It rang for a long time. Finally, a slow, clear voice said, “Hello?”
It was Mr. Ahn. I had never forgotten his voice. My throat closed up and I couldn’t speak.
Mr. Ahn persisted. “Hello? Hello? Who is it?”
“It’s me,” I managed. “Your roommate.”
* * *
I waited for what felt like an eternity for his purple van to pull up in front of the apartment complex, though in reality it was only an hour.
He was living in Ansan, not far from where I had been living. His place looked just like the room we’d shared in Seryong; it was as if we’d gone back in time. His desk, with his laptop, notebook, keys and wallet, the pack of menthol cigarettes, empty beer cans, sticky notes everywhere. He was the same, too—the same short salt-and-pepper hair, a hint of a smile on his face, his habit of taking off his socks and tossing them aside the instant he entered his room. The only thing that had changed was that now he worked as a ghostwriter.
Mr. Ahn didn’t ask how I had been. My appearance must have told him everything. Instead, he said that he hadn’t changed his phone number all this time, thinking I might call him at some point. I rushed into the bathroom when he said that; I didn’t want him to see the emotion on my face. I didn’t want him to know how relieved I was that he hadn’t gotten married—if he had, surely his wife wouldn’t have wanted me around—and that he was still living alone. I didn’t want to let on how nervous I was; would he let me stay, or track down my relatives and send me away?
As winter turned into spring, Mr. Ahn completed the legal steps to become my guardian. I’m not sure how that was possible, as I still had living relatives, but I never asked. The only thing that mattered to me was that Mr. Ahn wouldn’t abandon me.
In school, all I did was study. It was my silent vow to Mr. Ahn that I would be on my best behavior; I didn’t want to give him any reason to cast me off.
I placed first in my class and fifth in my grade after my second-semester midterms. Mr. Ahn took me to a Korean barbecue restaurant to celebrate, clinking his beer with my soda. Just then, the television on the wall uttered my dad’s name. His execution date had been set. My glass slipped out of my hand. Ever since that night, over the months and years when I’d been shuttled from one household to another, I had been hoping that he wasn’t actually guilty of the crimes he’d been accused of. Perhaps it had all been some kind of misunderstanding, I thought naively; I dreamed I would be able to reunite with my father when the true criminal was apprehended. To keep that hope alive, I’d avoided the television, newspapers, and the internet. I didn’t ask my relatives or Mr. Ahn about my father. For that reason, I still didn’t know the full story. Sure, I’d heard rumors about the number of people killed, how they’d died, and my father’s sentence. But that was about all I knew.
The following afternoon, I received a manila envelope that shattered my last vestiges of hope. The return address was a PO box. Inside was that week’s issue of the popular Sunday Magazine. A single photograph was splashed across an entire page—a boy looking back at the camera, his mouth closed firmly. Me. Eleven-year-old me, standing in the sea of light at the Sunchon police station. It was part of a special ten-page feature: “The Seryong Lake Disaster.” It included the judgment against my father, an in-depth look at the incident, and details of my father’s life—his childhood, his twenty-year baseball career and his life afterward, and a detailed psychiatric analysis. Photographs of the crime scene were scattered throughout. At the end was a picture of my dad in the courtroom after receiving confirmation that he would be executed. He didn’t cover his face in shame the way convicts usually did; he wasn’t bowing his head, either. His inexpressive eyes staring at the camera reminded me of my own; it was that same blank gaze my aunt’s husband had railed about.
Who would send me this? I looked up and noticed Mr. Ahn sitting near me. “This isn’t true, is it?”
I watched his expression darken.
“It can’t all be true, can it?” I asked.
After a long pause, Mr. Ahn spoke. “It isn’t the whole story.”
“So it’s a mistake, right?”
Mr. Ahn didn’t answer. None of this was a mistake, I realized. All of it was true. I felt my eyes well with tears. Mr. Ahn’s eyes were moist, too.
The Sunday Magazine ruined everything. On Monday morning I entered the classroom and saw a copy of the magazine on every desk, opened to the article about my dad. The ruckus quieted at once. I walked to my desk and hung my bag on my chair. I picked up the magazine that had been left on my desk and went to chuck it in the trash. Then I sat down and opened a book. Thirty pairs of eyes bored into the back of my head.
Someone behind me started to read the article out loud. “‘Execute me.’”
The words in my book swirled and blurred.
“The murderer Choi Hyonsu refused an attorney. He had a calm expression on his face, even at the very moment his execution was confirmed.”
I looked over my shoulder. It was Junsok, the jerk who always made me go buy him snacks and who called me his bitch.
He stood up with the magazine in his hands. “In November 2004, during the investigation, Choi Hyonsu calmly showed how he had snapped the young girl’s neck and thrown his wife into the water. The public was outraged by his composure.”
I slammed my book shut. I grabbed my backpack and walked toward the door. My heart was pounding. Junsok kept reading. “Choi Hyonsu’s son, who was eleven at the time, was hiding in an old barn in Seryong Ranch . . .”
I stopped beside him. He looked at me with disgust. I considered the situation. This kid was much bigger than me, and nobody would be on my side. All I had was my agility. I kept walking. He looked back down at the article. “Choi’s son, who managed to avoid the disaster—”
I spun around, swinging my heavy bag. It hit him square in the face. He shrieked and fell out of his chair. The back of his head slammed on the desk behind him. I seized my chance and planted my heel on his chest. That was all I managed before someone tackled me. Everything grew faint and then turned black. When I came to, I was buried under a pile of kids.
Junsok was taken to the hospital and I was dragged to the police station. If the story of the Seryong Lake Disaster hadn’t resurfaced in the news as a result of my father’s sentencing, there’s a possibility I could have been released with a warning—but there was no chance of that now. As the police saw it, the innocent child of an upstanding citizen had been savagely beaten by the spawn of a mass murderer, breaking his nose and ribs. Junsok’s parents refused to drop the charges, and reporters rushed to the station. Mr. Ahn wasn’t able to block my transfer to a juvenile court.
Four weeks later, I was given two years’ probation. It was a light sentence considering public sentiment at the time. Mr. Ahn had settled with the victim, allowing me to avoid juvenile detention, but it meant Mr. Ahn could no longer afford his lease. We moved into a sub-basement studio.