Sea

by Heidi Kling

  “Us.” He stretched out his hand to include me and the girls. “Me. You. Us.”

  “We? Me? I ate the sad goat? When did I eat the sad goat?”

  “Last night. You saw meat in the fried noodles? That was goat.”

  My stomach churned. “Oh.” I felt weird staring up at him and so started to stand.

  He offered me a hand. “Better than horse, no?” he teased.

  We were eye to eye, and then the girls moved in between us, tugging on Deni, trying to get his attention. He spoke to them in their language, then playfully grabbed the chalk in one hand and hid it behind his back. The delighted girls pointed and guessed which hand.

  “Good drawings,” Deni said, glancing down at the sidewalk art. “I like that one the best.” He pointed to Elli’s drawing. The orange stick girl with blue eyes and yellow zigzag hair. Me.

  “But your skin does not look that orange in real life.” He grinned.

  “I’m wearing a peach shirt!” I protested. “And orange shoes.” I pointed to my old Converse.

  “Ahhh. I see.”

  I would have given a kidney to be back behind the outbuilding again. And I was pretty sure, from the way he was looking at me, that Deni felt the same way.

  But the little girls were paying too close attention, so I shook off those kinds of thoughts and said, “I don’t know if it helps them—the art—to get over their bad memories, but it’s fun.”

  “It is nice of you to come and try to help us.”

  It was the first time he’d mentioned it. He hadn’t asked why I was there with my dad and Team Hope. And I wouldn’t have really known what to tell him if he had.

  “I’m happy they like it.”

  “They like you,” Deni said in a low voice. “You bring light with you where you go.”

  “So do you,” I said. He smiled and started walking away. I fell into step beside him.

  Kids were a dozen thick surrounding Deni and me now. All the Acehnese kids were wearing their school uniforms: red pleated skirts with a gentle flare at the hem for the girls and red cotton pants for the boys. White button-down shirts for both. The girls’ heads and necks were covered with white jilbabs—only their tan faces stuck out. The boys were wearing traditional hats that I’d learned were called song koks.

  Everyone seemed at ease except Deni.

  “Same thing over and over again. We perform, the pesantren owner gets richer. Do we see any money? No. I got some money from a donor once. He gave me five hundred euros. You know what I did? I passed it out to the children. It is ours. Why should I give it to Bapak? He was very angry I did not give it to him. He is still angry about the five hundred euros. It is like nothing I do can please him.”

  “That must be really frustrating.”

  He glanced at me. “It is. It is almost too much.”

  I waited alone outside the door listening to Bapak’s speech. He was obviously back. I hated the part when he segregated the kids by how their parents died. It was loud when the kids shuffled to stand and quiet when each group sat back down. Finally, I heard the loud beats of the Acehnese drum circle filling the air and I knew Deni was where he was supposed to be.

  Above me, dark rain clouds gathered. A crack of thunder shook the sky. When heaven split open and rain began to fall, I tilted my chin back and let water dance across my face.

  I closed my eyes.

  Smelled wet dirt as it turned into mud.

  Heard the heavy drops of rain plop, plop onto the ground.

  Felt the tropical rain run down my cheeks, my neck, my chest.

  Breathed in the vibrations of Deni’s drum.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  I never wanted to forget.

  Drum, mud, rain. Drum, mud, rain.

  Moved my head to the music’s hypnotic beat.

  I wasn’t sure exactly who I was here.

  But for the moment, it felt good to be her.

  THE INVITATION

  After the morning ceremony, the rain ceased and the kids had to go to class.

  Their schoolroom was mostly dried out, and it was back to work studying religion, English, math.

  I wrote in my journal while they were busy. Took a nap. Went to group with Vera. This time another girl shared. Her story was a little more hopeful: she managed to get her little brother to safety, and they were both here. He was one of the soccer kids I played with.

  “Sienna? Do you have anything you’d like to share?” Vera asked, after.

  I was sitting cross-legged, picking at my shoelaces. “No.”

  “Maybe someday soon?” she asked.

  I met her eyes. “Maybe,” I said honestly. It seemed to help the girls. The sharing. I wondered if it might help me.

  After group I chatted with the older girls for a little while. It wasn’t as easy to talk to them as it was to the younger ones. Maybe because I felt guilty for hiding this secret. For hiding my relationship with Deni.

  “That was an amazing story,” I told the girl who shared. “What’s your name?”

  “Nada.”

  “I’m Sienna. That’s so amazing that you saved your brother. I’m totally in awe,” I said.

  She smiled shyly. She wore a filmy lavender jilbab and round-rimmed glasses.

  I asked if I could take her picture. She said yes and smiled when I clicked.

  After another simple dinner of noodles (this time, thankfully, with no mystery meat), I joined Dad and the rest of the pesantren on the field for a soccer game.

  Rain long gone, the day had grown scorching, as if the sun was making up for all that time behind the clouds. I couldn’t believe the boys were running around playing soccer. Even near sunset, it was still broiling. The heat soaked into the grass under my palms.

  I sat next to Dad holding a cold water bottle to my forehead, wishing we had a pool to jump in.

  Deni was goalie, and he was good. I watched him leap into the air, sweat pouring down his face as he stopped the other team’s ball over and over again. His black T-shirt stuck to his chest with sweat. He flashed me a quick wink after he deflected a ball with his forehead and his team cheered. I felt my digital camera in my pocket.

  “How did your art therapy go this morning? And Vera’s group this afternoon?” Dad asked.

  “Huh?” I watched the soccer ball Deni just kicked spin around in the air.

  “The chalk art with the little girls before the ceremony? The therapy?”

  “Oh, sorry. Art was good.”

  “Good. The little girls seem receptive to the art? Vera said you gave her some great feedback the other day, by the way.” He eyed me carefully. “She got a lot out of looking at their pictures.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yes. She said you were very perceptive about using art to gauge PTSD.”

  I shrugged. “It just makes a lot of sense, using art to describe emotion, like a story or a song. I mean, it’s all sort of the same.”

  Dad nodded. “Yeah, it is. Same tools, different mediums. How is the teen group?”

  I shrugged again. “It’s sad. The stories are really awful. And I don’t really help; I don’t know. It’s okay.”

  “Well, I can talk to Vera, have her give you something more to do—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “It’s fine. I take pictures when they let me. Vera needs some for her research project and asked me if I could.”

  He was smiling at me.

  “What?” I wiggled around in the grass.

  “So you’re okay with going?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine.”

  He seemed way too happy for something that was not a big deal. “That’s great, honey.”

  Yeah, okay. Anyway. We sat quietly for a few minutes.

  Me watching Deni while pretending not to be watching Deni, which was kind of hard when your dad was a psychiatrist.

  “Deni seems like a nice kid,” Dad said, glancing at me sidelong.

  Caught.

  “Yeah, he is. I can’t believe he can move like t
hat in this weather,” I said. “I’d be crawling across the grass. I mean, I haven’t even done anything physical today and look at me.” I lifted my arms to show him they were glistening with sweat.

  “They’re used to it. They don’t know anything different.”

  “They would probably think El Angel Miguel was cold! Especially the foggy mornings.”

  “Probably. Speaking of home, you can call Bev and Spider with the international cell phone if you want.”

  Just then, Deni caught my eye. I was thinking his smile might melt me right into the muddy grass until Dad’s words soaked me back up.

  Dad pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. “So we should think of the timing. We don’t want to call California in the middle of their night.”

  “What? No.” I pushed the phone away. “That’s okay.... I’ll be home soon. I’m sure he’s ... I mean ... I’m sure they’re both really busy.”

  I yanked up a handful of grass, suddenly feeling guilty.

  But for what?

  I hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t like Spider and I were together or anything. Or Deni and I, for that matter. I mean, really.

  “Let me know if you change your mind,” Dad said, looking at me a bit funny. He rambled on about time differences and what we were going to do tomorrow, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything except Deni.

  When the game ended, and the soccer crowd and Dad left, I hung out on the grass, absently studying my phrase book, waiting. When everyone was gone, Deni finally wandered over.

  I handed him my bottle of water, which he drained in one long gulp.

  “Good game,” I said.

  “Terima kasih.” He wiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “Thanks for watching.”

  “Hey, Deni?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why were you making fun of me at the first greeting ceremony when I thanked you ... you know, when I said terima kasih and you sort of laughed?”

  His brows knitted. “Making fun? I didn’t make fun. I thought it was the sweetest thing, that you learned our words of thank you and tried to use it. I was ... also ... very nervous. It’s not every day a beautiful stranger appears at the pesantren.”

  “I was nervous too. But mostly excited.”

  “But that is the fun of it, no?” he said, the tone of voice giving the words a different meaning. “Speaking of fun. Would you like to go with me someplace tomorrow night?”

  Like a real date?

  “Where?” I asked, twirling a piece of hair around my finger.

  “Someplace. Do not worry. I will not be so dirty when we go,” he said.

  His forearms glistened in the rosy twilight. I didn’t care if he was dirty, clean or what. I’d go now if that was what he was offering.

  I lowered my voice, looking around for spies. “How will we sneak out?”

  He shrugged, like details, details. “You come to the gate before dinner; I take care of the rest.”

  “Okay,” I said, and watched his dimple dip deeper into his creamy skin.

  How was I supposed to say no to that smile?

  “See you then,” he said.

  “See you,” I replied.

  When he was out of my sight, I fell back onto the prickly grass, butterflies racing around in my stomach. I watched the silver clouds above me, full and ready to burst.

  I knew exactly how they felt. Oh, man. I sighed. I was in so much trouble.

  DAY FIVE

  ANOTHER DAY

  After a painfully tedious day of waiting and waiting and waiting some more, I told Dad I was tired and headachy. That I’d had a long day, what with the art and the teen therapy and the volleyball game on the grass in between. We were also working all day on setting up the family system and matching older kids with younger ones. I told Dad I had the perfect girl for our bunk, and he said she could try tonight.

  “Oh yes. You must be tired.” With Nada in the dorm, I would be off duty. I could rest. And most important, I didn’t have to worry about getting home in time to tuck in Elli and the other girls. Dad kissed me on the forehead and I was free.

  I slipped easily through the open crack of the white wooden gate. When Deni met me, I felt his eyes running over me, taking in my new and improved appearance.

  He and the gatekeeper were puffing away on cigarettes; the Indonesian sunset—pink, yellow, orange—shone on their faces, and they chattered like old friends.

  “Those things will kill you, you know,” I said to Deni, shyness creeping into my voice.

  “Yes,” he said, inhaling. “But sometimes they can buy your freedom.” Deni took one more long drag, exhaled slowly and then dropped the cigarette to the dirt, squashing it under his shoe like a bug.

  Deni was dressed up too. Blue button-down shirt tucked into tan chinos, his thick wavy hair wet and combed. Even his partial goatee was shaved off, leaving nothing but smooth chin. His hands were shoved in his pockets in a meaningful way. How could putting your hands in your pockets look meaningful? But somehow he pulled it off.

  I lifted my ankle-length skirt, careful not to let the eyelet bottom drag in the dirt. My hair was clean, shining, loose down my back. And that was no small effort. Washing and conditioning with Elli as my sidekick, pouring bucket after bucket of fresh water on my hair, then running the comb through it over and over, untangling the knots.

  But now here I was. Here we were.

  Me smelling like buttercups and Deni like soap and cigarettes and opportunity.

  Deni said something to the gatekeeper, who threw his head back, laughing. Then Deni shot me a wink. “You look beautiful.”

  “So do you,” I said.

  We pushed our way through the crowded, busy city streets. Deni held on to my lower arm protectively, pulling me along with him as we darted across the streets. Shop owners stood in front of their booths trying to persuade us to buy their wares, just like in Borobudur. “Come here, angel, three American dollars for this real gold necklace.”

  Deni waved them away.

  Everywhere there was chatter, yelling and music blaring.

  “Here’s a good place,” he said, pulling me into an open-air restaurant. Tapestries and smoke and several TVs filled the spicy-smelling room.

  After checking us out curiously, the hostess led us to a low table inches from the ground. We sat on fluffy orange pillows on the floor.

  “Makasih,” Deni said to the waitress.

  “What’s that mean?” I asked, squirming to get comfortable.

  “Thank you.”

  “Not terima kasih?”

  “Makasih not as formal. More for tourists. Like you.”

  “See? You were laughing at me.”

  “No. I really wasn’t,” he said, his eyes shiny and earnest.

  Loud singing and dancing blasted from the TV screen in the corner. Young Indonesians dressed in flashy clothes and wearing tons of makeup performed on a colorful stage. It looked like some sort of talent competition. “What is this program?” I asked.

  “Indonesian Idol.”

  I spit out some of the ice orange soda the waitress had brought over and then wiped my mouth with my sleeve. “Sorry. Oh my God, are you serious? Like American Idol?”

  Deni nodded without irony, because why would it be ironic for him? “Yes. She is a very good singer.” Deni pointed at a light-skinned Indonesian girl wearing tons of purple eye shadow and cherry red lipstick. Wearing tight blue jeans and an even tighter shirt, she swung her hips to the tune. I mean, I was being totally daring wearing a short-sleeved shirt tonight and the girl on the show was dressed like, well, girls on American Idol back home.

  “Have you seen this before?” I asked Deni. “There’s no TV at the pesantren, right?”

  “No, there’s not. I only watch when I’m out.”

  Out? So he went out often? I wrinkled my nose, then realized how silly I was being.

  Of course he did. Why would I think this time with me would be his first?

  “Why isn’t she w
earing a jilbab?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “On television some girls do not.”

  “That’s okay?”

  His eyes lit up. “Yes. But on television here they will never show a kiss. It would be vulgar. They show kisses on American television, I have heard.”

  I blushed. “Yeah, they do.”

  The dinner was fluffy coconut rice, nasi uduk, and gudeg, which Deni explained was jackfruit cooked for a long time so it looked like meat.

  “You like?” Deni said, eyebrows raised. “It is mixed with kuda. You remember, horse.” He cracked up at my open-mouthed expression. “I am making a joke,” he said. “Only jackfruit, do not worry.”

  Deni scooped up his food like there was no tomorrow. The jackfruit was cooked in palm sugar, sweet, almost too sweet, and dark brown.

  We ate quietly for a while, new contestants appearing on Indonesian Idol. He stared at me for a beat before asking, “Why did you come to the pesantren, Sienna? Do you not have studies?”

  “It’s summer vacation, so no school.”

  “Did you want to travel to Indonesia?”

  “At first I didn’t, but then I changed my mind.” I licked palm sugar off my fingers.

  “I am glad you came,” he said softly.

  “So am I. How are things going in the group with my dad? Is he helping you?” I asked, digging into a partially melted scoop of green ice cream.

  Deni nodded. “I have a terrible nightmare night after night about my ibu.”

  “What happens? ... I mean, if you don’t mind sharing.”

  His face clouded over. “She is dressed in black for mourning. It’s the day the sea came. She rises out of the ocean and reaches her arms out to me, trying to pull me under the sea with her to my death.” He shook his head as if trying to remove the image from his brain. “It is horrible.”

  “That is horrible.” And then I realized I hadn’t had a nightmare in three nights.

  Dreams are portholes into the subconscious, Sienna.

  Was my subconscious getting better? My awake self sure was. That I felt.

  “I wake up cold, wet, yelling,” Deni said. “My friends, they wake me up. Your father is teaching me ways to get away from the dream.”