Part 14 (1/2)

Turns out there wasn't anything else to do in the cell but count Sai's ribs. No books or magazines were allowed. I lay on the wooden floorboards and tried to close my eyes, but that would just make the thoughts race faster through my head. I thought about Julia and her bitter screams. What had my temper done to her?

The clanging of the steel bar door as its sliding bolts unlocked interrupted my thoughts. Sai's eyes opened.

”Dinner time,” he said.

A toothless prison guard slid one bowl of watery soup along the floor and a basket of sticky rice.

”Who's it for?” I asked, wondering what was floating in the soup.

”It's for us all. One bowl per room,” Sai said. He had to be joking.

He rolled a ball of sticky rice in his right hand and pa.s.sed it to me. I wasn't hungry, but I thought food might stop my shakes. I gingerly bit into the ball of rice. Sai ate hungrily, slurping as he spooned the soup into his mouth. Huang raised his head to see what was going on, and then hung it again with disinterest. Suddenly something hard cracked between my molars. I raised a hand to my cheek and tried to pry the small pebble out with my tongue. I watched Sai as he used his fingers to pick his teeth. Then I watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, push the bowl aside. There was nothing else to do but watch him. He stood up, placed his hands on his lower back and leaned back to stretch. He walked to the bathroom. I felt anxiety creep up in my throat. My legs started to get jumpy. I drummed my fingers on the floor.

”They'll take you to work tomorrow,” he said when he came out.

As the cell grew darker, a guard wearing a green uniform brought Danh and Tong back. They undressed and lay on the floor in their underwear. They looked exhausted. Before long I knew they were sleeping by the deepening of their breath. I sat and watched as the cell grew black. It was like I was watching a movie. It wasn't real. Finally the cell was completely dark. There was nothing left to watch. I closed my eyes, but my rus.h.i.+ng thoughts kept sleep far away.

Mess.

Seng.

Seng was comforted by the crowd they had to jostle through to find a cheap Bangkok guesthouse. The sidewalks were heaving with people: well-dressed teenagers laughing into their cellphones; dirty, poor children with their wild brown hair and palms held up to sunburned tourists; businesspeople in suits and skirts. There was no way he and Vong would be spotted in the middle of them all.

Seng wasn't sure how to work the shower in their small room. At home he always used a bucket to pour water over himself. He didn't want to ask Vong how to use it. He could take care of himself. He eyed the gleaming silver handle and pulled it up. Water flowed out of the tap. Easy enough, but how could he get it to come out of the showerhead? He fiddled around with the handle, making the water hot and cold. Then he noticed the little metal rod on top of the tap. He pulled it up and the water shot through the showerhead, piercing his body. See? he thought, I can figure things out for myself.

After his shower, he fell onto the thin bed of the guestroom, exhausted. A ceiling fan whirred overhead.

”So when do we go to Canada?” he asked.

Vong looked up from the crumpled map she was reading, surprised.

”Seng, you don't have a pa.s.sport. How can we go to Canada?” She looked annoyed by his question.

”I thought that was the plan, euaigh. Bangkok and then Canada.”

”I said Bangkok and then we'll see.”

That was not how he remembered it. He had to stop relying on her so much. He needed to come up with his own plan. Why was she here, anyway? She should go back to her easy life with Chit. It was what she had left them for, after all.

Vong looked guilty. ”Don't worry about it, little brother. What we need right now is sleep. We'll decide tomorrow.”

He gave her a weak smile and turned over on his side to sleep. She climbed onto the bed beside him - they could only afford a room with one bed.

”You sleep the same way you did as a kid. With your legs curled and your hand tucked in between your knees,” she said. ”Do you remember how we used to sleep side by side on the floor of the Luang Prabang house? On full-moon nights we could see the mango tree from the window. Remember making bets about who would be able to reach the highest mango the next day?”

”You always got it, Vong. The mango.”

Vong laughed.

”Tell me something about our mother,” he said. Maybe it would make him feel better.

She s.h.i.+fted in the bed.

”Like what?”

”I don't know. A good memory of her.”

”Well, let's see. When I was young I dreamed of being a dancer in the king's court. Did you know that?”

”No.”

He didn't want to know about her, he wanted to know about their mother.

”I was good. One of Meh's friends gave me lessons. The king's dancers used to talk about me, how I would dance for him one day.” She rolled over to look at Seng. ”One time Meh snuck me in to watch the Laos National Ballet. I remember giggling and hiding with her behind a thick, musty-smelling curtain as we watched the dancers. It was the Ramayana story. I can still see the silky wave of long hair down the back of the dancer who played Sita.” She paused, as if she was savouring the memory.

”You know what I remember most of all?” she asked.

He didn't answer.

”I remember the looks on the dancers' faces. The glimmer of someone practising something they truly love. You know that look? Now I'm just a cas.h.i.+er at a grocery store.”

That's better than peddling cheap plastic goods, he thought. He was getting tired of her. Did she think of anyone but herself? He rolled over and tried deepening his breath so she'd think he was asleep, even though he hadn't truly slept since Nok had died.

Since Nok was killed.

”Nothing but a cas.h.i.+er, and I can't even have a baby,” she said into the night. ”That's what the doctors say. Something's wrong with me. I can't get pregnant.”

His heart softened.

”So sorry to hear that, sister,” he said.

”I really want to be a mother. To know what's it like to love someone like that.”

He wondered what it would be like to be loved so unconditionally. His sisters loved him, he knew that. And Khamdeng. But he didn't think anything could compare to the feel of a mother's love.

From the hall outside of their room he heard backpackers, their voices thick with drink and excitement, returning to the guesthouse for the night. He heard the slap of the staff's flip-flops as they showed late-arriving guests to their rooms. Gradually the noise waned and the guesthouse was shrouded in the silent blackness of very late at night.

”We should sleep,” she said.

”Yes,” he said, rolling over and feeling very alone, even though the bed they were sharing was crowded with their two round bodies.