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The air is quiet and the atmosphere is filled with sombre undertones. The lack of music in his car further fuels the silence between them; but it is in this silence that he hears the unspoken words and distress emitting from the woman beside him.
Ikjun steals another glance from the corner of his eyes; she has not spoken a single word since she got into his car. He knows as much that there are probably a multitude of thoughts tangled in harsh, maybe even merciless, knots in her head -- and he is worried.
Her hands are clasped together tightly on her lap, as if she is muttering a silent prayer. She looks ahead, her expression barely readable except for the streaks of pain and remorse he sees whenever the street lights outside reflect against her eyes. It pains him to have to see her in this state; so small and devastated over something she has not seen coming.
She’s beating herself up and he knows it.
Ikjun opens his mouth, then closes it again. His jaw hardens. He wonders how to break the silence in the air. There are things he wants to tell her, things he wants to show; but it just doesn’t feel right. Ikjun sucks in his breath, mentally shaking his head; this isn’t about what he wants to do. It is about what she needs. And at this very moment, space, he deduces, is what she probably needs. So he decides not to say anything in the end, resorting to just monitoring her from his peripheral vision.
At the very least, he thanks the heavens for nudging him towards dropping by her office earlier that evening; he’d finished his shift and remembered she was probably done with surgery. What pushed him to make a trip to her office had been the confidence that she was likely hungry and in need of food.
Seeing her tear stricken face, distraught in the way her eyebrows were furrowed together, was the last thing he would have expected, and Ikjun remembers his heart plummeting to the ground when she told him what had happened.
To be so vulnerable and alone at the first break of bad news -- he couldn’t imagine what would have happened had he not decided to ask if she wanted dinner.
“Four times,”
His thoughts are interrupted as he blinks in mild surprise, taken aback. The silence is broken by merely two words, and all that comes out of his mouth is confusion. “Huh?”
There’s a short pause, and Ikjun waits. He waits for her to open up again, knowing this isn’t easy for her.
“My mum called me four times last week,” Songhwa finally exhales, “and each conversation barely lasted five minutes.”
His frown deepens, the crease in his forehead apparent. Ikjun knows where this conversation is headed, and all he could do is to purse his lips to form a thin line. This isn’t his story to tell nor interrupt, so he keeps silent.
“In all of those times, I was the one that ended the calls. I had outpatients. I had to do rounds. I had to scrub in for surgery.” Her calm demeanour starts to falter when he senses the break in her voice, “She asked if we could have dinner together earlier, but do you know what I said?”
Ikjun holds onto his breath, shaking his head slightly.
“I told her I had to go.” Fresh tears well up in her eyelids, fast and relentless. She covers one hand shakily over her mouth, as if such an action could quench the ache pounding repeatedly in her heart. “I told her I had to go and I ended the call there and then without waiting for her reply. Ikjun-ah, what sort of daughter am I that I couldn’t even spare my mum five minutes of my time?”
Again, it is another question he knows she doesn’t need an answer to. Timing seems to be on his side for once, when the traffic light turns red and he pulls to a gradual stop. He takes this opportunity to look at her fully, keeping his eyes trained on her expression, the way her lips quiver in frustration.
Songhwa meets his gaze briefly. She tries to smile.
“Did you read Yoo Gyeongjin’s recent interview?” She asks.
The violinist that she operated on a year ago, Ikjun thinks. He gives her a nod as a reply, and that prompts Songhwa to continue.
“She called me an exceptional doctor, the finest neurosurgeon in our country.” A pause, then a scoff. “What a load of bullshit.”
The pang in his heart returns. He could almost feel the way she is feeling, and Ikjun shakes his head once, muttering softly, “Yah …”
Songhwa ignores the light warning, harsh words already stumbling out of her lips. “What sort of ‘exceptional’ neurosurgeon can’t even tell that her mom is ill?” She inhales sharply. “What sort of ‘exceptional’ doctor am I that I disregarded my mum’s symptoms when Professor Choi could tell from the moment she saw her that something was off?”
“Songhwa-ya,” Ikjun finally finds his voice, even though it comes off more like a whisper, “You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Parkinson’s disease!” At that, Songhwa snaps, her tone raised. He flinches in reflex. “It’s my field of study, Ikjun-ah! Sixteen years. I have sixteen years of experience, yet I didn’t see it, didn’t even suspect ,”
He keeps mum. She continues.
“My mom has been suffering, and all I could say was that she was paranoid and needed reassurance?” Songhwa shakes her head in disgust, blinking back hot and angry tears. “What was I doing ?”
He remembers their conversation during camping, remembers all their exchanges about their respective mothers. They had laughed then. But now, there’s only a large lump in their throats.
Ikjun doesn’t reply, not at once anyway. He knows that she isn’t seeking an answer to her question, so he whispers instead, “We tend to turn a blind eye when it comes to our own family’s state of affairs and conditions.” He pauses. “It’s human tendency.”
Songhwa considers his words carefully, even though she feels a surge of frustration when she hisses a few seconds later, “ Why ? Why is that so?”
“We can’t see everything . We’re only human.” Ikjun’s reply comes two beats after. “You’re only human, Songhwa-ya.”
She squeezes her eyes shut tightly, turning her head away from him, one hand in her hair. It signifies the end of a conversation, and Ikjun respects her far too much to start a new one. The traffic light turns green, and he pulls his gaze back to the road.
They fall into another silence after that, his words replaying in her mind over and over like a broken record - as if those are words she could hold onto to make herself feel better, even if it is just for a tiny fraction.
Her home is ten minutes away when Ikjun speaks again, “Do you know that Iksun has been back in Korea for about a year now?”
Songhwa shifts her gaze onto him, an eyebrow arched in confusion.
“She had been sick.”
Her eyes widen just a little, knowing the history of Iksun’s health condition. She wants to say something more, but her eyes are trained on Ikjun’s face and the expression he is wearing. She could almost read his mind, and Songhwa’s expression softens, somehow understanding the reason why Ikjun had suddenly brought up his sister. She looks at him with an ache settled in the deepest pits of her stomach; had he kept this to himself all this while without telling anyone?
He doesn’t continue his sentence. He doesn’t need to.
Ikjun knows that his message has been conveyed to her, that shared feeling of guilt and helplessness in facing the unfortunate affairs of their loved ones. That she isn’t alone in this.
“Is Iksun alright, now?” Songhwa asks, and she is relieved when Ikjun nods.
“Better.” He nods firmly. “A lot better.”
She expels a soft sigh. The underlying meaning is not lost to her.
When he reaches the lobby of her childhood home, she turns to him.
Songhwa gives him a tired smile, one that he could tell is filled with gratitude.
She tells him, “Thank you,”
For offering to give me a ride home. For being there at the right time. For the comfort your presence brings me.
Ikjun returns her smile, nodding slightly.
He tells her, “Anytime.”
The next day, in the wee hours of the morning, Songhwa receives a text.
Do you need a ride to the hospital today?
She considers his offer, already dressed and ready for work. She steals a glance at her mother in the kitchen preparing breakfast for her; her heart is still weary and lulled by the constant ache of her mother's illness. But her mother is humming a tune she couldn't decipher, and there's a smile that doesn't fade away as she stirs the pot of soup.
She tells her mum that she will need to head to work soon, would that be alright? Her mum's immediate response is to nag and repeat that she isn't a child, that she is just one call away.
She gives her a hug and tells her she is sorry. Her mum shakes her head and pats her arm gently, a reply that it's alright.
Once she settles herself into the chair, Songhwa types a reply.
Yes, please.