Cross Currents (14 page)

Setting the brick down, Patch looked up. “The children who live here don't have much, but they're happy.”

“I noticed that.”

“I was thinking about building them a tree house, next to their soccer field. There's some sort of big old tree and it would be easy to build on.”

Ryan thought about the tree house that he and Patch had built with their father. It still remained, twenty feet off the ground in an oak tree behind their childhood home. “You always liked our fort, didn't you?”

“So did you. You designed most of it. Dad and I just did what you said. You were like a little Frank Lloyd Wright, bossing us around, telling us where you wanted everything nailed up.”

“Well, you needed some bossing,” Ryan replied, smiling. “Otherwise, the thing would have fallen apart.”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

“Why do you think it's still standing?”

“Because I pounded four thousand nails into it. That's why, Frank.”

Ryan pushed Patch off his path. “Sure. Build a tree house for those kids. I'll even let you design it.”

“No, you design it. Walk on over, check it out, and then tell me how you think it should be. I'll follow your plans.”

“All my plans?”

Patch wiped sweat from his eyes. “None that involve American embassies and Thai prisons. But a tree house? Absolutely.”

Ryan pushed him again. “Such the little smart-ass. Think you've got it all figured out, don't you?”

“No. Not everything. Just you.”

“I'm going to grab some grub. Want to come?”

“I need to finish more of this,” Patch replied, standing. “Lek really wants it done.”

“All right. See you in a bit.”

As Ryan started to turn away, Patch reached out to him, touching his elbow. “Hey, will you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Do something fun today. Something for yourself.”

“Like what?”

“Well, we've got some of the best scuba diving in the world, right here. You're certified. Is Brooke? Why don't you guys go out for the day? Get a great dive in. People are seeing whale sharks out there.”

Ryan gazed toward the bay. He'd scuba dived off the coast of California and in the Florida Keys, but never overseas. “She's not certified.”

“So? She can take a one-day class. It's just a few hours, really. And then you could go out together.”

“She wouldn't want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because she gets claustrophobic.”

Patch waved away a troublesome fly. “Why don't you go? I'll hang out with her for—”

“We fought last night.”

“You did? Why?”

Ryan shook his head and then lowered his sunglasses until they shielded his eyes. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“You're the one who brought it up.”

“I just . . . I don't really feel like being with her right now.”

“But why not?”

“Because, as usual, I don't know what she wants. I'm sure you'd figure it out in two seconds, but I have no freaking clue.”

The noise of a longboat's engine sputtering to life drifted to them. Nearby coconut trees swayed in a slight breeze.

“Why don't you go, Ry?” Patch asked. “Go diving for a few hours. Everyone says it's incredible. And if you don't go you'll regret it someday.”

“Can you look after her? Just for the morning?”

“Sure. I'll take her on a hike or something. Go have breakfast and then I'll take you into the village, get you set up with the right people.”

Nodding, Ryan started to walk away, but then stopped. “You . . . you really love it here, don't you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you said, ‘We've got great diving here.' You made it sound like you were a local.”

“I guess . . . after five months, I feel like a local.”

“Don't you miss life back home?”

Patch listened to the longboat recede. “I'll be home soon. One way or another.”

“Mom and Dad would come, you know. They'd visit you in jail.”

A gecko scurried across the unfinished trail to consume an overturned green beetle. “You think I want Mom to see me in jail?” Patch finally replied. “That would crush her. She couldn't handle it. Just getting over here would be hard enough for her.”

Ryan shook his head. “You think you know her better than I do? What she can or can't handle?”

“I—”

“If you know so much, why are you in this mess?”

“I didn't say that.”

“But you act like it. You act like you know more than everyone else. Jesus, Patch, you sit here and build a path when you should be talking to the American embassy, trying to figure a way out of this nightmare. You want me to go scuba diving like I'm on some sort of vacation. Well, I'm not. I came here to save you. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“I didn't ask to be saved,” Patch replied as he picked up another brick. “I didn't ask you to come here. I can save myself.”

“How? By running again? By getting killed?”

“I can—”

“Look how great things turned out the last time you ran. You nearly got shot. And now you're screwed.”

“It was an accident. It wasn't planned. It wasn't—”

“Plans? You don't know anything about plans.”

“That's not true.”

“It's not?”

“No.”

Ryan's gaze followed the unfinished path. “You need more bricks,” he said, walking toward the restaurant. “You're going to need a lot more bricks. Unless you planned on running out threequarters of the way through.”

BREAKFAST AT THE RESTAURANT WAS usually a quiet affair. While their mother cooked for the tourists, Niran and Suchin sipped steaming soup, which they ate almost every morning. The soup was made from water, white rice, shrimp, celery, garlic, fish sauce, and pepper. Their mother always used leftovers from the previous night, so the meat of the soup varied from shrimp to chicken to fish. As Niran studied a foreign coin that he'd found, Suchin alternated between sipping her soup and a cup of tea rich with condensed milk and cane sugar.

Both children wore their school uniforms. Suchin's consisted of a blue skirt and a white, buttoned, short-sleeved blouse with a rounded collar. Niran wore green shorts and a similar shirt, except that his had a traditional collar. Though they always went barefoot at home, each wore worn plastic flip-flops.

As the siblings ate, Niran often gazed at his fish tank. It rested at the far end of the bar, away from the beach. He had named all the tank's creatures, which he'd caught in the island's tidal pools as well as in its deeper waters. There were miniature shrimp and crabs, brilliantly colored fish, and several kinds of snails and anemones. An old air pump hummed behind the tank, causing bubbles to rise from behind a piece of coral. The tank had never contained a filter. When it got dirty, Niran and his father emptied it, cleaned the glass, and then poured in fresh water from the bay. For as far back as he could remember, Niran recalled catching fish with his father, adding them to the tank, and watching as they grew comfortable with their surroundings. At first the fish were skittish, but after a few weeks, they recognized his face and darted toward the surface, eager to be fed.

Niran finished his soup and looked around the restaurant. In a corner table near the beach, a trio of Scandinavian women ate yogurt with fresh fruit and muesli. Patch's brother sat near them, listening to his iPod, staring at the sea. On the other side of the restaurant, two shirtless men smoked cigarettes and took turns playing some sort of electronic handheld game. The rest of the tables were unoccupied.

Gathering his empty bowl, spoon, and mug, Niran was about to head to the kitchen when his grandmother appeared carrying his little sister. Yai put Achara over her wide shoulder and patted her granddaughter's back. As Suchin started to chat with Yai, Niran cleaned up the space in front of him, carrying everything into the kitchen, where his mother was already getting ready for lunch and dinner—dicing cloves of garlic and glancing at a to-do list that she'd taped to the wall.

“Should we go?” she asked, then rinsed her hands in a stainless-steel sink next to the stove.

He shrugged. “We're always early.”

“Well, that's how it's supposed to be. It would be rude to keep everyone waiting.”

Nodding, Niran followed his mother out of the kitchen. He knew she didn't like to leave her restaurant when someone might be ready to order, but Yai could take any order, and his mother could fill it as soon as she returned from walking them to school. Niran said good-bye to his grandmother and baby sister, and followed his mother into the morning light.

As usual, Sarai walked hand in hand with her children, leading them along the path between the bungalows. Patch was working at the far end of the path, laying more bricks. They said hello to him, and he replied in broken Thai, asking how they were doing. Suchin giggled, leaping onto the finished part of the brown path. While his mother switched to English and told Patch that she'd make him something delicious for breakfast, Niran studied how carefully the bricks had been laid. They resembled the scales of a fish, he decided, forming a simple pattern of lines and surfaces. He complimented Patch on the work and then hurried to catch Suchin, worried that she might step on one of the small hermit crabs that sometimes scurried across the path. More often than not, Niran looked for such treasures on the way to and from school. Sometimes he found bugs that he fed his fish. Sometimes the flash of sunlight on a coin caught his eye.

Turning to her left, Sarai headed toward the village. As usual for the time of day, more Thais than tourists were about. Vendors opened their stalls—removing plywood covers, aligning rows of sunglasses, sweeping sand from tiled floors. While men swung hammers and erected or improved shops, women tidied trinkets on shelves and counted money. Uniformed schoolchildren of various ages moved toward the island's center, a few riding rusty bicycles but most on foot. Cats chased geckos at the bases of banyan trees. Tropical birds sang from within bamboo cages. Porters used carts to wheel supplies and baggage away from the distant pier.

As Sarai walked, she recalled being a child on the island, thought about how much it had changed. Thirty years earlier, Ko Phi Phi had been little more than a collection of fishermen's huts and coconut plantations. Sarai had grown up mending nets, gutting fish, and exploring the island. Few tourists ever made it from the mainland, and Sarai knew almost nothing about the rest of the world, or even Bangkok. Her reality was defined by the movement of tides, the scarcity or abundance of fish, the laughter of her mother.

Glancing at her children, Sarai worried about their futures. Ko Phi Phi had changed so much, and she wondered if a shift would occur from her childhood experiences to theirs. So far, Suchin and Niran delighted in the same things that she had—the fierce tropical rain, the feel of warm sand on their feet, the jesting of their elders. But what if their family was forced to move to Bangkok? Would Suchin still act so free? Would Niran continue to study the ocean and dream about being a scientist? And would Achara feel slighted for having no memories of waves and water?

When Suchin began to tell Niran a joke, Sarai felt an urge to gather them in her arms, to sense the press of their skin against hers, and to take comfort in that connection. She could usually sweep the burdens of her life into a small corner and smile at her many blessings. But this morning she was troubled. Lek had moved so slowly rising from bed, rubbing his hip as he left to begin his chores. She hated seeing him in pain and lamented her inability to do anything about it. Medicine and doctors cost money, and they had little—less, in fact, than before his accident, when he caught more fish and was able to keep their bungalows in excellent shape.

Sarai approached the large cinder-block school and stopped, dropping to her knees. Her children turned toward her, clearly surprised. “Tell me what you like most about living here,” she said, squeezing a hand of each child.

“Why?” Suchin asked, glancing at her classmates.

“Just because.”

Suchin's gaze drifted back to her mother. A mosquito landed on her mother's forearm and Suchin slapped at it—missing the pest and then slapping again. “I wouldn't get to whack you if we moved somewhere else,” she said, pleased that she'd succeeded with her second strike. “And I love whacking you.”

“Maybe I'll whack you. Ever think of that, you naughty little girl?”

Smiling, Suchin shrugged, pretending indifference. “You're too slow. You're too slow and Niran is always daydreaming about something. That's why you both get bitten so much. I'm the opposite. And that's why I never have to scratch.”