As Ladarat and Khun Suphit approached the door, a new nurse, just out of nursing school at Chiang Mai University, one of the best nursing schools in the country, came hurrying out of the American’s room, smiling furiously.
To a farang—a foreigner—she might look happy. But one glance revealed her smile to be what Thais call yim soo, or “I’m smiling because I don’t know what else to do.”
If it seems like Thais smile too much, it’s not because we have so much to smile about, but because we use a smile for so many occasions. It was a little like what the undergraduates said at the University of Chicago: Drinking is only for after 5 P.M., but it’s always after 5 P.M. somewhere.
In Thailand we smile because even if there is nothing to smile about, there may be something worth smiling about someday. Or there used to be. She was sure that those college students were addicted to their drinking and she often wondered whether perhaps Thais suffered from a similar addiction to smiling.
The young nurse rushed between them, slowing only for a hurried wai. Normally she was ambitious and almost obsequious, particularly to a powerful doctor like Khun Suphit. Her hurry was bad sign. A very bad sign.
Khun Suphit paused. Then he sighed. Then—of course—he smiled. Then he led the way into the room.
It was one of the best rooms in the hospital. Khun Suphit had made sure of that. Normally used for government officials and very important farang, it had wide windows that afforded a panoramic view of the deep green mountains to the west. It also boasted a wide expanse of marble floor and a large sitting area with comfortable teak and rattan furniture.
Ladarat was in general not in favor of special, private rooms that gave some patients better treatment than others. The proponents of such luxurious accommodations said that those patients do not receive better care, only more comfort, as if that made injustice more acceptable. In her view, it did not.
And wasn’t the distinction between care and comfort a false one? Don’t people who are more comfortable heal faster? So aren’t we giving some people better care than we’re giving others? That is unfair.
Yet she could not fault the hospital for giving special treatment to the Americans. They had been through so much, compassion dictated that they should offer additional comfort. One could only hope that the Americans would appreciate this gesture, but she suspected that they would not.
Americans—and indeed all tourists—never seemed to appreciate the hospitality for which Thailand was justly famous. No matter how hard a hotel clerk or a waitress might try to anticipate a guest’s needs, the guest seemed to take those efforts as their due. Just what was expected. And they never smiled.
Khun Suphit’s broad back paused in the doorway, obscuring for a moment the scene that awaited them. Then he stepped backward and to his right, revealing a solid middle-aged American man who was standing with his hand on his hips, blocking their entrance. He had sandy hair and high cheekbones like a woodcarving, and probably would have been very handsome once. Behind him was the woman Kate, sitting in a wheelchair next to her bed, with a hopeful smile and bright green eyes. Despite the bandages that encircled her head and partially hid her blond hair, you could tell that she was beautiful. This Andrew Fuller had been—for a short time at least—a very lucky man.
Then Ladarat’s attention was jostled by a flicker of movement off to her right, and she glanced beyond the man who was blocking their way. Thin and pale, with red hair and a tentative smile, a woman rose from her place on the sofa to greet them with a deep wai, in the correct order, first to the director and then to her. Khun Suphit was nonplussed for a second—a first for him, no doubt. But he returned the American’s wai, then turned to the man, and finally to the girl on the bed. The girl smiled uncomfortably, and the man simply nodded.
Well.
The three Americans looked expectantly at the director, and it wasn’t until he took another step backward and to the side, looking directly at Ladarat, that she remembered that she was to do the talking. That recollection didn’t feel very good.
“This,” she announced an uncertain voice, “is Dr. Suphit Jainukul. He is the director of the ICU. He is responsible for the oversight of Mr. Fuller’s care.”
“Are you a doctor?” This from the man.
The director turned to her, with a tentative smile, pretending that he didn’t speak English. Oh, so very clever. She smiled, too, contemplating revenge.
“Yes, Dr. Jainukul is a doctor. He is a pulmonary physician. And my name is Ladarat Patalung; I am a nurse.” Mentioning that she was the ethicist for the hospital would only confuse things.
“You speak English very well,” the woman said, peering around her husband’s shoulder.
“Thank you. I had the good fortune to spend a year at the University of Chicago studying. And this is why,” she continued, “Dr. Jainukul asked me to join you for this conversation as a translator. That,” she said somewhat unnecessarily, “is my role.”
If the director followed this, he gave no sign. Instead he had assumed a pleasant yet vacant expression of superficial interest. This was his defense mechanism, she knew. Whatever happened, and whatever the Americans said, he would smile his distracted smile, trying very hard to think of the gardening he would do this weekend.
No wonder Thailand has never been in a serious war. We are allergic to conflict, whereas Americans seemed hardwired to seek it out. The man, for instance, was staring at them with a strange intensity. And—what was truly odd—he still hadn’t moved aside to let them pass. It would be awkward indeed to get into the room unless he gave way. But the women were nodding and smiling hopefully, waiting for some good news.
Then the man surprised them all. “I’m going out for a smoke. You all just talk about… whatever you need to talk about.”
And before Ladarat could explain that he needed to be here—that they needed him to be here—he slipped between her and the director with a grace that was surprising for a man of his size.
There was an uneasy moment as the four of them who remained looked at one another. Then his wife broke the silence with an awkward shrug and a smile. She sheepishly held up a pack of Marlboro Lights, whose red was anemic and washed out. Knockoffs from China or Cambodia probably. “He left these here. I think… I think maybe he’s just not ready to talk.”
She smiled again, weakly. If she were Thai, this would be the same yim soo smile that the young nurse had displayed just a few minutes ago. The smile of helplessness. It’s also a way of saying: “I don’t find this funny, and in fact it’s very painful, but I’m smiling so at least you can smile, too.”
That the yim soo smile seemed to be exclusive to women was part of its tragedy, and its effectiveness. One felt compelled to smile in sympathy. Especially if one was a woman, too.
But she couldn’t explain that to Mrs. Fuller, any more than she could tell her, honestly and directly, that her son was going to die. Instead, Ladarat simply nodded, wondering that it was the man who left, and the women who stayed behind, willing to hear whatever news needed to be heard. Of course, it stands to reason that the women are stronger in these matters than the men. She saw this in Chicago, too. Perhaps it was true everywhere.
Mrs. Fuller gestured to the little circle of chairs just inside the door and pushed Kate’s wheelchair over to join the circle.
They all sat and everyone looked at Ladarat.
“How much,” she began, “do you know about what has happened to Mr. Fuller?”
That was how one started a conversation of this sort. Professor Dalrymple was clear on this point. “First you must always find out what the patient and family know. You cannot guess what is in their heads, or in their hearts. You must ask.”
“Please,” Kate said, “call him Andrew.”
Ladarat nodded.
“How much do you know about what has happened to Andrew?” she asked. “About his condition?”
“We know,” Kate said slowly, “that he was badly injured. In his head, I mean.
And… a spine fracture.”
“And… that he hasn’t shown any sign of brain function,” Mrs. Fuller added. “Yet.”
It was uncanny how they finished each other’s sentences. Indeed, looking at them side by side, they shared a fresh, wide-eyed openness that made them seem like they could be mother and daughter.
“But there’s still hope, isn’t there?” Kate asked.
Ladarat translated that for the director, certain he’d understood, but at least she could give him some time to think.
He seemed ready to reply directly to Kate but then thought better of it. Instead, he turned to Ladarat.
“It has been forty-eight hours,” he said in Thai. “It’s very unlikely that he’ll show any improvement if he hasn’t already.”
“But not impossible?”
Kate and Mrs. Fuller were watching this dialogue with increasing concern.
“No,” he admitted slowly. “Not impossible. The chances of recovery decrease the longer he remains unconscious. So every day like this his chances are worse.”
“So you wouldn’t say that right now, today, he has no chance of recovery?”
He shrugged, then shook his head. “No, it’s too soon to say that absolutely.”
“Then how long, do you think? It would help if we could give them some time, so they can prepare.”
The two women turned to the director. No doubt they were becoming increasingly confused. It was a simple question, they were thinking. Kate had simply asked whether there was hope.
It would certainly be a simple question in America. Any American doctor would have said of course. Of course there’s hope. There’s always hope. We’ll just wait and see. We’ll take one thing at a time. And one day at a time. Yet this Thai doctor and nurse were taking what felt like hours to answer a question that shouldn’t take more than a few seconds. What is wrong with them?
And poor Khun Suphit was probably equally confused by the twists and turns their brief conversation was taking. Normally, with a Thai family, he would simply say that there was nothing more that he could do. But not with this family. No. They wanted information. They wanted… possibilities. And of course they wanted hope.
Instead, he offered them a smile that meant, among other things, “Things are very grim, and Andrew will never wake up. I’m so sorry for your loss.” At least, that’s what Ladarat saw. Who knew what the Americans perceived?
Then he said, in broken English: “Things are not good. Not good at all. But to be sure, we wait three more days. No improvement… then no hope.” And he smiled.
It was odd how, in that second, the two women seemed to respond so differently. Kate nodded and smiled, as if her beloved Andrew had just gotten a reprieve. But Mrs. Fuller seemed already to be thinking ahead to the next conversation they’d be having in three days’ time, and fearing the worst. She looked down and reached for the pack of cigarettes that her husband had left, then withdrew her hand as if she’d thought better of it. But for a moment, her arm outstretched and caught between two impulses, she had a confused look on her face. It was almost as if she’d forgotten who she was, and where she was.
But she came to her senses quickly enough. Putting on a brave face for the both of them, she said that she’d share what they’d discussed with her husband. And she picked up the pack of counterfeit cigarettes and shook it gently, as if it were somehow his representative in this little meeting.
Ladarat stood to leave and the director followed her. But Mrs. Fuller had one more question for them as she walked them to the door. It was plainly something she was reluctant to bring up, judging from her glances at Kate, who stayed behind in her wheelchair.
“You know we have the utmost respect for the medical system in Thailand,” she began. She waved her arm at the hospital room and the view out of the oversize windows, as if that were an eloquent statement about the quality of a country’s health care. “We know that Kate and Andrew have only gotten the best of care, and we mean no disrespect to… to the doctor.” Here she smiled and nodded toward the director. “But my husband… well… he will want to be sure that everything possible is being done, and…”
“And you want a second opinion? A doctor from the U.S.?” Ladarat suggested.
Mrs. Fuller nodded sheepishly. “I think that would help him. Especially if… well… if Andrew doesn’t improve. Roger will want to know that we did everything we could.”
Ladarat nodded and translated, nervous about how that request would be received. In Thai culture, it would be difficult indeed to ask for such a thing without it being perceived as a slight. And indeed, the director frowned for a second, but just a second. Likely Mrs. Fuller didn’t even notice.
Then he nodded and smiled at Kate and Mrs. Fuller. “Of course, I understand,” he said in English. “If you give the name of the doctor, and e-mail, we can send all records. And translation.”
He offered them both a wai, which Mrs. Fuller and then Kate returned. A moment later they were in the hallway.
“That went better than I expected,” the director said thoughtfully.
“It was because the man, Mr. Fuller, was not there. That made it easier,” Ladarat said.
The director nodded. “You think he didn’t want to hear bad news?”
Ladarat agreed that was part of it. But more likely he didn’t trust himself to be tough in the face of bad news. And, too, she wondered whether maybe he knew somehow that the conversation would be more productive if he wasn’t there. That more questions would get asked and answered if he was absent.
The director stopped next to the elevators, waiting as Ladarat pressed the button to take her back to her basement office. Unlike the director, she couldn’t count on the world around her being inspired to come to her aid when she needed it. She would probably have to wait for this elevator for a long, long time.
“There is one other thing I would appreciate your help with,” he said slowly. “I hesitate to ask, because it has nothing to do with ethics. But…”
“Yes, Khun?”
“Do you remember that man who was here as we passed through earlier? The one who needs a place to stay?”
Ladarat nodded.
“You are very good at talking to people,” he said. “They… trust you.”
“You are most kind.” Oh dear. There was nothing more dangerous than Thai flattery. Because surely that was flattery. She was not “very good” at anything related to people. And no one trusted her, with the possible exception of her cat. What was the director up to?
“So I wondered if perhaps you could try to talk with him. Maybe you could try to find out why he’s here?”
Oh dear.
“But surely he has a good reason to be here? He would not come to a hospital unless he were visiting a family member or a close friend.”
“Well, you see, there’s the fact that he has no shoes…”
Ladarat waited.
“And with the inspection coming, you know… What would it look like to have him here?”
What would the good Professor Dalrymple do? Sometimes Ladarat thought that everything she herself had accomplished, and indeed most of the decisions she made, could be credited directly to the good professor’s book. But just this once, Ladarat didn’t need to think about that for more than a moment. The good Professor Dalrymple would try to help. That was a nurse’s duty, whatever the problem.
“Of course,” she said finally. “I will try to speak with him.”
The director smiled, relieved. “Thank you, Khun.” He gave her a wai, a little lower and more formal than he would usually have. She returned it, and they went their separate ways. He no doubt thinking about his patients and she thinking about how she was going to solve the mystery of the waiting farmer.
THE SADNESS OF HALF A HOUSE
It was past seven o’clock that evening when Ladarat finally arrived home, and she guided her pale yellow VW Beetle into the driveway of her little townhouse. She was exhausted, and barely had the energy to
drive, but she was willing to believe that the Beetle knew its way back and forth to work by now. She’d had it for sixteen years, ever since she and Somboon had bought it as a second car shortly after they were married. When he died, she’d sold their main car, preferring to keep the Beetle. He’d loved to take long trips in their BMW, driving into the hills or east through the plains and farms of Isaan, but on her own, Ladarat never went far. And for going back and forth to work, the little Beetle was perfectly adequate.
She pulled herself out of the car, closing the door gently behind her. As usual, she didn’t bother to lock the doors. This was Chiang Mai, after all, not Bangkok. They didn’t really have crime here.
That thought, barely formed, made her pause on the little walkway that led up to her solid wooden door. No crime? But wasn’t she in the process of investigating a murder? Well, a possible murder. Just possible.
And that was still all it was, wasn’t it? She hadn’t even made any progress that afternoon. She just plodded from one meeting to another throughout the morning and spent most of the afternoon wading through piles of guidelines, making certain that they were up to date in preparation for the Royal Inspection on Monday. The hospital inspectors always looked for those dates, she knew. One guideline that was past its expiration date, and they took one point off. One whole point! And if one was behind, then others might be, too.
So she’d spent the afternoon in the company of guidelines that covered every aspect of the hospital’s daily life. Guidelines for when the signs should be updated, when employees should wash their hands, and where patients were allowed to smoke. Ladarat even discovered a guideline for the creation and modification of guidelines. That, at least, made her laugh out loud. Simply get rid of that one, and all of the others would be impossible to find fault with.
True, she didn’t find any problems. That, at least, made her feel a bit better. But still, it had been exhausting and she was glad to be home.
As Ladarat turned the key in the look, she heard her alarm system, her watchcat, who protected the house during the day.
Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness Page 4