Page 107 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

“No. She’ll see us.” I tuck Mom’s hand into the crook of my elbow. Not for the first time, I note how fragile it feels. She’s getting older. Is this how I want to spend my time? Being angry with the woman who loved and raised me all of my years. It’s a question I asked myself all night. I’m still mad but I resolve to be less of a bitch. We settle into a taxi, and after I show the driver a photo of the IF Group address, he takes off.

“Where are your pictures?” Mom makes a give me gesture with her fingers pointed up and it catches me off guard because for nearly two weeks all I’ve seen is people making the same motion with the same meaning but with their fingers pointed down.

“I lost my phone. Didn’t I text you that? I haven’t downloaded the old ones onto my new phone yet.”

“Oh, that’s right. I hope it wasn’t too expensive. Did you have phone insurance? They say that’s a scam, you know, but it sounds like you could’ve used it.”

I glance at the device in my hand. Yujun said he bought this but I wonder if it was Wansu’s doing. “I had phone insurance.” I mean, Wansu had paid for it as she’d paid for so many things in the past that I didn’t know about. Before Ellen can ask any more unintentionally discomfiting questions, I tell her about Namsan and the Seoul Tower, eating soondubu jjigae, shopping in the underground. I make it sound like my days were busy doing touristy things and not traipsing all over Seoul looking for my birth mother.

The trip to Yongsan-gu is quick, which is good because my list of sightseeing in Seoul is pitifully short for a nearly two-week stay and I was running out of commentary. Oddly, there’s a crowd in front of the building and many of them are holding signs.

“What does it say?” Ellen asks.

“No clue.” I squint as if that will help my brain decipher the Hangul better, but while I recognize the characters, I don’t have the vocabulary to figure out the meaning.

In front of what looks like a group of protestors are people with cameras and handheld microphones. What had Bomi told me that one day in the café? Protesting is a Korean hobby. We will protest anything from our favorite yogurt drink being discontinued to ousting a corrupt president. It works and so we keep doing it.

“Protesting is part of a Korean’s DNA.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Ellen replies, stepping lightly out of the cab.

“That’s what I said!” I exclaim as I climb out behind her.

Mom pats my face. “Because you’re my child.”

At my mother’s praise, a reflexive smile appears before I remember to squash it, but when I wipe the appreciation off my face, Mom appears crestfallen. Going forward is not going to be easy.

There’s a hush in the crowd noise, and suddenly the cameras are pointing in our direction. I look over my shoulder but there’s no one there. The doors to IF Group slam open and Bomi comes rushing out. There’s an urgency in her face that I can read even from here. Something isn’t right here.

“Let’s go, Mom,” I urge. We need to get inside.

Ellen’s confusion causes her to fight me for a second. The crowd of cameras swings around to close in on Bomi. “We need to go now.”

I grab Mom’s hand, cover my eyes, and pull her toward the front door. Bomi emerges from the pack and waves her fingers—pointed down—for me to hurry. “Ppalli ppalli,” I can hear her saying. Hurry.

“Is there something wrong?”

“I think so but I don’t know what.”

The reporters shout at Bomi, who ignores them. “Please come inside.” Her fingers close around my wrist at about the same time I see something white and small hurtle toward us.

“Bomi,” I shout, but it’s too late. The thing strikes the girl on the side of the head. Yellow slimy egg yolk explodes across her shiny black hair. She raises a hand and it comes away sticky and gross.

Mom stops and tries to find the perpetrator. “Who did that?” she shouts. “That’s entirely not okay.”

“No. No. It’s fine. Come inside,” Bomi begs. Another projectile flies through the air, but now an army of black-suited men appears and drags us inside before any of us can get pelted again. The reporters press against the glass front windows like zombie ghouls trying to claw inside to eat the undead. A handful of gawking office workers mill around, trying not to stare but not fully succeeding.

“Are you okay?” I reach up and try to flick some of the gooey mess onto the ground. Better that it’s on the tile floor than dripping onto Bomi’s black suit.

Bomi ducks away from my hand. “Yes. I’m fine. Are you okay? You didn’t get hit by anything, did you?” She tries to inspect me.

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