Love In a Distant Land: Rachel Marie Series Book One

by David B. Smith

  All the unexpressed fragments of petty resentment that had piled up for ten months now rolled themselves into a medicated mountain of irrational anger. The foods she still didn’t like. The tiresome fact of every single TV program being in this infernal and unintelligible language–then always about canals and coups and soccer and village gossip. Crowded roads with those blasted tuk tuks belching their noxious polluted smoke and with no traffic police anywhere in sight. Didn’t people care? What kind of society was this? And then kids in 6C, after a year of her diligent teaching, who couldn’t keep track of verb tenses. Even Khemkaeng, bless his heart, had an incurable stiffness in his speech, a seeming inability to relax and use a contraction now and then!

  “God, help me,” she murmured, half-aloud, as a deep flush of shame crept into her cheeks. She realized this simmering volcano of prejudice was coming from outside of herself. She loved her class; she loved Khemkaeng. It had been a good year. Hadn’t it? But how could all of these people not have prevented this gruesome moment–the business end of a beer bottle aimed at her heart?

  I just want to go home. Part of her ached to climb right out of this bed, stagger to a cab, and escape to the airport and a long, secluded trip to the West, superstar pilgrimages be damned. Mom and Dad were there. Bucky and Lisa spoke English and had dollar bills in their pockets. Disneyland might be expensive and Washington, D.C. a political quagmire, but at least it was home. This place, this Bangkok hospital, the cramped little warren of rooms she knew as Orchid Garden Apartments was an alien prison. A stopgap, a horrid halfway house before she could flee from here and pick up her real life again.

  Hating the downward spiral of her thoughts, Rachel Marie forced herself to stir. It was actually a pretty night, and she could hear a subdued tune, vaguely familiar from New Hope Church, hugging the hallway walls and easing into her room. A nurse appeared in the doorway, her slight figure silhouetted against the gathering twilight. “Do you wish anything?”

  She shook her head. Breathing a prayer of supplication, she asked God to restore the ability to think with reason–blended with the forgiveness that was such a necessary pillar in the Christian faith she now shared with Khemkaeng.

  “May I come in?”

  Rachel Marie was able to raise her head just enough to see a tall, shaved-head American standing in the doorway. He was wearing a white shirt and a tie pulled down a bit with his top button loosened. “Okay.”

  The man came over and took the seat next to her bed. “I hear you survived quite an ordeal.”

  “Yeah.”

  Recognizing she couldn’t shake hands, he quietly reached out and simply held her left hand for a moment. “I’m Chaplain Lopes.” A smile. “Just call me David, though.”

  “Oh.”

  He looked at her, his gaze warm and friendly. “Your friend told me you’re originally from California.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Me too.” He made conversation for a few moments, glancing at his watch as if aware that each whispered answer was an effort. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  She managed to shake her head. “Not really. Plus . . . I guess Khemkaeng can fetch me . . . whatever.”

  “Sure.” He stood as if to go, but then sat back down. “You know,” he said, hesitating, “I couldn’t blame you if you started to feel some real . . . anger here. I mean, what happened to you was so horrific. So unfair. And especially when you’re here in this country, being unselfish, trying to serve, trying to make a difference–and then, hey, this is how someone repays you.”

  She gave a start as she heard her very words, secret and buried deep, now verbalized here in this Bangkok hospital room. How did he know?

  Chaplain Lopes gave a little smile, acknowledging the divine presence which had urged the question. “Just remember, Rachel, that this world is filled with broken people. This same crime happens in America too, every day of every year. Someone whose background is perhaps twisted, lacking, dysfunctional . . . has some tiny shred of perceived offense hit them. And suddenly an innocent person is bleeding, even dying in the street. But thank God you were rescued.”

  “I know.” It was said in a whisper. And she did know, she realized, recalling her childhood ordeal.

  He took her hand again. “You know, what happened to you is maybe just a microcosm of what Jesus went through for us. He came to these distant shores so far from home, and he served, and then got cut up and killed for his trouble. But his love continued.” He squeezed her hand. “So can yours. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you mind if I say a little prayer for you?”

  “Please.”

  He was still holding her hand, and reached out with his other one to cradle hers. “Dear Lord, our mighty, forgiving friend, please be with your child right now. We thank you for preserving her life the other night. Thank you for these brilliant doctors who worked to save her. Now please heal her many wounds, and also her heart. Help Rachel to sense your gracious presence here. We even lift up these criminals, these young men, whoever they may be, so lost and confused and beset by sin. Help the authorities to locate them, but even more, we pray for your Holy Spirit to intervene and redeem them for heaven. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.”

  Rachel Marie felt a single tear slide down her cheek, and he noticed.

  “You okay, Rachel?”

  “Uh huh.” She returned the squeeze. “You just . . . don’t have any idea how much I needed for you to come right when you did. That’s really amazing.”

  “God always is.” He peeked at his watch again. “Well, my supper’s waiting, and I imagine they want to tuck you in for the night.” He smiled. “I’ll pop by again tomorrow. We Californians have got to stick together.”

  “Okay.”

  Rachel Marie tried to stay awake, desperately hoping to hear the familiar footsteps of the man she loved, but soon drifted away into a long and peaceful rest. She awakened to the cool, still grayness of a new morning, and smiled when she saw him in the chair.

  “Oh.” She gulped, and noticed that her throat felt a bit better. “I’m sorry. Did you come back over last night?”

  He nodded, managing a smile of relief. “Sure. I hoped for that kiss, but you were sleeping so beautifully I simply sat here and watched.” He stood and carefully sat down on the bed next to her. “But then I went home again for a while. I just came back.”

  “Do you have to go and work?”

  Khemkaeng shook his head. “Perhaps in a while. But not yet.”

  She felt an inexplicable tug of guilt. “It’s the last week of school, probably really crazy at BCS, and here you are just looking after me.”

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Shhhh. Most everything I must do can be done later. You are my only priority.”

  “You’re sweet.” She smiled up at him.

  He got off the bed and pointed to the far side of the room. “You have visitors.”

  Rachel Marie turned and felt a wistful lump come into her throat. Sitting against the window were Khemkaeng’s parents. Aroon, a look of deep concern, stood and came over to her bed, wanting to pat her on the arm but not knowing if it was safe. After an awkward moment, he simply put one hand on the mattress next to her and smiled. “We are so sorry. Khemkaeng called us with terrible news and we went quickly to airport. Please, Rachel, we have concern for you and for recovery. And if we can help.”

  “That’s so nice,” she murmured. “Thank you. It’s really good to see you.” She felt a rush of regret for her earlier unspoken diatribe, now buried for eternity at the foot of the cross.

  Khemkaeng’s mother slipped over and stroked her hair, not speaking. Her hand, delicate and cool, took Rachel Marie to an innocent time back home in Hampton Beach, when Mom would comfort her during a childhood illness. She looked up at the woman’s face, faintly lined by the years. “Kop kuhn kah,” she whispered, and felt a nice glow at Pakpao’s pleased smile.

  An orderly in a dark green jumpsuit appeared at the door
way wheeling a cart. He said a few words in Thai, and Khemkaeng motioned him in. “Do you feel like you can eat?”

  She hesitated. “Probably not. But I better try.”

  Khemkaeng accepted the blue hospital tray and perched himself on the edge of the bed. There were chunks of papaya, deep orange and bursting with tropical flavor, and a bowl of corn flakes. Unable to manage a spoon with her right arm trussed up, Rachel Marie accepted small bites, blushing as Khemkaeng fed her. “I feel like such a baby.”

  “Missie Stone, you are my baby. Always.”

  The three visitors stepped out into the hallway while the morning nurse gave her a gingerly sponge bath. The cool water seemed to wash away the accumulated frustrations, and it felt good to have some of the dried blood cleaned off as well. Rachel Marie winced as she caught a blurred image of her battered face in the metal side of the wash basin. Will I ever be pretty again?

  That afternoon, after a consultation with the doctor, Khemkaeng and an orderly managed to ease her into a padded wheelchair. The IV tube still intact, the young hospital employee suspended the saline solution above the chair. “Rawang noi,” he instructed, then added in elementary English: “Please to go careful.”

  Moving at a snail’s pace, Khemkaeng wheeled her to an elevator down the hall, and they descended to the ground floor. It was a warm day, but the Adventist compound enjoyed a leafy canopy of tall, luxuriant trees. He led her on a leisurely tour, threading their way over sidewalks meandering through cultivated gardens.

  “Shall we rest here?” He paused and set the brake on her wheelchair. There was a small bench in some shade, the rich tropical colors of spring all around them, and he eased himself down next to her. “Are you all right?”

  “Uh huh.” She felt some color returning to her face. “Guess I’ll live after all.”

  He realized she was trying to tease him. “Good.”

  A moment passed before she got up her courage. “What really happened to me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She gestured toward her right arm, stiff and immobile. “How badly did I get cut up?”

  “Oh.” Khemkaeng’s face sobered as he touched her cheek. “It was very serious. The one worst cut . . . did injure your”–he fumbled for the medical term–“brachial artery. I am probably pronouncing it incorrectly,” he apologized. “It was not severed, though. If it had, you would have died before we got you to the hospital.”

  She seemed stricken by the thought. “Even as it was, we barely made it, huh?”

  His eyes betrayed his internal angst. “Yes. God blessed us very much. As we were driving, I came to three lights in a row, all green. The one which was red . . . I went through it. And then when we got to the train . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “You remember it?”

  “Just kind of. I was almost blacked out by then, but I know it was really hairy.”

  “Anyway, the doctors put you in surgery immediately, and the vascular surgeon was able to clamp off this artery and sew it back. He says you will be all right very soon. And that your two broken ribs will heal also.”

  Rachel Marie felt herself misting up, relieved and thankful to God. “Wow. I mean, I came that close to . . . being gone.”

  “Yes. If the cut from that boy had been any deeper . . .” His voice choked up and it took him a moment to regain his composure.

  “I know, but . . . see, there was no way I was getting in that car with those boys.”

  Khemkaeng seemed startled. “What? I thought . . . they just attacked you.”

  She shook her head. “Huh uh. I mean, they were in a rage over that TV thing. But then they began saying: ‘Get in the car or we’ll kill you.’”

  “Oh, Rachel Marie.” He seemed stricken. “I didn’t know that part.”

  “I know. And see . . .” She caught herself and swallowed hard. “I guess you didn’t hear the story I told Mrs. Chongrak’s high school girls. About when I was a kid.”

  He shook his head, then reached for her hand.

  She let the ugly tale spill out, memory by tortured memory. “I was just six, a kid with a pony tail and a hole in my sock. First grade. So I wasn’t big enough to know what this bad man might do to me. But when you’re in a car with a strange man, and Mommy always said, ‘Don’t talk to a strange man; don’t get in his car,’ and then you see on the floor of the car that he’s got naked-lady magazines down there, even when you’re only six, you know something really terrible is about to happen.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “So the other night, when these three punks waved a beer bottle in my face and said, ‘We go for a ride, you American bitch,’ all at once I knew my worst dreams had come right around again. And somehow God helped me to stiffen up and say to them, ‘Whatever happens, I’m not getting in that car.’ And my scream was loud enough to get you out there to that parking lot to save me.”

  She looked up into Khemkaeng’s sweet face and saw that his eyes were glistening. “Baby, it’s okay now,” she said, fighting back her own sobs. “We’re all right. And I love you so much.”

  He leaned over and pulled her wet face into the fold of his neck. “My precious Rachel Marie, I never want you out of my sight again. Never.”

  They sat together in wordless relief for a long moment; nothing had ever felt so good as Khemkaeng’s embrace. She sensed a slight motion behind her, and turned to look. Khemkaeng’s parents were approaching, and Aroon was holding a large plate. He came over to her and held it out. “For you, Rachel.”

  “Oh, you guys.” She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her hospital gown, then shot the older man a grateful look. “Pineapple–it’s my favorite.”

  “Yes, Khemkaeng tell us how much you always like.” He smiled. “Please enjoy.”

  “Wow. Thanks a lot.” There was a white plastic fork and she took a bite. The fruit was chilled and wonderfully juicy. “This is unbelievable.”

  “You are feeling better?” Khemkaeng’s mother rested a hand on her good shoulder.

  “Uh huh. Quite a bit.”

  “We thank God that you did not . . .” Pakpao’s eyes filled with tears.

  “I know.” Rachel Marie looked up adoringly at her Khemkaeng. “But your son is a good driver, and God helped him to get me here just in time.”

  “Yes.” Aroon motioned to a nearby knot of chairs. “Shall we move over here instead? Then we can all visit and also take care of you, Rachel.”

  They chatted a bit longer, even though Rachel Marie was visibly tiring. Khemkaeng noticed and cleared his throat. “We should let you rest, sweetheart.” He tried out the endearment cautiously and almost blushed.

  “How is our wounded heroine?” Breaking into an excited trot, John Garvey came bounding up. “The nursing station told us you folks were down here.” Marilyn smiled at the Chiang Mai visitors. “Sawatdee kah. It’s good to see you again.”

  “And you also.” Aroon held out the plate of fruit. “Would you like some?”

  John shook his head. “No, but thanks.” He sat down next to Rachel Marie’s wheelchair and slipped a careful arm around her. “We have just been praying and praising God a thousand times that you survived.”

  “I know.”

  “Anyway,” he went on, “Marilyn and I had to rush over and let you know. The police found the young man who assaulted you.”

  “What!” The news came as a bolt. “But how?”

  “Long story,” he confessed. “I mean, we had your description, Rachel Marie. But that was a real needle in a haystack. I mean, there are millions of kids that age here in Bangkok.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And of course, the police went over to your place, Khemkaeng, and tried to find the broken bottle. Thinking, you know, fingerprints. That maybe they’d get lucky.”

  “Did that work?” He leaned forward, curious.

  John shook his head. “No. Nothing there. So we just kept thinking: ‘How would these boys, drunk like they were, have been aware of that Phuket TV story?’ W
hich never aired locally. And wasn’t the kind of story that would ever get up on the Internet.”

  Khemkaeng’s father was trying to follow the plot line. “So how did these boys know of what happened? With American TV?”

  “Well, I was just thinking real hard about it. Then it occurred to me. Maybe when that fellow who did the story–you know, Mr. Cey’s friend . . .”

  “Nigel?”

  “Yeah. So I called Benjamin up, ten thirty at night, and got his friend’s phone number. It turns out they do their video editing at some little freelance media shop right near Pantip Plaza. Several of the international reporters go to the same place. And this Nigel guy did remember that there were a couple of boys hanging out there. I think they make a few baht here and there just running errands, taking Fed Ex packages out for overnight shipping, and all that. And when we gave him the description–you know, the hair, that mole, the messed-up teeth and the tattoo–it rang a bell.”

  Khemkaeng’s face tightened. “And it was him?”

  “Yeah. The place didn’t keep super-great records. But this kid was getting paid once a month and they had an address. Lives with his parents, school dropout, kind of a mess.” His voice softened. “There’s something you should know. Police were checking, and seems like the boy has some on-again, off-again mental problems. Flies into rages, then cries and falls apart. He’s been violent before, but nothing like this.”

  Rachel Marie wrestled with a flurry of emotions. “So what will happen to him? And did they get the other two boys?”

  The administrator nodded. “Oh, he gave up the other two names without any struggle. And seeing that it’s basically attempted murder, plus sexual assault and kidnapping, it’ll be very serious. The main kid, of course, might be able to get some treatment in a psychiatric penitentiary. But at least they’re off the streets.”