Page 41 of The Way Back Home

Third floor. Room 304.

I slow as I approach the door, my pulse thundering in my ears. The number stares back at me ominously. I had a bad feeling when Ryowoon didn’t show up to school this morning. That feeling became a stone in my gut when I came home from school and found my mom there. Home in the middle of the day when she should’ve been at the restaurant, her face drawn, eyes brimming with tears.

I shove the door open.

Ryowoon’s head turns toward me from where he’s propped against the pillows, and relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost give out. He’s awake. Alive. But as I step into the room the relief curdles and grows cold.

He looks like he lost a fight with a truck.

The left side of his face is a mottled canvas of purple and black, the eye swollen shut, skin stretched tight. His lip is split in two places, crusted with dried blood. Bandages wrap around his torso where his hospital gown hangs open at the shoulders. His left arm is encased in a cast from wrist to elbow, propped on a pillow beside him.

Mrs. Nam sits in the chair beside the bed, peeling an apple with careful strokes of a paring knife. She glances up when I enter, her expression unchanging.

“About time you got here.”

Her tone could be scolding me for being late to restock shelves. But I see how pale she is, the way the knife trembles slightly in her grip. The way her eyes linger on Ryowoon’s face when he turns his head away from her.

I drop onto the edge of the hospital bed, my jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching my teeth.

Ryowoon shifts against the pillows, the eye that isn’t swollen shut scanning my face. His mouth curves, it would look like a smirk if his lip wasn’t split in two places.

“Stop looking like you want to cry.”

I swallow and glance away, fix my gaze on the IV stand beside the bed. I clear my throat and nod at the cast propped on the pillow beside him. “What’s with that?”

“Broke my wrist.” He says casually. “Few ribs for good measure too.”

I stare at the ceiling tiles, forcing myself to breathe slowly through my nose. If I look at him right now he’ll see everything on my face and that’ll only make this worse. He doesn’t need my anger or my helplessness on top of his own.

I lower my gaze back to him. “Does it hurt?”

“What do you think?”

“How long are they keeping you?”

“Few days. Have to make sure nothing shifts or whatever.” He shifts against the pillows and winces, stopping himself halfway through the movement.

Mrs. Nam sets the apple down, already peeled and sectioned, on the tray beside the bed. She doesn’t say anything but her hands are shaking when she folds them in her lap.

I stay. Ryowoon talks about the nurse who came in earlier, complaining she poked him three times before finding a vein. About the food they served him that tasted like cardboard. Normal things, his voice even, but there’s a hollowness in his good eye I can’t ignore. Like someone reached inside and scooped out the life inside him.

Eventually his eyelid starts drooping. The pain meds are kicking in. His sentences trail off mid-thought and his head tips sideways against the pillow, the tension draining from his shoulders as sleep pulls him under.

I stay where I am on the edge of the bed, watching his chest rise and fall beneath the hospital gown, the bandages peeking out. Mrs. Nam stands, gathering her things slowly.

“Come sit with me in the hall,” she says quietly.

I follow her out, the door clicking shut behind us. Mrs. Nam lowers herself onto the bench against the wall and I drop down beside her, my hands clasped between my knees.

“He nearly gave me a heart attack when he dragged himself to the store this morning,” Mrs. Nam says flatly. “Could barely stand upright. Kept saying he was fine, he just needed to sit down for a minute.” She shakes her head, lips pressed into a bloodless line. “Cha Sungkyu will have deities to answer to someday for what he’s done to that boy. Mark my words.”

I stare at the scuffed linoleum between my feet. My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms.

“Does he have to go back?”

Mrs. Nam sighs heavily. “Ryowoon is his father’s responsibility until he’s of age. There’s nowhere for him to go. Even if we tried to take him somewhere, the police would just bring him back. He can’t make decisions about where he goes, he’s a minor.”

My throat tightens. “Don’t they see this?” I gesture back toward the room, toward the closed door hiding Ryowoon’s battered body. “How can they just let it happen?”