Cross Currents (20 page)

Yai eased her way between two vacant lounge chairs and saw that Sarai had moved her massage operation under the scant shade provided by a coconut tree. Sarai was on her knees, positioned behind a dark-skinned woman who lay on her back and wore a one-piece bathing suit. Holding up the woman's head with one hand, Sarai used the strong fingers of her other hand to stretch and massage her customer's neck. Sarai was focused, and she didn't notice Yai approach until her shadow blotted out the sun. The foreigner sensed Yai's presence as well and opened her eyes.

“Achara and me, we make you drinks,” Yai said in halting English. The woman sat up, and Yai handed her a glass, then gave Sarai the other one. “If you no drink, you dry up and blow away.”

“Thank you,” the foreigner replied, then tasted the juice. “It's delicious.”

“It is very good,” Sarai added, smiling at her mother before reaching up to tickle the undersides of Achara's feet.

Yai knelt in the sand. “You brave,” she said to the foreigner. “Sweet Buddha, you brave woman. My daughter no give massages before. Be careful or maybe she break your neck, or stick you in eye.”

The foreigner finished her drink. “She's good. Quite good.”

“My mother is good at talking,” Sarai said, resuming the massage. “She would talk, talk, talk all day if I let her. If she got money for talking, then we would all be rich. But no one will pay her for talking, and so we are poor, especially since she eats all our food.”

“I eat more if you know how to cook,” Yai replied, smiling, glad to be entertaining her daughter. “So sorry, sweet Buddha, that I teach her so little. She learn nothing from me, her special mother.”

Sarai glanced up. “Do you like the sun?” she asked her customer.

The woman nodded. “Yes, it feels good.”

“Then my mother will have to go. She blocks out the entire sun. It is like we are inside right now.”

Yai mumbled to herself in Thai, shifting to her right so that sunlight fell on the woman. “You have daughter?” she asked the tourist.

“Yes. Two, actually.”

“They treat you like this? So bad? Even after you carry them inside you, and you feed them milk, and your body turns into old fruit. Even then they laugh at you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Your daughter better than mine. Mine laugh all time. No care for her tired mother.”

Sarai grinned. “You are tired from talking. That is what you are. It is too bad for me that your tongue cannot go to sleep.”

Yai stood up, grunting. “Maybe the next time I'll put sand in your juice,” she said, switching to Thai. “Why does an old mother have to take care of a young daughter anyway? Bringing you juice was another of my mistakes. A big one.”

“Everything about you is big. That's a perfect word for you.”

“Help me, sweet Buddha,” Yai said. “Remove this curse. Please remove it as soon as you can.” She collected the glasses and repositioned Achara on her shoulder. After scowling at Sarai, Yai turned and made her way higher up the beach. She sat on an empty lounge chair. Achara squirmed from being away from the sound of her mother's voice, displeased with that separation. “It's all right,” Yai whispered. “She'll come to you soon. She'll come to you like a butterfly finds a flower.”

Achara opened her toothless mouth, arched her back, and started to cry. Worried that Sarai would be distracted by her daughter's distress, Yai stood up again and walked farther down the beach, trying to soothe Achara, who had no interest in settling down. “It's all right, my little one,” Yai whispered. “She won't be long.”

Some foreigners shrieked in the shallows, chasing one another. Yai glanced at them and wondered how so many were young and rich and slim. Were they aware of their blessings? Most of them didn't seem to be.

Though at one point in her life, Yai had been envious of the good fortune of strangers, those days were gone. While she might not have money or possessions, her blessings were unmatched. Nothing could replace the joy that her loved ones gave her, a realization that had come to her along with her first gray hairs.

Thanking Buddha, Yai sat down on another chair. Achara continued to squirm and fuss. “Your mother's a busy woman,” Yai said, rocking Achara back and forth. “If you want to be with her, you have to learn how to walk. That's the only way you'll keep up with her.” Changing her grip on Achara, Yai held her upright on the sand, supporting her. “There. You see. Standing isn't so hard. You're so good at kicking with those legs. It's time to put them to real work.”

Achara stood, swaying in Yai's grasp, drool running down her chin. Yai wiped it off and looked toward the distant form of Sarai, who was now bent over the foreigner. Suddenly Yai wished that it were years earlier, and that she were holding Sarai's little body and teaching her how to walk. How many laughs they'd had. How many moments when their hearts had seemed tethered to each other's.

Watching Sarai slide toward the woman's legs and begin to rub her feet, Yai lifted up Achara, holding her close. “We're both in you, you know that?” she asked. “Your mother and I, we're in you. And we'll always be in you. So when you're older, when I'm gone, remember where you came from. Remember this place by the sea. Remember how you once slept beside your mother, how she put all of her children before herself. I'm proud of her, you know. So proud. And you be proud of her too. Be proud of her, and of yourself, and then one day, you'll embrace your grandchild; you'll see her or his beauty; you'll remember your own. And though you may feel old and tired, you'll smile at the thought of your memories. You'll hold them against your chest like I'm holding you. You'll think about all the gifts of your life. And those gifts will lift you up. They'll carry you, so that the oldness and tiredness of your bones are like grains of sand beneath your feet.”

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, AFTER THE sun had just vanished and was pulling a black blanket over the island, Ryan, Brooke, and Patch sat on the frame of the unfinished house from which Patch and Brooke had taken the lumber. The western horizon looked like a line of crushed embers. The sea had darkened, as if color had been drained from it. Lights sparkled and throbbed on both beaches, as well as in the village. Several fire jugglers attracted onlookers. Music seemed to echo off the water and the cliffs.

Patch needed more wood for the tree house, and Ryan and Brooke had followed him up the mountain. To Patch's relief, no one had mentioned his situation. Instead, they'd spoken about their trip to the cave, life back in America, and their plans for the following day.

Now, as they sat on a beam that might have comprised a part of the master bedroom, Brooke reached into her pocket and removed what looked like a cigarette. She'd never smoked marijuana before and had been surprised when she'd walked past the Danish women and seen them giggling as they each tried to roll a joint. They'd offered one to Brooke, which she'd accepted out of curiosity. At first, she was tempted to throw their gift away, but the longer it remained in her pocket, and the more she held it against her nose and inhaled its sweet fragrance, the more she wanted to smoke it. In the past she'd been afraid of certain experiences, of making herself vulnerable. She'd done so in college and it had cost her dearly. But now, as she sat on the beam, she wanted to smoke the joint, to emerge from a world of doubt and fear into a better and brighter place.

“I brought something for us,” she said, holding up the joint.

Patch leaned closer and smiled. Ryan's movements were similar, though no grin graced his face. “Where did you get that?” he asked, moving nearer to her on the beam.

“One of those girls gave it to me.”

“The Danish girls?”

“The tall one, who was so enamored with Patch.”

“And you're going to smoke it?”

Brooke nodded but made no reply. She didn't know how to smoke a joint and felt unbalanced, both from her position on the beam and from Ryan's questions.

“I don't think you should,” Ryan replied. “Not that it's wrong. But because of what's going on with Patch. It seems . . . irresponsible.”

She started to lower the joint, not wanting to argue, but Patch shook his head, remembering how she had supported him and feeling compelled to come to her defense, even though the thought of smoking the marijuana made him nervous. “Wait,” he said. “Just wait.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Look around you. See how beautiful everything is?”

“It's more than beautiful. It's idyllic.”

“See how the cliffs seem to float over the water, how the sun left a line of itself on the horizon?”

“Like a remembrance.”

“I think we should smoke it,” Patch said. “Just this once. Let's smoke it and enjoy the island, because everything you see now . . . all of that will take on new dimensions if we smoke it. Even the breeze will feel different.”

Ryan ran his hand through his hair. “Jesus, Patch.”

“I'm just—”

“What the hell's wrong with you? You're about to go to prison for buying dope and now you want to smoke some? With Brooke?”

“Just once.”

“I've never done it,” she said, pulling out a lighter that was another gift from the woman, her heartbeat quickening. “And I want to try it. There's nothing wrong with trying it. No one's going to find us up here. Those girls were smoking it right on the beach.”

“Then they're idiots,” Ryan replied. “Maybe you can hang out with them in jail, Patrick.”

Patch raised his hands. “Come on. I don't—”

“Can't you see what a moron you are? How stupid you sound? It's like . . . you never learn anything.”

“Thanks.”

“How do you think Mom and Dad would feel about you smoking dope right now? You don't want to humiliate them, but what, you think they'd be proud of this choice?”

“It wasn't his idea,” Brooke interjected. “He had nothing to do with it.”

“But he's all for it. The last time he touched dope in Thailand he almost got shot, and now he's ready to start all over again.”

Patch shook his head. “That was different. This is safe. This island is safe.”

“That's what you thought about Bangkok.”

“I'm not wrong this time. Bangkok and Ko Phi Phi couldn't be more different.”

Ryan jumped down from the beam, landing in knee-high weeds. He looked up at the sky and saw the first stars. “Why do I always feel like the odd man out?”

Brooke held out her hand. “You're not.”

Though he had felt her hand on him, in so many intimate ways, he felt no desire to reach up, to touch her again. “I am. It couldn't be more obvious, just like it was in the old days with Patch and me and his girlfriends. I'm the odd man out, and it feels more that way every time the three of us get together.”

“You're reading too much into this,” she replied. “The Danish women were having fun. They said I should try it. I want to try it. I was afraid of it after . . . I was afraid of it for a long time, but now I'm not. What I'm afraid of is being afraid.”

Ryan started to reply, then stopped. A part of him was angry with them both, while another part wished that he hadn't said anything. Brooke was one of the brightest students in their entire graduate program. He shouldn't tell her what she could or couldn't do, and he didn't want her to be afraid of anything. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I . . . I pulled something in my back when I was lugging my scuba gear around. It hurts. And it's making me cranky.”

Brooke had seen him wince when walking up the trail, and she lowered the joint. “Why don't we go find you a painkiller?”

“It's all right. I took one already. But I think I'll head into the village and check out one of the massage places.”

Patch swatted at a mosquito. “Sarai could give you one. Or if she's not around, I know where a good place is in the village. I'll show you where to go.”

“No, don't worry. I'll find one.”

“Are you sure? You guys could do it together. We don't have to stay here.”

“Yeah, I'm sure. You two stay. Enjoy . . . enjoy the night.”

“Well, at least take my flashlight,” Patch said, reaching toward his brother. “We can find our way back.”

Ryan thanked him and started down the trail. Brooke and Patch watched him go, both wishing that he had stayed. Feeling guilty, Patch jumped down from the beam and hurried after his brother, saying that the joint could be thrown away, that they could all walk down together, grab a beer, and then find a masseuse. But Ryan was tired of being the bad guy. His back ached and he needed some silence. And so he said good night and disappeared into the jungle.