Isak raised his head and took a long drink, then closed his eyes again.
Noa bent over, close to his father’s mouth, to check his breathing. He retrieved his own pillow and tucked it beneath Isak’s bushy gray head. He covered him with the heavy quilt and closed the front door behind him quietly. Noa ran to the restaurant as fast as he could.
He burst into the dining room, but no one in the front area noticed him. None of the grown men working there minded the well-mannered boy who never said much beyond yes and no. The toddler, Mozasu, was sleeping in the storage room; when awake, the two-year-old tore through the dining room, but asleep, he looked like a statue of an angel. The manager, Kim, never complained about Sunja’s children. He bought toys and comic books for the boys and occasionally watched Mozasu while he worked in the back office.
“Uh-muh.” Kyunghee looked up from her work, alarmed at the sight of Noa, breathless and pale, in the kitchen. “You’re sweating. Are you okay? We’ll be done soon. Are you hungry?” She got up from her crouching position to fix him something to eat, thinking he’d come by because he was lonesome.
“Appa came home. He looks sick. He’s sleeping on the floor at home.”
Sunja, who’d been quiet, waiting for Noa to speak up, wiped her wet hands on her apron. “Can I go? Can we leave now?” She’d never left early before.
“I’ll stay here and finish. You go. Hurry. I’ll be right there after I’m done.”
Sunja reached for Noa’s hand.
Halfway down the street, Sunja shouted, “Mozasu!” and Noa looked up at her.
“Umma, Aunt will bring him home,” he said calmly.
She clutched his hand tighter and walked briskly toward the house.
“You ease my mind, Noa. You ease my mind.”
Without the others around, it was possible to be kind to her son. Parents weren’t supposed to praise their children, she knew this—it would only invite disaster. But her father had always told her when she had done something well; out of habit, he would touch the crown of her head or pat her back, even when she did nothing at all. Any other parent might’ve been chided by the neighbors for spoiling a daughter, but no one said anything to her crippled father, who marveled at his child’s symmetrical features and normal limbs. He took pleasure in just watching her walk, talk, and do simple sums in her head. Now that he was gone, Sunja held on to her father’s warmth and kind words like polished gems. No one should expect praise, and certainly not a woman, but as a little girl, she’d been treasured, nothing less. She’d been her father’s delight. She wanted Noa to know what that was like, and she thanked God with every bit of her being for her boys. On the days when it felt impossible to live another day in her husband’s brother’s house—to work through the whole day and night, then to wake up again before the sun to start again, to go to the jail and hand over a meal for her husband—Sunja thought of her father, who had never said a cross word to her. He had taught her that children were a delight, that her boys were her delight.
“Did appa look very ill?” Sunja asked.
“I didn’t know it was him. Appa was usually so clean and nicely dressed, nee?”
Sunja nodded, having told herself long ago to expect the worst. The elders in her church had warned her that the Korean prisoners were usually sent home just as they were about to die, so that they would not die in jail. The prisoners were beaten, starved, and made to go without clothing to weaken them. Just that morning, Sunja had gone to the jail to drop off his meal and this week’s clean set of undershirts. Brother had been right then; her husband must not have received any of these things. As she and Noa walked down the busy street, oblivious to the crowds, it occurred to her that she’d never thought to prepare her son for Isak’s return. If anything, she had been so busy preparing for his death by working and saving money that she had not thought about what the boy might think of his father’s return, or worse, his death. She felt so sorry for not having told him what to expect. It must have been a terrible shock for Noa.
“Did you eat your snack today?” she asked him, not knowing what else to say.
“I left it for appa.”
They passed a small throng of uniformed students streaming out of a confectionery, eating their treats happily. Noa looked down, but didn’t let go of his mother’s hand. He knew the children, but none were his friends.
“Do you have homework?”
“Yes, but I’ll do it when I get home, umma.”
“You never give me any trouble,” she said, feeling his five perfect fingers in hers, and she felt grateful for his sturdiness.