“There’s nothing for you there. Your life is here. Your job is here. Your friends are here.”

“Mom. They said I didn’t look like Dad. At the funeral.”

“Who cares what they said!” She throws her hands in the air. “You don’t look like me either. Does that mean I’m not your mother? Does that mean that I haven’t been there for you every time you fell? Every time you had a success? Every time you were sick or you were happy? It was me that was there for you. I’m your mother!” The last word is said more like a plea than a declaration. Her outburst isn’t followed by a torrent of tears, but a thin-lipped, tight-faced expression, and somehow that’s even worse.

“I love you.” I don’t know how to explain myself. How can I put words to something that’s a feeling in my chest? “I love you, Mom. I’m not leaving you.” Not like Pat did. “I’m just . . . I want to go.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“I’m sorry,” Boyoung repeats for what seems like the tenth time since I landed. After I unfolded my body from the cramped airplane seat and turned on my cell phone, a host of messages from Boyoung greeted me. She couldn’t meet me at Seoul Station as we originally planned, she was very sorry, and she would make it right.

“It’s okay.” What was the Korean term? I remember hearing it in a song that Boyoung liked to play in her apartment. Gwenchan-ah? Gwenchan-ahyo? I try it out, my tongue tripping over the unfamiliar syllables. “Gwen-chan-ah-yo?”

Boyoung tries to suppress a laugh but a small sound escapes. “More hard k sound than the gw one, but it’s the right term. Thank you for understanding. My brother is sick and I’m afraid to leave him.”

“It’s no problem at all.” There’s a train that runs directly from the airport in Incheon, a small island city northwest of the capital, and deposits me at Seoul Station. From there, I need to take one more train and then a bus to get to my rented room. Boyoung thought that it might be too complicated. While the subway had English signs, the buses did not. Plus, I needed a transit card and she couldn’t remember where the English kiosks were at the subway station, which made sense because she would never have had the occasion to use them. In the back of my head, I can hear my mom chastising me for coming to a foreign country when I barely know three words. Of course, I will not be admitting my unease to Boyoung. She’s clearly distressed.

“It is not good, but what can we do?” She sighs. “After customs, go downstairs and through the doors. Straight ahead will be a telecom desk. You can pick up an internet modem there. The clerks will all speak English so there will be no problem. Do not take the train. I have hired a driver.”