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“I’m going on the raid, ma.”
Byung-gyu tosses out this declaration when an opening in their conversation reveals itself, letting it land like a bomb that obliterates the pleasant atmosphere they’d been sharing into a wasteland. He offers no context or elaborations, only this bombshell of a statement that leaves an eerie silence in its wake.
After the initial shock blows over, his mother’s voice returns on the line, hushed like a breath. “Huh?”
“I’m going on the raid,” he repeats. “Nothing’s official, not yet, but I plan on contacting President Go about my participation after we’re finished talking.”
For a minute, there is only silence filling the static void that divides them, which is somehow worse than the emotional outburst he expected from her. His racing heartbeat is deafening, and beads of sweat slide down his back as he waits, dreads, for his mother’s response.
A sigh filters through the line. “I see,” is the simple response his mother gives, and after a lapse, says, “Byung-gyu, dear?”
“Yes?”
Byung-gyu prepares his heart for the worst. The tears, the anger, the protests, and he prepares to use every psychological tactic to deflect his mother’s pleas to change course. What he isn’t prepared for is what she actually says.
“I’ll be here waiting for you.”
And that’s it. No tears. No anger. No protests. Just a promise.
The one promise Byung-gyu can’t return.
The future is a fickle thing, always uncertain and never guaranteed. Byung-gyu can’t predict how things will play out on that island; therefore, he can’t promise his return. To bind himself to such a promise, and then lose his life, would be to curse his mother. He can’t do that to her.
So instead of cursing her, Byung-gyu, through the traitorous tremble of his voice, tells her a truth that will forever remain unchanged, whether in life or death.
“I love you, ma.”
***
When Byung-gyu boards the helicopter that will head for Jeju Island, he does not think about his mother.
To not think of his own mother as he walks right into what may possibly be his last raid is a strange thing, especially considering she is his last blood relative. His dear mother—the reason for his being, the ceaseless support at his back, the consoling voice relayed through his phone when a nightmare has him trembling in the corner of his room and curled in a blanket that he imagines is the shape of her arms. No matter the time, no matter the circumstances, his mother has always been there for him. Now, he’s going to a place where she can’t reach him.
For those exact reasons, Byung-gyu can’t allow himself to think about his mother.
Don’t look back. Move forwards, always forward. One glance at everything he has left behind, at who’s waiting for his safe return back home, and his resolve will waver.
Byung-gyu can’t afford to waver. His team can’t afford for him to waver.
This is their last chance to close the book of Jeju Island’s tragic tale. His and Yoon-ho’s opportunity to avenge Eun-seok and all those brave hunters who fell before him.
Byung-gyu doesn’t think about his mother. Even when his hands tremble and his knee bobs to the tempo of his anxious anticipation, even when Yoon-ho gives him a comforting smile and Byung-gyu returns with one that fails to embody any semblance of confidence, he does not let his mother infiltrate his thoughts.
Death, then, is easier to slip into, his pain silencing as darkness wraps his entire body in a cool embrace and places a shutter over his eyes. It is only when he gives in to the quietus that the memory of his mother and her radiant smile seeps into his mind.
Byung-gyu reaches out to the memory until his consciousness fades to black.
***
By the grace of whatever force is looking down on him, Byung-gyu lives.
The reality doesn’t come to him immediately. It is only when he sees his mother awaken from her slumber by his bedside, cry out his name, and assault him with a hug that’s far too tight for his mended body to handle, that he is overwhelmed with that single truth:
I’m home.
A sob wracks Byung-gyu’s body, and his mother’s maternal instincts kick in. He feels like a child again when she shushes him gently and dabs away at his tear-sodden cheeks while combing her fingers through his hair.
“You see, dear? I told you I would be waiting here for you.”
Byung-gyu doesn’t have the strength for words, so in lieu of a response, he slips his hand around his mother’s and lightly squeezes it, as if to tell her, “I am here to stay.”