Carpe Diem

by Autumn Cornwell

  Sliding!

  “Okay, God. You’ve forced it out of me: I can’t plan my life. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you’re waiting for me to admit? Fine, okay, you win. Hear me? YOU WIN!”

  Then I realized: I was not wearing my bra. My bra was missing. My bra was not on my person. My bra was AWOL. I could still feel the wet fabric of my money belt around my waist, but my bra was gone.

  Where was it?

  WHERE WAS MY BRA!?!

  That’s it. I’m hallucinating. I’m in a surreal world where undergarments evaporate right off the body.

  Slipping!

  This is it, God! Are you ready to welcome me with open arms up there in the sky or—

  Thwack! Something long and skinny hit me in the face.

  “Aaaahhh! Snake!”

  “It’s not a snake, it’s a lasso,” came a familiar voice.

  “Hanks!?!”

  “Put it over your head and secure it around one shoulder and under the other armpit.”

  “I can’t … I’m blacking … out … .”

  “No, you’re not. Just let go of the bamboo and grab the rope.”

  “I’ll fall!”

  “You’ve got to let go before you can be saved—now let go!”

  “Let go, Frangi!” Grandma?

  “Let go, miss!” Bounmy?

  “Come on, Spore, you can do it. You can let go.”

  Let go, let go, LET IT GO. That’s LIG instead of LIM … or LITM.

  My whole body shook, reverberating the cluster of bamboo surrounding me and sending them clanking. If you’re going to do it, do it fast! Don’t think, just act. Re-act. I pried my right hand off the stalk of bamboo, then snatched the rope dangling in front of my face.

  “Atta girl! Now the other one.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Frangipani! Get a move on!” Grandma Gerd couldn’t hide the fright in her voice.

  I held my breath and peeled my shaking, sweaty left hand—

  Really sliding!

  Somehow I managed to get the lasso around my slippery-sweat-soaked body and cinched it tight across my braless chest. Within seconds I was hanging in the air—then slowly I was dragged up the cliff, whipped by ferns, gouged by stumps, scraped by rocks. The assault on my body before was nothing compared to being rescued.

  Firm arms encircled my shoulders.

  “And you thought my lassoin’ skills were good for nothin’,” came Hanks’s twang in my ear.

  I found myself sprawled on the muddy trail, surrounded by blurry blobs.

  Was that Vang grinning at me?

  And Grandma Gerd’s fuzzy face loomed above me. Her ringed fingers grabbed my legs. “Frangi!” She was crying. “They beat her up! Look what they did to her nose—those bastards!”

  A water bottle appeared, and I almost downed the whole thing before someone pulled it away. Then I was chewing a slice of mango. Someone wiped my face with a cloth—a red bandanna.

  “Was … was it the Polaroid?” I asked in a feeble voice.

  “Polaroid?”

  “She’s probably delusional … .”

  “She stink like Vang wife’s breath,” said Bounmy.

  I squinted at the trees around me, trying to locate the one with the sticky rice Polaroid—then froze. For there, hanging off a stalk of bamboo growing at the edge of the cliff, was my bra.

  My missing bra! My grimy, white, sweat-stained bra! Unmistakable (even with my bad eyesight) against the dark green of the jungle. And positioned in such a way that only those coming up the mountain could see it, not those going down. So that’s what had notified my rescuers of my presence!

  “Mighty clever usin’ underwear. Better than a flare … .” Hanks’s voice faded into the distance.

  How on earth? Did it somehow get snagged while I was falling? Did it slip out? No. It simply was not feasible. There was no way a bra, underneath my shirt, could have been pulled out without said shirt coming off, or ripping. That was neither reasonable nor logical. And even if it did somehow come off, how on earth had it gotten up on that stalk of bamboo? Could a monkey … ? Or an especially gusty wind … ?

  No.

  No monkeys. No winds.

  Face, it, Frangi: It’s your very own miracle—the Miracle of the Bra!

  Then I passed out.

  PART FIVE

  Where Do I Go from Here?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Am I the Same Vassar Spore?

  All I remember after that was being carried down the mountain on a bamboo stretcher. And Hanks picking up the Polaroid—which he found facedown in the mud.

  “Sticky rice isn’t a good adhesive,” he said. “Especially when you got hungry jungle ants.”

  And Grandma Gerd’s strained face hovering above mine as if she didn’t dare take her eyes off me. And her faint whisper: “I thought I’d lost you.”

  It turned out that Bounmy had absolutely no idea how he’d gotten to the opium den village in the first place. So he and Grandma Gerd got lost on the way down the mountain and couldn’t even find Vang’s village for two days. By then, they were exhausted and had to rest up before heading farther down the mountain into Luang Prabang. After Grandma Gerd withdrew the $350 in cash, she, Bounmy, Hanks (whose foot was almost back to normal), Vang, and three No Road Travel guides trekked back up the mountain. But Bounmy simply could not remember which way he’d gone. Apparently there were numerous villages scattered throughout the mountains, their exact whereabouts unknown to the folks from town. And the village where I was being held hostage was one of them.

  They were at the point of returning to Luang Prabang to seek help from the Communist government or even the Laotian mafia—since the American embassies were usually little help in these cases. But Vang encouraged them to keep going, to keep the faith.

  “Miracle. Vang say to expect miracle,” Bounmy had interpreted.

  So to appease him, they headed up the path one last time.

  And an hour later, Grandma Gerd spotted my bra: that grimy, ignoble, miraculous garment.

  So it wasn’t Hanks who had rescued me a fifth time. It was someone a whole lot more divine—who didn’t make a habit of wearing chops (as far as I know …).

  When Grandma Gerd reported the opium den village to the authorities, they found our adventures highly amusing and said that’s what we got for “sleeping wrong” in an animist village during the August Full Moon Festival.

  For the next week I simply existed: ate, drank, took medicine, and slept twelve hours at a stretch in the Ever Charming Guesthouse. Hanks brought me water, fruit, and clusters of frangipani. And read aloud to me from Dustup at the Double D. Not as bad as I’d expected, although a few too many “Let’s round up them doggies!” for my taste.

  When I told him The Big Secret, he said:

  “So that makes two Asians in Port Ann.”

  My cuts and bruises were healing—except for my nose. The cartilage still clicked. A solemn, balding Laotian doctor had intoned, “Your nose will make ‘clicking’ until cartilage fuse back together.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Months. Years. Decades. Perhaps never.”

  So I would be reminded of my close encounter with death every time I rubbed or blew my nose. And now that the stitches were out, there was a scar on the bridge.

  “Your old nose was too perfect. This one’s more whimsical,” said Grandma Gerd. “Much more interesting.”

  “I know, I know: Nothing perfect is ever interesting.”

  A few days later, Hanks helped me down the street to an Internet café. I had a hundred emails … .

  Laurel: We think Sarah and Wayne need to kiss again before the end of the book.

  (“Well, now, we’ll just have to work on that,” said Hanks, reading over my shoulder.)

  Amber: Speaking of kissing—Laurel and Garrett are officially girlfriend and boyfriend. We’re expecting them to kiss ANYTIME now. (Outside the Mini-Mart, perhaps? :))

  Laurel: Denise
managed to attend her ballroom dance class without breaking into hives. She’s even able to make minor small talk now.

  Denise: As long as it’s scientific, mathematic, or logistic in nature.

  Laurel: Guess who turned up at Amber’s last chess tournament? Her mom!

  Amber: Although she totally got BANNED and escorted outside within ten minutes for painting her face in the school colors, blasting her foghorn every time I made a move, and heckling my opponent. (And I thought her taunts at my brothers’ basketball games were mean-spirited.)

  Laurel: It’s the thought that counts!

  Amber: And get this: Mom actually WANTS to attend my next tourney. I’m sure it’s just an outlet for her MASSIVELY competitive ego—but, hey, it’s something. Now I’ll have to start working on Dad—which will be a tough sell until the day chess tournaments include goal posts, helmets, and ballpark franks.

  The recent emails became more and more insistent:

  Denise: So? What happens next?

  Amber: Come on, tell us!

  Denise: I shouldn’t have to say this, it’s around your neck: Nulla dies sine linea!

  Laurel: Ahem, waiting for your chapters.

  Amber: STILL waiting for your chapters!

  Denise: WHERE the *#% @ ARE YOUR CHAPTERS!?!?!

  I emailed them the chapters I wrote in my jungle prison.

  Mom: I’m so proud of the progress you’ve made on your book. I can’t wait to read it!

  (Oh, believe me, you can … )

  And I can’t wait to have my Vassar home again. I’ve missed you so much! Luckily I’ve been able to fill the time working with Amber. I must have done her some good as she’s referred me to three other students at your school—not to mention two sets of parents and a standard poodle (who requires a comprehensive plan for winning the Westminster Dog Show). I must admit, I’ve missed life coaching. But don’t worry, Vassar, I told them I certainly wasn’t going to work outside the home until my daughter has completed her PhD … .

  (Hmmm …)

  Dad: Where are you? According to my calculations, you should have returned from your trek seven days ago. I’m allowing your mom to assume I’ve heard from you. (We certainly don’t need a relapse.) Please reply as promptly as possible and mark your email “priority” so I’ll be sure to read it first thing. (Oh, and we’ve yet to receive your luggage. How did Gertrude send it? By water buffalo?) Don’t forget to call us the day before you depart, to confirm your flight. I need time to plan the most efficient route to the airport since once again there’s construction on the I-5 … .

  I sent Dad a brief yet reassuring email saying I was alive and kicking. But I wasn’t going to elaborate until I had talked to Grandma Gerd. In depth.

  Once I was able to walk without assistance, Grandma Gerd and I took a slow stroll along the Mekong. It was our first chance to really talk since I’d found out The Big Secret. There were so many questions I’d been dying to ask her for so long, I jumped right in.

  “Why did you give me to Mom and Dad?”

  “I knew I couldn’t raise a kid. Emotionally, I was in a dark place—just couldn’t hack it. After all, I’d always thought I was barren. Although it turns out your grandpa was the infertile one all along. In those days, it was hard to tell. That’s why we’d adopted Leonardo. Conceiving you was the shock of a lifetime—I was forty-three! Forty-four when you were born. Talk about a miracle. And the timing. Althea always knew she couldn’t conceive, so she and Leonardo had been looking into adoption. And when you happened, well, I felt I was supposed to give you to them—as a gift.”

  Me, a gift.

  We sat down on the same stone bench where we’d waited for Bounmy. The trek seemed eons ago.

  “So when you called us in May …”

  “I intended to blackmail your parents into letting you come on this trip.” Grandma Gerd ran her hands through her silver hair, making it stick up all over. She looked like a concerned chrysanthemum. “See, at the time, I felt I couldn’t just stand back and watch them turn you into a smug teen superachiever. Talk about arrogant—trying to change someone I didn’t even know. And I had no right after ‘abandoning’ you. But I kept my distance all those years because Althea thought it was best: ‘Having her birth mother around will be confusing. Too many variables,’ she said. At the time, I agreed. I didn’t want you to have—what’s it called? Oh, ‘conflicting loyalties.’ Until I got that doozy of a thank-you note for my rubber ball birthday collage. I couldn’t stomach who you were turning into. It hit me: You can’t cut the cord completely. No matter how sharp the scissors, a tiny bit of fiber still connects the two.”

  Grandma Gerd reached down and picked up something off the ground, setting her silver bracelets clinking. A Laos Ale label. She smoothed out the wrinkles as she continued:

  “I told them I’d spill the beans if they refused to let you come on this trip. Part of the deal was that I’d let them tell you after you got your PhD—when you were ‘mature’ enough to handle the truth. They didn’t want anything to ‘impede your scholastic achievement.’” She smiled. “Ooops.”

  I pulled my notebook out of a woven bag like Grandma Gerd’s I’d bought at a shop in Luang Prabang. With a felt-tip pen, I wrote:

  bubble, birth, too young, rubber ball, dying, egg.

  Then I handed her the notebook and pen.

  “This is what I overheard you say that night. Can you fill in the blanks of the rest of the conversation? Kind of like Mad Libs, but in reverse. It’s been driving me crazy. I’ve got to know or I’ll never get these words out of my head.”

  “Mad Libs? Let’s see if I can remember … .” She started to write, then paused. “It won’t be a hundred percent accurate, but you just want the gist, right?”

  “The gist will do just fine.”

  Ten minutes later, this is what she had:

  Me: “Face it, you two: Vassar’s in a bubble. I think it would be good for her to come to Southeast Asia. Of course I won’t tell her the truth about her birth. I’ll leave that to you … . No, I don’t think she’s too young. She’s sixteen. It’s better to tell her sooner rather than later—a PhD won’t help her process it any faster … . The thank-you note for last year’s rubber ball birthday collage was obviously a cry for help. You know she’s dying to get out of the stuffy world of academics and into the real world for a change … . Come on, you owe me. After all, she was conceived from my egg, Althea. Maybe Vassar would be interested in knowing that little fact—”

  Leonardo: “That’s blackmail and you know it!”

  “Finally!” I said. Now my intellectual curiosity was satiated. My unknown birth father would always be a loose end (which, to be honest, unsettled me), but at least one mystery was solved.

  And now that I thought about it, Mom’s doodle in her journal wasn’t of a pear—but of a womb!

  Grandma Gerd cleared her throat. Looking out at the Mekong, she said, “I hope you’re not too disappointed that Althea and Leon aren’t your birth parents.” Before I could answer, she hurried on: “Can you forgive me for deserting you—even if it really was for your own good?”

  “Yes.” And I meant it. “I don’t know if it’s because it hasn’t sunk in yet or what, but I actually don’t mind.”

  Relief flooded her face.

  As I watched a yellow long-tail boat glide down the river, I thought:

  I’m not who I thought I was, and I can’t understand why I feel so relieved.

  My identity had been turned completely inside out—I should have felt lost. Betrayed. Angry. But, instead, I felt free. Like a heavy backpack full of Latin textbooks had been lifted from my shoulders.

  “Time to get you back. Don’t want to overdo it.” Grandma Gerd stood up.

  I slung my woven bag over my shoulder. “So what should I call you?”

  “Why don’t you just call me what you’ve been calling me. ‘Less variables’ that way. And it’ll be a whole lot easier on Althea. After all, she’s still your mom, and Leo
nardo’s still your dad. And you can go back to being Vassar. You’ve been a good sport.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I kinda like Frangipani. It’s ‘lyrical and musical and a fairy tale rolled all in one.’”

  She laughed and put an arm around my shoulders. “Oh, why the heck didn’t I blackmail your parents sooner?”

  Returning to Melaka was like coming home, in a strange way. The familiar sights and sounds relaxed me. When I limped into The Golden Lotus Guesthouse lobby, Azizah had given me one look and said, “Selamat Pagi! Welcome to The Golden Lotus Guesthouse. Do you have a reservation?”

  “It’s me: Frangi—Vassar—Spore. Gertrude’s daughter—granddaughter.”

  “Who is this girl? And why is she drunk so early in the morning hours?” she asked rhetorically, gesturing wildly with her turquoise nails—which of course matched her turquoise headband, blouse, and eye shadow.

  Only when Grandma Gerd finally appeared with our backpacks did Azizah finally believe me. “What happen to her? Bandits? Full-moon party?”

  “You could say that,” said Grandma Gerd.

  “So want bags now?” asked Azizah. She unlocked the door behind the counter to reveal a closet jam-packed with—

  My ten monogrammed suitcases!

  Grandma Gerd shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Hey, I had to do what I had to do.”

  But I wasn’t fazed in the least.

  After removing my laptop from Bag #1, I turned to Azizah and gestured towards my luggage. “It’s all yours.”

  Then I headed across the street for my last trip to a Southeast Asian Internet café.