28
Professor Yun said Mrs. Yun had once been a successful reporter. Vigorous and daring, she wrote witty articles and asked bold questions that caught her interviewees off guard. But there was always a sense of guilt in her heart, as she relied on nannies to raise her own child.
That day, she took off from work for once to take her son to an amusement park. Just the two of them. She went on a merry-go-round, holding her child on her lap. It was a fun outing on a bright, sunny day. Then her phone rang. The child wanted one more ride, but she took him by the hand and led him down. It was a short call. When she hung up and looked around, her boy was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t even remember letting go of his hand.
There weren’t as many surveillance cameras back then as there are now, leaving many blind spots. The police investigation went on for a long time but to no avail. The Yuns did everything they could to find their son as their hopes slowly faded. Please just keep our son alive, and hopefully with a good family, they prayed, but horrific thoughts would haunt them day and night.
Mrs. Yun constantly blamed herself and realized the success she’d been chasing after was nothing but a mirage. The thought slowly made her sick. Professor Yun also thought she was hugely responsible for losing their son, but being a lonely man, he didn’t want to lose her, too. But it’d been a long while since he’d last told his wife their son would return.
A few days before I met Professor Yun, he had gotten a call from a shelter saying they might’ve found his son. He went there to meet his son for the first time in thirteen years. But the boy he found was nowhere near ready to meet his mom. Because that boy was Gon.
29
Maybe Mrs. Yun had really used all her remaining strength on me. The day I paid her a visit, she went into a coma, and died a few days later. Professor Yun relayed the news in a low, quiet voice. Not many people would be able to share the death of a loved one like he did. Only people like me, whose brain was damaged, or those who had already bid their farewells in their hearts. Professor Yun was the latter.
I had no idea why I’d gone to her funeral. I didn’t have to, but I just went. Maybe because she had hugged me so tightly that day. Mrs. Yun’s funeral was very different from Granny’s. Granny’s was an impersonal, joint memorial, with only me standing in front of her portrait. Mrs. Yun’s funeral reminded me of a reunion. The guests were all in nice suits. Their job titles and conversations would be described as “sophisticated.” I heard them calling each other professor, executive, doctor, and president many times.
Mrs. Yun in the portrait looked completely different. With her red lips, full hair, plump cheeks, and eyes as bright as candlelight, she looked so young. The portrait must’ve been taken in her thirties. But why would they use this photo?
“This picture was taken before we lost our son. I couldn’t find any photo where she was smiling like this from after the incident. She wanted it this way.” Professor Yun said, as if he had noticed my lingering question.
I offered incense and bowed at the funeral altar. She had fulfilled her wish before she died. She met her son. At least that was what she had thought. Would she have been devastated if she had known the truth?
Anyway, my job was done. I was turning to leave when I suddenly felt a rush of cold air quickly spreading throughout the place. Everyone either shut their mouths, as if they had been assailed by a powerful silence, or froze with their mouths open. As if on cue, all eyes swiveled to one direction. The boy was there.
30
The skinny boy stood still, his fists clenched tight. His arms and legs were much longer than his short, stocky body, a bit like Joe’s from the cartoon Tomorrow’s Joe. But the boy’s body wasn’t the kind toned from frequent exercise. It was more like the body of third-world children I’d seen in a documentary. The kind trained for survival, rummaging in trash bins and begging tourists for a dollar. His dark skin had no luster. Below his eyebrows, as dark as shadows, his eyes glinted like black pebbles, glaring at everyone. It was his eyes that silenced the room. He was like a wild beast killing his own cub first and baring his teeth at people who had no intention to harm.
He spat on the floor. Like spitting was his way of greeting. He’d done it before, when I had first met him. In fact, the funeral was my second time meeting him.
*
A few days earlier, a new student had come to our class. The homeroom teacher slid open the classroom door, revealing a skinny boy standing behind her. He folded his arms and leaned on one foot, a sign that showed he wasn’t intimidated at all in front of complete strangers. The teacher staggered and babbled rather, as if she were the transfer student, then asked Gon to introduce himself.