Everything Belongs to Us Page 10

  “Why? Because they feel guilty about leaving him?”

  “Guilty? No—” Namin paused, confused. She’d never considered if her parents felt guilty. They’d always behaved as if they’d done absolutely the right thing, the thing anyone else would have done in their situation. And it was true—no one in the neighborhood had seemed shocked or troubled when he was sent away, as if they had expected it all along. “I guess they feel it’s easier if we just forget him.”

  “That’s stupid,” Jisun said flatly. “He’s your brother. Do you really think you should just forget him?”

  It was the first time anyone had ever given Namin the option to say yes or no when it came to Hyun. It was the first time it seemed possible to think, Everyone else was wrong about Hyun and I was right. I was right all along. It was an exhilarating idea, like being allowed to breathe cold fresh air after being trapped all her life in an underground cave. She felt a surge of gratitude for Jisun, who just by saying the word stupid had given her something to feel wise about.

  But Namin couldn’t help remembering what her sister had said—that only wealthy people could afford to be nice. She could hear Kyungmin’s voice in her head, saying, You think she’s so smart? So special? Of course she thinks that, the rich brat. They think they’re so much better than us.

  So Namin buried her gratitude. She was just as good as Jisun and didn’t need her to tell her what to think. “Of course I don’t think I should just forget him,” she said. “And I haven’t.”

  “So then you have to go find him,” Jisun said.

  “At my grandparents’? No way.”

  “Namin, how can you stand not knowing if your own brother is alive or dead? What if he died years ago and you didn’t even know? If you can’t ask, then you have to go. You have to find out.”

  It seemed foolhardy to even consider taking Jisun’s advice now, the clever liar, but Namin knew she was right. She had to find out. And what was the alternative, really—continue as if nothing had happened? There was no way to undo what she’d seen and heard tonight. She would never sleep again if she didn’t at least try.

  —

  TOGETHER THEY DECIDED that Namin would take the bus the following Saturday and tell her parents she was staying overnight with Jisun. Jisun would lend her the money for the fare.

  But when the day came, Jisun was waiting at the station, heavy backpack slung over her shoulder, a plastic bag laden with snacks dangling from her hand.

  “I never go anywhere,” she said defensively, as if she’d been arguing with Namin in her head all morning. “Anyway, it’s safer if we go together.”

  Steeped in anxiety for days, Namin was secretly relieved to see her friend. She knew Jisun would get on that bus no matter what she said to dissuade her, so she pretended to be annoyed to save face. “Who said you could come? Anyway, I’m perfectly safe. It’s just a bus ride, not a trip around the world.”

  “You know, when my mother died I didn’t find out for almost a week. He probably wouldn’t have told me at all if it wasn’t for the funeral. He had to have me there for the ceremonies, you see. It wouldn’t have looked right otherwise. So it’s good that you’re doing this, taking control of your own information. That’s important.” She was chewing her lip. “I didn’t tell anyone where I am. It’s our secret—I mean, your secret. You’ll let me come, won’t you?”

  Namin nodded. She never knew what to say when Jisun talked about her father. It was as if she were talking about God—and Namin didn’t believe in God.

  “Just don’t blame me if you get in trouble,” she said. She wondered what someone like Jisun’s father would do when his only daughter went missing overnight. Would he call the police? Have all of Seoul searched, block by block? Namin imagined flashing lights and helicopters descending over the city, loudspeakers blaring Jisun’s name, offering rewards for any acts of bravery, and threatening maximum punishment to those who might be responsible for her abduction.

  But Jisun seemed completely untroubled by such considerations. She was busy unwrapping one of the chocolate bars from her stash, dividing the squares, and offering Namin the larger portion. Her smile was as bright as the shiny gold wrapping.

  “Blame you? For what?” she said, and jumped on the bus ahead of Namin.

  Namin had expected a long, somber trip, a journey of remorse that would give her the strength to confront what her family had done. To face her brother—if he was even alive—and let him know that she had not forgotten him and that she was sorry. She was terrified not just of what she might discover, but of the more mundane logistics of riding a long-haul bus hours away from Seoul, the only place she knew, and arriving unannounced at her grandparents’ village. Would she even remember the way to their home? Lying awake the night before, Namin had tried to mentally trace the walk from the bus stop to their gate, but it was a jumble of disconnected landmarks. A dusty yellow road. A field lined with squash blossoms. A gray concrete wall topped with a bright blue roof advertising Fanta orange drinks and cheap perms. Her best hope was to rely on the tiny size of the village, where someone might remember her, or at least know her grandparents and give her directions.

  But instead of the miles of silence she’d anticipated, there was Jisun chattering as if they were going on a holiday, offering her endless treats and pointing out evidence that they were approaching, now passing, now well beyond the city limit, as if Seoul were a prison they were leaving behind.

  “Aren’t you excited about finally seeing your brother again?” Jisun asked in an exasperated voice when she had finally run out of things to notice outside their window. “You look like you’re going to your own execution or something. Cheer up, Namin. This is supposed to be an adventure.”

  “For you, maybe,” Namin said. “I doubt you’d feel so cheerful if you had to face your brother after so many years. He probably thinks we’re all evil monsters. I guess we are.”

  “But not you,” Jisun said. “You were just a kid, like him. He can’t blame you for that.”

  “If he’s even alive,” Namin muttered.

  “I bet he is,” Jisun said confidently. Her face was set with the kind of stalwart certainty Namin imagined came naturally to someone like her, whose life always unfolded in good, predictable ways. The urge to wipe that unearned assurance off Jisun’s face overwhelmed her. Namin squeezed her hands between her thighs to keep herself still, but inwardly she fumed. Jisun had no right to be so sure, to make such easy wagers on other people’s futures as if it were all just a game. A fun adventure.

  Namin closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.

  “Do you want to practice what you’re going to say to your brother?” Jisun whispered.

  Namin ignored her. She could hear Jisun holding her breath, which meant she was thinking of the next thing to say, debating if she should say it or leave her alone. Her breath caught in a half hiccup, then exhaled in a soft whoosh. “Okay, I’ll wake you up later,” she said in that same fake whisper, which amplified rather than lowered her voice. “We can practice then.”

  Namin opened her eyes and glared at Jisun. “Who do you think you are, my teacher?” she asked. “Did you have a script in mind? Are you planning to make me memorize it?”

  “I only meant if you want,” Jisun said quickly. “Anyway, it doesn’t hurt to practice.”

  “Why don’t you practice leaving me alone,” Namin said. Immediately she regretted being so mean, but she didn’t feel like apologizing.

  Jisun opened another package of sweets—caramel puffed corn—and ate the whole bag without offering a single piece to Namin, even though they both knew it was her favorite. Typical, thought Namin. They rode the rest of the way without speaking.

  But that weekend Jisun surprised her more than once, and she had to admit, if only to herself, that there were things to learn from her friend that she might not have previously surmised.

  Where Namin was squeamish about rural discomforts—the outhouse latrine, her grandparents’ cramped an
d musty hut, their humble food and faded, patched bedding—Jisun appeared completely at home. She ate everything they put in front of her without even asking what it was. She slurped the brown, slimy mystery soup, more grease than broth, and ate the bitter dandelion greens that stained the tongue and left a harsh aftertaste, and chewed the coarse barley rice, which Namin compared to small pebbles. Jisun drank the water poured from the kettle with the rusted handle without a moment’s hesitation, and when the time came to use the bathroom, she marched herself out to the privy with toilet paper in hand and came back with a shrug toward Namin’s questioning glance, as if to say, So it’s an outhouse, what’s the big deal?

  But even more surprising was Jisun’s attitude toward Hyun. Namin had forgotten the way to her grandparents’ home after all and had to be directed by a neighbor, who led them out to the field where her grandparents were harvesting great fistfuls of spinach. Nearby, a boy sat in a wheeled cart, shaded by a giant blue umbrella.

  All three members of Namin’s family stopped what they were doing and stared as the girls approached.

  “Is that you, Namin?” her grandmother called when they were within earshot. She did not sound happy to see them. “Is your mother with you?”

  Tongue-tied, Namin shook her head.

  “We came alone,” Jisun said.

  Namin’s grandmother squinted at Jisun. “And who’re you?”

  “I’m Namin’s friend. We came to meet her brother. This must be him,” Jisun said, walking over to where the boy was sitting. “You’re Hyun, aren’t you? Do you remember your sister?”

  Suddenly everyone was speaking at once.

  “Of course he does, his own sister,” said Namin’s grandmother at the same time that she, Namin, said, “Of course he doesn’t. He was too young.” Maybe she hoped he wouldn’t remember. All her own memories of him had grown so thin and threadbare that she was startled to see the real boy, seemingly all limbs tucked into his chair. He was slender like everyone else in the family, but less frail looking than she would have expected. He had a healthy tan like any other country kid. He held her gaze with bright, curious eyes.

  “Let him answer,” Jisun said firmly. “No one is letting him speak for himself.” And somehow they all obeyed—turning with expectation to the young boy.

  Hyun studied both girls, Namin and Jisun, carefully turning from one to the other as if comparing their features. Namin noticed he had the same jet black glossy hair that she and Kyungmin had. His was cut differently from either of theirs, of course, in the helmet style of a little boy, but it was his hair—so familiar that she knew exactly how it would feel if she touched it—that made her think, I know you. We’re blood, you and I.

  “So you’re my sister?” Hyun asked Namin finally. A lump rose in her throat as she realized it was the first time she had heard her brother speak. When he had left as a toddler, he hadn’t yet managed his first word, and her family must have assumed he would never speak, thinking his mind was as affected as his body. But Hyun’s words, while slow, were clear and easily understood. She could see the intelligence shimmering in his eyes as he examined her face, searching for familiarity.

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “Yes,” he said. Dragging out the yes. “I remember.”

  Five fifty-one A.M. Beyond the city, Namin watched the sky erupt with ribbons of pink and orange like molten steel, illuminating fields and squat concrete buildings still wearing winter grime. The fields were studded with young shoots. The dark, rich water glistened like glass in the morning sun. Her mind groped at these images, searching for significance and clarity. The forward progress of the bus was, for the moment, soothing. She allowed her thoughts to rove over the landscape, subconsciously ticking down the minutes until she would force herself to work. The textbooks, which she could not leave at home even for the day and a half she would have with Hyun, were both ballast and security blanket. She needed them to remind herself who she was. Without them, she was just another girl. Poor family, poor prospects.

  She pulled her chemistry book from her bag and opened to the last earmarked page. As a rule, she never left off studying at the end of a section or even the end of a page. She always left it in the middle. Concept, sentence, equation, it didn’t matter. Just when she might be ready to understand, she shut the book, forcing herself to revisit it from the beginning next time. That way it was underlined twice in her brain. She allowed herself one last look out the window.

  Hyun asked so many questions when he saw her now. He knew about SNU and about the Circle. He knew she wanted to study medicine and how badly she wanted to succeed as a physician. He knew about their parents and Kyungmin, too—though of course not the recent news about her leaving home. Namin had promised herself she would never lie to her brother. She owed him that, at least. But this was so unspeakable that telling anyone, even Hyun, was out of the question.

  Hyun always asked about the family with a sense of polite distance, as if they were strictly her parents, her sister, not related to him at all. Namin ached to hear what her brother really thought of them, especially their parents, but whenever she brought it up, he acted as if all of it had happened centuries ago. In that way he was like their mother, who could make any decision seem inevitable. The past was the past and it could never be different.

  That first time seven years ago, when Namin and Jisun had gone to discover if Hyun was alive, Namin’s grandparents had called Jisun’s house to notify both parents where the girls were. Namin’s parents did not even bother to collect her at the bus station at the end of the weekend, waiting at home for her to arrive on her own. She was exhausted, not just from the long physical journey, but from the immense mental and emotional distance she had traveled to claim back what she’d lost. It had not occurred to her to feel guilty for what she had done.

  That night, when she let herself into the house, her parents were in their bedroom with the door closed. It was late, and the light of their lamp shone two orange squares at the glass panels above their door. “Come in here,” her mother commanded. When Namin went in, they were sitting side by side as if they had been waiting in that position for hours. Waiting to interrogate and condemn her.

  What had possessed her to do such a thing? they asked, as if she’d been caught shoplifting jewels at a department store, not simply visiting her own brother at their grandparents’ home. Perhaps they would have been less puzzled if, in fact, she had been caught stealing. They might have understood a young girl coveting bright, shiny goods she could never have. But digging up the useless past? Why had she done it? they asked. For what?

  That night, Namin looked at her parents and knew they would never truly forgive each other. For leaving Hyun in the first place. For conjuring him back.

  “I just wanted to see him,” Namin said simply.

  Her mother sighed. Her father looked away, apparently distracted by an invisible spot on the wall. Namin realized they had expected her to apologize and beg forgiveness, but she would never rescind the first good independent thing she’d done. “And I’ll see him again,” Namin said. “As often as I want.” Her mother opened her mouth and shut it again without saying what she must have intended.

  “Go to bed,” she said finally. “Don’t forget to wash your face.”

  They never brought up Hyun again.

  The past was the past and it could never be different.

  —

  THE LAST THIRTY minutes of the trip, the bus rattled over country roads so rough and pitted that it was a hazard to lean too close to the window. On an unexpected lurch—Namin had learned from experience—you could slam your face hard enough to bruise. On certain stretches she heard the crack of foreheads hitting glass, those who had fallen asleep and not roused themselves in time. It was around this part of the journey that people who had maintained a solid block of silence suddenly became chatty.

  “Family here, eh?” said the fortyish man across the aisle. He had sat with his hat over his eyes the ent
ire way, refusing to notice even when she dropped her pencil and it rolled under his foot.

  “Grandparents,” she said tersely, and immediately felt ashamed of herself. She forgot that she was allowed to mention her brother to strangers out here. Sometimes she forgot, even among people who knew and loved Hyun, that he was not a taboo topic.

  “Must be a good student,” he said, nodding at her books. “Sleep at all?”

  She shook her head.

  “Early trip,” he said, as if giving advice. “Most people sleep.”

  “Thanks, I’m fine.”

  By nine thirty, she was walking past the tiny general store where her grandmother bought everything from soap to sewing needles. She ducked inside and picked out four different candy bars, cheap luxuries she had saved for. Impulsively, she added an aftershave. Hyun would turn fifteen next month and was proud of his new shaving regimen. Last visit, she’d watched their grandfather do it for him in the yard, a towel draped over his shoulder like in a real barbershop. He would be happy to receive the gift. She hoped it would make up for her long absence.

  —

  HYUN WAS SITTING in the yard, a flat brown stone wedged under the wheel of his chair. Their grandparents had put him in a patch of sun and tied a wide straw hat with a cord under his chin to protect his skin from burning. He despised the hat, but without it they could not let him sit so long outside. As the weather warmed, he would sit there for all the hours of daylight, long enough to shrivel a person like a dried persimmon.

  When he saw her, Hyun’s face broke into a wide grin. “You came.”

  He had an old caster wheel in his hand. The treads were peeling, but the metal parts had been recently polished. He loved moving parts, anything he could spin or turn or hinge. She spun the wheel as a hello, kissed his cheek. “Sorry it’s been so long.”

  “It’s been cold,” he said. She knew he meant that it had been too cold for her to travel during the winter months, not that he himself had been cold—though that was probably true, too.