…

…

It was dark and quiet in Geum Jan-di’s bedroom. She sat huddled on the large leather chair in the corner, hugging her knees. On the wall, the clock ticked out the seconds. She focused on the small sound.  …tick…tick…tick… She didn’t notice when the seconds rolled into minutes, or when the minutes gathered into hours. She just let the sound wash over her, let it swell inside of her, wordless and impersonal, pushing out all other thoughts.

…tick…tick…tick…tick…

Jan-di’s eyes were dry. She felt… she cast around for a word. Numb. Yes. That was it. She was numb, and she welcomed it. From the moment Secretary Cha had shown up at her door the day before yesterday, his sorrowful eyes b with unshed tears as he haltingly unpacked the weight of his terrible news, she had been like this. She couldn’t make the words make sense. They broke against her like waves. The plane… mechanical malfunction… wreckage… all passengers lost… Jun-pyo… Jun-pyo…

At the thought of his name, the image of his face swam before her eyes, and she felt a tiny pressure at the edge of the numbness, something trying to break through. She pushed it away. …tick…tick…tick…tick… The pressure receded. She closed her eyes.

She remembered once, as a little girl, she had taken a terrible spill from her bicycle. She had hit a curb and gone flying over the handlebars, landing in a scraped up heap on the concrete. It had knocked the wind out of her. For long seconds, she had lain in the dirt, silently opening and closing , struggling to draw a breath that wouldn’t come. The silence was deceptive; anyone watching from far away might have assumed she was fine. But it wasn’t peace; it was paralysis. When oxygen finally filled her starved lungs, she had wailed with such force that neighbors came out of their homes to see who was hurting the poor child.

This quiet detachment she felt now reminded her of that moment of paralysis, as if her whole being was trapped in a cocoon of airlessness, trying and failing to draw breath. She wondered what would happen when that breath came, and found that she was afraid. She hugged her knees more tightly and listened to the clock.

…tick…

…

In the living room of Jun-pyo’s and Jan-di’s apartment, a whispered conference was taking place.

“She’s still not talking,” worried Ga-eul. Her brow creased with frustration. “I just wish I knew what I could do for her.”

Jan-di’s mother, Na Gong-joo, placed a comforting hand on Ga-eul’s arm. “I know you do.” She knew from sad experience that there wasn’t a “right” thing to say at a time like this. Some hurts were so deep, so profound, that the mind simply couldn’t bear them all at once. Her heart ached for her sweet daughter. Though she was in the next room, she was unreachable. All they could do was wait for her to come back to them.

Yi-jung seemed almost as worried as his wife. “Should we take her to a hospital?”

“No, not yet,” Gong-joo replied. “She’s physically okay, I think. Maybe Ji-hoo’s grandfather could come over and just check on her.” At least she’s still eating, Gong-joo thought. Jan-di didn’t ask for anything, but neither did she fight them when they drew her out of her room and sat her down at the table for meals. She ate mechanically, scooping food into , chewing and swallowing each bite without comment, until her bowl was empty. “She’s just reeling from the shock. Grief is different with everyone.” Gong-joo tried to draw comfort from her own words. She’d never seen her daughter like this.

Ga-eul sighed. “Well, Hee-jin can stay at our house as long as she needs to. Ma-ru has been enjoying having another child to play with. He follows her around like she hung the moon.” Tears sprang to Ga-eul’s eyes at the thought of Hee-jin. The little girl didn’t even know yet that anything was wrong. No one thought it was their place to tell her that her appa was not coming home, and Jan-di was certainly in no state to do it.

“Thank you,” said Gong-joo. “I know she should be with family right now, but…” She left the sentence unfinished. The fact was that there were no family members who could take her at the moment. Gong-joo was caring for Jan-di, Jun-pyo’s father was ill, and Kang Hee-soo… well, at the news of her son’s death, she had unwound like a broken toy. When she heard that Jun-pyo’s plane had gone down, something had snapped inside of her. She had screamed and fallen upon the messenger from the airline like an avenging spirit, gouging his arms with her long fingernails before her personal assistant could push himself between them. “That’s not true!” she shrieked, “It’s not true!” Flying around the room, she hurled vases and sculptures and everything that she could lay her hands on, destroying an antique china cabinet and breaking three windows. The storm, rather than blowing itself out, only increased in intensity, and her hoarse screams echoed through the halls of the large house until all the servants were in hiding, wondering what demon had possessed their normally cool and taciturn mistress. Her assistant called emergency services; police subdued her and medics on the scene sedated her and put her to bed as, even in her drugged sleep, she moaned over and over, “It’s not true! It’s not true!” Jun-hee, Jun-pyo’s older sister, though racked with grief herself, had flown in to care for her suddenly feeble mother.

No, Hee-jin was better off with Ga-eul and Yi-jung for now.

The door to the apartment opened, and they all turned their heads to see Song Woo-bin walk in. “I got word from my sources,” said Woo-bin grimly. “They definitely found pieces of the fuselage floating in the ocean, but they haven’t yet been able to locate the main body of the plane. A trench cuts right through the ocean floor in that area, and they think the wreckage may have disappeared into it.” His voice betrayed him, shaking a little as he added, “There’s a chance they’ll never recover the bodies.”

Silence permeated the room as they all sank miserably into their own morbid thoughts. It was still so hard to believe that Jun-pyo—loud, funny, loyal, passionate, maddening Jun-pyo—was gone from this world. How could it be? And what could they possibly do to ease the pain of the wife and child he’d left behind?

After a few minutes, during which no one felt like talking, Yi-jung and Ga-eul rose and quietly excused themselves. They needed to get home and relieve Yi-jung’s mother, who was watching the children. With a hug for Gong-joo and a concerned glance at Jan-di’s bedroom door, they left. Gong-joo invited Woo-bin to stay for dinner. Friends and neighbors had brought over more food than the family could eat, so there was plenty to share. Woo-bin thanked her, but declined. “I have to go to the Gu family home and tell Jun-hee what I’ve found out, precious little though it is.” He bowed to Gong-joo and left, gently closing the door behind him before heading to the elevator and stepping inside. He stabbed at the button for the parking level with barely uncharacteristic fury. He felt completely helpless for the first time in his life, and it frustrated him. He was out of his element. There was no enemy here for him to fight. Death had reached out an invisible hand and stolen one of his best friends, and there was nothing he could do about it. If only there was someone he could hit, some monster he could kill, perhaps the strangled, suffocating feeling in his chest would go away. The elevator doors opened, and he crossed the darkened parking garage toward his car, hoping that someone would get in his way.

…

After everyone had gone, Jan-di’s mother stood alone in the quiet room and succumbed to tears. Her poor daughter, her precious granddaughter—in an instant, life had changed for both of them. No one knew better than she did how difficult it was to recover from the loss of a father. Gong-joo’s father had died of cancer when she was a girl of nine. Her mother had tried to be both father and mother to her, but nothing could cover up the hole that was made by his passing. She remembered hearing her mother’s quiet weeping many nights after Gong-joo had gone to bed, first in grief and then sometimes in loneliness as years passed. She had never remarried. Were those endless lonely nights to be Jan-di’s fate as well?

Drying her eyes, Gong-joo went into the kitchen and started opening containers so she could heat up some food. Jan-di’s father, Il-bong, would be working late tonight, so she only set out enough for herself and Jan-di. She filled a tray with a little bit of everything and shouldered her way into her daughter’s bedroom. Jan-di was still sitting in the chair in the corner, looking as if she hadn’t moved in hours. Only the tiniest flicker of her eyes showed that she knew her mother had entered the room. Gong-joo set the tray down on the table next to the chair, arranging the side dishes around the bowl of japchae. “Jan-di-ah, you need to eat,” she said, placing the chopsticks in her hand. Obediently, Jan-di turned toward the tray and began scooping up mouthfuls of noodles. After watching her for a few moments, Gong-joo turned away, moisture gathering in her eyes.

…

Ji-hoo paused in the hallway outside Jan-di’s front door. He had come straight from the airport, sending his bags ahead to his house. On the cab ride over, he’d talked briefly to Yi-jong on the phone, so he had an idea of what waited for him on the other side of that door. What he didn’t know was what he could do to help. What words did you use when words were useless? It didn’t matter. The woman whose friendship meant more to him than his own life was hurt and afraid, and he was going to be whatever it was she needed for as long as she needed it. Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand and knocked.

The door swung open, and Jan-di’s mother was standing there. The look of surprise on her face was quickly superseded by one he didn’t expect: relief. He bowed. “Na Gong-joo-ssi.” She took his hands warmly and pulled him into the apartment, her sad eyes never leaving his face. “Ji-hoo-ssi. I am glad you’re here.” Gesturing for him to be comfortable, she went into the kitchen area and began bustling around. “Have you eaten?” she asked, already pulling together dishes.

“I have,” he answered, opting not to sit down. Instead, he asked her tentatively, “How is Jan-di?”

A shadow flicked across her eyes. “I don’t know. She won’t talk. She won’t cry. It’s as if she’s checked out. I know it must be the shock, but I don’t know what to do for her.” Gong-joo looked miserable. The worry was taking its toll on her.

“May I… see her?” he whispered.

Gong-joo nodded. “It can’t hurt.” She led Ji-hoo over to Jan-di’s room and opened the door. Jan-di had finished eating and had returned to her curled up position in the room’s only chair. She appeared to be staring off into space. Shaking her head, Jan-di’s mother left them alone, closing the door softly behind her.

Ji-hoo was taken aback by the state of Jan-di’s appearance. Her hair was stringy and uncombed, pulled back into a messy ponytail. Her face was drawn, her cheeks hollow. The sweatshirt she was wearing was covered with food stains. He vaguely wondered if it was what she’d been wearing when the news came. Even now, she seemed unaware of his presence. It was as if the spark of life in her had temporarily fled, leaving this empty, breathing shell behind.

It scared him badly.

He strode forward and knelt down in front of her. Reaching out, he took both of her hands and clasped them between his own, willing his warmth and life into the pale, still fingers. His gaze never left her face. Slowly, Jan-di raised her eyes to meet his.

She blinked. “Sunbae?” she asked in the voice of a bewildered child, her lip trembling slightly.

“I’m here.” It was all he knew to say.

“Sunbae?” she said again, and it came out as a whimper this time. He couldn’t stop looking at her eyes as awareness bloomed in them, quickly followed by a dawning horror. She looked at him. “Sunbae—Jun-pyo is… he’s…” A shudder ran through her small body. “Jun-pyo is…” Her voice faded into near silence and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

“I know,” he said miserably, wanting to save her the anguish of speaking it out loud, but she squeezed his fingers to stop him from continuing. Opening her eyes, she tried again.

“Sunbae, Jun-pyo is… dead.” As if the words had broken some seal inside her, sudden tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over, wetting her dry cheeks. A convulsive sob racked her body, followed by another. Soon she was sobbing in earnest, loudly gasping for breath as wave after wave of delayed sorrow poured out of her in a torrent.

Ji-hoo’s heart twisted inside him at the sound of Jan-di’s pain, and without a thought, he threw his arms around her, holding her tightly within their protective circle, as if he alone could keep her from blowing away in the tempest. Her cries tore at him, and somewhere in the midst of the maelstrom, he found that he was crying right along with her. “Jun-pyo,” his tormented mind cried out, “how can you be gone? What will happen to her without you?”

The hurricane of grief raged through them for an interminable time; it could have been minutes or hours. Ji-hoo knew that it was only the beginning of her tears, but three days of exhaustion had finally come to claim Jan-di. Her sobs grew gradually quieter and quieter, until all that was left was her deep, hitching breaths, broken here and there with faint echoes of tears.

He wanted to hold her longer, but she needed rest. Her eyelids were already closing when Ji-hoo lifted her onto her bed. He unfolded the quilt lying on the ottoman and tenderly covered her with it. When he turned around to leave the room, he saw Jan-di’s mother standing in the doorway, gratitude shining on her face.

…

The memorial service was held the next day. Jan-di wept throughout the ceremony, her grief finally given a voice. Little Hee-jin, dressed in a tiny black hanbok, solemnly held her grandmother’s hand and allowed herself to be led through the ritual bowing. The remaining three members of the F4 stood in the place of the sangju. It was an untraditional arrangement, but no one who saw the loss and pain on their faces could say that they weren’t family. To Ji-hoo, the day passed in a haze of surrealism. Could this actually be happening? As he looked at his best friend’s photo, hung with black ribbon, his mind kept flashing through their shared memories: Jun-pyo breaking his toy robot, the four of them playing hide-and-seek in the Gu mansion, Secretary Jung catching them smoking in the back garden during an F4 sleepover when they were 13, Jun-pyo punching Ji-hoo in the Macao airport, Jun-pyo asking him to watch over Jan-di and protect her. Thanks to Jun-pyo, Ji-hoo had never felt like an only child. And now his brother was gone. His heart hurt in a way that he hadn’t felt since his parents died, so many years ago.

If he was tempted to cope with this pain in the same way, by withdrawing into his own private world, one look at Jan-di, so small and vulnerable as she reached out to draw her child to her side, would not allow it. “Watch over her,” Jun-pyo had said to him on that day so long ago.

And that was what Ji-hoo intended to do.

…

…