Nowhere Girl (14 page)

40

At breakfast that morning, the captain eats his oatmeal in silence, his chin drooping down toward his dish, his eyes focused on nothing. This is so unusual that after the meal I trail him back to his stateroom and stand awkwardly by the door. After a few minutes, he looks up and sees me there. He cracks a wan smile.

“Luchi, my girl,” he says.

“Captain, something's not right with you. What's going on?”

“Right?” he says, too quickly. “Of course everything's all right. Peachy keen it is, right as rain, good as—” He breaks off and stands suddenly, frowning at the ground. Then he heaves a full-body sigh and throws himself into an armchair. He waves his arm at me and I step inside and sit on the floor, leaning against the end of the bed.

“It's this confounded journey,” he says, “coming to an end and all that. It had to end sometime, right? But now it really is. We'll be in Oakland by tomorrow nightfall. And all this, us, you—it's all going to be gone. It's like”—he swallows, and his words are so low I can barely hear them, as he turns his head away from me—“it's like Mandy, like losing her all over again.”

And what can I say to that? He is right, in a sense, but there is nothing I can do to make things better. Truthfully, I'm feeling a little that way myself. I'm leaving something sure, something I understand, and stepping out into the unknown. Again. And yet—isn't that what got me here to begin with?

“Sometimes,” I whisper, “all we can do is take that step. Even if we have to leave a little bit of ourselves behind with those we love.” I'm talking to myself, and I've almost forgotten the captain's in the room until he moves in his chair and lifts his head. Heat grows in my cheeks, but to my surprise he smiles.

He doesn't say anything, though, just gives me that smile, then turns his head to the window. We sit there, he and I, while long minutes spool out and the boat chugs slowly forward, ever forward.

Then the captain shakes himself and turns back toward me. His eyes are clear again, his gaze strong. He speaks as though my last words were just a moment ago. “Aw, girlie, and don't you know a thing or two about loss and striking out for the great unknown? I guess if you're not moping around and giving up, I've got no excuse to either, do I?”

That wasn't what I meant at all, and I open my mouth to say so, but he silences me with a wave. “Not another word,” he says, pulling fingers across his lips. “Zip zip, it's over. I've been an insufferable bum, wallowing over a past I can't undo. Well, no more of that. It's not that I won't miss Mandy, but—” He seems to be searching for the right thing to say. “But I guess that's the biggest thing I've seen from having you around. You're so much like her, you know. She wasn't nobody's quitter. If tough times came her way, she'd hit 'em head-on and keep going. I guess she'd want her old man to do the same.”

The captain crosses the room, reaches down, and I lift up my hand to let him pull me to my feet. “Thank you for helping me remember that,” he says.

I don't know what to say, but in the next breath, the captain's moved on to other subjects. “So—America, huh? How do you feel? First time on home soil and all that. Nervous? Excited?”

I look at the floor. “Both.”

“I wish I could be there for your first impressions, but there's a truckload of paperwork and red tape I gotta clear to get my baby”—he waves his hand around him to indicate the ship—“into port. You'll want to make sure your papers are all in order, though. Those immigration dogs are fierce.”

A slow trickle of ice water starts in my chest. “Papers?”

Captain Jensen eyes me. “Sure—passport, birth certificate, all that good stuff. You—of course, you do have those things, right?”

My mind races. Do I?

I dash out of the room and into the hall. The captain follows at my heels. In my stateroom, I pull out my tea box with trembling hands. A passport—yes. In the name of Helena Finn, age twenty-one when it was issued sixteen years ago. A birth certificate—yes. In Thai, smudged and crumpled and signed with a hand-made seal.

Captain Jensen sinks down onto my bed, his face melting like wax. “Oh, child,” he whispers, and then, “Of course. It's obvious, really. And why would you? How could you? But oh—I should have thought of it. What are we going to do?”

The room is silent as the seconds of my life tick by, and I start to wonder if this whole journey was in vain, if I will arrive at my destination only to find the doors locked and barred. And what will happen to me then? Where will I go?

Forward, I tell myself.

Whatever happens, wherever I go, let it be forward.

41

The ship makes landfall in the early morning. A shiny red bridge gleams off to our rear, glowing like an ember in the midmorning sun. Just ahead is the hulking gray mass of buildings and machinery that is the port of Oakland, California. It is the first of July, and with the new month will begin my new life.

It took us hours to accept that there was not much to be done about my papers. But Captain Jensen has written me a notarized letter that he says I am to present along with the documents I have. The letter is full of big words and fancy sayings, and I know these are not altogether true. He is not a longtime family friend who knew my mama well and was entrusted by her to take care of me. But in some ways, these words are truer than the truth.

I hope they will be enough.

We have talked about my plans from here. I have brushed up on my map studies and found that Boston is not an easy walk from California. It is, in fact, a distance almost as great as the one I have just traveled. My grandmother's website has also provided me with her phone number, and I have promised the captain that I will call her as soon as I am safely in the country. He will be in California for only a few days' stopover, but he has arranged for me to stay in a hotel near the port until my plans are finalized. He cannot speak to the immigration people with me—he has his ship to see to, after all—but he will meet up with me when I am allowed to leave the ship and officially enter the country.

Once again it hits me how grateful I am for his care, this kind, gruff man who has turned all my rags into finery and given my life a tinge of magic. But now the clock is striking midnight, and even he cannot say what is up ahead for me.

It's time to say good-bye.

I turn to the captain, and he leans forward and pulls me into an awkward hug.

“You just hang tight in there, you hear?” he says. “You're stronger than you think—yup, I mean that! You are quite something, my girl. And you don't need a graying old sea captain like me to tell you that. You're made of the right stuff, Luchi Finn.” He leans back and holds my chin in his hand, looks me right in the eye. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

I hold his look, and I don't reach up to wipe away the tears that are pouring down my cheeks, because as long as I'm fixed on the old captain's eyes, I believe him.

But once I'm alone in my room, carrying case on the floor stuffed with the new things I've accumulated during my sea trip, I'm less sure. The passengers are each to wait in their quarters as the officials make the rounds, checking up on every one of us in turn.

So silent, in this big empty stateroom. So much quiet time for thinking. So many spaces for fear to creep up and slide cold fingers down my back.

And the hours.

Crawl.

By.

I think I could go crazy with this waiting, but finally there's a rap at my door and two stiff, well-pressed men stride in. Their presence eats up all the air in the room, and I feel myself shrinking even smaller as my heart hammers loud in my chest. I think of Mama's nameless terror, how she tried so desperately to stay hidden, to keep herself—and me—out of sight. Aren't these just the type of men she would have hidden from?

The paperwork shakes in my hand. Can I really do this?

Do I have any other choice?

“Luchi Ann Finn,” the front man barks out, reading from the passenger list in his hand.

I swallow. I can do this. Taking a deep breath, I stand and hold out my papers. Mama's passport is on top, and the man opens it with a bored look on his face. Mama's face looks out from her picture, fragile and innocent.

She has no idea that she is being betrayed by her own daughter.

I feel my lunch rising in my throat. What have I done?

The official is frowning at the passport, comparing it against his list, then he looks back at me. “What is this?” he snaps. He shuffles through my papers, gapes at the Thai document. “The name's not even the same. This isn't you. You're a kid, for Pete's sake. What's going on here?” Then he settles on the captain's letter, reads it through, stops and looks me up and down. He holds the paper to his nose, studying the raised seal of the notary's stamp. He reads it through again, leans in and exchanges a few words with his partner, whose dark brows are pulled together in a scowl. “Man oh man, why do I always get the head cases? You'll need to wait here while we look into this.”

My hands feel icy cold. I'm moving through a frozen river; I shuffle unsteadily back across the room and collapse into a chair. The two men step out into the hallway and I can hear the stomp of feet as someone else arrives. I can barely see them through the half-opened door, hunched over my papers, whispering and conferring and sneaking suspicious looks in my direction. Snippets of their conversation float over to me:
… send her back?… obvious she is related … anyone read this language?… call to dig up some more info …

What have I set into motion? What will be my punishment for breaking my vow of secrecy? I remember again Mama's final words, urging me to keep the promises I'd made. To keep her secrets. My chin sinks onto my chest.

Outside the door there are clicks and mutters, as someone speaks into a phone. Investigating my right to exist? My right to enter the country? My relationship to Mama?

It's all too much, and I can't help but imagine the worst. It seems like the most reasonable thing to do, under the circumstances.

Finally the first official pushes back into the room and strides toward me. His brows are knit together and his mouth is turned down as I scramble to my feet. He holds out Mama's passport and my papers. “Frankly, Miss Finn, I don't know what to make of you. But it's out of my hands now.” He's tapping his finger on the form where I have written the name of the hotel the captain reserved for me. “This where you'll be staying?”

I nod, biting down on a question that I can't bring myself to ask. Were the papers enough, then? Have I made it through?

My wondering is short-lived.

“I'm afraid you'll need to stay put for just a little longer. Our agents will accompany you to your hotel, but you'll be confined to your room until further notice. There's no doubt of your citizenship, but there was a flag out on your mother's name, so we need to follow procedure on this. I'm sure you can understand.”

Confined to my room? For how long? And … a flag on Mama's name? All my worst fears rise in my throat like bile. I have never felt more alone in my life.

“Wait,” I whisper. “I would like to speak with my grandmother. Mrs. Regina Finn. From Brookline.”

She'll be able to help me. She'll know what to do.

The man smirks. “Oh, you'll be speaking to her, all right. We've got people calling her up already. And, of course, the main interested party has already been notified, Mr. Rupert God-Almighty Payne.” He grunts. “How that man thinks he can just pull on the strings and expect everyone to do his bidding, I'll never know. But everyone does, so there's no way I'm going to question it.”

Still shaking his head, he stalks out of the room, leaving me with two uniformed guards who step silently up in his wake.

The last piece of the puzzle slides into place. Mr. Rupert Payne Sr. My father's father. This must be the person who kept all the news details quiet. So this must also be the monster man Mama was so afraid of.

And he knows I am here.

I have no breath. I have no thoughts. My mind is empty and hollow as I turn and follow these strangers who are leading me away.

To meet the man my mother spent a lifetime in prison to avoid.

42

The morning wind swells the water as I step off the gangplank and onto firm ground. After being on the ship for so long, the land seems to quiver and quake, and I grab a post to steady myself. With the guards beside me, though, there is little time for noticing my surroundings, only a terrible constant forward motion.

My legs nearly buckle at the sight of Captain Jensen waiting just ahead. He rushes up to me but is cut short when my two very tall, very wide escorts block his way. They stand on either side of me and glower at him.

“What's going on here?” the captain yelps.

I open my mouth to explain, but the guards don't stop to talk. They each grab one of my arms and begin to move me away. My carrying case knocks painfully behind me. Finally one of the guards picks it up while the second continues to herd me along.

The captain, meanwhile, starts yelling and chases around to place his small frame in our path. “Whoa! Geeyup, boys, hold it right there. What exactly do you think you're doing? This girl is my charge and I am looking out for her. You aren't taking her nowhere, not any single where. You just put her down right now.”

The first man drops my bag and reaches toward a holster on his hip, but the second puts a hand on his arm as if to quiet him. “Look here,” he says, whipping out his wallet and flashing a badge in the captain's face. “See? We don't want no trouble. We've got our orders: Escort this young lady to her hotel room, no stops and no interruptions. Guard her there until the interested parties arrive and the all clear is given. She won't be harmed, but you'll understand that procedure's got to be followed.”

The captain puffs up his chest like a blowfish. “Procedure can go hang itself!” he screeches. “This girl is a minor, and she's in my care, and I have the legal documents to prove it. Anywhere she goes, I'm going, too. Is that clear?”

The guards stare down at this diminutive man in the oversized uniform who is snarling at them like a cat facing two bulldogs. They exchange glances, and the first one shrugs. “Suit yourself. Boss didn't say nothing about having no guests. Just see that you both keep up. And no dawdling!”

And with that I am moving again, following the guards across shiny wide-open spaces and up a magical moving staircase that nips at my toes when I don't step fast enough; into the back of a car with dark tinted windows that feels like the warm inside of a cell; then out again, into the sunshine, and in the front lobby of a building so tall I get dizzy searching for the top.

I am given a thick plastic card, which I am told is a key. I step into a tiny room with no windows. The silvery doors slide shut and numbers start to flash on an electronic display, climbing higher and higher. My stomach turns somersaults. My ears feel stuffed with cotton. I want to scream as I grab the captain's hand. “What's going on?” No one acts like anything unusual is happening.

The captain looks at me, surprised; then his eyes soften. “There, there,” he says. “Of course you haven't been in an elevator before. It's for going up—real fast. Wait'll you get out. You'll see. Up on the thirty-fourth floor, you are.” At his words, a bell dings and the doors slide open. In a trance, I move to the window, where my stomach lurches. Nothing—not the roof of the prison or the top of Golden Mount that day with Chaluay—nothing could have prepared me for this sight. The whole world is distance. There is water and grass and trees and buildings—and they are all the size of beetles.

I could stand and stare all day at this make-believe world out the windows, but one of the guards makes an angry noise in his throat. I move quickly away and find the room number I was given. The captain shows me how to slide my card through a slot, and to wait until a tiny light shines green before opening up the door.

My eyes fill with tears. This world is even stranger than the one I left behind in Bangkok. How will I navigate it alone?

I know the captain can't stay, much as he wishes to. He helps me to get settled, answers all my questions, and reassures me that he won't leave until he is sure all is well with my situation. But I refuse. He has a ship to care for, a ship the size of a small village. He has goods and crew and paperwork all awaiting his return. His freighter must take to the sea again in two days, after all.

We both know I'm right, but it doesn't make this parting any easier. With everything said that can be said, Captain Jensen stands awkwardly in the doorway, scuffing one shoe over the other. Then he looks up and harrumphs. “Come here, my girl,” he says, and opens his arms wide.

My breath catches in my throat, and then—I topple into his hug. He's no bigger than I am, but his arms are tough and wiry, and I can hear the wheezing breath in his chest. Mama's and Bibi's, those are the only arms that have held me before now. This thought hangs on me and almost eclipses the moment. Almost. Because nothing can take away the fact that this gruff old man has become, over the course of a few weeks, someone I will never forget.

“Ah, you dear thing, won't you always have a place of honor in this old seafaring man's heart,” he mutters into my hair.

I squeeze him harder and I whisper into his shoulder, “Good-bye.” It's all I can say, choked up as I am, but this word I haven't spoken in months, this word I swore I would never say again, is my gift to him, an attempt at thanks, a sign of this new me that he has helped create.

And as the door closes behind him, it occurs to me that I have spent the last few weeks trying to learn about the father I never knew, when all along someone else was slowly slipping into that empty spot in my heart. And filling it up completely.

I look at the paper the captain left me with his address, and I hope that we will meet again someday. I smile when I think that for every loss there is a gain, for every lock there is a key. And for every dark question there is an answer waiting to be found.

If I can only keep looking for it.