2. Chapter Two #3
That whole afternoon she keeps us inside, out of the sun, feeding us rice and little dishes of banchan she pulls from a cooler under the counter.
The television up near the ceiling plays her drama, like before it looks to me like a bunch of shouting and crying and dramatic music, but she watches it while she stirs a pot on a burner in the back, occasionally muttering at the screen like the actors can hear her.
Ryowoon and I sit cross-legged on the floor mats, stuffed full, sneaking looks at each other whenever the actors on the screen kiss or scream, both of us giggling behind our hands.
“You two are going to wear a hole in that floor with all that wiggling,” Mrs. Nam says without turning around, and we both freeze, caught, before dissolving into laughter again.
The day after that, she’s got a different look on her face when we show up, one that makes me a little nervous.
“If you two are going to keep coming around eating up all my food,” she says, hands on her hips, “you’re going to have to earn it.”
Ryowoon and I exchange a glance. “Earn it how?” he asks.
“Work,” she says simply, and hands him a box of canned peaches to stack on the shelf.
I get put on vegetable duty in the courtyard, a bowl of spinach dumped in front of me with instructions to pinch off the roots.
My fingers turn green and my nose wrinkles at the smell, but I don’t complain, not with the memory of yesterday’s food still fresh in my mind.
Ryowoon grumbles about the cans being too heavy, but he stacks them anyway, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth in concentration.
That’s just how it goes from then on. Every morning we show up, and Mrs. Nam puts us to work, sweeping the front step, wiping down the freezer glass, sorting through boxes of instant noodles that come in on the delivery truck.
In return she gives us lunch, sometimes rice cakes or hard candy tucked into our pockets for later.
In the afternoons, once she shoos us out so she can nap before the evening rush, we run down to the playground, our stomachs full, and spend hours on the swings until the sky turns orange and it’s time to go home.
It’s a good few weeks, maybe the best I can remember. But then one afternoon when we come walking into the store together Ryowoon’s dragging his foot a little, wincing every time he puts weight on it.
Mrs. Nam’s face changes the second she sees him, the easy smile falling away.
“Cha Ryowoon,” she says, voice sharp. “Come here.”
He tries to shrug it off, tries to say he’s fine, but she moves toward him, gripping his arm and steering him toward the back room. I trail after them, hovering near the doorway as she sits him down on a low stool and crouches in front of him, rolling up the leg of his pants.
The bruise there is dark, almost black, spreading to yellow and green at the edges like a bad painting.
My stomach twists looking at it. Mrs. Nam’s mouth presses into a thin line, and she doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but she reaches for a jar of ointment on the shelf and starts smoothing it over his skin with careful fingers.
“Does this hurt?” she asks quietly, pressing lightly at the edge of the bruise.
Ryowoon flinches but shakes his head. “No.”
“Liar,” she mutters, but she doesn’t sound angry, just kind of tired. She wraps a bag of ice in a towel and presses it to his leg, holding it there herself instead of making him do it.
I stand in the doorway, chewing on my lip, watching. Neither of them looks at me, and I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing at all.
Later, after Ryowoon’s settled with his leg propped up on a cushion, Mrs. Nam disappears into the front of the store.
I hear her voice through the wall speaking down low at first, then rising and getting sharp.
I can’t make out most of the words, just fragments, not right, can’t keep doing this, someone needs to.
Ryowoon doesn’t look up from the floor the whole time, he keeps his eyes fixed on nothing, jaw tight.
Maybe an hour later the bell above the door jingles, and I peek out from the back to see Ryowoon’s mom standing near the entrance.
I think she looks kind of small for an adult, her shoulders hunched forward.
There are dark marks on her arms, dark and purple against her pale skin, and when she takes a step toward the counter she wobbles, catching herself against the shelf.
Mrs. Nam meets her halfway, taking her arm gently, guiding her to a stool. They talk in low voices, and I can see Ryowoon’s mom shaking her head over and over, wiping at her face with the back of her hand.
Mrs. Nam comes back to where we’re sitting a few minutes later, her face drawn tight.
“Seyeon,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “Go on home, sweetheart. I’ll walk Ryowoon back myself.”
I want to ask why, want to ask what’s happening, but the look in her eyes makes me think I shouldn’t. I nod and grab my shoes, glancing back once at Ryowoon, who gives me a small wave from his spot on the cushion, his mouth twisted.
I don’t sleep well that night, tossing and turning, thinking about the bruises on Ryowoon’s mama’s arms and the ice on his leg and the way Mrs. Nam’s voice sounded on the phone.
The next morning I show up at the store early, and Ryowoon’s already there, sitting on the front step with his leg still wrapped, looking more awake than he did the day before.
“Hey,” I say, sitting down beside him.
“Hey,” he says back.
We’re quiet for a minute, the morning cool still clinging to the air before the heat sets in.
“My mama and me,” he finally says, staring at his hands, “we’re gonna stay here for a few days. With Mrs. Nam.”
I blink at him. “Here? In the store?”