case anything happened to him.
He ruffles through the documents, literally tossing our passports and checkbooks to the floor in his haste.
“You’re scaring me, Dad,” I say, and watch as he pulls out a small black pouch that was tucked away in the back corner. His hands tremble as he unties the string and two tiny objects tumble into his palm. One silver. One gold. It’s the gold that catches my attention. A simple band with a diamond sparkling on top.
“Mom’s wedding ring,” I say. My voice chokes.
Dad squeezes the rings into his palm, forming a fist. “It’s all I have left,” he whispers. He rubs the sweat off his forehead, but his eyes look softer, more himself.
“You still have me.” I hold his fist in my hands.
“Yes. And I won’t let anything happen to you, Jae.” Tears fill his eyes even though I know he’s trying to hold them back. “Your grandfather means well, but he’s not right in the head. He hasn’t been for a very long time. If he tries to contact you, don’t listen to him. He can only hurt you.”
I don’t know what to tell Dad. That I believe Grandfather? That I see the very things Grandfather does? Will he think I’m crazy, too?
Dad’s expression keeps me quiet. Color has reentered his face, and his hands have stopped shaking. It’s as if just having said those words made them true for him, and everything is right with his world again.
Even when deep down I know it’s not.
He wraps his arm over my shoulders, and the two of us stand there, gazing out the window as the sun sets over Seoul.
Dad and I have grown closer today. So why do I feel as if we’re also further apart than ever?
At first I’m okay with being locked away from civilization.
But by hour two I’m pacing like a trapped tiger while Dad is back to being wired into his laptop and BlackBerry, totally forgetting I exist. Unbelievable.
I consider throwing my
dobok
into my duffle bag and heading over to an evening Tae Kwon Do class, but after my recent fight, I’m not sure Master Park wants me back. Besides, Dad doesn’t seem too keen to let me leave the house.
Some people paint for stress relief. Others beat the crap out of punching bags (which, I might add, is very therapeutic). I do what any normal person who’s nearly been kidnapped by an immortal would do. I move furniture.
First, I choose my wall color. A photography store was going out of business after Christmas, and I was the lucky buyer of his background screens, having them shipped to Korea with Dad’s grudging agreement. I pull down a pale-blue color, but as soon as I do, an image of Haemosu riding through the sky in a dragon-led chariot comes to mind.
Good-bye, blue.
I yank another cord to choose the forest scene. Supposedly, green is a calming color.
Next, I drag my desk to the far corner, scraping the linoleum with a squeak that I’m sure is driving Mr. Chung below me nuts.I know I shouldn’t be happy to annoy him, but seriously, his yip-yap dog that wakes me up at two a.m. is
way
louder.
My
yo
is next. It’s soft and spongy. Most Koreans roll theirs up to give them more space, but my room is big enough for me to leave it out. Still, I miss my bed in L.A., which makes my insides churn all stormy that Dad not only dragged me over here, away from all my friends, but into danger. Sure, he doesn’t believe in Grandfather’s stories, but aren’t dads supposed to be, like, ultra-protective or something? Shouldn’t he want to protect me from any threat, however implausible?
I throw the
yo
across the room.
The dragon bow catches my eye. Its bamboo curves and oak handles call to me. I pick it up and run my fingers along its smooth surface, itching to know its pull and release. Once again I hear that hum, and I press the bow to my chest and inhale deeply. The wood is soothing, like ointment on a wound. But then memories of the wall of bows, the scrolls from an ancient time, and being pulled into the mural swim through my mind. My
He ruffles through the documents, literally tossing our passports and checkbooks to the floor in his haste.
“You’re scaring me, Dad,” I say, and watch as he pulls out a small black pouch that was tucked away in the back corner. His hands tremble as he unties the string and two tiny objects tumble into his palm. One silver. One gold. It’s the gold that catches my attention. A simple band with a diamond sparkling on top.
“Mom’s wedding ring,” I say. My voice chokes.
Dad squeezes the rings into his palm, forming a fist. “It’s all I have left,” he whispers. He rubs the sweat off his forehead, but his eyes look softer, more himself.
“You still have me.” I hold his fist in my hands.
“Yes. And I won’t let anything happen to you, Jae.” Tears fill his eyes even though I know he’s trying to hold them back. “Your grandfather means well, but he’s not right in the head. He hasn’t been for a very long time. If he tries to contact you, don’t listen to him. He can only hurt you.”
I don’t know what to tell Dad. That I believe Grandfather? That I see the very things Grandfather does? Will he think I’m crazy, too?
Dad’s expression keeps me quiet. Color has reentered his face, and his hands have stopped shaking. It’s as if just having said those words made them true for him, and everything is right with his world again.
Even when deep down I know it’s not.
He wraps his arm over my shoulders, and the two of us stand there, gazing out the window as the sun sets over Seoul.
Dad and I have grown closer today. So why do I feel as if we’re also further apart than ever?
At first I’m okay with being locked away from civilization.
But by hour two I’m pacing like a trapped tiger while Dad is back to being wired into his laptop and BlackBerry, totally forgetting I exist. Unbelievable.
I consider throwing my
dobok
into my duffle bag and heading over to an evening Tae Kwon Do class, but after my recent fight, I’m not sure Master Park wants me back. Besides, Dad doesn’t seem too keen to let me leave the house.
Some people paint for stress relief. Others beat the crap out of punching bags (which, I might add, is very therapeutic). I do what any normal person who’s nearly been kidnapped by an immortal would do. I move furniture.
First, I choose my wall color. A photography store was going out of business after Christmas, and I was the lucky buyer of his background screens, having them shipped to Korea with Dad’s grudging agreement. I pull down a pale-blue color, but as soon as I do, an image of Haemosu riding through the sky in a dragon-led chariot comes to mind.
Good-bye, blue.
I yank another cord to choose the forest scene. Supposedly, green is a calming color.
Next, I drag my desk to the far corner, scraping the linoleum with a squeak that I’m sure is driving Mr. Chung below me nuts.I know I shouldn’t be happy to annoy him, but seriously, his yip-yap dog that wakes me up at two a.m. is
way
louder.
My
yo
is next. It’s soft and spongy. Most Koreans roll theirs up to give them more space, but my room is big enough for me to leave it out. Still, I miss my bed in L.A., which makes my insides churn all stormy that Dad not only dragged me over here, away from all my friends, but into danger. Sure, he doesn’t believe in Grandfather’s stories, but aren’t dads supposed to be, like, ultra-protective or something? Shouldn’t he want to protect me from any threat, however implausible?
I throw the
yo
across the room.
The dragon bow catches my eye. Its bamboo curves and oak handles call to me. I pick it up and run my fingers along its smooth surface, itching to know its pull and release. Once again I hear that hum, and I press the bow to my chest and inhale deeply. The wood is soothing, like ointment on a wound. But then memories of the wall of bows, the scrolls from an ancient time, and being pulled into the mural swim through my mind. My
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