by Ae-ran Kim
Little Grandpa Jang sighed. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or sad. “Areum.”
“Yes?”
“Nobody can make that choice.”
I waited expectantly.
“You always say you’re old, but believing that you can make that choice shows how young you really are. You’re asking the wrong question. I wouldn’t choose either. No parent in the world could make that choice.”
* * *
“Grandpa Jang?”
“What now?”
“When does a person become an adult?”
“Huh?”
“Do you think it’s when you get your citizen’s ID at seventeen? Or when you finish your military service? Or when you get married?”
“Why … that’s obvious. Once you have a child.”
I thought for a moment. I felt mischievous. “Oh, then you’re still a kid.”
Little Grandpa Jang didn’t answer.
Had I done something wrong?
“I had one, too.”
I fell silent.
“If he grew up he’d have been around your dad’s age. He would have grown up to be a much more accomplished person than your dad, that I can guarantee you.”
I’d definitely messed up. Ignoring the fact that Little Grandpa Jang was being cruel about my dad, I racked my brain to figure out how to apologize.
Little Grandpa Jang sighed. “I don’t know when a person becomes an adult, actually. Or what you do if you can’t grow up anymore. I had a thought when I was in my forties: Now the only thing left is for my body to break down. Until then, I hadn’t ever thought about my body, because I was healthy. And I realized: all I had left to look forward to was loss.”
It seemed like he wasn’t finished, so I waited for him to continue.
“Still, it was just a thought back then. You can really only understand what it’s like to be old when you’re old. At my age, time has already taken everything worthwhile from me physically, and it leaves you with a tiny bit of realization. It’s not even anything grand. It’s everything you’ve heard before, or something you already knew.”
“Are you saying, in the future I’ll realize something that I already know?”
“Exactly.”
“But it’s different?”
“Of course it is,” Little Grandpa Jang said.
“How is it different?”
“You want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I said yes!”
“Then go ahead and live until you realize it. You’ll find out then.” Little Grandpa Jang snickered. “When I was in my teens, I had so much hair I never even thought about the possibility of going bald. I never noticed how much hair other people had on their heads. I barely even realized that there were bald people in the world, because I didn’t see them. My father still has a full head of hair, you know. These days, when we go somewhere together, people think I’m his father! Can you imagine?”
“I think about that sometimes! That my dad will look like me when he gets old. If anyone is wondering what my dad would look like in the future, they can just look at me.”
“He could look totally different,” Little Grandpa Jang countered.
“What?”
“You don’t just age physically when you get old.”
I paused. “Grandpa Jang?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s your father doing?”
“The same as always, I guess.”
“Grandpa Jang?”
“What?”
“Why do you act like a kid in front of your father? You’re so smart. Don’t you want to act more dignified?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“My father likes it when I act like a kid. Hey, Areum.”
“Yes?” I said.
“Your parents are doing well?”
“Yes. You saw them earlier.”
“That’s right.” Little Grandpa Jang’s voice turned warm. “And you’re doing well?”
“Of course.”
“And how did it go with that young lady? That girl who wrote to you?”
My heart tumbled. “Oh, her. We’re good friends.”
“Ha, see? Didn’t I tell you that women make the map and all we have to do is follow it?”
I gave him a stiff smile.
We were quiet for a moment.
“Areum,” Little Grandpa Jang said.
“Yes?”
“I actually saw your mom yesterday. A package came earlier for your family and I was holding it for your parents. When I went to your house to give it to your mom, she was sitting in front of the gate, crying.”
I couldn’t answer.
“So I went back home without saying anything to her. That made me want to see you. Isn’t that silly?”
I was frozen in place. I didn’t know what I should say, so I decided to say what I said best. “Grandpa Jang?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m doing fine.”
“Yeah?”
“You bet.”
“Good. I thought you would be doing fine.”
A while later, I heard something rustling. He must be looking for something in his pocket. He held my hand, which was tiny in his. I felt something cool on my palm.
“Should I even be doing this?” he mumbled to himself.
I felt the object and raised it to my ear. I shook it. I heard liquid splashing inside.
“It’s soju, Areum.”
I froze again. I wanted to say something funny, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You have to drink it slowly, okay?”
Overcome, I began to tremble. I was on the verge of tears.
Little Grandpa Jang stuck a straw in the soju and handed it to me. Maybe he was looking all around us, to see if anyone was coming. He was shivering. Maybe because he was old, or because it was cold.
I brought the straw slowly to my lips and carefully sucked. I frowned.
“Bitter, huh?” Little Grandpa Jang asked kindly.
“Yes.”
“Yeah. Just have a little bit.”
* * *
It was cold. The wind, blowing from who knows where and going to who knows where, slapped me as I sipped the pack of soju. Little Grandpa Jang was quiet. I didn’t know what he was looking at, but as we sat side by side on the bench, it felt as if we were looking at the same place.
25
I heard on the radio that pipes had burst throughout the city and birds had frozen to death. Greenhouses in the outskirts had collapsed under the weight of the snow and fish farms had frozen over. The snow-blanketed city turned quiet, and in my hospital room the humidifier worked all day, along with the heater, making the air stuffy.
* * *
I grew thinner by the day. I managed to keep my general form as I shrank from the inside, like a fish dried for a long time in the sea wind. How much lighter would I have to be in order to become as light as a song? I did all that I could do—stay alive. Sometimes it wasn’t clear if that was even the right thing to do. We had signed the Do Not Resuscitate form a while ago, a decision we agonized over but made together. Long, dark days continued as I lived my hospital life in silence. Wake up, eat, get checked, eat, get therapies and treatments, sleep. Wake up, get checked … I knew what was waiting for me.
* * *
I spent most of the day in bed, rapidly growing weaker. It was hard to move my limbs or even my eyelids. I wondered what I looked like, but didn’t ask anyone to tell me. When I closed my eyes, I thought about the words I would never know. What did they look like? I was suddenly dying to know. I had always wanted to rewrite my dictionary, so that it was perfect for my age and experience as I grew. Now, it was hard to even summon the words I knew. Sometimes I couldn’t recall the simplest word, and I found myself explaining it, circling around it. Mom, you know that thing, that square white thing? Words were leaving me.
* * *
My mom left the
hospital often to take laundry home or to bring back food. If my parents had to leave for a bit, one of my roommates’ caretaker or the nurse assisted me. I didn’t want to burden anyone, so I forced myself to nap. Today was one of those days. I fell asleep after lunch. I had been asleep for maybe an hour or two when I suddenly gasped and sat up. Another nightmare.
I was sweating and breathing fast. Parched, I reached out for my water, which I had left on the windowsill. Just then, I detected an unfamiliar scent of cigarettes, sweat, and lotion. Someone was very close to me, as quiet as could be. How long had they been here? It creeped me out.
“Mom?” I called, trying to conceal my anxiety.
I didn’t hear a thing. Usually when I called out, another patient or a caregiver would answer. We must be alone in the room. “Mom, is that you?” I asked again, somewhat desperately.
I held my breath, trying to sense this person, who didn’t answer. Then I heard a gulp, and I realized the person was as nervous as me. “Who are you?” I demanded.
Nothing. I could hear their breathing. I listened carefully, not moving. I was getting scared. Should I call for the nurse? Should I wait a little longer?
“I’m sorry…” the man said suddenly.
What? Sorry? About what? I’d never heard this voice before. He had a deep, low voice. It couldn’t be. Could it? My heart thrummed. I turned toward the voice. “Seoha?”
Nothing.
“Is it you, Seoha?”
Still no answer.
My heart was pounding now. Maybe in shock. Or anger. Or happiness. Or sorrow. What if Seoha left before I could figure out what I was feeling? It could be the last time we were in the same space. I wanted to stop him from leaving. I wanted to hear Seoha’s voice. But what would I say to her? For so long, I had thought about what I would say if I had the chance. There were so many things I couldn’t figure out, no matter how many times I asked myself. Where would I begin? I wanted to convey something before she—he—disappeared for good. As if launching into a monologue on a darkened stage, I began to talk.
“It’s you, isn’t it? I know it. I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time. I’m glad we’re finally meeting. I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, or why you’re even here. You must think I’m pissed, and you would be right. But I’ve wanted to say this to you—I did see you, in the emails we shared. So thank you. Thank you for being where I could see you.”
Another gulp.
If I kept talking, maybe Seoha would gather up courage and respond. I searched for something else to say. But then someone entered, slicing the silence stretched between us.
“Can I help you?” said Mom.
I felt let down and relieved at the same time. I was disappointed that I lost my chance for a deeper conversation with Seoha, but I was glad that I hadn’t been talking to a figment of my imagination. How would I explain what was going on to my mom?
“I’m sorry,” the stranger said, his voice calm and polite. “I must have come to the wrong room.”
I didn’t hear panic or shame. Before anyone could say anything more, he left. It had all happened in the blink of an eye.
I looked forlornly toward the door. Maybe he really had stumbled into the wrong room and hadn’t known how to stop my soliloquy. I turned to my mom. “Mom?”
“Hm?”
“Who was that?”
“Who?”
“The person who was just here. Who was it?”
“Don’t worry about it. Didn’t you hear him saying he had the wrong room?”
“What did he look like?”
She stopped what she was doing. “Why, is it someone you know?” I could feel her studying me.
I stared up at the ceiling for a long time. “I’m not sure.”
* * *
That night, I had a dream, for the first time in a long while. It was more vibrant than usual, a beautiful orange coloring everything. It felt refreshing. I was standing in a field. I might have been here before, but I might not have. The sky was clear and endlessly blue, a blue so bright that it almost looked tacky. I looked up at an old persimmon tree, which had thin branches, no leaves, and tons of fruit. The lean trunk was sleek and the branches curved elegantly into the sky. I stood on tiptoe and reached toward a branch, but I couldn’t touch the fruit no matter how hard I strained, even when I jumped up. I suddenly felt light and floated up. I picked a soft, ripe persimmon and took a big bite. Sunset exploded in my mouth. I tasted that orange with my tongue, smacking my lips, and murmured, “That’s weird. What a lifelike dream.”
* * *
When I woke up I was in the ICU.
26
Only family members were allowed to visit, twice a day for thirty minutes each. I lay in bed, waiting for visiting hours. That was the only time I felt like myself. Not to mention there was nothing else to do. I heard alarms around me, which would trigger a cascade of people rushing around. Things I didn’t want to know about were happening all around me. I felt afraid of what I couldn’t see.
* * *
Who knows how long I’d been there. Ten, maybe fifteen days. I fell into a coma a few times, which terrified my parents. Sometimes, I would mumble through a haze, “Dad, did I get an email? The email?” and send my parents into a panic. At least that’s what the nurses told me later. My parents knew about Seoha, but they didn’t know that I knew her true identity. Even when I was immersed in LittleBigPlanet, they’d thought I was trying to distract myself from thinking about her turn for the worse. I let the misunderstanding lie. I was mortified when I learned that I went on about our emails to them, but there was no point in being embarrassed. I could sense I didn’t have a lot of time.
* * *
One day, I said to my dad, “Dad, I have a favor.”
“Of course, go ahead.” He smelled faintly of disinfectant.
“Next time, can you print out a document from my laptop and bring it?”
“What document?”
“If you go into my email, there’s a folder titled ‘Emails to Me.’ Print the one that’s at the top. You remember my password, right? But you have to promise me that you won’t read it.”
“What is it?”
“I promise I’ll tell you later. It’s really important to me.”
“Okay, I promise I won’t read it,” Dad said earnestly.
I wasn’t satisfied, remembering how I had been betrayed by Seungchan. What would I do if I were Dad? I would immediately read it. “Dad. You really won’t read it, right?”
“I won’t. I told you.”
“Then repeat after me.”
“Okay.”
“If I read that document Areum will die soon.”
“What?”
“Say it after me. If I read that document…”
“No way,” Dad protested. “Don’t you say things like that. Not even as a joke.”
“Then what should I do? I’m having a hard time trusting you.” I smiled weakly, tired. I could smell my own sour breath.
“I would never bet your life on anything.”
“Then what do we do?”
“Do we have to put something on the line?”
“Of course,” I said. “It has to be something you’re really afraid of.”
“Okay,” Dad said after a long pause. “I got it.”
“What is it?”
“I swear that if I read that document I will live in a month-to-month rental for the rest of my life.”
I didn’t answer.
“What, you don’t like that?”
* * *
That evening, Dad brought me the document as promised, then made a big deal about how he shoved it in an envelope as soon as it was printed and taped it shut. “See? Touch this.” He placed my hand on the envelope. The sensation of paper felt nice on my hand. It had been a while since I touched paper.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Oh, and this.” I heard him rustling and pulling something out of his pocket. “I was going to print it o
ut but it was short so I just wrote it down.”
“What is it?”
“An email.”
“An email?” I didn’t have anyone who would write to me. “Who sent it?”
Dad hesitated. “Lee Seoha?”
I nearly said, She doesn’t exist.
“Want me to read it to you?”
I knew it couldn’t be, but I said yes, curious despite myself.
Dad cleared his throat. “Dear Areum. Hi, it’s Seoha. How have you been?”
I blinked, trying to understand what was happening.
“I’m sorry for not writing earlier. I was really sick for a while. I heard you were worried about me, but don’t be. I’m out of the ICU and doing well. I’m sure you’ll get better too. I realized again after my surgery how important it is to be healthy. So you be healthy too, so that we can keep writing to each other and do great things and meet up. Take care. Bye.” I could tell Dad was studying me. “So it’s her, huh?” he said brightly, unlike his usual self. “I was wondering, because your mom mentioned her.”
I didn’t answer.
“Should I read it again?”
I smiled. “Yes, please.”
* * *
I wrote back a few days later. Dad was my scribe.
“Are you ready, Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, here goes. Let me know if I’m going too fast.”
“Got it.”
I began slowly. I had been polishing these words during the long hours I lay in the ICU, so that I could recite it all at once without stopping. I had committed them to memory in the process. “Dear Seoha.”
“Dear … Seoha…” Dad’s pencil scratched across paper.
“How have you been?”
“… have … you … been?”
“I’m glad your surgery went well.”
“Go on,” Dad urged. He wrote down all of my words during the thirty minutes allotted to us.