Page 27 of The Way Back Home

I stand by the door, not sure if I’m allowed to be part of this, but eventually she looks up and waves me back in with her chin, and I go, sitting close beside them both until his shaking stops.

He stays with her until the swelling along his jaw fades to yellow, until the marks on his arms lighten enough that they don’t look so much like handprints anymore, then she sends him home with a bag of rice cakes and a look on her face that makes it clear this isn’t over, that some new understanding has settled into her, something that doesn’t go away even after Ryowoon’s bruises do.

From then on, every time his father passes anywhere near the shop, I watch her follow him with her eyes the whole way down the street, jaw tight, one hand never far from where she keeps that broom leaned up against the wall.

34 Years Old

My phone buzzes against the motel nightstand abruptly, rattling loudly against the scuffed wood. I flinch, my eyes snapping open from a doze I’d fallen into form exhuastion. For a second, I don’t know where I am. The unfamiliar pattern on the curtains, the stale air, the low hum of a mini-fridge in the corner. Paju. Right.

I grab the phone, squinting at the screen. Taesung. My stomach clenches. I slide my thumb across the screen and put it to my ear, my voice raspy from sleep. “Hey.”

“Seyeon! Sorry, am I bothering you?”

“No, it’s fine.” I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and rubbing my face. “Any news?”

“I just got off the phone with my brother-in-law,” he says, and I can hear the faint sounds of a television in the background: the high-pitched jingling tune of a children’s cartoon. “He ran the search you asked for.”

I hold my breath. My fingers tighten on the phone.

“Nothing,” Taesung says. “Not a thing. No criminal record, no incarcerations, not even a misdemeanor for spitting on the sidewalk. The name Cha Ryowoon isn’t in their system, at least for the last fifteen years.”

I let out my breath in a rush of relief. Followed by a lighter feeling, a loosening in my chest that’s immediately followed by the familiar dead weight of frustration. He’s not in prison. He’s not in the system. That’s good. It’s what I wanted to hear. But it’s also another door slammed shut, another path that leads nowhere.

“That’s … good. I guess,” I say hollowly. “Thanks for checking, Taesung. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, man. But are you sure you have the right guy? Maybe he changed his name?”

“I’ve been checking for that, too,” I say, glancing at the notepad on the nightstand, filled with crossed-out names and addresses. Jin Ryowoon. Park Ryowoon. Every possible combination I could think of. Nothing.

“Sorry, Seyeon. I wish I could’ve been more help.” He sounds disappointed for me. “So, what’s your next move? When are you thinking of coming back? Saemi was asking about your class outlines.”

I stare at the wall. Back. The thought of my quiet apartment in Seoul, of Yuro waiting for me, of grading papers and dealing with thirteen-year-olds feels like a lifetime away. It feels impossible. I can’t go back. Not yet. Not until I’ve turned over this last, terrible stone.

The thought has been in the back of my mind for days, a cold little knot I’ve refused to even acknowledge might be a possibility. I’ve been looking for any living trace of the man. But what if there is no living trace?

My mouth is dry. I swallow loudly to clear my throat before speaking. “Actually … could you ask your brother-in-law for one more favor?”

“Sure, what is it?”

I close my eyes. I have to say it. I have to ask. “Can he … can he check the unidentifieds?”

Silence on the other end of the line. The cartoons in the background seem to have stopped. I hear Taesung clear his throat. “The … what?”

“Unidentified persons,” I say, my voice dropping, pained. “John Does. Bodies they haven’t been able to identify. From the last ten years.”

“Seyeon…” Taesung says gently, laced with concern. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“I have to check,” I whisper, my knuckles white where I’m gripping the phone. “I’ve looked everywhere else. I have to know.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. I can almost picture him, rubbing the back of his neck, looking at his baby girl across the room. Living in a world so far removed from this. “Okay,” he says finally. “Okay. I’ll ask. He’ll need a description. Anything that would help.”

A description. How do you describe a person you haven’t seen in a decade, a boy you knew better than you knew yourself? How do you reduce him to a set of words for a coroner’s report?

My mind spools back. “He’s … he’d be thirty-four now. About six-foot-two. Or he was, last I saw him. Wiry build. Black hair.” I pause, my throat tightening. “He has a scar. Just below the right corner of his mouth.”

I don’t have to close my eyes to see it. The way it pulled at the corner of his mouth when he laughed. Can still feel the shape of it beneath my fingertips, tracing the jagged edge.

“Okay, Seyeon,” Taesung says, his voice full of a pity that makes my skin crawl. “I’ll … I’ll pass this along. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”