s for when we watch soccer,” Mom said, shushing me.
Usually, Dad lay on his side, his chin on his arm, but today he was sitting ramrod straight, like a soldier. I sat between them, waiting. The words “Hope for Our Neighbors” floated up on the screen with a surge of orchestral music as if to underscore how dramatic life was. Light green shoots sprouted into a heart graphic behind the title of the program, and the voice-over announced the show.
I groaned. But what had I expected? I shouldn’t complain. Next, a close-up of me in front of the hospital, during sunset. The clouds were red and distant. Under my face was the caption “Han Areum, Age 16.”
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Areum?”
Seungchan must have decided to start with a bang, instead of using music or backstory. The question remained on the bottom of the screen while I answered.
I smiled almost imperceptibly onscreen. “I…”
With a jaunty piano accompaniment, the show cut straight to a distant shot of our neighborhood. The subtitle floated above. “Areum: The Bravest Boy in the World.” There I was, reading a book. Then the conversation I’d had with Narae during the pre-interview.
“Areum is sixteen this year. He likes books, jokes, and red-bean shaved ice. He doesn’t like beans in his rice, being cold, or amusement parks. What Areum loves more than anything else is his parents. Areum wants to live to see his seventeenth birthday next year. This is an ordinary dream for many, but for Areum it’s a wish he’s been holding on to through years of pain and loneliness.”
Mom’s profile came into view. “When he was two. His hair was falling out and he wasn’t looking or feeling well. At the hospital they said it was probably a virus, that it would pass.”