Nowhere Girl (5 page)

14

Morning comes early to this house on the edge of the forest. Before the sun is all the way up on the rain-soaked horizon, women and girls are bustling around me, folding sheets and rolling up mats. I let myself be tossed like a twig in the river of their busyness, moving and folding and packing as best I can. No one speaks to me. I keep my eyes on the floor and try to copy what I see others doing.

Pensri steals glances and smiles my way, and I smile back. Khun Yai is nowhere to be seen. But I listen as I work, and though no one speaks to me, there is much to be learned. I discover that Yai is a cousin of Kiet's grandmother. She lives in this house along with her son and his wife and their five daughters. Pensri is the youngest of these girls, and doted upon by all.

The many guests of the night before have returned to their homes, but the house still feels comfortably full. After a while everyone drifts into the kitchen, and when I step through to follow them, I find the family scrunched around the breakfast table. The men are there, too, and Kiet throws me an enthusiastic smile and makes room next to him. I slide gratefully into the seat.

The room is abuzz with life. Hands dart across the table, pulling and grabbing and poking. Kiet, too, is full of loud morning confidence. He makes a great show of swatting others aside and helping himself to the choice toppings. Then he passes the dishes on to me. I eat my rice in silence, reflecting on the strange, strong way people on the outside move through life. I try to decide what the difference is. On the inside, people looked the same. We spoke the same words. We laughed and cried and sighed like any other people. There were bars on the windows, but there were no bars on the soul.

Or were there? Inside, everything was routine, planned, predictable. On the outside, you have the sense that on any given day, anything might happen—wonderful or terrible, but quite often unexpected. Anything might happen to bring some change to what is up ahead.

And now, suddenly, it does.

His mouth half-full of fish, Kiet looks toward Yai and announces: “I have learned that the road out has been closed from all the rain. They have shut down the only way onto the highway. We will need to stay here a few more days, if you will allow us.”

I look up from my rice bowl in time to see a glance pass across the table. I can imagine worse things than having to stay longer in this peaceful home. But what do our hosts think of it? I study their faces and try to decide.

Khun Yai merely inclines her head. Pensri's mother tightens her lips into a thin smile. Pensri's father lifts his hand jovially. “Of course! As long as you need to. Our home is your home.”

My throat feels tight. There is welcome in this offer, certainly, but something else, too. Something more shadow than afternoon sun. Some hesitation that will never be voiced but which I cannot keep from hearing.

“How long will the road stay closed?” I whisper.

Kiet turns his eyes away from me. “It cannot be for long. And it will be good for you to stay here. See how glad they are to have you around!”

Yai and the others are now flinging exclamations of delight around the room at the prospect of this unexpected stay. But my stomach feels knotted. Some part of me is grateful to have added time before I must face the big city. But what is this undercurrent I feel, so different from the words being spoken? I blush with shame at the forced hospitality that I have no way of refusing.

Still, what must be must be. The sound of the rain on the high wooden roof rings out like hollow laughter. Is the sky mocking my predicament? I lift my head and, carefully, meet Yai's gaze.

“I am pleased to remain here longer,” I say. “You have made me feel so welcome. I would have been sorry to leave so soon.”

Yai nods and I return to my meal.

Then a thin voice pipes up. “I am glad you are staying longer,
phee
. I want you to stay forever!”

And the room freezes. The adults stop, mouths half-open, spoons half-raised. All heads turn to look at Pensri, who breaks into a wide smile.

“She does not mind if I speak to her,
Khun Mae
,” the little girl tells her mother. “We talked last night and she was very friendly. She said I could be her
nong sao
.”

There's a ripple in the air, then, and for a second the sunny warmth blinks out altogether. Pensri's mother leans in and whispers in the girl's ear, while the others exchange uncertain looks. Only Kiet acts as though nothing is wrong, tossing casual conversation out into the crowd until, slowly, the others also begin to smile and talk. And everything seems to return to normal.

But it doesn't, really. Because I can't help but notice that Pensri is no longer smiling. Her eyes are fixed on the table.

She does not say another word to me for the rest of the afternoon. And something tells me that yesterday's breath of perfect contentment will not return to me anytime soon.

15

The next days crawl by. With the rain still coming down in torrents, no one goes out to work in the rice fields. Instead, floors are scrubbed, stairways are repaired, clothes are patched and sewn.

I help out where I can, but I seem to do everything wrong. No one says anything, but several times I catch Yai rescrubbing a floor I just finished, or quietly returning my washed dishes to the bottom of the tub. And still, the sugared kindness is heaped on me until I could scream.

Why, for once, cannot someone tell me the truth, what they are really thinking?

All day I look around for Pensri, remembering the warm feel of her unconditional acceptance. But she has almost completely disappeared. Every morning, after a silent breakfast, she vanishes to parts unknown and I don't see her for the rest of the day. At night, her rush mat is on the farthest side of the room from mine. And though I creep out to watch the rain every night, there is never a patter of feet behind me to say I am not alone.

I am alone. I am still that girl in cell block 413. The bars are invisible now, but one thing is certain: as long as they exist in people's memories, they exist. Apparently, the warning Pensri received about speaking with me was for her sake rather than mine. After all, who knows what strange habits and behaviors I might bring with me from such a dire place?

It must be as I suspected: I am not a suitable big sister for a child. She cannot be my
nong sao.

I push away the hurt. It does not matter. I will be gone from here, just as soon as the rain lets up.

But let it come quickly.

More tolerable are the long evenings when music whips wildly around the main gathering room. Khun Yai is the only one in the house who has continued to treat me with a steady acceptance. She redoes my chores around the house, yes, for obviously I have little practice in the ways of this household. But she never accuses me with her eyes, never watches me as though something might go wrong at any moment.

On these long, rainy nights I sit with the women and work on my first piece of needlework. Yai has given me a square of cream-colored cloth and told me I may use any colors of thread from the rainbow in her basket. She shows me how to poke the needle so gently into the fabric, pulling it in and out to form neat little lines that, when put all together, will make a picture.

I pull on my needle, following the call of the colors, the feel of the cloth. Yai looks at my work. She smiles.

“Do you have a picture in mind?” she asks.

I look at my square. The colors streak this way and that, with no visible pattern or direction, brown and green meshed together in a strong, wild tangle. I nod uncertainly. “There is a picture here, but I don't yet know what it is.”

“It will come to you,” she says. “You bring the color, and the pattern will appear.”

With a nod, Yai returns to her own work. This may be as close as we ever come to communication, for while she does not shun me, I can see she will not go against the grain of her family with an active friendship. Again I think of Mama and all the things that were not said. And I see how easy it would be to build a life of small, easy silences.

I see this, but I do not agree.

Outside, the rain beats and beats, and I turn my mind to the sky, to the road, willing the rain to pause, for the way out to open for me soon. I long to be away from this tangle of tightly stitched people, this core of belonging that has no room for me.

I fear behind these invisible bars I might lose myself all over again, might let slip through my fingers this small piece of myself I am just beginning to discover.

16

On the fourth day, the rain slows enough that I decide to go out for a walk. Kiet offers to come along but I shake my head, pleased with my growing power to choose my own way.

“I will just walk around the back,” I say. “The air is fresh, and I want to be alone.”

He nods in agreement and I walk into the kitchen, where Yai is sorting beans with Pensri's mother. Yai looks up, then tilts her chin toward a hat that is resting on the kitchen table. “Take this,” she says. “It will keep off the rain.” I can feel their watchful eyes as I shut the front door behind me.

I expect to find my plastic sandals stiff and hard with caked mud. Instead, someone has washed them clean and set them neatly under the eaves. With mingled shame and gratitude, I slide them onto my feet and pad down the steep wooden stairs.

The air is balmy and warm, and the light rain patters friendly fingers across the wide woven hat. I pull the string from the end of my long braid, tugging until my hair falls loose around my shoulders. A lot of the cloying heat has been washed out of the air, and I drink the freshness in wide gulps.

Mud puddles dot the yard and I step around each one, making a game out of choosing a path through this watery maze. At every turn I face a new decision. Right or left? Around the pineapple-shaped puddle, or over the skinny loopy one? I lose myself in this game of choice, loving the way my feet follow exactly where I want them to go and that it is me, all me, directing the events.

Before I know it, I have reached the end of the yard. I turn back to look at the house, which looms high off the wet ground on wooden posts. No one is on the porch. There is nobody checking to see what I might do. I think of the many watchful eyes that policed my every move on the inside, and I feel giddy at my own power.

I turn my back to the house and push through the barrier of trees that ring the property.

The forest is like a big green pocket that I have fallen into. Trees, vines, bushes, branches—there is greenery everywhere. I have never seen so many plants in one place. The rain cannot reach me through the leafy covering, but there is a steady
plop-plop-plop
of bigger drops gathering on the plantain leaves above me, collecting into miniature pools, then sending wet surprises tumbling down my back.

A trail leads into the woods and I walk along it, soaking in the wonder around me. Between the plants and the lush wildlife, I almost miss the noise at first. Then it comes again—indistinct but unmistakable, and getting closer.

The sound of voices.

Speaking in English.

Without stopping to think, I duck off the path. I squat down and pull a leafy bush in front of my face. Then I part the leaves just enough to peer through. I don't have long to wait. Around the bend in the road strides a tall, gangly man. His face is red and sweaty, and his breath comes in short puffs. The pack he's carrying towers over his head. Right behind him is a young woman, maybe the same age as Isra but with skin as pale as coconut milk. Two braids of red hair brush her shoulders. Her face, unlike her companion's, is fresh and clear, and wears a teasing smile. She is whistling.

“Tam! Will you stop that already?” the man barks.

I shrink farther back in the bushes, but his voice is more exasperated than angry.

“Wait, wait,” Tam replies. “I'm just getting to the good part.” She whistles louder and scoots along the path, now shoving her shoulder into her companion. He stumbles and nearly falls, rights himself, then stops in the middle of the trail, hands on his hips.

They are just a few paces from my hiding spot, and I watch with wide eyes. How strange it is to hear this exchange in English! How strange, for that matter, to hear English spoken by anyone other than Mama. It was always our special language, our secret language. Though I'm sure some others inside must also have spoken it as well, I never felt Mama wanted me to search them out. It was just another thing she liked keeping to herself.

These strangers' voices sound different, though. The words are like rubber bands, stretching and twanging in unusual places. I hope they will talk more, but they just stand glaring at each other. Or rather, the man glares, and the woman—Tam—stands there smirking. I notice how under his gaze she puffs out her chest, lifts her head, pulls her shoulders straighter. She raises her eyes until they are level with his. Then she slowly licks all the way around her lips, curls them into an O—and starts to whistle again.

I can't help it. I am so transported by this exchange that I let out a startled laugh. It comes out halfway between a gasp and a shriek, once I realize what I have done and am too late to take it back. The shock sends me sprawling backward into the bush, and my feet slip on the wet ground.

There is a scuffle out on the trail, but my leafy curtain has fallen and I cannot see the couple. I pull my feet back inside the shrubs from where they had slid out.

“Hey, d'you hear that?” comes the man's voice. It is facing in my direction now. He sounds wavering and unsure.

“Heard and
saw,
” says Tam, and her voice is very close. I wonder if I should run away—but going off the trail into the forest is too risky. “Two sandaled feet, yes I did—and if I'm not mistaken, they were right about …
here
!”

With that word, the cluster of growth in front of me is yanked away and I see Tam's face, very close, like a hunter checking on a trap. But seeing me so near must surprise her because she jumps back a step, letting the bush snap into place. I hear the scrabbling of feet and low voices conferring out on the trail.

I know what I need to do. They've already seen me—and after all, what do I have to lose?

Standing up, I pat my hair and smooth my clothes, making sure everything is in place. Then I push aside the bushes and step out.

There is a moment of shocked silence. I stand facing them, and they look at me with turtle gawps. Finally Tam clears her throat.

“Well, hi there. You just out for a walk in the bush or something?” She hesitates. “You, uh, speak English?” The words shoot from her mouth so sharp and quick it's all I can do just to keep up.

“Yes, I do,” I say.

Tam frowns. “Where're you from, then? You've got a different accent from any I've heard. Oh—” She laughs, and juts out her hand. “I'm Tamara Zus, by the way. And this is my mate Paul. We're from Sydney.”

I look at her hand, unsure what to do. Finally I take a guess and put my hand out alongside hers. She gives me an odd look, then grabs my hand and squeezes hard. I gasp a little, but she is smiling, so I squeeze back. I am not used to touching hands like this, but her grasp is firm and warm, and I can feel the friendship-squeeze run all the way down to my toes.

Paul puts his hand out next. Now that I know what to do, the squeeze does not catch me by surprise. His hand is too big, though, and sticky with sweat.

“So,” says Tam, “you were talking about what you're up to out here in the wilderness. Not trekking the country alone at your age!”

I know that I look young, and I shake my head quickly. “No. I am visiting friends. They live near here.” It's getting easier to talk to these easygoing foreigners, but a life on the inside has taught me caution. I wonder how much I should tell them about myself. And then it comes to me, a warm gush of realization. These people—these strangers—know nothing about me. They will know only what I tell them. To them, I am not an oddity, a girl who has grown up in prison, who has lived behind bars every day of her life. To them, I am normal.

I am whoever I say I am.

Understanding breaks over my face in a smile. So this is how I can begin again, how I can become new. I just need to distance myself from my past. Leave it behind once and for all.

I look up to meet Tam's eyes. “I was born here, in a city up north. I'm traveling with a friend—his family lives nearby. I just came out for a walk.”

Tam and Paul don't even blink at my story. It's all true, of course, but I'm amazed at how those few omissions make my life sound so ordinary.

“Yeah, well, we've been trekking since yesterday morning,” says Paul. “We drove up on Monday and we've been staying in the village, trying out the trails. Bad time of year for this kind of adventuring, that's what I say.” He shakes his head and throws a scowl in Tam's direction.

But I am suddenly confused. Monday? The day before yesterday? “How did you drive in to the village on Monday? The road has been closed since Saturday morning.”

Tam frowns. “The road's not closed, love. We've been in and out three times since we got here.”

The conversation around me fades. All I can hear is my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I turn abruptly and start back down the path the way I came. I can hear Paul and Tam calling out behind me, but I don't stop. If the road is no longer closed, why hasn't Kiet told me? This very morning, in fact, he said we were still shut in.

And now another thought freezes my blood, as the forest flies past my now running feet.

Was the road ever shut down at all?

By the time I reach the porch stairs, the buzz in my head has swelled to a typhoon. Swirling emotions storm through me. On the landing I kick off my sandals and unclench my trembling hands. My cheeks feel hot. My breath comes in short gasps. I am fighting for air after running so fast, but something inside me is fighting, too. I feel a pushing in my chest, like something trying to break through a wall or a barrier.

Before I can go in, Kiet opens the front door. He looks surprised to see me.

“Luchi,” he says. “I was just coming out to look for you.”

I glower at him and struggle against my growing anger. Mama had a fiery temper—more than once growing up I saw her fly into a fury over something Jeanne said or did. But all the years on the inside—or perhaps Thailand itself—eventually tamed her. Public outbursts are simply not done. “
Jai yen yen
,” Bibi would say with a soft smile.
Keep a cool heart.
It never paid to give in to the torrent. When all your life is on a stage, even a stage with bars, you learn quickly to cover your true emotions with a mask of convention. If all is not as it should be, at least it can appear that way.

And yet.

The rage I feel boiling inside me as I look up at Kiet is like water pushing to break through a dam, pushing with such force and power that I know I will not be able to hold it back. Maybe it's the brooding silences of the last few days. Maybe it's the many emotions all around me, felt but never shared. But mostly I think this is about starting down my own path of choice only to feel that power taken out of my hands yet again. By someone I'd thought I could trust.

How could Kiet betray me like this? How could he lie to my face?

I swallow hard and try to keep my voice level.

“The road out of here. Why did you say it is closed? It is open—open! I heard it from some travelers in the forest. Why?” My voice rises to a high squeak by the last word, and my face is burning.

Kiet's cheeks pale. “Luchi—I … you … I just thought you needed to stay here a while.” He looks at me, his eyes soft and begging. “They are good people. It is a big change for you, going out in the world. I thought you needed—”

“You
thought
?” The words fly out of my mouth like stones. “What about me? Don't I get to think about things? Don't I get to choose?”

The flow of rage is not slowing. I thought releasing it would burn up all the anger, let me regain control. But it feels like the opposite is happening. Now the dam has broken and my current is a roar of white water, tugging me along and threatening to drag me under. The only thing I can do is keep moving.

I push past Kiet into the empty kitchen and then through to the sleeping room. On the far wall, my tea box and Mama's urn are piled on top of the folded sarong. I snatch them up and turn to leave when I see Yai sitting on the floor, legs tucked under her, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes are cast down and her face is twisted into a look that I cannot read, do not want to read. I know she must have heard our exchange on the porch. My shouted words. If she has heard, others will have, too. Any concerns they might have had about my upbringing will be justified. They will be glad they kept Pensri away from me.

Swallowing hard, I remove the borrowed hat and lay it down in front of her. I lower myself into a
wai
. The traditional gesture, the pressing of palms and lowering of head, calms me a fraction. But as I open my mouth to explain, my heart starts to pound again. “I wish to say farewell, Khun Yai. I have learned that the roads are clear. I must now be on my way.”

Yai only nods, and her eyes shine with understanding and maybe sorrow, too. “May the spirits of your ancestors go with you, child,” she says. “It has been a good thing to have you at our table.” And I know she does understand, and feel, and care.

I swallow, because in spite of my anger, in spite of the tension of the past days, in spite of Kiet, I do agree with her words. And appearances must be kept up. “It has been an honor to share your home,” I say.

Then I turn and leave the room. Kiet is not in the kitchen, and I slip on my sandals and stride down the porch steps. Away.

I will make my own way. I don't need anyone else.