Jihoon zipped through the traffic on the small scooter. A flag on the back flew the name of Park's restaurant. The moped never hit over forty kilometers per hour and was always five seconds away from dying. A deathtrap on two thread-bare wheels.
Really, Jihoon wondered why his mother had such little regard for his personal well-being. He prayed it wouldn't break down as he veered around a large bus spitting out the exhaust. Here the neighborhood had given in to chain stores. Doors swished open to let customers out. Blaring pop songs followed them.
Jihoon bopped along to the beat. The scooter protested as he turned onto a steep hill, and despite Jihoon's urging, it gave up five blocks from the restaurant. He debated leaving it in the middle of the street but dutifully pushed the scooter along. His halmeoni wouldn't be happy if he abandoned the piece of junk.
"Grandma, your favorite grandson is back," he called, stripping off his jacket as he entered the restaurant. The scents of jjigae still hung in the air, though the kitchen was closed for the rest of the day like it did every Monday evening while his family made kimchi and other side dishes for the week.
Jihoon already smelled the pungent aroma of fermenting cabbage.
"I'm up here," she called from the front of the restaurant.
Jihoon found her surrounded by plastic tubs. She'd pushed the tables aside to make space for her work. Some of the tubes were filled with raw cabbage; others held leaves rubbed with bright red paste.
Jihoon plucked off one, red as blood, with his fingers. It tasted bitter and spicy, just the way he liked his kimchi. His halmeoni sat with her plastic-gloved hands deep in a tub of cabbage.
"Jihoon-ah, one more delivery."
"But we're closed. And the scooter's dead." Jihoon took another bite of kimchi.
"Again?" his grandmother slapped his hand away when he reached for a third piece. "It doesn't matter. You'll need to use the bus. Take those to Hanyang apartments." She gestured to two containers, packaged and tied up neatly in pink satin cloth.
"Why?" Just the name of the apartment complex put him on edge. "Who are they for?"
"Who else do we know who lives there?" his grandmother clicked her tongue at him. Usually, it would be enough to make him stand down, but he held his ground and crossed his arms.
"Why would you be sending him anything?"
"Take them, and be polite," Halmeoni said without looking up.
"Just because he's your daughter's ex-husband doesn't mean you have to take care of him. he has a new wife for that."
"Don't speak that way about your father," Halmeoni said, this time with enough iron to make Jihoon stop arguing.
"He's not my father, he's just a coward," Jihoon mumbled, but he hauled up the two containers. Outside, thick angry clouds gathered, matching his dark mood.
As Jihoon trudged toward the bus stop, he realized he'd forgotten his jacket. He glanced up the road and decided against returning for it. The heat of his anger was enough to ward off the chill in the air. He reached the main road as an approaching bus stopped with a huff of the lung-clogging exhaust.
Dropping into a seat at the back, Jihoon balanced the containers precariously on his knees. Every time the bus bounced over a pothole, they jumped and slammed on his thighs, building his aggravation.
Glaring out the window, Jihoon tried to think of anything but the man who'd left him. So of course he was exactly where his mind traveled.
He remembered two things from the first few years of his life: hearing his parents' long screaming matches and knowing they didn't love him. After each fight, his father turned to the bottle. His mother had died giving birth to him and his father had given Jihoon to his grandmother and aunt.
His father had remarried again, but then he never called Jihoon back to live with him. His grandmother, a woman of her ideals, still sent food to him.
The memory left a sour taste in Jihoon's mouth. It wasn't one he took out often, but it was one he couldn't quite erase. For a while, he'd wondered if that was when he'd lost him. He shouldn't have been born. He shouldn't have been there.
Jihoon glanced out the window. The streets became wider, the buildings taller. The bus crossed the Han River, entering the opulence and established a wealth of Apgujeong.
Jihoon hated this part of town. Not because it was more developed or cleaner. Not because it flaunted its wealth so blatantly that international hit songs had been written about it. Because it was his part of town. The place he went when he'd abandoned him.
Jihoon stood in front of his father's front door for four minutes before he mustered the courage to ring the bell.
The eye of the camera glared at him. It made him feel like an intruder. He averted his face, afraid he'd be rejected before the door even opened.
"Who is it?" The question rang out, cheerful and bright.
"Delivery," he mumbled.
The door beeped as it opened, a happy trio of chirps.
His father wore a T-shirt and khaki cargo pants. He had a toddler on his shoulders.
"Jihoon-ah." His father spoke high with surprise.
He stared at the toddler, who blinked at him with curious eyes, his small hand fisted in the collar of his father's shirt.
"Delivery," Jihoon repeated, holding up the containers with aching arms.
he glanced between the two giant bundles, then let out a sigh as she held the door open.
"You can put them there." he pointed at the floor of the foyer. "I'm going to put Kaori down. It's nap time."
Jihoon stiffened. His father had named his second child after his mother, Jihoon's mother.
Jihoon's father didn't wait for a reply and disappeared into a side room. Jihoon stood in the entryway, refusing to step farther without being invited. The apartment was pristine, the living room larger than the small apartment they had. A family portrait hung prominently.
They looked perfect and happy. The way a young family should. Jihoon had never seen a picture of him with both of his parents.
His father emerged and gestured at the containers. "What did she send this time?"
"Kimchi," Jihoon replied, wanting to leave as soon as he had come.
"Leftovers from the restaurant," he added. He would die before he told his grandmother meticulously seasoned it all day for him.
"Kaori's mother doesn't like spicy things. Why did she make so much?"
Jihoon clenched his teeth to hold in his frustration. "I delivered it. Don't forget to tell grandmother if she calls you."
"Your grandma let you leave the house like that? It's about to rain, you don't even have a jacket. How irresponsible."
Jihoon clenched his fist and jaw.
'That's rich, coming from a man who couldn't take the responsibility of his own son.' his mind sarcastically commented.
"I'm fine," he whispered. If he spoke any louder, his voice would crack.
"Wait there." he disappeared into the back room and emerged with a bag of clothes. She pulled out a long trench coat. "We were going to donate these, but you can have them."
Jihoon glared. The clothes were obviously those of his father.
"I don't need your charity."
"Don't be so stubborn. They're name brands."
Jihoon was about to tell her what he could do with his name brands when a door opened down the hall. A halmeoni shuffled out.
She wore a floral housecoat, her hair up in rollers. The thin wisps around the curlers were onyx black. A color that only came out of a box. When she spotted Jihoon, she stopped.
"Kaori's father, who is this?" the halmeoni asked.
Kaori's father. The title swam through Jihoon's head. It wasn't new to him. He'd heard many of his friends' mothers addressed as such by neighbors or teachers. But he'd never had the opportunity to hear his own father called Jihoon's father. And now he was Kaori's father. It served to show he really wasn't his father anymore.
"Mother," he addressed his new mother-in-law. "He's a delivery boy. He brought kimchi. I thought I'd make kimchi jjigae with it tonight."
Jihoon almost laughed at his easy lie.
"Kimchi jjigae gives me heartburn." The old woman rubbed a hand over her chest. "When is my daughter coming home?"
"He should be here soon." Jihoon's father wrung his hands, his eyes darting between him and his mother-in-law. Jihoon wanted to laugh, to shout, to punch a wall. So he decided it best to leave.
"Thank you for your business," he said with a bow.
"Wait, young man," the halmeoni commanded, a person used to being obeyed. His manners stopped him from dashing out.
"Here." She held out two green bills.
This time, the beginning of a laugh did escape and he covered it with a cough. He caught the mortified look on his father's face. Maybe that's why he took the 20,000 won before bending in a deep bow.
As he left, the door closed behind him and locked with a beep.