Cross Currents (40 page)

“Run . . . for me. When you're me. On a beach.”

“No.”

Ryan smiled. “And Dao. Send her my money. Tell her . . . tell her it came from King Kong. For her . . . to go to college.”

“You tell her.”

“You . . . brought me here,” Ryan said, squeezing Patch's hand. “But that was good. I saved Dao. And you. And the children. Four lives . . . for one.”

“Five lives. We're five lives.”

“I wouldn't . . . change anything.”

“Please, Ry. Please.”

“Four lives.”

“Please don't go. You have to stay. You have to stay with me.”

“Brothers . . . always stay. We always stay . . . together.”

“Wait. Please wait.”

Ryan squeezed his brother's hand again, no longer hearing Patch's words. He thought that the woman would stop singing, but her voice continued to fill him, comforting him. Now that he had found Patch, he no longer tried to resist the profound weariness that gripped him. He had resisted for so long, and now he wanted to sleep, to go to a new, quiet place, a place where he could rest.

“I love you,” he whispered, unclipping his life jacket, slipping into the waves. He felt Patch pull him up, heard the love in Patch's voice and smiled at that love, knowing that it would endure, knowing that the sacrifice had been worth it, that four lives were more important than one.

The woman's voice grew louder, lifting him upward. He saw her then. Her brow was furrowed. Her hair was long and dark.

He reached for her and they touched and then he was within her.

FOR THE NEXT FIVE HOURS, Patch, Suchin, and Niran gripped Ryan's life jacket and the buoy. Patch had wanted to also hold on to his brother's body, but the weight had been too much, pulling them all under. And so Patch had kissed Ryan's forehead, prayed for him, and let him go. And he had wept until no salt or water seemed to remain within him.

Not long after his tears stopped, a longboat appeared. In it were Lek, Sarai, Brooke, Achara, and four strangers.

Patch watched as Niran and Suchin shrieked for joy. Their happiness reminded him of his brother's last words, of his sacrifice.

Sarai leaped into the water, swimming toward her children, shouting their names.

“Let him see this,” Patch whispered, crying once again. “Please, God, please let him see.”

MONDAY, DECEMBER 27

Lek sat on the steps of their restaurant, one of the few remaining structures in sight. He cradled Achara, stroking her brow, gazing at the devastation around him. All of their bungalows were gone, as were some trees and portions of Patch's path. What remained was a gruesome mix of slabs of cement, ruined boats, piles of splintered lumber, rooftops, washing machines, a pool table, bicycles, and countless pieces of smaller debris. It was as if a nuclear bomb had gone off, destroying everything on the island.

At first light, Lek had left his family, crept down from the hills, and pulled the bodies from his property. He'd found eleven corpses—mostly children—and had wept as he carried them into the village, carefully laying them down next to hundreds of others that had already been arranged in long lines. After moving the last body, he'd fallen to his knees, thrown up, and then returned to his loved ones.

Now, as he sat in their restaurant and held Achara, he thought about his children's survival. Though he grieved over the loss of Yai, the fact that his children still lived was nothing short of a miracle. As he had many times already, Lek prayed, thanking Buddha for the safety of his family. He kissed the scratches on Achara's arm, left from where Brooke's fingernails had dug into her flesh. Looking up, Lek saw that Brooke and Patch were sitting on a coconut tree that had fallen over—one of the few places not covered in filth. She had her arm around him and his head rested on her shoulder. Though their backs were to him, Lek bowed deeply in thanks, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He shuddered, then wiped his cheeks with trembling fingers and stood up.

Moving carefully so as to avoid the broken glass, bent nails, and splintered wood, Lek walked into the hills, cradling Achara. He found the rest of his family where he'd left them, sitting on palm fronds a stone's throw above the waterline. Sarai was between her children, who were so close to her that they looked to be cold and seeking her body's warmth. Even though a wound on Suchin's shoulder had been bandaged and had stopped bleeding, Sarai's hand still pressed against the dressing. Two of her fingernails were missing.

“What did you see?” Sarai asked Lek, her eyes downcast.

He knelt in front of them, so that they formed a circle. “The restaurant . . . it's still there. Filthy, but there.”

“And the rest?”

He shook his head.

Closing her eyes, Sarai held her children tight, her fingers throbbing. Her breathing sped up, and panic gripped her as she imagined trying to rebuild. She thought of her mother, about Brooke's description of how she had died. And though she started to cry, she was filled with pride. Her mother had saved Achara and Brooke, had summoned an inner strength that only a few people had known existed within her. Sarai had always known, despite her teasing. And now others would share that knowledge.

Sarai used her pride to transform her own fears and doubts into something different, into resolution. She wanted to stay on the island, to rebuild. She wanted to start work right away. But she needed to ask her loved ones about their desires and would do whatever was best for them.

She squeezed Niran and Suchin, holding them tight, not wanting to ever let them go. “Can I ask you something?” she said, her voice strained from screaming. “Are you ready to talk?”

“Yes,” Suchin replied, while Niran merely nodded.

“Do you know how much your father and I love you?”

Suchin nodded, tears dropping from her dark lashes. “We know.”

“How much do we love them?” Sarai asked, looking at Lek.

He inched closer to his children. “Our hearts . . . they'll always beat together,” he replied, and touched their faces, his fingers tracing the outlines of their scratches and bruises. “All our hearts, beating as one.”

“That's right,” Sarai said, wincing as she shifted her weight. “And whatever you want, we'll do. Whatever makes you happiest. Because you give anything to those you love. Anything in the world.”

Suchin thought that her brother might speak, but his mouth merely opened and closed. “Why are you saying this?” she asked, wiping her eyes.

“Because we have two choices,” Sarai replied. “We can stay here. We can rebuild. Or we can go. We can have new lives in Bangkok, where you'll never have to worry about the sea rising up, where you'll sleep in a tall, strong building.”

Lek studied his children's faces. He then thought about what he'd heard that morning in the village, about how there was talk of the government making money available to those who planned to rebuild. He wasn't sure what he wanted, other than the happiness of those he loved.

Niran saw his father watching him. He turned, looking at the bay, which was still filled with debris and was the color of cement. The previous night he'd had nightmares about the wave, about it dragging him underwater. He'd wanted to climb higher, to reach the summit of the island. For the first time in his life, he had no desire to be near the water.

As Niran imagined what it would be like to live in Bangkok, to explore an endless city, he noticed a hermit crab moving beside the palm frond beneath Suchin. Niran picked up the animal, and saw right away that it was much too big for its shell. “We'd better find you a bigger home,” he whispered. “Or you'll get eaten.”

The crab half emerged from its shell, and then tightened up again.

Niran took off his shirt, grimacing at the pain that movement brought, and made a pouch into which he set the crab. “Are there shells down there?” he asked his father.

“More than you can imagine. The wave . . . It brought in as much as it took out.”

Nodding, Niran thought again about Bangkok.

“You want to stay, don't you?” Suchin asked. “You've found your little friend and you want to stay.”

“I don't know.”

She nudged him. “Yes, you do.”

“Maybe. I think so.”

Suchin looked out to the sea, believing that her grandmother was still out there, that she would always remain in these waters. “She'll want to hear us laugh. She'll want to see us play. And it will be harder for her . . . if we're in Bangkok.”

Sarai squeezed her daughter's hand. “She's reborn by now. I know she is. So don't ever worry about her not being a part of your world.”

Suchin started to cry again. “I won't.”

“What should we do, Suchin?” Sarai asked, then bit her lip as tears obscured her vision. “Which path will be harder for you?”

“We should stay. Our family . . . has always stayed.”

A ship materialized in the distance, an immense ship the likes of which Sarai had never seen. Help was coming, she knew. They weren't alone. They had survived their darkest hours and they were not alone.

“I think we should rebuild,” Sarai said, committing herself. “I think Rainbow Resort was meant to be here. The restaurant, your tree house, those things are still here. They weren't meant to go. Just like we weren't. And if we weren't meant to go, I don't think we should leave.”

Lek reached for his wife's hand. “If we're going to stay, we should help with the school. Let's rebuild the school. Let's start with that.”

“Tomorrow,” Sarai replied. “We'll start tomorrow.”

“And today?”

“Today I just want to hold each of you,” she answered, pulling her children closer, feeling her husband's head press against her own, tears running down her cheeks. “You're all miracles, you know,” she said, shuddering. “Miracles that floated down to me, that I feel and love each and every moment, that fill me with the light of the sun.”

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 28

At the end of the beach, far removed from the cleanup crews, the piles of wreckage, and the makeshift infirmary, Brooke and Patch stood at the edge of the water. Patch held Ryan's football and passport. He remembered throwing the football with his brother, remembered autumn days and jumping into piles of leaves. After bringing the football to his nose, he inhaled deeply, trying to detect Ryan's presence. The football smelled as it always did—like old leather. But something else might have lingered—the presence of his brother's hands, perhaps.

Patch had come to the water to throw the football as far out as possible, to play one last game of catch with Ryan. His brother had always taken the football with them on family trips, had always made sure that they had time to play catch. And so it had seemed to Patch that Ryan should have the football with him, should carry it wherever he went. But now, as Patch turned the football over and over in his hands, he was torn. He wanted to give Ryan a gift, and yet he feared separating himself from such a connection.