by John Shors
As he walked into the village, Lek wondered whether anyone would notice the missing flyer. Perhaps he should return, late at night, and remove the others as well, even though they were of strangers. He’d also talk with Patch and let him know that the police were looking for him, that maybe he should disappear for a few days.
What else can I do? Lek asked himself, grimacing at the pain in his hip as he stepped aside for a porter and his luggage cart. I need Patch. My family needs him. And I promised I’d look out for him, that his problems would become mine. He carried wood down from the mountain and he’s building Suchin and Niran a tree house. Of course, I’ll ask him why he’s in trouble, why he’s hiding. But I don’t fear him. I’ve seen his heart, and it’s a good one. Criminals don’t build tree houses. They don’t take the time to thank someone for a meal, to make a child laugh, to work on a path until their fingers bleed.
Still sweating, Lek made his way to the beach. Though he rarely swam, he waded out into a stretch of empty water, sighing as it rose above his belly. He walked deeper, finally unclenching his fist, holding the flyer next to his thigh, ripping the paper into smaller and smaller pieces. A blue fish darted forward to nibble at one of the pieces, then swam away.
As more fish came, Lek twisted and tore until Patch’s face had been reduced to white granules that moved with the waves, drifting forward and backward, tumbling over the sand, now a part of the sea.
BROOKE SAT ON A LOUNGE chair, watching people explore and enjoy the beach. After carrying the boards to the big tree near the soccer field, she’d showered and changed into fresh clothes. Yet perspiration still formed on her skin, dampening her white tank top. She had thought about staying at the tree with Patch and helping him build a ladder, but decided to wait for Ryan. Soon he’d return from scuba diving, a sport he was passionate about and surely would want to discuss.
As Brooke waited, her gaze drifted from sight to sight. Niran held a net and chased a fish in the shallows. Suchin had finished asking guests if they wanted anything to eat or drink, and now she drew in the sand, chatting with her grandmother, who carried an infant on her back. Brooke had met the three newcomers whom the children had led to the resort. The Danish women lay in the shallows, soaking up the remains of the weakening light. Farther down the beach, the usual activities persisted. A foursome of tourists hit a volleyball back and forth, using their hands, forearms, and feet. A Thai toddler rolled a coconut into the water and giggled as diminutive waves pushed it back toward her. Longboats came and went, ferrying people to distant islands and snorkeling destinations. The low, throaty hum of the boats’ engines mingled with the ever-present music that emanated from thatched restaurants and bars. Lingering in the air were the scents of lemongrass, flowers, salt, and damp wood.
Though she couldn’t see him, Brooke thought about Patch working on the tree house. He wanted to make a ladder and, as Ryan had suggested, tie it to the tree rather than pound nails into the trunk. This way the tree wouldn’t be damaged. Patch also hoped to find or buy rope to bind the floor of his fort to the larger branches. He expected to use only about twenty big nails, which would ensure that the boards didn’t move.
Brooke was still thinking about Patch when Ryan approached, his face and arms red from too much sun. He must have bought a mask, snorkel, and fins, because he placed a dive bag on the sand and then sat down beside her. At first he only smiled, his sunglasses speckled with sand, his hair spiked and matted from seawater.
“What are you grinning about?” she asked, sitting up and swinging her legs over the lounge chair until her feet rested on the warm sand. “Did you find a sunken galleon?”
“We saw a whale shark.”
“No way.”
“Yeah. We did. A juvenile, but still about fifteen feet long. He was brown with white spots. And his belly was all white.”
“Were you scared?”
Ryan shook his head. “There’s no reason to be scared. They eat plankton and stuff. And this guy, he just swam around without a care in the world.”
Brooke wondered if the shark had been a she but didn’t say anything. “Did you touch it?”
“I was tempted to. But our dive master told everyone that touching wasn’t allowed. So I just shadowed him, swimming beside him, watching his giant mouth open and his eyes stare at me.” Ryan paused, positioning his sunglasses atop his head. “I couldn’t freaking believe it when we came across him, but on our way to the dive site we did, and they stopped the boat and within five minutes everyone was in the water. I found a buddy who had dived all over the world, so we were the first in.”
“And the last out?”
“People breathe too hard and fast. That’s why they burn through their oxygen. If you ever go diving, you have to breathe slowly.”
“I suspect it helps to be in great shape.”
“It does.”
Brooke smiled. “Well, I’m glad you saw it. You wouldn’t come across one of those back home.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But it was cool. Definitely cool.” He picked up his dive bag. “Would an early dinner be okay with you? I’m starving.”
“Sure.”
Ryan stood up and hurried into their bungalow, returning in a few minutes after changing into a clean outfit. “What did you do today, anyway?” he asked as they walked toward the restaurant.
“Patch and I went for a hike.”
“Where?”
“To the top of the mountain.”
“Was it fun?”
“It was a good change of pace. And the view was amazing.”
“I bet,” he replied, stepping onto the bricks that Patch had laid. They soon saw him, nailing short planks of wood against a much longer beam, creating steps that were about a foot apart. Suchin and Niran were helping him—Niran cutting the steps from a longer board while Suchin swung the hammer with him. As soon as she saw Brooke and Ryan, Suchin paused, letting the hammer rest against the wood. “Your big brother is here,” she said, and sat back on her heels. “Maybe he can hammer better than you.”
Niran giggled beside her. “I hope so.”
“You’re the reason we’re bending the nails,” Patch replied, pretending to scowl. “If you nailed as well as you talked, we wouldn’t have wasted so many.”
Suchin looked up at Ryan. “He hit his finger twice. That’s why he is being so difficult.”
“That’s because you moved the nail. It’s hard to hit a moving nail.”
“Hard for you. Not for me.”
Patch nudged Suchin with his elbow and stood up. “We’ll finish tomorrow. Why don’t you two little troublemakers go help your mother?”
“Maybe we’ll put a jellyfish in your soup,” Suchin replied, bending away from Patch’s feigned kick.
“Or some sea slugs,” Niran added, and ran behind his sister. “I have three in my tank.”
Patch smiled. “And if there aren’t three in it tomorrow morning, I’ll build a tree house for some other children.”
As Suchin and Niran laughed and took back their threats, Patch asked Ryan about his dive and walked toward the restaurant. The sun was about to set, and frogs and insects had begun to beep and screech. Patch was glad to hear that Ryan had seen a whale shark and he asked numerous questions about the experience.
Sarai must have heard them approaching, because when they were ten steps away from the restaurant, the holidays lights went on. The building glowed as if a thousand fireflies had descended on it. Music also sprang to life—a Thai pop song that Patch had heard countless times over the past few months.
Brooke, Ryan, and Patch walked through the restaurant and stepped onto the beach, sitting down at one of Sarai’s low tables. She appeared within seconds, lighting candles and handing them laminated one-page menus. “I will make you something special tonight,” she said, brushing hair out of her face. “Whatever you like.”
Patch thanked her in Thai and asked if she would bring them each a Singha beer. She turned, pausing in the main part of the resta
urant to acknowledge the arrival of the three Danish women. Sitting with his legs crossed, Patch smiled as Niran and Suchin carried a long piece of lumber to the water and tried to use it as a boat. Soon the children were laughing and splashing each other as their craft foundered and sank.
“They’re always laughing,” Brooke said, then thanked Sarai for delivering the beer.
“My children?” Sarai asked. “Soon someone will get hurt; then the laughing will turn to crying.”
Brooke noticed how Sarai’s gaze lingered on her children, and how her face seemed to soften at the sight of them playing. “Could we buy them something sweet to eat?” she asked. “After their dinner, of course.”
Sarai’s smile widened. “You are as kind as you are beautiful.” She put her hands together, as if she were praying, and bowed slightly. “Kob kun ka.”
“Kob kun ka?”
“Thank you.”
Repeating the phrase as Sarai turned around, Brooke raised her beer. “To whale sharks.”
Bottles clinked and Brooke, Patch, and Ryan drank. Suchin and Niran continued to play with the board, laughing in the fading light. Ryan leaned back in his chair and turned toward Patch. “I’ve got good news,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“After I dove, I checked my emails. My contact at the American embassy said that if you turn yourself in before the end of the year, the Thais will go easy on you.”
“What else did he say?”
“He asked where you are. And I—”
Patch set down his beer. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“No. But I gave him my word. I said you’d be in Bangkok by the new year.”
“Your word?”
“You heard me.”
“But . . . you don’t speak for me. Your word isn’t worth anything.”
Ryan took a long swallow from his bottle. “I also got an email from Mom. You know how much pressure she’s putting on me to get you to turn yourself in? Or how upset she is? She’s a freaking mess. Her email looked like it was written by someone who’d never touched a computer. You think dragging this out is helping her?”
“So what, you told her that you were going to save the day?”
“I told her what she needed to hear.”
“And what was that?”
“That in a week we’d be in Bangkok.”
Patch shook his head, angry that Ryan couldn’t have savored Brooke’s toast about the whale sharks, that he’d immediately turned to more serious things. “You think I want to hurt Mom?” Patch asked. “That it doesn’t kill me to know what I’m doing to her? And to Dad?”
“I don’t know what you think. But it’s got to end. Hiding out on Fantasy Island has got to end. Jesus, Patch, you need to get a grip.”
A mosquito landed on Patch’s arm, and he watched it try to sneak under his hair. When it touched his skin he killed it, then wiped his hand on his shorts. “A week is too soon. I need more time. I have to help Lek. He’s got a bad hip and—”
“You’ve got a week. Then we’re going. So you’d better get used to the idea.”
“I won’t—”
“You did something stupid, and you’re paying for it. And I’m not going to let you make another mistake like that. You hear me? You’re not going to make another mistake. Not when I can save you, not when there’s still time to save you.”
Patch nodded, stood up, and left the table, headed toward the water. In his absence, Brooke leaned toward Ryan. “Why are you pushing him so hard? He’s not you, Ry. And he can’t be bullied. Don’t you see that? You’re backing him into a corner.”
“He needs to be backed into a corner.”
“If you keep pushing him like this, what do you think will happen?”
“What?”
“We’ll wake up one morning and he’ll be gone. That’s what. He’ll try to get out on his own.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you know what he’s doing here?”
“He’s hiding.”
“He’s building a tree house. He’s helping these people. And he’s probably coming to peace, in his own way, on his own timetable, with what he did and what he has to do. So just give him some space. Give him some space and he’ll come back to you.”
Ryan leaned forward, looking into her eyes. “And you? Will you come back to me?”
She started to speak and then stopped. “You’re brothers, Ryan. You’ll always come back to each other. You and I . . . we don’t have that.”
He nodded, staring out at the silent sea. “Then we don’t have anything, do we?”
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22
believe in me
Even at seven in the morning, the humidity made it uncomfortable for Ryan to run wearing his shirt. He’d tossed it onto a chair, and now, slick with sweat, he jogged up and down the crescent-shaped beach in front of Rainbow Resort. Though Ryan typically ran with purpose and pleasure, today he moved with less intensity than usual. His legs felt heavy. There was an ache in his right knee. His spirit didn’t rise, as it almost always did, when his feet left the ground. Just as surprising, listening on his iPod to Otis Redding’s “(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay” didn’t give him any solace. Still, a few other joggers were out, and he passed them, leaving deep footprints in the sand.
He and Brooke had shared their bed the previous night but had hardly touched. And while he knew in his core that she wasn’t right for him, he still felt a sense of loss. Somewhere within her was a brightness, a source of light that he simply couldn’t see. His strengths seemed to be hidden from her as well. She didn’t understand that beneath his intensity was a simple desire to love and be loved, to nurture someone who needed nurturing. He’d watched his father look after his mother for many years and yearned to do the same. Brooke thought he was old-fashioned and sexist, but he didn’t see himself that way. He saw someone who wanted to build a family, to shelter his loved ones with his vigor and ambition.
Increasing his speed, Ryan looked around, sweat pouring from him. He liked Ko Phi Phi the best in the morning, before the restaurants surged to life, before tourists frolicked in the sea. In the morning, the beauty of the island was so pronounced. Colors seemed richer, fragrances more intense. Patch had certainly found the right sort of sanctuary. The real world seemed so very distant here, as if the giant wings of the island blocked out threats and responsibilities. And behind these shields sprang hopes and contentment. Though Ryan wasn’t experiencing these emotions at the moment, he could tell that others were. People looked happy. Their movements and smiles were carefree. The Thais all seemed to love to laugh, and their laughter was infectious, bringing grins to the faces of people from all corners of the world.
Reaching the chair where his shirt lay, Ryan stopped, fell to his knees, and began to do push-ups. Though his legs burned from his long jog, his arms had escaped a workout. The tattoos on his biceps seemed to stretch and surge as his body rose and fell. He counted without conscious effort, wondering what Brooke was doing, if she felt any sort of pain over the thought of losing him.
After doing fifty push-ups, Ryan walked to the water, his muscles tight and throbbing. He washed himself off, put on his shirt, and then headed into the village to buy something to drink. Thais were out and about—uniformed schoolchildren holding hands, shopkeepers cleaning their stalls, workers hammering wood and cutting tile. Ryan walked past a jewelry store and into a shop the size of his bungalow. A middle-aged woman wearing a traditional head scarf greeted him. He’d seen a small mosque somewhere nearby and wished he knew more about Islam.
Walking to the rear of the store, he approached a glass refrigerator and removed a bottle of mineral water. As he neared the counter, he saw soccer balls for sale and remembered the frayed one that Patch’s young friends had been kicking around. Picking up a new ball, he felt its weight and headed toward the woman.
“You want drink and ball?” she asked, swiping at a fly that had landed on his arm.
“Please.
”
“Four hundred baht.”
Ryan reached into his pocket and handed the woman some colorful bills. “There you go.”
She thanked him in Thai, then picked up a broom.
Stepping outside, Ryan drank the entire bottle of water, dropped it into a trash bin, and started to walk back to his bungalow. The journey took about five minutes. He thought that Patch would be working on the path, but he didn’t want to talk with his brother just yet, and so he proceeded along the beach, heading toward the restaurant. The owners’ two older children sat at a corner table, the boy shirtless, the girl in a tank top. Ryan wondered why they weren’t dressed for school but didn’t ask. Instead he walked up to them, holding out the ball.
“For looking after my little brother,” he said, and handed the ball to Suchin, who had risen from her chair.
“This is for us?” she asked. “Really?”
“Patch told me that you play soccer almost every day. Seems like you could use a new ball.”
She tossed the ball into the air, catching it with ease and confidence. “Such a beautiful ball. Thank you, Mr. Ryan. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You can call me Ryan. Or just Ry. That’s what Patch calls me.”
Niran stood up and plucked the ball from Suchin’s hands. “Thank you, Ry,” he said, bowing slightly. “Thank you for our new ball.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you want to go kick it with us?”
Ryan glanced toward the kitchen, where he heard women talking. “Don’t you have school?”
“Not today,” Suchin replied, and picked up her bowl. “We haven’t missed a day all year, so we’re taking today off.”
“Really? Not a single day? That’s awesome.”
Suchin shrugged. “Well, sometimes Niran’s body is at school, but his mind is somewhere else. It kind of moves around like a kitten, chasing butterflies and things. I’m the talker. He’s the imaginer.”
“That’s true,” Niran said, handing Ryan the ball, then picking up his soup bowl and hurrying into the kitchen.