Nowhere Girl (4 page)

10

By the time Kiet returns, I have started to get used to the idea that I may not be completely alone in the world.

This knowledge has also given me a larger plan. I will still travel to Bangkok, but now with a greater purpose. From there I will—I must—reach America, to find this woman, my grandmother. Surely she will have the answers I seek.

So when Kiet swings open his door, I fold the paper away and look at him with a hopeful smile. He is dripping, though the rain seems to have slowed, and he holds two wooden bowls draped with palm leaves. He pushes one into my hands and the smell curls out to meet me. There are flat noodles with chunks of chicken and dots of peanuts and bean sprouts mixed all through. The scent of chili makes my mouth water. I pull out the small fork and tug hot noodles into my mouth.

“You have eaten pad thai before?” Kiet asks, sitting down next to me and beginning his own meal.

I nod, though it was only once, many years ago, while out with Isra. And this meal is as different from the food I ate on the inside as the Toyota advertisement on television is from this car I sit in, as different as the gossip tales told of Kiet are from this strange, kind man by my side. I wonder if everything feels more real outside the walls of the Khon Mueang Women's Prison.

And then I push all other thoughts away and sink into my meal.

A half hour later, Kiet has returned the bowls to the street vendor and come back into the car. He hands me a paper bag, and when I peek inside I see several mandarin oranges, two coconut cakes, and a newspaper-wrapped package of sticky yellow jellies. He tells me I can open those now and I do, offering him some, but he just shakes his head and starts up the car.

I smile and begin to eat, continuing until the jellies are almost gone. The kilometers fly by as we set Lamphun behind us and follow the provincial highway south. I am proud of how easy it feels now to ride in a car. The rain is falling again, but I am happy to watch it through closed windows.

“The rain makes the ride slower, and we got a late start in any case,” says Kiet. “Tonight, we will stay with my cousins. They live not far from Sukhothai. It is on our way.”

I nod, but my stomach clenches. It is nothing to Kiet, who knows them already, but for me a house of strange cousins will be harsh and new. I tell myself that everyone is a stranger to me now, and that the experience of meeting new people has to begin sometime. Kiet looks at me sideways and seems to be having the same thought. But his eyes soften with understanding. Maybe he sees my lips press into a thin line, or the last yellow jelly that is squished flat inside my palm.

He reaches out to the dashboard and pushes a round button, and music fills the car. It's a wonder! One second I am hiding from my thoughts in the silence, and the next, the music wraps itself around me like a warm blanket, rocking me like Bibi's loving arms.

“There is a radio in your car!” I exclaim in delight. It seems hard to believe, that the notes could ring so loud and clear in this tiny space. I almost think I am back on my cot with Isra's headphones in my ears. But this is so much better. It brings to life the greenery that flies by my window.

I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. Now the music itself is like a living thing, and I let it reach out a hand and grab my inner fear, that skinny coward that trembles in the corner. The music twirls and prods until the fear, too, starts to dance, starts to forget all about the dark and everything ahead, losing itself completely in music and light and warmth.

I am still dancing as I drift into sleep.

11

When I open my eyes, the car has stopped. The music is gone. I am alone.

Through the rain-drenched windows I can see a wide wall of dark teak wood. I lean forward and rub a circle in the fog on the window, trying to see out. A cluster of people stand in the downpour outside the house. In the center of that group is Kiet. His orange T-shirt is like a lucky charm that everyone seems to want to reach out and touch. I can hear his laughter from where I sit, safe behind my tightly closed doors.

After a few minutes his head turns in my direction and my safe feeling slips away as he runs toward the car. He flings open the door. “Come out, Luchi,” he calls, and his eyes are sparkle-bright. His smile looks big enough to swallow me up, if I'd only let it. But I'm trembling too hard to try.

“Everyone is gathering,” he says gently, leaning over and reaching a hand in my direction. “They are making a feast and have invited all the family from the village. It will be a party!”

I lower my head and swallow the lump in my throat. I know I need to get out and so I do, but my eyes only slide from one mud puddle to the next. I follow the tracks left by Kiet's sandaled feet, watching the rain poke holes in the muddy surface. My soaked hair makes a curtain in front of my eyes. I do not lift a hand to move it away, even though there are mutters and muffled greetings around me.

Perhaps Kiet has prepared them. Perhaps they can tell by my posture that I am new in their world, that I am not ready to meet a group of strangers. Whatever the reason, I move through the crowd like I am still behind my tightly shut windows. No one tries to pull me into a conversation. I am grateful for this, though I'm ashamed at my rudeness.

Then a strong hand clasps my elbow and a wiry voice speaks almost in my ear. “
Kin khao laew rue yang?
” Have you eaten yet? The familiar greeting, which is more about comfort and safety than about food.

It has happened. I am no longer invisible. I stop and mumble a reply, bringing my numb hands together as I lower my head in a respectful
wai
. But after this traditional gesture, to my surprise I am not called on to meet more people. Instead the arm begins to guide me, moving me past clusters of muddy feet, up a row of rough-hewn stairs, and onto the porch. At the door I kick off my plastic sandals and try to scuff away the worst of the mud. The hand reaches down into a ceramic water pot and pulls out a long wooden dipper. Water splashes all over my feet. I dry them on the cloth mat and step into the house.

The door shuts behind us.

Now that we are alone, I lift my eyes from the floor and look into the face of my guide. She is wrinkled like an old cloth, but her eyes remind me of Bibi. I try out the traditional name I have never had cause to use before:
Khun yai.
Grandmother. Yai grabs my hand and tugs me farther inside the house. We move from the main room into a second, smaller one. There is a wide open floor and a few pieces of furniture scattered around the edges.

Leaving me at the door, Yai crosses the room and pulls out a rolled-up mat made of finely woven rushes. She unrolls this along the ground and covers it with a few pieces of bedding.

“
Nang long na ja.
”

I follow her directions and make myself comfortable on the mat.

Then she points to a door on the far side of the room and continues: “The washroom is there. You can clean up, and I will bring you food soon. Take some time for peace in here.”

Her words loosen the tangled knot inside me. I think she sees this, because she nods and smiles. “Who wants to be in a noisy room full of strangers right away? When you feel ready, you can come and join us. Tonight or tomorrow—it doesn't matter. You take all the time you need.”

She gives me one last smile, then turns and goes out. Through the closed door I can hear tromping feet, noisy laughing voices as the party moves inside. Smells of curry and roasting fish creep under the door.

Later, other mats will be rolled out, and the room will fill up with sleeping bodies. Later, a tray heaped with good food will be brought to me by a kind soul who understood the needs I could not express. Later I will wash and crawl, clean, into my bedding.

But for now I am content to stand here, alone, in this small corner of tranquillity, in this house brim full of laughter, overflowing with family.

Long minutes pass before the room stops pulsing around me, before my quiet laps over into the rest of my surroundings. But finally I return to myself.

And now I puzzle over the problem of washing. I look down at my damp, sweaty shirt, my mud-stained shorts. How can I clean my body and then return to these clothes? For the first time I consider the effect of leaving behind all my belongings.

Then I see, among the bedding that Yai has left behind, some pink flowered cloth. A sarong. My eyes water at this unexpected kindness. Did she see that I had brought no spare clothing with me? Or did Kiet tell her?

I pick up the cloth and hold it to my cheek. It feels like a flower petal.

Now I am ready. I push open the door to the washroom and step inside. It is a new feeling to pull off my clothing in the small, private space, so different from the large prison washroom. Setting my muddy clothes in a pile, I reach trembling hands to the big wooden dipper, dump the cool water over my body, and begin to scrub away the last of the mud from my first life. The water dripping off me starts dull brown and gradually becomes clearer and lighter.

I wonder if it could really be that easy, slipping out of one skin and into another, becoming someone different, someone altogether new. If only I could wash away my past as easily as the hard prison soil.

It's worth a try.

Slowly, slowly the last of the water swirls away down the drain. Finally I stand up, and I wrap myself in this gift from a stranger, this gift as soft as kindness, as warm as acceptance, as quiet as peace.

I still don't know exactly who I am, but I am wonderfully warm and dry and alone, and for now, that is enough.

12

The music and the celebration continue, and before long Yai returns with a bamboo tray. There is a dish of steaming rice, and five little bowls filled with sauces and toppings. My mouth waters as I gratefully accept the tray from her hands.

From the far room comes the sound of voices erupting in laughter. The door opens and a woman pokes her head in. Her forehead is shiny with sweat and her eyes are dancing. But those same eyes pass over me quickly, uncertainly. She tells Yai that everyone is waiting on her for a story, then goes quickly back the way she's come. Yai hesitates, and her gaze flicks toward the main room. I can see it tugging at her, calling her back.

I make a half turn away, releasing her from any obligation to stay, eager in any case to sink into my meal.

The old woman sighs and smiles, and there is nothing unsure in the way her gaze holds me. She does not ask if I want to go back in the main room with her, and I do not offer.

“You will be well,” she says. “It will take time. But you are becoming well already.”

I nod and swallow at the lump in my throat. I do not know what to say to this, so I use the little curved spoon to ladle some fish sauce onto my rice.

After another minute, she turns toward the door. “You look good in this sarong. I sewed it myself and wore it for many years.” She laughs softly. “It is too bright for an old woman. I will be pleased if you keep it.”

“
Khob khun kha
,” I thank her, and I am not only speaking of the sarong. In her eyes I see a flash of something—kindness? Understanding? Sympathy? I can't identify it, and it's gone in the next blink. Perhaps I imagined it. With another smile, Yai leaves me with my meal.

Oh, the food! I fall upon it with a passion that is brand-new. Inside, our meals were carefully scheduled: every day at the same time, in the same place, routine upon routine. There was one dish planned for each meal of the week, unchanged by passing weeks, months, and years. The food was pleasant, and it filled my stomach. When there were bugs or tiny stones in the rice, we picked them out and thought nothing of it. When the fish gave off a sour smell, there was always more sauce to cover it up.

But this—nothing has prepared me for this glory. The scent rolls over me and I lean my head forward, soaking in the steaming heat, afraid to take a bite and break the spell. Finally I can't wait any longer and I dig my fork into the rice.

Once I start, I cannot stop. Bite follows bite, food hot and savory and spicy and flavorful in a way that fades every other food I have eaten into memories of dust. At last I put the empty tray on the floor next to me and fall back on my woven rush mat, exhausted.

My stomach is full, my eyes are heavy, and I am content.

13

I open my eyes, and the house is dark around me. Dark and quiet. When did I fall asleep? I am still lying on my back, but the bamboo tray is gone. Someone has pulled a light cover on top of me. The room is filled with the steady hum of quiet breaths drawing in and out, in and out. Rain drums on the high roof like a heartbeat—soft, steady, and continuous.

It is my first night alone on the outside. I had imagined lying awake with an empty heart and trembling nerves; instead, I am full to the brim with food and comfort. My eyes drift shut, but I tug them open. This is a moment, now, that has never come to me before. I am the owner of my time. The night belongs only to me. There are no bars surrounding this bed.

I sit up, slide my legs off the side of the mat. Above my head, the blades of the ceiling fan hum, stirring my need for adventure. I pad my bare feet across the floor, step carefully around mats and crumpled covers, through the half-open door, past the kitchen, and out onto the front porch.

The rain beats down in a fine sheet, so I don't move from the wooden steps. I sit and draw my knees to my chest. There is nowhere I want to go in this downpour, but I revel in the blurred night landscape. Right now, this minute, I could go anywhere I please. I am no one. I am everyone. I am anything I want to be. A smile spreads across my face.

Then a scuffle behind me makes me turn my head. The front door opens and I see a small round face, beetle-black eyes. A girl no taller than my waist patters out and comes to sit next to me.

We sit in silence, and I steal glances at her out of the corner of my eye. Her two long braids are tossed and scuffed, like they have been fighting with her pillow. Her eyes are crusted with sleep, and once she yawns like a tired bird. I smile, and she sees it, and her face lights like a sunbeam.

“I am Pensri,” she lisps. “Who are you?”

“Luchi,” I say.

“Your hair is a strange color.”

I grin and her forehead wrinkles, like she just realized what she said. She goes on quickly. “But it's a nice color. I like it. I wish my hair was that color, too.”

“Your hair is beautiful,” I tell her. “Like the midnight sky.”

That makes her smile. “How long will you stay? My
mae
says you are a visitor and should not be bothered.”

“You aren't bothering me.” I pause, then surprise myself by adding, “I like it here. I like you.”

Pensri pulls her tiny hands into a
wai
, lowers her head respectfully. “You will be my older sister, then.
Phee sao
. May I call you that?”

A glow warms my chest. “Of course,
nong sao
. Little sister.”

Pensri yawns again. “I will go back to bed, then. See you tomorrow,
phee sao
.”

And she is gone.

I wait a few minutes, looking out at the rain and the dark, friendly night. Then I get up and follow her back into the sleeping room. In seconds I lose myself to sleep, and do not stir again until daybreak.