“Stop standing there. Do something.”
Jin’s reflection in the mirror is tortured. His skin is crimson; his expression, pitiful. It’s all lines and creases and pain, such pain, the volume of which Kyung never saw until now. Jin held on to it for so long, hiding it under his wealth, feeding it with success and status and possessions, all the things Kyung wanted for himself. Kyung assumed they’d make him happy; he assumed they made Jin happy. But the happiest he ever saw his father was when he was with Ethan, someone who never knew him as he was before, who simply accepted the person he was trying to be. Jin wasn’t acting then, he thinks. He was just being kind to Ethan, returning the very thing that everyone else had denied him. Kyung steps back from the mantel, aware that inflicting more pain won’t lessen his own. It didn’t work for his father. It won’t work for him.
“I’m not going to hit you.”
He sits down on the edge of the rug and brings his knees to his chest. He’s tired again, so incredibly tired. The exhaustion catches up with him, settling deep into the hollows of his bones. He turns his head from side to side, listening to the gristly crack and pop of his neck. Jin studies him carefully, confused perhaps by his posture. He remains on his knees, hesitant and watchful, as if he expects Kyung to change his mind. When he doesn’t, Jin lowers himself to the floor. They sit across from each other without speaking, their hands idle and limp.
“I see it too,” Kyung finally says.
“What?”
“I see what they did to her. And then I see what you did to her, and what she did to me.” He pauses. “I don’t know how to make it stop either.”
Jin stares at him, his eyes clouding over and filling with tears. He seems wounded, unable to stay upright. When he lies on his side, curled up like a ball on the rug, the tears slide down his face in long, diagonal streaks.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Kyung stares back, startled by the words despite how quietly they were spoken.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
He doesn’t say what he’s sorry for, but Kyung can tell from the look on Jin’s face, from the way he keeps repeating himself, that the apology is an accumulation for all the things they haven’t been able to forget. On and on, he goes. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—so many times that it’s impossible not to hear. Kyung considers telling him that everything will be all right as Connie did, but instead, he simply listens, trying to accept the unfamiliar for what it is. Minutes pass, and Jin begins to slur his words, softer and slower until he lets out a faint whistle, drifting off into a steady rhythm of sleep.
Kyung watches him, desperate to rest as he does, to be peaceful for the first time in so long. He crawls toward the center of the rug and lies down on his side, carefully fitting his body against the inner curve of his father’s. He adjusts himself until they fit like puzzle pieces, pressed together with his head in the crook of Jin’s arm. Slowly, he releases his weight, letting all of his muscles go slack. Outside, the sun is starting to rise above the trees, casting a single warm strip of light on the floor beneath the window. Every time Kyung looks at it, he thinks it’s getting closer. If they wait here long enough, morning will finally reach them.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
After years of writing this work of fiction, it seems only fitting to end it with a few pages of truth. And the truth is, I’ve been incredibly fortunate, and I didn’t get here alone.
The M.F.A. program at the University of Massachusetts Amherst reoriented my life in ways that I couldn’t fully imagine when I first decided to apply. I’m grateful to my former classmates and the dedicated faculty—Noy Holland, Valerie Martin, Sam Michel, and Sabina Murray—whose many lessons continue to serve me well.
Brian Baldi, Chip Brantley, Deborah Carlin, Laura Dickerman, Elizabeth Hughey, Cecily Iddings, Valerie Martin, and Boomer Pinches took time out of their busy lives to read earlier versions of this manuscript and provide much-needed feedback. They were the best possible readers anyone could ever ask for—generous, clear-eyed, and unflinchingly honest.