Nowhere Girl (7 page)

20

It's after the third call that I realize this may not work as I had intended. How long ago were these numbers written? More than thirteen years, certainly; from before Mama went inside. The first two numbers I call are disconnected, and the third is answered by a brash, loud woman who has never heard of the name I ask for. Two more numbers, with no better result. Looking at it closely now, I wonder if the handwriting is my mother's after all. Is it possible someone else—my father, maybe—wrote these down? Do I have any chance of making a connection? With every incomplete call, Kiet's eyebrows sink lower down over his eyes, and I know I will have to think of something.

Soon there is only one left. The line buzzes and a mechanized voice tells me that the number I am calling no longer exists. What now?

If I tell Kiet that I have no more leads, he will feel obligated to take care of me. He will want to fix things and make them go according to a plan of his own making.

I have forgiven him for his well-meant control, but I haven't forgotten. This is
my
problem. I have to make my own solution. Things worked out with my escape from the men in the pickup truck; surely I can handle this, too.

All I need is to form another plan. A better one.

I shift in my seat and feel a crinkling in my pocket. The paper Jeanne gave me, the letter from my grandmother. Relief washes over me like a wave.
Regina Finn. 21 Stafford Circle. Brookline, Massachusetts, USA.

There is my plan: This address will take me just where I need to go. I can make my way to Bangkok, and from there I can complete this journey on my own.

And so I take a deep breath, and once again pull my future into my own hands. It feels easier this time, but I am no less terrified.

My fingers are steady now as I dial again: this time, a random string of numbers that will call up nothing at all. The mobile is warm in my palm and I shift it to my left hand, away from Kiet so he will not hear that there is no voice on the other end.

“Hello?” I make my voice bright, casual. “Yes—oh good, this is just who I was hoping to speak with.” I do not stumble as I speak all the proper Thai honorifics. Kiet will have no doubt that I am speaking to Thakoon Ngakom, eminent Bangkok lawyer and philanthropist. I launch into a description of my mother, pause for several imagined responses, and finally decide that I can take no more. I call an abrupt end to the conversation.

Closing the phone with a final sigh, I turn to Kiet. “He will see me the day after tomorrow,” I say. “He was very busy and could not talk long. But he remembers my mother. He can connect me with my relatives in America. He can help me to travel there.”

Kiet looks like a tire that has just been refilled with air. His shoulders relax and his mouth spreads into a wide smile. “That is good news,” he says, and his grin is contagious.

There was no news, good or otherwise, so why do I suddenly feel so relieved? Am I just giddy with the feeling of guiding my own destiny? Or maybe it is the comfort of sitting here, with a friend, in a car filled with warmth and music, where I can see the stormy gray skies and the gushing rain all around but know that, for this moment at least, there is no way they can touch me.

P
ART  
I I

Deliverance

21

The road grows wider now that we are approaching the city. There are three fat lanes, all jammed with cars going in the same direction as us. Through a mass of bushes and trees I can see more rows of cars and trucks on the opposite side, heading back the way we came. We are packed on this street as tightly as prisoners in a cell, but instead of familiarity and comfort I just feel small.

I squeeze my hands into fists. The fear that churns suddenly in my belly makes me remember one mealtime, as a very young child, when I became separated from Mama in the dining area. I turned around and she was gone, and suddenly the cafeteria was a blur of bodies, hair, and hands and faces that suddenly looked the same and I was alone, all alone—

“Luchi?”

I catch myself, coming out of my remembering with a gasp. It takes two or three shakes to clear my head, but I smile weakly at Kiet. “I am all right. I was only thinking—” I frown at the gridlock of vehicles, at the clouds of black smoke boxing us in on all sides, at the miserable weeping sky that makes me want to cry, too. I swallow hard. “Never mind. This is just so different from everything I've grown up with. So far from the inside.”

Kiet looks at me, and his eyes smile out kindness and understanding. He is a small-town boy, I remember. He knows what it's like to come to the big city for the first time.

“Just wait,” he says now. “We are almost in Bangkok. I want you to do something for me.”

We drive on a ways farther, and then Kiet tells me to close my eyes. He turns on the radio again, and suddenly the car is filled with a rich clatter of sounds—cymbals and drums and a loud waterfall of piano keys. It is big and loud and alive, and then— “Look, now. Open your eyes!”

And I do.

We are in Bangkok, the City of Angels.

My mouth falls open. Nothing I have seen on paper or television comes close to the majesty of this place. I know we aren't yet near the downtown center, the city's heart, but still the size of everything pulls at my eyes, tugging them this way and that. I follow the lines of the buildings up, up, and feel that I too could touch the sky, if only I would stretch my hand out far enough.

What magic is this that Kiet has worked for me? We are still crammed onto a street packed with cars, swirled in fumes, but now the music sets the tone, and the beat rings out joy and wonder.

Kiet is lost in his own thoughts also, and I am glad. This gives me time to hear the city's drumbeat inside my heart. The bigness all around makes me think of my own destiny. Do I have a plan that touches the sky?

Do I have a plan at all?

“I have been thinking more about how I will travel to America,” I say abruptly.

Kiet turns to look at me. “What have you decided?” he asks, reaching over to lower the music.

This is a good question, and one for which I have no full answer. But I do have an idea. I reach inside the tea box and pull out the tiny cloth purse stuffed with Mama's American dollars. I don't know exactly how American money works, but the stack is thick and seems to hold a lot of zeroes.

I show the bag to Kiet. I say, “Here. This is how I will get where I need to go.” I tilt my head and look at him, suddenly unsure. “Do you think this will work? Will it be enough?”

He peers into the bag and his eyebrows rise. “Yes, I think that will do well.” He pauses a moment, then says, “The lawyer. He will know the best way to travel. This money will see you safely there. But he will advise you.”

My heart sinks. Yes, the lawyer friend of my mother's would surely have some excellent advice for me. If only he existed. If only one of the numbers in the book was still active, if it belonged to a person who still remembered one American woman from so long ago.

I also know that if I spoke to the right person, I could probably find a way to contact my grandmother, this stranger of my own blood who was so concerned for my mother. I have heard there is an American embassy, right here in Bangkok. Surely they would know what to do. But just thinking of this possibility makes a sweat break out on my forehead. It is too hostile. Too unknown.

Mama's dire warnings, her cautions that I never reveal myself to outsiders, still ring loud in my mind even after all this time. What about the terror that dogged her every waking moment? Can I so easily ignore it, without knowing what it was? No. I am not ready to break the silence of a lifetime. There is still too much of my mother in me.

And what about her last words, her dying wish? She charged me to keep her secrets, and so I can only see one path before me now. I must learn everything. I must discover those secrets for myself. Only then will I know who to trust, how to act, who to be.

The song on the radio ends, and a woman starts to chirp out some peppy dialogue. Kiet turns it off, and Bangkok is once again just a city.

A city with ways and paths and secrets that can be discovered. And somewhere, the clues to the mystery that lies at the core of my life.

22

All day I've worried about how I will get Kiet to leave me in Bangkok. I know that he feels responsible for my care, yet I also know that I cannot be the new person I need to be, so long as he is looking over my shoulder. I think back to those hikers I met in the woods, the way they looked at me—just like I was an ordinary girl. They didn't see the bars of my childhood.

I want to be that girl again, that easy-life person with no secret past. But I can't do that with Kiet beside me. I need to go out on my own. Of course, this will bring its own problems; I haven't forgotten the danger on the road to Sukhothai. But the more time passes, the more confident I feel.

If only I could persuade Kiet that I will be all right, that he can leave me and move on to his place at the temple. But how can I possibly do that?

Kiet himself solves my problem with a frown that grows and grows over the course of an hour, until finally he says: “I am supposed to be at the
wat
by four o'clock tomorrow morning. It is far south of Bangkok; with traffic it will take me hours to reach. I don't know what to do—if we stayed longer with my family I had planned to officially register a delay, but now that I am so close …”

He trails off, the strings of responsibility tugging him in different directions, leaving him tied and powerless. From the look on his face, I can see how much his place at the temple means to him, and I marvel that he would have delayed it for my sake.

I also send a thankful nod to providence, which has given me an easy escape. “Kiet, it will be all right. You were supposed to drive me to Bangkok, not care for me the rest of my life.”

He laughs at this, then frowns again. “Bangkok is a big city. It is not at all safe for a young girl alone, a
farang
.”

“I am not a foreigner,” I say. “You know I was born near Chiang Mai.”

Kiet shoots me a glance that pierces me right through, and I understand his meaning. I am not just a
farang
in Thailand; I am a
farang
in this world, this wide new life of freedom.

But I shake my head. “I will manage,” I say. “I can find somewhere to stay until it is time to meet with the lawyer.” This man has become so real, I almost believe in him myself. But Kiet has something else in mind.

“I have a friend I can introduce you to,” he says. “For many years I drove a motorcycle taxi on Sukhumvit Soi 2. I know someone there who will take care of you. She will help you to get where you need to go.”

My heart sinks at the thought of someone else to watch me. Yet how can I refuse Kiet? And as I think on it more, a friend with a motorcycle could be useful. I don't know Bangkok, and I will need to save my money to be able to travel. The
baht
that Isra gave me cannot last very long.

And, of course, what that really means is just one thing. Soon, I tell myself. I must find my path soon.

23

By the time we arrive downtown, the gray sky of day has changed to the grayer sky of early night. The long hours of city traffic have flown by. Everywhere I turn, there is so much to see. Even the rain that gushes down in torrents does not dampen my enthusiasm. Everything in the world is bright, streaked with reflected light and color, and to me it looks clean and scrubbed and new.

I am seeing it for the first time, and it is putting on its best face for my benefit.

All along the streets are buildings and shops with colorful signs and garish advertisements. People jostle along the sidewalks, sheltered under umbrellas or raincoats or sometimes open magazines, moving from one place to another with a casual determination, with smiles and laughter. I myself cannot stop smiling at all the life I see pushing around me, as I sit safely behind my glass walls and look and look.

On Sukhumvit Road we stop at a big, brightly lit store called 7-Eleven, though I am not sure why those numbers are important. Inside it is full of white light, and Kiet buys me a bowl of prawn dumplings that are heated up inside a microwave. Kiet murmurs in my ear, explaining how a store works. He pulls out money and hands it to the woman at the cash register, counts the coins that are given back, and finally nods. We take our dumplings and our water bottles and return to the car. The food is hot and filling, although it came from a package and makes me long for the meals that Kiet's family prepared.

It is nearly full dark by the time we turn onto Sukhumvit Soi 2. I look at the plastic watch on my wrist and see that it is a little after six o'clock. Kiet pulls his car halfway onto the sidewalk and turns off the engine. Reaching over into the backseat, he grabs a gray-green satchel and hands it to me.

“This is for you,” he says. “I put a few things inside—things you will need on your journey. You can put your other items in here as well.”

I cannot think of any words to say. The car is suddenly very loud, exploding with the sound of the rain on the roof. I pull open the drawstrings of the bag and look inside. There are a few familiar items—a brush, soap, some food items, and … I pull out the square of silk and a small bundle of colored thread. The needlepiece I was working on with Yai. I touch the tangle of brown and green thread and my eyes fill with tears.

“Kiet,” I say.

But he is brisk now, trying to fill the awkward parting with necessary business. He scribbles on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “My mobile phone number,” he says, “and my e-mail address. If you can find your way to a computer. I don't know how much contact I will have once I am initiated, but I want to remain in touch. Perhaps one day—” He shrugs and smiles. “Who knows what the future will bring?”

I take his paper and put it into my pocket. I have only known this new Kiet a few days, so why do I feel as though losing him will cost me a portion of my heart?

“Thank you,” I whisper. I tilt my head and look up at him—the first, the only boy I have ever known. And there is nothing more I can add nor any way to say it better. So I just say it again: “Thank you.”

We climb out of the car, and I move forward on heavy stone feet.

Through the pouring rain I can see the
motosai
drivers, lined up next to their motorbikes with their bright orange jackets. The bikes are clustered under an overhang that gives them next to nothing in the way of shelter. All the drivers are soaked through.

As we wait, a young woman in a short skirt and heels walks up to the lead bike. She exchanges words with the driver and hops onto the back, sitting with both legs to one side, feet neatly crossed at her ankles. The driver revs the motor and squeals off into the traffic. My mouth drops open as the bike skims around the side of a white pickup truck, darts in front of a bus, and disappears around a corner.

Kiet grins. “There are days when I miss the
motosai rap jang
. Those wild rides!”

I must look worried—and I am, because this crazy riding seems more cause for alarm than longing.

But Kiet laughs at me and waves toward the group gathered by the bikes. “Chaluay!” he calls. One of the drivers looks up with a smile for Kiet, and I have time to observe her as she strides toward us. A bit of a novelty on Soi 2, Kiet tells me, Chaluay is one of the few female
motosai
drivers. She is young, and I don't see much to tell her apart from the male drivers. Maybe just a certain slant to her chin and a careful way she walks. But her hair is cut short and her look is hard. She holds her hands like they might be ready to grip a hammer. A girl who has grown up in a man's world. She looks to me like someone who has had to fight for every step she took.

“Kiet,” Chaluay says, coming close enough to be heard through the rain. They exchange
wais
and I follow suit, lowering myself below both of their levels to show my inferior status.

“You look well,” he says to her, and grins.

“Who is this
farang
?” she asks. Her own smile fades as she looks at me, the foreigner. “Did you bring me a rider? You know I can't take anyone out of turn.” She waves toward the line of drivers, each waiting for the next customer to arrive.

“No, nothing like that.” Kiet suddenly looks uncomfortable, as if he only just realized that his plan might be less simple than he'd thought. “This is Luchi. She is a friend of mine—and she will be leaving Bangkok soon. But she needs somewhere to stay for a few days, and I was hoping that you might …” He trails off, perhaps seeing the look on Chaluay's face. I recognize that look, worn frequently by women on the inside when someone was moving in on their space or trying to take one of their privileges.

Deciding to give them some time alone, I mutter an excuse and sidle away. I walk along the row of motorbikes, watch the traffic, count the raindrops as they tap-dance on the inky puddles around me. Nearly fifteen minutes go by before I hear the sound of slapping feet behind me and I turn to find Kiet, dripping wet and smiling.

He has a great smile, I think to myself.

I don't know what Kiet has said to Chaluay, but when I return she behaves something very close to friendly. She apologizes for her first reaction, and I quickly cut short her explanation—after all, I am the houseguest who has fallen from the sky.

So I just lower my head and thank her and then she is saying good-bye to Kiet and I turn and all the rain running down my face cannot mask the wet of my eyes. I know he sees the sadness welling up inside me, and what is more, I think he feels a bit of it, too.

Because when I look in his eyes for the last time, I suddenly remember how he tried to delay this moment. How he tried to have us stay a little longer in that old teak house in the mountains. And whether my soul needed the growing or only my heart, I am suddenly thankful for that gift of extra time.

But I will miss him.