by Sonia Patel
Searching…
My insides squirm.
Mom.
Don’t jinx it! Think about something else!
So I invent a game to pass the time until boarding the plane can free me from my state of purposeful immobility. I call it What Is This Traveler Searching For?
A wizened old man is in my line of sight. He’s hunched over the trash can dressed in an airport janitor’s uniform, so he’s not traveling. He might be one of the poorer forgotten generation that really should be retired. Younger Uncle was telling me about that, it makes me so sad. I examine his wrinkled face. Even though he’s working here, I’m sure he’s still searching. My guess—it’s for the basics of life, money, food, and shelter.
Then there’s the American who’s more than a head higher than the tallest person in his vicinity. Fancy business suit, brown leather attaché case, and obnoxious slicked-to-the-side blond hair. He’s walking and talking on his cell, laughing way too loud, and eyeing all the pretty young Korean girls. This guy reminds me of my dad. And I take a guess that he’s searching for the same thing as my dad—more. More money. More power. More sex. More everything.
My stomach churns, and I burp a silent burp. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I stare off into the crowd, only I’m not really seeing anything.
Until I see her.
A riot breaks out in my body.
I stare at this girl.
A stunning girl.
Dark with familiar features.
Ha-na!
Now there’s a full on revolution inside as my body defies my mind’s orders to remain still. I push myself off the wall…
She’s walking this way, a backpack slung over her shoulder. My eyes don’t give me a choice—they insist on checking her out. Tight jeans. Hoodie. Hair in a high, loose ponytail. Her face sans makeup…an angel.
Wait a second.
My mom’s an angel, but Ha-na…she’s a modern, super-hot Mona Lisa with serious flavor. I imagine her walking towards me with Seoul burning in the background. A badass. I smile inside.
She looks down at her boarding pass, then checks the gate signs on her left and right. She keeps walking.
Is she going to L.A. today?
We never actually exchanged all our travel details.
She stops again, this time in front of my gate and glances at the sign. Then she slips her boarding pass into her pocket and proceeds in. She sits down.
Could she really be on this flight?
I rub my clammy palms on my jeans and count to three before I let myself saunter over to her, though what I really want to do is run.
There’s an empty seat next to her, and I crash down in it, let out a big breath before I say, “Looks like a full flight, no?”
She turns her head to me and smiles a warm smile.
My pits feel like the Banpo Bridge water fountain show. “So, you’re on this flight?”
She nods.
I facepalm and groan inside. On the outside all I do is mumble, “Right.”
Her face softens. She says, “You must be thrilled. I mean seeing your mom for the first time in ten years.”
I nod.
“I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks…so…when do you start at the Getty?”
Her eyes burst like a dazzling sunrise over the Han. “Next week.”
“You’re not that excited, are you?”
She giggles. “No. Only a tad…pleased.”
I smile. “I never thought we’d be on the same flight.”
She nods. “I know. I was supposed to be on an earlier flight, but it got cancelled. Engine problems they said. So they put me on this one.” She pulls off her scrunchie and slides it onto her wrist. “What a coincidence,” she says, redoing her ponytail in the blink of an eye.
I picture Younger Uncle. What an interesting coincidence.
My heart beats faster. “Yeah.” I try to keep my voice matter-of-fact. “How is it that we end up running into each other all the time?”
She cocks her head. “I don’t know,” she says.
The silence that follows is uncomfortable for me. I fidget.
Ha-na seems unphased as she stares at the overhead TV monitor. The news guy is talking about some factory strike. She looks at me, resting her head on her hand. “Maybe,” she says, “life is trying to tell us something.”
“Life is trying to tell us something.” I say under my breath.
I picture Younger Uncle again.
Don’t ever forget the pain you put her through.
Check that box. A million times over.
…you should try to be honest from here on out. It’s the right thing to do. Well, I’ve been honest in my apology. It was difficult but it was obviously the right thing to do. Telling her what else I feel, that seems impossible. Plus I’m still not one hundred percent sure it’s the right thing to do.
A gentle touch. I look. Ha-na’s hand is on my shoulder.
“Rocky?” she asks, “are you ok?”
I nod. “I was just thinking about what you said.” I look into her eyes. “You’re right, life is trying to tell us something…” Then I drop my eyes. “Well, tell me something,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I-I…” I tap the floor three times, then I try again. “I-I…” I can’t do it. I glance at Ha-na, her brow is furrowed. I exhale long and slow, wishing I hadn’t quit smoking. I can’t be honest with all my feelings just yet so I ask her a question instead. “What do you think life is trying to tell you?”
She balances her chin on the back of her hand and looks at me with kind eyes. “Maybe seeing you is life’s way of reminding me that I can get through anything.”
I give her a half smile. Only half because inside I’m a little disappointed. I don’t want her to just get through me, but then I nod because what she said makes sense, and I’m just being full of myself for wanting more.
We sit quietly for a bit. It’s not an uncomfortable silence.
Ha-na lifts her backpack onto her lap and searches through the front pocket until she finds what she’s looking for—her phone. Her earbuds are already plugged in. She untangles the long cord and hands me one side.
I insert the earbud.
She inserts the other, then scrolls through her phone playlist. “Close your eyes,” she says.
I do.
A powerful voice elicits an automatic tingle in my spine.
It’s Pavarotti. Nessun Dorma.
Warmth spreads through my body.
I end up lost in some sunny Italian village…
Pavarotti’s gorgeous tenor sound and robust emotions build up. I’m walking through an endless vineyard, hand in hand with a beautiful half-Indian, half-Korean girl. I stop to gaze into her eyes. I love you, I say. Then my opera hero belts out different lyrics, ones I’ve written.
Foe is now friend.
I wish someday a girlfriend.
Seeing Mom this weekend.
New life just around the bend.
More happiness than I can comprehend.
41.
When the captain announces the plane’s descent into LAX, I push the window shade up. The wing slices through dense clouds, and somewhere in the distance a soft morning light makes the white puffs gleam like snow. I can’t see the city yet, but I can imagine…
The city of angels. My angel. I swallow hard to unplug my clogged ears, then I close my eyes. Mom’s voice.
My little Yi Kyung-seok…
I whisper, “Mom.”
She strokes my cheek. My little Yi Kyung-seok. My little Rocky…
I touch my cheek with my jittery hand. I’ve longed for her all these years, but no one really knew how much—the secret yearning was buried deep in the spongy parts of my bones, quietly boomeranging in the crevices. Yet the secret was too big to remain completely contained and bits of it leaked out. A slow, continuous leak that turned into a chill. It made me cold-blooded, made me do unspeakable things.
Mom look
s into my eyes. Your eyes are icy cold black like your dad’s…
I shake my head three times. No! I’m nothing like Dad! I’m going to show you, Mom. Rub my eyes. I’ve been thawing out, I’m not icy cold. I’m not a stone-cold killer like Dad. I’m not a rock.
My eyelids rip apart. Relax!
I fiddle with the latch of the tray table. Then I peek through the seats, two rows up. Ha-na’s head is slumped to the right, almost resting on the shoulder of the older woman next to her. Sleeping, it seems. I try to get a look at her arms, but I can’t see them.
I’m not a bully.
My heart pounds like a drummer on a traditional Korean drum.
The plane hits the tarmac and lurches forward. I grip my armrests as my new reality grips me—Mom’s a few minutes away.
She strokes my cheek. My little Yi Kyung-seok. My little Roc—
No, Mom. I’m not Rocky. You named me Kyung-seok.
Yi Kyung-seok. That’s who I am.
I smile a satisfied smile inside.
I check between the seats, Ha-na’s up. She looks over her shoulder. Her hair is down, an avalanche of lustrous black curls. Her onyx eyes shine, coaxing my lips into an outside smile. She smiles back.
The plane crawls to the gate, and the brief time it takes for the doors to open feel like forever. And a day. Finally we’re allowed to deplane. I rocket out of my seat. Though I didn’t sleep much on the flight, I’m charged like I just chugged a Bacchus-F. No, three of them.
Ha-na’s waiting for me inside the terminal, leaning against the wall with one hand on her hip. When she sees me, she grabs her backpack off the floor and hoists it onto her shoulder.
I get within earshot.
“I thought you’d be running,” she says with one eyebrow raised.
I shake my head and chuckle. “No. I’m a cool guy. Always a cool guy,” I say. I loud exhale, then whisper, “It’s a curse.”
She fake frowns. “Whatever. Let’s go, Rocky.” She waves her hand.
Rocky.
I flinch, but she doesn’t notice. I stare ahead of me as we walk towards passport control. I say, “Maybe you can call me Kyung-seok now. You know, instead of Rocky.”
She cranks her head to me. “Why? What’s wrong with Rocky?”
I adjust my backpack and stuff my hands in my pockets. “Well, Rocky is the nickname my mom gave me when I was kid and seeing as I’m older now and you know…” I pause.
“What?”
“Well, I’m not a bully anymore. And I’m trying not to be a horrible excuse of a human being. I’m trying to be a different person. Maybe it’s a good thing to have a different name. Not my old boss name. Besides, Kyung-seok is my real name.”
“Kyung-seok,” she whispers to herself. She looks at me and smiles. “Kyung-seok it is.”
“Thanks,” I say. I like how my real name sounds. Or, is it that I like that she’s saying it? There’s a new spring in my step as we walk.
We fall into line at passport control. I study the other travelers. So many diverse faces. I listen to the unique languages, I count at least five I’ve never heard. I look at Ha-na. I wonder if she'll meet my mom today.
It hits me again. She’s not missing or dead.
I tap Ha-na’s shoulder.
“Yes, Kyung-seok?” she asks.
“Who’s picking you up?”
“My aunt. My ‘crazy’ aunt,” she says making air quotes. “My dad’s sister. The one who’s a ‘free spirit’ as he says. As if that’s a bad thing, right?” She shrugs, shaking her head. Then she says, “Who’s—” She cuts herself off, giggles.
“What?” I ask.
She tilts her head and half smiles. “I was just about to ask who’s picking you up.”
“My mo—.”
“Yeah,” she says nodding.
“Next in line,” a customs officer calls.
“See you on the other side,” Ha-na whispers before stepping forward.
We get through quick and easy and then walk towards baggage claim.
“Let’s step on it,” Ha-na says.
A hard nod. “Let’s.”
We hustle the rest of the way. Many of the passengers are already poised around the slow-moving carousel when we get there. Ha-na and I find a place to stand at the far end, between the wall and the tallest man I’ve ever seen.
“My bag’s red. What color is yours?” Ha-na asks.
“Black. But it’s got a yellow belt,” I say. Yellow is Mom’s favorite color.
I count the black bags as they pass like plates of seaweed-wrapped sushi on a conveyor belt.
“There’s mine,” Ha-na says, extending her arm to grab it.
I gently push her arm down. “Please. Let me.” I wrap my fingers around the handle and hoist it. It weighs more than I expect. I set it down next to her. “What the heck’s in here? Bars of gold?”
“Ha! You, Kyung-seok, obviously aren’t an artist. If you were, you’d know art supplies can be heavy.” She lowers her eyes and plays with her name tag. The thin metal chain twists around the bag’s handle. “Actually, I need all my stuff because I’m not going back to Seoul,” she whispers.
Confusion washes over my face leaving me stuck with cow eyes and a partial frown. But then it all computes. …I’ll be moving onto bigger and better things than all of you pathetic bully losers with nothing better to do than kick people when they’re down. Maybe she’s decided not to wait until finishing the last year of school in Seoul before starting her new life.
I’m about to tell her that I’m not going back either.
“Is that your bag?” she asks pointing.
I grab it from the carousel.
“Well, then,” she says. She sweeps her arm in front of her, all dramatic. “After you.”
“No,” I say. I sweep my arm in front of me and bow. “After you. I insist.”
“Thanks,” she says.
We cruise towards customs. When we get to the front of the line, I let Ha-na go first.
“See you on the other side again,” she whispers.
After our bags are searched and officially cleared, we regroup under a sign that points the way to the exit. We exchange smiles and start to walk.
Suddenly I wish I was Rocky again. Or better yet, a real rock. Because then maybe I wouldn’t be consumed by this overwhelming urge to reveal my truth to her.
Tell her!
“Wait, Ha-na,” I say.
She stops and turns to face me. “What’s up?”
“I-I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
I fork my fingers through my hair.
“What is it, Kyung-seok?”
“You said you’re not going back to Seoul. Well, I’m not going back either. I’m going to live with my mom. I was just thinking…” I pause, staring at my feet.
“What?”
I force myself to look at her.
“The thing is, both of us are going to be in L.A.”
You pretty much said that already, idiot!
She nods.
I keep going. “Maybe we should…” I pause, swallow hard.
She tips her head to one side and waits.
“I…” I stare at her.
Her eyebrows rise. “You…”
I like you!
But that’s not what comes out of my mouth. I end up blurting, “We should keep in touch!”
Her face doesn’t change, but she also doesn’t say anything.
At least she doesn’t seem totally repulsed.
Then it seems like we’re stuck in an awkward eternity in which all I can do is cringe inside. I want to suck my words back in. I want to deny it, say I was just joking. But I can’t move my lips. It takes everything in me to get my mouth to work again. “I’m sorry,” I say. I shift in place and groan. “I realize keeping in touch with your former bully is probably the last thing you want to do. You don’t have to—”
She lays her hand on my shoulder. “Kyung-seok,” she says, “I want to ke
ep in touch with you too. I was planning on it.” She pulls out her cell and holds it up. “You’ve got Line, right?”
I nod.
“Me too. Message me anytime. And send me your new number when you get it. I’ll do the same.”
I pump my arms and jump for joy, but only on the inside.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she whispers, twirling her hair, then tucking it behind her ear.
My heart goes kablooey, but I keep myself in check. “I won’t,” I say, dropping my head and smiling. When I look back at her, she’s smiling too.
“Shall we?” she asks, pointing to the exit with her chin.
“Yes.” I follow her as she weaves through the people towards the large sliding glass doors leading to the street. Without warning, she stops dead in her tracks. I almost run into her but catch myself just in time, then step beside her. I see what she sees, an Indian woman maybe in her forties with a regal face, long, curly black hair flowing over her shoulders, and a colorful boho-chic short dress with brown leather boots. I look at Ha-na, her eyes are wet, and her lip is quivering.
“Your aunt?” I ask.
She nods. She turns to me and says in a soft voice, “Later, Kyung-seok, not goodbye.” She bows.
I bow.
We look at each other for a second before she extends her arms for a hug, I think, but something makes her change her mind. Her arms drop, so does her jaw, and her eyes are glued behind me. Then only her lips move. “Kyung-seok, I think I see an angel. Is that your…”
An angel…
The world around me stops. My eyes are scanning, searching.
I see her.
An angel. My angel.
She looks the same as I remember. Just like in the old wedding photo. A lovely, noble Korean woman. Her shiny black hair is in a sleek, low bun at her nape. Her high symmetrical cheekbones are brushed a perfect deep rose, and her lips are painted red, blood red. The country’s most promising ingénue. A true rising star. Gangster boss’ wife. Gil Bo-Young.
My mom.
My heart skips a beat, then seems to come to a standstill, like my face and my entire being. I’m suspended between disbelief and joy, and I can’t do anything. I can’t smile. I can’t cry. I can’t tap. Seconds pass. Or is it minutes? Hours? My head battles with itself. Is she a photo? A memory? Or is she real?
