I've Really Come Home
Their conversation broke off only after word that Won-young had returned to Aokuri spread like wildfire and the neighbors came pouring into Moon Cafe. Mong-i Grandma, Mrs. Gusan, and even the village chief—the man who used to drive her all the way to school whenever the rain came down in sheets—had come to see her face.
Village Chief Nam came running from a long way off, waving, that familiar mischievous look on his face. He had been bald since forever, and he never went anywhere without a cap to hide it.
"Hey, Won-young! You really came back. Good grief, girl, how long has it been? You don't know how hard your mom and dad cried, thinking you'd gone off to live in some foreign country. The moment they heard you were coming, your dad was in this cafe day in and day out, sweeping and scrubbing—put on a regular performance!"
"He did? No wonder it's so clean. Anyway, it's been forever, Chief. Have you been well?"
"Oh, sure, well enough. Good to see you. I'm awful glad myself!"
Village Chief Nam had come in a red cap, and across the front, in thick block letters, was the word Village Chief. Laughter burst out of Won-young. She covered her mouth with her palm.
"But, Chief—you're still the village chief?"
"You bet. A chief's term is supposed to be two years, but if it isn't me, who's going to do it? Twenty years now I've been chief of Aokuri. The minute I think I'll rest and hand it off, that fellow up and moves away. I try to pass it on again, and the next one leaves for some other village. So there's nobody but me. Reckon I'll only get to hand the job down when they put me in my coffin."
"Heh. Fair enough. Dad told me there aren't many households left in the village anymore."
"Ain't that the truth. Say, Won-young, how old are you this year?"
Won-young bent two fingers, one after the other.
"I turned thirty."
"Thirty?"
"Yes."
"Thirty for real? Already?"
"That's what I'm telling you."
Mrs. Gusan and Mong-i Grandma joined them a little late, and Won-young's age became the talk of the gathering. In everyone's memory she seemed to have remained the little girl who sucked on candy with a runny nose. No wonder—the last time they had seen her, she was still tearing down the paths between the paddies in her school uniform—so the news that she was already thirty astonished them all. Mong-i Grandma, especially, checked her age, and checked it again.
"Three. Three fingers, yes?"
"Yes, Grandma. That little squirt Won-young grew up. She's thirty now."
"Ha. If you're thirty, let's see, let's see. How old am I this year, then?"
Village Chief Nam looked at Mong-i Grandma.
"Forgetting again, are you. How many times have I told you? You're ninety-five this year, ma'am."
"Mmm-mm. No. I'm eighty-five this year."
"What am I supposed to do with you. That was more than ten years ago. You're ninety-five. That's the truth of it."
"Mmm, no. I'm eighty-five. You think I don't know my own age?"
"I'm telling you, you're not."
"You rotten rascal, where'd you get the nerve, piling years onto somebody else's age? I haven't lived that long yet, I tell you!"
Faced with Mong-i Grandma's flaring temper, Village Chief Nam seemed at last to give up, and he nodded. Then, in a whisper meant for Won-young, he added that the old woman's mind had been coming and going of late, and he didn't forget to mention that her hearing wasn't what it used to be, so you had to speak up. Won-young looked at Mong-i Grandma.
"Grandma, shall I warm you some milk?"
"Aye. Nobody but you."
No sooner had the words left her than Won-young set the milk to warm in water brought to a rolling boil, then handed it over. What Mong-i Grandma had always loved best was plain white milk, just warm, and once Won-young knew that, she had often heated a cup and brought it to her, just like this.
Coming home felt real at last. Aunt Hye-suk was gone, but Mong-i Grandma was still hale, and the others were still right here in the village. Won-young was glad—deeply, gratefully glad. When she thought about it, the reason she had grown up as safely as she had, between deaf parents who could not hear a thing, was entirely thanks to the village elders. After the house burned, it was their kindness—the chief's, and everyone else's—that had raised the container house for them. A little money from this household, a little from that, and they had made a new nest. For Won-young and for her parents, it was a lifelong grace they would never forget.
On the walk home, small flowers along the roadside tickled at her heart. The bright future she had left in Florence, and the sweet temptations with it, did not feel like a loss at all.
She could live like this. Among the people who cherished her most in the world, never lonely for the rest of her life. And for that, she wanted her father—and her mother—to live a very long time.
At the fork in the road toward the container house, Won-young suddenly noticed that Jeong-geun's hair had gone completely white. The sorrow of growing old, it seemed, belonged not to her but to her parents. She pushed the ache aside and turned to him.
"Dad."
"Mm."
"Why aren't you asking? I said out of nowhere that I was coming back to Korea. Aren't you curious?"
Jeong-geun, wearing that gentle smile of his, swept back the white hair that scattered in the light and answered.
"There must have been a reason. When the time comes to tell us, our girl will say it all on her own. Why would I ask?"
Won-young picked a flower, trimmed the stem, and tucked it lovingly behind his ear.
"This is why I love you, Dad."
"But are you really going to keep living here? You're not going abroad?"
So he had been curious all along. She remembered what the village chief had said back at Moon Cafe—that both her parents had cried a great deal over the thought of her living overseas. Won-young drew Jeong-geun's hand toward her and linked her arm through his, close and easy.
"Yeah. I'm going to live here. I've really come home."
Jeong-geun smiled, warm and broad. Down every stretch of road, the sunlight followed the two of them.
That afternoon she meant to stop by Ji-an's flower shop in downtown Gangcheon, then go on to the studio where Lee-kyung stayed. The two of them shared an apartment, but she had been told that the days he actually came home could be counted on one hand. Out of the three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, Ryu Lee-kyung all but lived in his studio for more than three hundred and sixty of them. So from the year before last, Ji-an had simply found a roommate of her own. Won-young had lost count of how often Ji-an had cursed her brother for treating his own little sister like dog shit—badly enough that she'd had to go out and get someone else to live with.
Won-young boarded the bus. By car, Ji-an's shop downtown was fifteen minutes away; by bus, it took more than forty. Ji-an, who of course knew that, had offered to come all the way to Aokuri to pick her up, but Won-young had been stubborn. Her excuse was a plea not to break this ease, the first she had felt since coming back to Korea.
On the bus, she sent Lee-kyung a message.
But even when it was nearly time to get off, no reply had come. She thought of calling, then decided against it, in case she interrupted his work. Waiting calmly for Ryu Lee-kyung's answer wouldn't be so bad. Now, whenever she wanted, she could go and see him.
Passing the entrance of the flower shop Ji-an ran, Won-young called out at the top of her voice.
"Ji-an! Unnie's here!"
Ji-an, who looked as if she had been craning her neck halfway off while she waited, shot to her feet and came running.
The reply from Ryu Lee-kyung arrived an hour after that. Something had come up, he said; dinner together would be impossible. Next time—cold, and clipped to the bone. Won-young lingered on it a moment, then looked over at Ji-an, who was trimming flower stems. Only a little while ago the two of them had thrown their arms around each other and wept, giving Won-young a lavish welcome after the years she had been gone from Korea. Ji-an's eyes were still damp. Thinking how lovely that was, Won-young called to her softly.
"Ji-an."
"Yeah?"
"Has your brother been eating properly these days?"
Ji-an's head snapped up.
"No! That man still barely eats. Once he sinks into his work, he lives on nothing but coffee for three days, four days—you know how he is. And yet he keeps his weight. It's uncanny."