Sleep too much and your head will feel fuzzy. But I quite like that feeling.

        Of all the things my aunt had said, this was perhaps the only one I could agree with. I’d been going to bed much too early, drifting in and out of sleep until high noon the next day. A whole week went by before I found myself staring at my ceiling, nodding slowly. She’s right. For the first time in my life, I was agreeing with my aunt. If you sleep for too long, you’ll feel like you’re aging quietly. I liked the peaceful feeling of time slipping by without anyone knowing. I tried to catch the moment when I fell asleep; to hold on to that last, precarious bit of consciousness. But time and time again, I failed. Once, I jolted awake and thought, I was so close.

        I was wrapped warmly in my blanket, but the tip of my nose was still cold. Pinching it, I thought, This won’t do. I should get out the heating mat. Only then did I sit up, drag myself to the fridge, and down a protein drink. Panning my kitchen, I sighed. There was trash everywhere from all the takeout I’d been ordering, and balls of hair and dust rolling across the floor. And here I was blaming the heavy rain for my coughing fits and blocked nose. How silly.

        While brewing coffee in my moka pot, it occurred to me that making coffee was the most productive thing I’d done this week. The thought made me chuckle. Productive? Wait till I get out the heating mat. I poured the coffee into a mug and slurped it on the balcony. It was raining. It’s rained so much this year. Soon the walls will be wet again. Just then, I received a text message from Su. Got something to give you. I willed myself to ignore the notification. But just as I was about to click on another one, I tapped on it by accident. Immediately I looked up how to turn off read receipts.

        I really didn’t want Su at the funeral. In fact, I’d told him not to come. Twice. He’d shown up regardless. I couldn’t stop him—didn’t think it was polite to repeatedly turn away someone who was just trying to offer his condolences. Su acted like a real adult. He paid his respects before the funeral portrait, bowed to the chief mourner, and gave me a light hug. He skipped the yukgaejang and only had some rice cakes and tangerines. As he sipped on soju, he said, “I had to come. Your aunt was a good person.”

        Su’s voice was thin and high-pitched, which made him sound ill. But that was why I had loved him. I loved the way he went by “Su” because his real name, “Daesu,” was too old-fashioned and masculine. My father took too much pride in his name. “It’s Kim, Sang, Nam. Sangnam, as in ‘manly man,’” he’d explain to strangers. But the reason Su and I had broken up after six years was because he had my father’s attitude. The kind of attitude that would compel one to say, “I had to come. Your aunt was a good person.”

        After Su finished his bottle of soju and left, Mom scolded me, saying that I should’ve offered him at least a bowl of yukgaejang so he wouldn’t ruin his stomach. “Next time you see him, treat him to something good,” she said. Mom was always acting as if Su and I would eventually get back together. I didn’t want to owe him anything anymore, but people were always getting into the way of my plans, and that infuriated me. I finished the rest of my coffee, smoked a cigarette, and dialed Su’s number. He picked up after a few rings. “Hey,” he said. “Hey,” I said back. After a short pause, he said, “I have something to give you.” I rubbed my eyes. “Where should I meet you?”

*      

My aunt Sunjeong was fifteen years older than my father. Grandpa had died in a traffic accident shortly after Dad was born, and Grandma died of stomach cancer when Dad was six. With a sick mother to look after and a younger brother to raise, Sunjeong was forced to grow up quickly. After graduating high school and landing a factory job, Dad suddenly decided to go to university. He took the entrance exams three times before he succeeded. By then, having devoted her life to her family, Sunjeong was realizing too late that she was entering her forties, way past the prime age for getting married. “I thought my life was over! I swear, the only thing on my mind was marriage.” I remember the excitement on her face as she spoke. “I was left with either the guy who puts mousse on all three strands of his hair or the gross bastard who spits into the ashtray. I’m serious!” Perched on her lap, eight-year-old me had asked, “What about Gyucheol ajussi?”

        Back then, we lived in a humble two-room apartment. There were four of us—Dad, Mom, Sunjeong, and me. Sunjeong wanted me to address her by name; she was very fond of it. At some point, I started calling her “gomo,” or “aunt,” though I can’t remember why. I do, however, remember the look on her face as she slowly turned around after hearing me say “gomo” for the first time.

        With only six apartments on each floor, all the kids were close. There were three of us and we liked to rollerblade or play pretend. For the latter, we’d use the room that Sunjeong and I shared—I was the only kid whose parents both worked. Sunjeong would move to the living room to watch rented videos and sip on damgeumju. Meanwhile, in that musty little room, my friends and I would sit in a circle and designate husbands. Jo Sung-mo, Yoo Seung-jun, and Han Kyung-il were our top three. Jo Sung-mo was the most popular, followed by Yoo Seung-jun. There were days when we’d fight tooth and nail for the husband we wanted, and some when we’d quietly yield for the sake of friendship.

        Sunjeong and Mom must’ve assumed we were playing house. But they were wrong. Eight-year-olds sought more than simple-minded games. We’d take turns standing in a corner of the room, facing the wall with our eyes closed. One of us would take off that person’s pants, and the other would strip them of their underwear. The girl standing in the corner would scream her lungs out, as if she couldn’t bear the humiliation. After that, she’d resume a nonchalant expression and put her pants and underwear back on, and someone else would take her place. When everyone had had their turn, we’d each stuff a doll under our T-shirts. Then, we’d hold hands and shriek our respective husband’s name, faces crumpled in our best pained expressions. In our minds, the hand we were holding was our husband’s, and they were bearing the excruciating pain of childbirth with us.

        One day, we got into a fight. No one was willing to back down. All three of us wanted either Jo Sung-mo or Yoo Seung-jun as our husband, and no one wanted poor Han Kyung-il. For some reason, Gyuri really grated on my nerves that day. Of the three of us, she’d gotten to play Jo Sung-mo’s wife the most. Feeling a bit feisty, I said, “You know what they say, Gyuri. Bossy girls who insist on doing things their way never get married.” To which Gyuri retorted, “Oh, really! Is that why your aunt got kicked out by her husband?”

        It was then when it all clicked: why Sunjeong was living with us, and why I called her husband “Gyucheol ajussi” instead of “gomobu.” I shot up, blood surging through my cheeks.

        “Where are you going?” Gyuri asked.

        “To the toilet,” I replied, straining to keep my voice cool.

        When I opened the door, Sunjeong was standing there. My breath hitched in my throat. The glacial expression on her face was one that I’d never seen before. Her gaze passed over me, my friends, and the two dolls sprawled on the floor. The other one was stuffed under my friend’s shirt. Like an indignant king standing over his pathetic subjects, Sunjeong screamed.

        “You wretched girls!”

        Just then, someone started to hiccup. I turned to find Gyuri with tears welling in her eyes, hands clasped over her mouth. Despite her attempt to silence her hiccups, they continued, and she sounded like a squeaky rubber duck. Sunjeong sucked in a breath. Then she sat down beside Gyuri and placed a hand over her nose and mouth. “Hold your breath for as long as you can. It’ll help.” Each of Sunjeong’s fingers was creased with wrinkles. They remained earnestly fastened on Gyuri’s face until the girl signaled that she was at her limit. When Sunjeong removed her hand, Gyuri’s hiccups had stopped.

*    

I met Su in a restaurant near Dongdaemun Station. We’d come here often as a couple, so we ordered our usual—stir-fried morning glory, fried eggplants, and two bowls of noodles. We started off with a bottle of Harbin and ended up ordering soju. While we filled each other’s glasses, we chatted about this and that. “I was told I’m motivated by anxiety,” I said. “By who?” Su asked. “The doctor,” I replied. For a moment, Su fell into thought. Then, he nodded as if he understood.

        “You agree?”

        “You’re always putting out feelers to make sure that plans don’t fall through.”

        “Me? When?”

        “Before a trip, you’ll ask if I’ve packed my towels. And before every date you’ll ask me what color shirt I’m wearing.”

        “That’s not putting out feelers.”

        “Technically not, I guess. But it’s not not putting out feelers.”

        I clinked glasses with Su. He knows me too damn well. As our conversation grew longer, I started worrying about that shopping bag he’d brought with him. It was from Hyundai Department Store and was one of their latest eco-friendly designs. Yikes, I hope I won’t have to pay for drinks. Maybe there’s a cheap pub around here. I didn’t know what was in the bag, but felt obliged to pay him back for it. See? You should’ve offered him that bowl of yukgaejang, Mom’s snarky voice rang in my ears.

        “Actually,” Su started nervously, “I asked to meet because I wanted to give you this.”

        Supporting the base of the bag with a hand, he carefully handed the shopping bag to me. When I, too, placed my hand under the bag, I felt the weight and the wide curves of the object inside. Half eager, I peeked into the pregnant bag. A deflated laugh escaped me. What the hell? Why give me this? My mind swarmed with a million question marks, but I couldn’t manage a single word. Su had given me a robot vacuum cleaner.

“Didn’t think it was right for me to keep it.”

Su cleared his throat awkwardly and ordered another bottle of beer.

        “Why do you have this?”

        “I got it as a gift.”

        I watched in silence as Su mixed together an even ratio of beer and soju. I was the one who’d taught him that. Using a soju glass as a measuring cup, pour in one full glass of soju, and one full glass of maekju, and there you’ll have it, the perfect cup of liquor. One that strikes the balance between bitterness and sweetness. See, when it comes to somaek, you should be able to taste the ‘so’ and the ‘maek’ equally. Moderation is key—funny, but a universal principle.

        “From who?”

        I didn’t want to ask, but I had to. The scratched-up old vacuum cleaner had been a present from me to my aunt. Although strictly speaking, it’d been more of a concession.

        “We met a couple times. I helped her out with some finance stuff.”

        Knocking back his somaek, Su said, That’s why I said what I said. She was really a good person. There are things you don’t know about. I knew that Su was the type to be specific, and that was why he’d mentioned the “finance stuff.” I was angry not because there were things I didn’t know about him, nor because of how he’d thought himself important enough to speak on my aunt’s character. I was angry because of how meticulous he’d been; so careful that he’d felt the need to specify what he’d helped my aunt with. His meticulousness told me that he’d never cared to understand me. Always so carefully curated, his words belittled and hurt me.

        But Su was a kind and sensitive person. He cared about the environment and carried around a reusable bag made from recycled materials. He was the type who couldn’t ignore a beggar’s tin. If I showed up an hour late, he’d smiled and say I’d given him time to finish his book. That time when I fell off my bike, Su had thrown aside his own bike and rushed over to me. Oh no, what a shame. Your pretty knee, he’d said, as if my hairy knee was the most beautiful thing in the world. And of course, he’d been kind enough to help my aunt.

        I was dying to ask about the specifics of Gomo’s money troubles, but the question didn’t come out easily. It hadn’t been long since the funeral, and I didn’t want to seem sensitive about money. I poured the last of our soju and beer into my cup and guzzled it down. Straightening his posture, Su asked, “What’s wrong?” He never knew why I was upset, and never knowing when I’d get upset, he was always on pins and needles around me. To show that I was enjoying my drink, I widened my eyes and flashed a cheeky smile. Then I chirped, “Let’s go!” We’d had two bottles of soju and three bottles of beer in total. The meal was about 70,000 won. I shooed Su away from the counter and paid the bill. Outside, I asked, “Will you walk me home?”

*    

Like Gyuri said, it was rumored that after barely a year of being married to an old man who had a kid of his own, Sunjeong had been kicked out. Sunjeong was convinced that it was my mother, Minae, who had spread the rumors. I didn’t know why she was so sure. After quitting her job and a few matchmaking sessions, Sunjeong had gotten married and divorced in the same year. A few months later, she lugged all her things into my room. Without a single explanation, she told me that I was to call gomobu “Gyucheol ajussi” from now on. Mom and Dad gave me the same instruction. Nobody ever mentioned it, but Sunjeong behaved like someone who’d given up completely. She drank too much and despised everyone. Well, not everyone. There was a child whom Sunjeong showered with love—me.

        Twice a week, Sunjeong went to mass. Even when her body was leaden with anti-depressants and all sorts of other pills, she’d drag herself to church. She always took me with her. For six months I attended a baptism preparation program. I hated it so much that sometimes I’d pretend to be asleep. The only part I liked was standing beside Sunjeong, who was always in her beautiful chapel veil, watching her receive communion and getting to nibble on the sacramental wafer. The first time I saw the round wafer, it looked so appetizing that I couldn’t help myself. I reached out both my hands. Flustered, Sunjeong gently pushed them down.

        “People who aren’t baptized can’t receive communion,” she explained. Hearing the sternness in her voice, my lips crimped into a straight line. Sunjeong had a certain aura. One that could make a child freeze up. But after that first time, Sunjeong would sneak a look around, pull out the wafer from her mouth and quickly put it in mine. The damp wafer melted quickly on my tongue. Since then, I’d always received communion. It wasn’t until I shared this story with a Catholic friend that I learnt that Sunjeong’s sneaky behavior was considered sinful. I still remember the verses that the priest would recite: Take this, all of you, and eat of it, for this is my Body, which will be given up for you.

        Sunjeong hated Mom. For what reason, I didn’t know. People hate for all sorts of reasons. In any case, the way Sunjeong hated Mom, you’d wonder how someone could harbor so much hate. When Mom had married Dad, Mom had taken the words, “Don’t worry about anything,” at face value. Dad had in fact said those words to her, and Sunjeong had initially been welcoming and even gushed about all the fun they’ll have collecting new furniture and moving into bigger houses together. But when Mom finally moved in, Sunjeong greeted her, cheeks flushed with drunkenness and pointing an accusing finger: who moves into their husband’s house without so much as a rice cooker!

        That day, Mom had run to the department store and bought the most expensive pressure rice cooker. Did Sunjeong really despise Mom because of a silly rice cooker? Back then, I thought that Sunjeong had gotten kicked out because she was mean to Mom. I thought it was retribution, something as natural as raising your hand before crossing the road. Whenever Sunjeong lashed out at Mom, I’d think, There she goes again, racking up bad karma. But one thing was for sure—I loved my aunt as much as she loved me. Even though I was young, I knew never to take my mother’s side in front of Sunjeong. To me, love was something accompanied by nervousness, something like a line that shouldn’t be crossed.

        One day, Mom said she was craving spicy fish roe stew. I’d never had altang, so she described it to me as kimchi jjigae with a lot more crunch. A crossover between popping candy and a perennial favorite? I was practically drooling. “Let’s go!” I quipped. Mom shared my sentiment. But the stew didn’t meet my expectations. I didn’t know what to expect, but I certainly wasn’t expecting altang to taste like that. Not to mention, the roe looked absolutely disgusting. Disappointed, I burst into tears. Meanwhile, Mom cleared the pot by herself, dipping everything in soy sauce.

        That was when it all started. Whenever Mom sat reading the newspaper, she’d feel the heat of someone’s gaze blazing past the inky words. She’d fold up the newspaper to see Sunjeong standing on the balcony, looking at the sky. “Was your aunt looking at me?” she’d ask, and I’d feign ignorance. But of course, I’d seen Sunjeong’s hair-raising glare. The reason behind Sunjeong’s death glare was only revealed after Mom had gone to Dad and wept, and Dad had grabbed Sunjeong by the shoulders and yelled, “Why the hell did you do that?” The reason was so simple. Because we’d gone to eat altang without her. But was that really all? Mom and I certainly believed so. Whenever someone used her precious soap without permission, or threw out expired food without telling her, she’d resort to one of her tacit bullying tactics, which at worst could last up to a month. Mom always bore the full brunt. What was shocking was the fact that Sunjeong was always kind to the neighbors. A sweet, warm, and outgoing woman in her mid-forties. But a woman who’d been chased out by her husband. I did really love Sunjeong. But at some point, I started to hate her.

*    

Su and I were drunk. As we strolled down Cheonggyecheon Stream, he made a few attempts to hold my hand, but I’d point to a karaoke place, trip over a rock, or pick up a piece of trash from the floor, strictly maintaining our cordial distance. Su said that he’d been into this new Nintendo Pokémon game. He was growing tired of catching only Metapods, and showed me a picture of the character. I already knew how Metapod looked, but seeing it again, I found it quite endearing. A crescent-shaped pupa with a plain face. “Doesn’t it have any special abilities?” I asked. “Just ‘shed skin,’” Su replied.

        “Hey, that’s still something,” I said.

        “What do you know about Pokémon?”

        “More than you think.”

        Despite my cheerful tone, my mind was occupied by that robot vacuum cleaner that I’d barely crammed into my backpack. I waited for the right time to ask Su how my aunt’s vacuum cleaner had ended up in his possession. And I wanted to know the details of all her “finance stuff.” Su spoke first.

        “By the way, did you buy your aunt that vacuum cleaner?”

        “Why?”

        “She didn’t know how to use it.”

        “That’s why I bought it.”

        There hadn’t been a more foolproof appliance. As long as the machine had mapped the layout of the apartment, it could clean the house on its own. It could even return to its dock and charge itself. Mom would take care of the in-and-outs and all Sunjeong had to do was push the on/off button. Mom had told me that Sunjeong used it all the time.

        When Su and I reached Jongno, we took the stairs up to street level. It was two in the morning, and the streets were crowded with drunks.

        “Look at that.”

        Su pointed to a couple who was slumped on the ground, 
sitting face to face. Their position struck me as odd, and I couldn’t bring myself to walk away. Legs spread apart, holding each other’s hands, and heads drooped, the couple 
looked like they were helping each other stretch. I approached 
them to check if their eyes were open.

        “Let’s just go.”

        “But what if something bad happens.”

        “I’m sure they’re together.”

        Naïve as always, I thought. I shook the woman’s shoulder 
first. Spotting her purse a distance away, I went to retrieve it. In the meantime, the woman didn’t stir. This time, I pulled her up by the shoulders and slung her bag across her torso. At last her brows twitched, and her fingers wrapped around the bag strap.

        “It’s dangerous out here,” I said.

        The woman looked around. When she finally noticed the man in front of her, she jumped. She bowed to me and scurried away. The man, too, turned his head sluggishly before trudging off. I shot Su a triumphant look. He smacked his lips.

        “You would’ve gotten mad if I’d gone up to wake her.”

        “Why would I get mad?”

        “You’d tell me to mind my own business.”

        I didn’t reply. He was right. I would’ve gotten annoyed. Because Su was always doing good to make a case for life. Life has a grotesque face. And I believed that we should face that grotesqueness straight on. But it always seemed like Su would do anything to avoid it.

        I’d bought that vacuum cleaner five years ago. I’d landed a job at an educational marketing company and won a pretty big marketing contest. Both pieces of news made my parents very happy. Around that time, Gomo had fallen ill and spent almost every day holed up in her room. For meals, she’d crack open the door to pick up the tray of food that Mom had prepared for her, and when she was done, she’d slide out the empty tray. By then, I’d already moved out and would occasionally return to show my parents how well I was doing and indulge in Mom’s cooking.

        The problem started with that darn dishwasher. I’d been meaning to buy a dishwasher for Mom with my prize  money because she was wrestling with arthritis. Dishwashers were typically installed somewhere between the bottom cabinets, but because we didn’t have any top shelves, our bottom cabinets were higher and deeper than normal. After some consideration, I purchased a medium-sized dishwasher that could be placed beside the sink. Not only had I gotten it for a decent price, I’d managed to convince Mom that this was a smart purchase, and for that, I was proud.

        When Gomo came into the kitchen the next day, she saw the hefty machine. “Did Seonghye buy that?” she asked. Mom rushed to say that she’d tried to stop me, and that it was a good thing it wasn’t expensive because she wouldn’t be using it.

        Still, Gomo said, “I hate it.”

        And as always, she started drinking and taking pills with no regard for her prescription. This had always been my aunt’s way of showing dissatisfaction. After a phone call with Mom, I resolved to buy something just for Gomo. I went to the electronics store, bought something, wrapped it up nicely, made the hour-long trip to my parents’ house, and sat down beside my listless aunt. Then I placed the robot vacuum cleaner in her hands. A shy smile appeared on her face. “Oh, you didn’t have to. You’re all grown up now, my dear.” The hatred burning inside me dissipated slightly, but I recalled the image of a skinny twenty-seven-year-old bride running around a department store, looking for the most expensive rice cooker.

        Genuinely worried, I asked, “Gomo, are you alright?” Gomo then launched into a series of complaints: That mother 
of yours doesn’t speak to me. I have to go to the dentist and the market. . . She started to cry. I listened to her: patiently, never taking Mom’s side. I did, however, tell Dad to look after Mom.

*    

After Sunjeong found out about the nature of our pretend games, the three of us stopped playing together. Even when 
we saw one another in the corridor, we wouldn’t say hi. Gyuri would occasionally strike up a conversation out of guilt, but Ara would later send me a long email saying that she never wanted to see me again. While Gyuri and I chewed over her overreaction and mean letter, we started becoming close again. Overcoming betrayal, our friendship bloomed. Gyuri started coming over. Sunjeong still didn’t like the girl, but never said anything about it—she knew that aside from Gyuri, I had no friends.

        I didn’t know it then, but I’d been holding a grudge against Gyuri. One day during summer break, the two of us were drawing in my room. Using the fountain pen I’d gifted her on her birthday, Gyuri drew a girl. She had big eyes and long eyelashes. When I snuck another look, Gyuri was cautiously adding a few strands of hair to the girl’s armpit. Bored of drawing, I suggested we do something that was actually fun. “Like what?” Gyuri asked. “Come here,” I said. I opened the shoe cabinet, got out the toolbox, and rummaged through it. Once I found what I was looking for, I went into the bathroom and called out to Gyuri. She hesitated before stepping in.

        “What are you gonna do?”

        “Something fun.”

        “Don’t do anything weird.”

        “Like what?”

        “Ugh. I don’t like this.”

        Fear was written all over Gyuri’s face. Come to think of it, Gyuri had been a sensitive child; always the quickest to sense the uneasiness between what was happening and what was about to happen. Whenever I was reminded of her, I’d wonder what her parents were like.

        In the toilet, I switched off the lights and shut the door. With a lighter, I lit the giant candle. A faint light flickered in the darkness, softly illuminating Gyuri’s face in the mirror. I stood before the door so that Gyuri couldn’t escape. I knew 
that she still slept with a light on—a secret she’d trusted me with.

        “You know the song ‘Running’?”

        “Duh.”

        “They say it’s real.”

        “Real?”

        “Yeah. If you light a candle in the dark and sing it, the main character of the song will appear in the mirror.”

        “He’s dead?”

        I nodded solemnly. “It’s actually a song about suicide.” I whispered the last word. Gyuri darted towards the door, but I blocked her with my body and started to sing.

        Are you tired of it all? Are you struggling? Are you losing your breath? Well, it can’t be helped. You’ve already started.

        Gyuri began to panic. The desire to make her scream bubbled inside me.

        . . . I promise you this: there will be an end. And you can rest for a long, long time. Rest till you get sick of it.
 

        Gyuri let out a ghastly shriek and bolted towards me, knocking the candle out of my grasp. Hot wax leapt onto her. Just then, the door opened with a click and light flooded in. I raised my hand to shield my eyes. Sunjeong. Rounded with shock, my aunt’s eyes shifted between me and Gyuri. Gyuri was bawling as if she’d lost her wits. The neck of her T-shirt was loose and drooping over one shoulder, revealing the wax that had splattered onto her neck and down to her collarbone. Her skin was red and swollen. While Gyuri gasped for air, Sunjeong stroked her back to calm her.

        Then, Sunjeong slapped me on the cheek.

        My world quivered. So did I.

*    

When we came upon the hill near my house, I brought it up. Once after walking me home, Su’s battery had died. I’d had no choice but to invite him up. Gomo had been home that day. While I was in the bathroom, she had gotten out a notebook and jotted down his name and phone number. A few months later, Su had received a call from her.

        My aunt had asked if he would go through some “finance-related problem” with her. “Did she use those exact words?” I asked. Su nodded. I felt embarrassed for judging him so rashly. According to Su, Gomo had bought an insurance plan with the post office in 2000. Within three months of signing up, she was diagnosed with cancer. Since there was no way to ascertain if she had bought the plan after her diagnosis, she received her payout. With that, she was able to pay for treatment, and the fees for the remaining 238 months of her plan were waived. When her insurance term ended after twenty years, she got back her pay-out. Su had helped with the latter.

        “Why you, though?”

        “How would I know?”

        The tinge of defiance in his voice was so Su-like. Whenever 
he took that tone with me, annoyance would cloud my face. Why wouldn’t you know? You should. Who else would?

        “She could’ve asked my dad. Or my mom. Or me.”

        “She said family isn’t to be trusted.”

        I tried to keep my cool, but the thought that Gomo had 
said something like that angered me. “What else did she say?” I pressed. Su hesitated before telling me everything. They’d met at the residents’ center to print out the documents required to claim her premiums. It’d been especially hot that summer day, but the office was cold, so they bought two hot coffees from the vending machine and slurped on them slowly. Lowering their masks with each sip.

        After they got the documents, Gomo suggested they have lunch. They went to a kongguksu restaurant and ordered two bowls of noodles. Gomo had hers with sugar, while Su spooned salt into his. Su never ate his kongguksu with kimchi, but Gomo plopped a generous portion on top of Su’s noodles. This irked him at first, but after having a bite, he ended up asking twice for a refill.

        Since Gomo was insistent on receiving her premiums in cash, they ended up waiting in yet another freezing office. As before, they bought piping hot coffees and blew on them. There hadn’t been much for Su to do, actually. He’d practically gone for a free bowl of noodles.

        Feeling sheepish for whatever reason, Su had kept his eyes glued to his coffee before asking, “What was Seonghye like as a child?”

        Gomo didn’t answer his question. Instead, she said, “That girl loves her mother an awful lot.”

        Then she started rambling. She said that when I’d broken out in a high fever when I was three, she’d put me on her back and run to the hospital. That whenever she’d ask, “Who do you love the most in the world?” I’d answer, “Sunjeong?” That when lice had spread in my daycare, she’d spent the entire night picking out the tiny bugs from my hair. At last, it was Gomo’s turn. As Su watched her walk up to the counter, exhaustion crashed over him. Gomo had filled a duffel bag with twenty million won in notes and casually handed it to Su. ‘Trusting a stranger instead of her family. Funny old woman,’ Su thought to himself. Chuckling to himself, Su confessed that he’d  imagined taking off with the money.

*    

Before I graduated elementary school and we moved, Sunjeong and I always shared a room. Without even a proper desk, I’d lie on my belly to read or do homework. We’d go to bed around ten, but before that, Sunjeong would pray before her statue of Mary and take her pills. She was suffering from bipolar disorder, and having taken prescription medicine for a long time, she knew how the different pills could change her mood. Like a cool-headed pharmacist, she’d combine different pills, wrap them in dissolvable paper, and swallow them. “This is the only way I can swallow them all at once,” she’d explained.

        “What’s that?”

        “Edible paper.”

        “How does it taste?”

        “It doesn’t taste like anything.”

        But Sunjeong made her medicine look so delicious. The way she folded them up, you’d think she was wrapping meat in lettuce. After praying and taking her medicine, she’d lie down under the covers. Her eyes would grow hazy. Her movements slowed. I’d tuck in my drowsy aunt, switch off the lights, and lie down beside her.

        Once, before I drifted off, I heard her voice.

        “Seonghye-ya.”

        “Yeah?”

        “Who do you like more? Minae or me?”

        “You.”

        “Sangnam or me?”

        “You.”

        “Gyuri or me?”

        “You.”

        “What if I died?”

        “You can’t!”

        “What if I fell into the ocean and died a horrible death?”

        “Please don’t.”

        “What if a motorbike crashed into me and crushed all my bones?”

        I started to cry. Sunjeong would always ask me such questions until I burst into tears. Then she’d pull me into her arms and whisper, If I ever get sick, you have to look after me, okay? I’d nod fervently, and then we’d fall asleep.

        Sunjeong was a heavy sleeper. Once, I’d slapped her cheeks, worried that she’d died. She also moved a lot in her sleep, and despite how careful she was with me when she was awake, there had been a few times when she’d unconsciously rammed her elbow into my face.

        Sunjeong’s pills had looked extra delicious that day. While she was asleep, I lit the candle beside her statue of Mary, opened her drawer, and took out the pastel-colored pills. Very carefully, I took out a sheet of edible paper. As if I were making the tastiest ssam, I chose the prettiest pills and laid them on the paper. Then, I wrapped them up in the shape of a cute tofu rice ball and swallowed them with the last bit of water Sunjeong had left earlier. I knelt, brought my hands together, and prayed. The way Sunjeong did. Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women. Blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.

        All at once, I felt as if blood was rushing out from my body. I felt whole. Complete. Perhaps my unhappiness stems from knowing that I will never again experience that sense of fullness. Shortly afterward, I lost consciousness. I woke up four days later. My parents were staring at me and Sunjeong was crying. Mom grabbed a fistful of Sunjeong’s hair. I still remember the scene so clearly. Back then, I’d felt quite pleased with myself.

        Twenty years later, though it’s nothing compared to Sunjeong, I myself have started on anti-depressants. Because 
with my pittance of a salary it seemed like my quality of life would always be shit. Because I didn’t own a house of my own but other people were living in palaces. Because they got rich without lifting a finger. Because I despised my partner. My heart emptied out in a million different ways. Once, during dinner, wearing a solemn expression, my father had said: mental illness is genetic. Genetic.

*    

We’d reached my place, but, reluctant to go home, we went to the convenience store and each bought a can of beer. I picked ale, and Su, lager. It was late. Seeing no one around, we allowed ourselves a cigarette. “That really hits the spot,” chuckled Su. Then, as if he’d just remembered something, he pointed his index finger at me.

        “Your gomo gave me a hundred thousand won. For going with her.”

        “But that’s not why I think she was a good person,” Su added. After their first meeting, Gomo started to call Su almost every day. I gave my entire life to Sangnam, you know. How can he be so, so heartless? You know what Minae is like? Whatever she said, it always ended with “Seonghye loves her mother an awful lot.” When Su said, “That’s why I met up with her twice after that,” I flared up.

        “Why meet her if you don’t like her?”

        “I never said I didn’t like her.”

        “You said she was troublesome. It’s okay to say it. I found her troublesome my whole life.”

        “It’s because she was lonely.”

        “You’re not responsible for her loneliness.”

        “Do I have to be to look after her?”

        I didn’t know what to say to that. I thought Su was always acting nice. Perhaps “acting” wasn’t the right word, but there was no way of describing what he was doing more accurately. Su truly believed that he was being genuine, but I knew that he wasn’t and desperately hoped he’d come to realize it. But Su insisted that I was distorting and misunderstand his intentions. Likewise, I thought he was the one distorting and misunderstanding his intentions so that he could live life happily. But these days, I wonder if perhaps he’s simply someone who lives his life constantly reflecting on what’s the best attitude to keep. Whatever that attitude is, mine will always be anchored to pain, depression, and yearning.

        Just as I’d expected, after the “Running” incident, Gyuri sent me a long email. I deleted it unread. I didn’t want to be reminded of all the times we’d cried together, sharing stories about our families. I realized then that sharing one’s secrets with someone close was no different from handing them a weapon. If I’d sent Gyuri an email, this would’ve been my opening line: I knew you’d betray me. You’re your mother’s daughter, after all.

        “They say mental illness is passed down through the maternal genes.”

        That sentence had broken me. It had severed the affection between me and Su. We had been at a PC room playing computer games and chatting about our irrational fears. The fear of sleeping with a leg sticking out of the blanket, of imperfect circles, of thunder. We both sucked at video games, so we played only practice rounds and prattled on through our headsets. Then I felt the urge to say it. In a tone that emphasized it was all in the past. Aiming my cursor at my opponent’s head, I said, “In elementary school, I was sure that I was suffering from severe mental illness.” Su was well aware of Gomo’s condition. That’s probably why he’d said it. That I was lucky to have avoided her genes.

        I, of course, knew that the correlation between mental illness and maternal genes wasn’t scientifically proven. And like Su had said before, I didn’t think that my aunt occupied any big part in my depression. But Gomo had said that our pinky toes were exactly alike.

        There was definitely something that Gomo and I shared. It could be something I’d inherited, or something stirred up by a combination of her spiritual wafer and the gentle strokes of her wrinkled hand. My gomo who doted on me hated my mom, whom I loved most in the world; my mom whom I loved most in the world was miserable because of my gomo who doted on me; and my dad, who was loved by everyone including me, must’ve realized that the problem would go unsolved until one of us died. And so he became someone who would say, “Mental illness is genetic.” So that he could live on. Somehow.

        And somehow, that day, I’d glossed over what Su had said. But his words leeched onto me. Why did he say it like that? I love him so much, and he loves me, too. So why did he say that as if he were a stranger? The words “maternal genes” left a severe impact on me. If maternal genes were to blame for this mental war I was fighting, then all the pain I’d endured could be substituted with “Mom’s flawed genetics,” and the mental disorder that had plagued Gomo’s life could be substituted with “Grandma’s flawed genetics.”

        But here’s what I know—Mom and Gomo had passed onto me an awful lot of love. Though I don’t know the exact nature of their love. Nor do I know how much of their love and flaws constitute me. In high school, fearing that I’d inherited mental illness, I’d go around checking up on my friends so that I could confirm that nothing weird was happening inside me. I never went to a clinic; thanks to my aunt’s influence, my family harbored a deep mistrust of psychiatric medication.

        Su told me about the other times he met my aunt. They’d eaten ice cream at McDonald’s and had tea at Insadong. At some point, Gomo had stopped complaining, and talked instead about her matchmaking days. “What was it that she 
said about that guy?” Su asked. “That he spat in the ashtray,” I replied dryly. The last time Su met Gomo, she’d handed him the robot vacuum cleaner in a giant plastic bag. He’d tried to refuse, but it was useless. Gomo had refused his refusal, saying that the bugger was a good housekeeper, and that all he had to do was give its button a push. Then, she’d suddenly asked, “Are you going to marry Seonghye?” While Su wracked his brains for an appropriate response, Gomo had leaned in and whispered: “They treat me like an outsider.”

*    

I remember feeling bitter when I was putting up Gomo’s obituary and preparing for her funeral. Distant friends and relatives had asked how she died, and I only realized later that they’d all assumed she’d eventually die of suicide. I snorted. Looks like they didn’t know a thing about Gomo. Because she was a woman who wanted nothing more than to live. She stuck fast to health foods, took all her supplements, went on walks to get her vitamin D, and despite her love for smoking, she only allowed herself a stick a day. Even though she’d act as if she didn’t care if she died.

        “We’ve been out for so long. What time is it,” I asked Su. “Past four. The sun’s about to come up,” he said. “You still have things to yap about?” I asked jokingly. Su let out a shy laugh.

        “Thanks for the vacuum cleaner,” I said. “Just in time, actually. My house is a mess.”

        Su rolled his eyes. Then he nodded. We threw out our empty cans. I insisted on waiting with him for his taxi, but 
Su wanted to walk me to my doorstep. The darkness overhead was slowly lifting. Suddenly, thick streams of rain began to pour. We ran to the parking lot and found shelter. The rain pummeled down, strong enough to demolish the crummy walk-up. Su and I cowered from the cold. He looked scared.

        “By the way, I think you have to send the vacuum cleaner for repair,” Su said, his eyes fixed on a white Tesla getting drenched in the rain.

        I, too, kept my gaze on the car and wondered why there were always so many foreign cars here. “Repairs? Why?” I asked. Su took a deep breath.

        “It was working fine for a while. But then it started ramming into things. I was really shocked at first. It was like it wanted to break itself.”

        I laughed, “Dying to go out for a stroll, maybe.” Su didn’t find my joke funny. He said the vacuum cleaner had charged into the sink and caused a glass to shatter. “Did you try turning it on and off?” I asked. For the first time in a while, Su got angry.

        “You think I didn’t try that?”

        “Did you get scared?”

        “Scared? It’s not that simple. You wouldn’t be saying this if you’d seen it for yourself. That vacuum cleaner was mad at me. It was trying to show me something.”

        I realized it then. Got something to give you. What Su had 
meant in his text was, Got something to give you. Something that you, rather than I, should be responsible for. In that moment, my mind cleared. When a person has been chased out, the best thing they can do is to put themselves first. But I’d always hoped that, if we ever found ourselves on the edge of a cliff, Su would put me first.

        After the funeral, while Mom and Dad were cleaning out Gomo’s closet, they’d found the duffel bag full of cash. Inside was a letter. Please give this to my son Sanghoon. Sanghoon was Gomo’s stepson, the child of the man who’d driven her out of their home. Gomo would often bring him up when she drank. He shouldn’t be with his father, I should’ve taken him with me. I shouldn’t have escaped alone. At the edge of the cliff, Gomo had put herself first. Eternal guilt was the price to pay.

        Our family thought about what to do with the money. I didn’t feel betrayed. Neither did Mom nor Dad. In fact, I almost felt at peace.

        I tapped on Su’s shoulder. He was looking gloomy. “Thanks. For being honest with me,” I said. Su muttered, “It was really strange, I’m telling you.” I imagined the robot vacuum cleaner scuttling around Gomo’s room, crowded and musty with memories of the past.

        “It’s raining so hard,” Su sulked.

        He was asking to be invited up. I considered it for a moment before deciding no.

        Once I got home, I showered, made myself tea, and switched on the vacuum cleaner. I set it to mapping mode, and immediately it started exploring the layout of my house. As I sipped on my tea, I stared at the scratches and dents on the machine. Then, I switched on the electric heating pad. I hoped sleep would wash over me quickly. Gomo said that if you sleep for more than ten hours, your head will start to feel fuzzy. But I liked that feeling.

        Just as I was about to fall asleep, I was woken up by a distant thunk, thunk, thunk. For the first time, I felt what it was like to be right on the margin of unconsciousness. When I forced my eyes open, Sunjeong’s vacuum cleaner was driving its body into the wall. Su was right. It really wasn’t a problem that could be fixed by turning the machine on and off. I stood rooted to the floor before running up to the machine. My attempts to hit the off button were futile. I grabbed the vacuum cleaner and held it against my chest. Its little wheels spun uselessly.

        Gomo would often break things, and sometimes she beat Dad. Two things I’d never told anyone. When her cancer recurred, she lost strength. She became stick thin and her breath stank. Upon her admission to the hospital, she was completely bedridden. It was as if she’d used up every last drop of energy. Before her death, she didn’t speak 
a word; she struggled to even breathe. All she did was stare—not at Dad, not at me. At Mom. At last, she spoke, soft as a sigh, “Minae-ya.” Then, she closed her eyes. No one shed a tear. But in that moment, I knew that our memories—wet and musty—were all tangling up with each other. Because Mom had said, “Me too.”

Translated by Gene Png

* The song that the narrator sings is Yoon Sang’s “Running” (Park Changhak, 2000).