by J. F. Gump
"He fucked my wife. This piece of foreign bird shit got her pregnant. My wife gave birth to his baby."
"You're wrong. Your wife gave birth to your own baby. If you want to hate her for that, I can't stop you. But I can't let you kill a man for something he didn't do, even if he is a farang."
"You're lying, rich man," Surat spit his words. "You don't know anything about this. You don't know anything at all. This is none of your affair."
"I know more than you know yourself."
"You're a liar."
"Am I? Are you so sure that you're willing to spend the rest of your life in jail? Are your beliefs that strong?"
Surat didn't move. He stared at the farang cringing in front of him. What if the sharply dressed man was right? What if the farang hadn't done anything. What if he was wrong about everything? Nui's revelations about his mother raced through him, steel butterflies flailed inside his chest, and his breath come in short pants. For a moment he thought he would be sick. Slowly, without taking his eyes from the farang, he stooped and laid the gun on the ground.
Isara stepped forward and picked it up. "Surat, look at me."
Surat did look. How could this man possibly know his name? Maybe he did know something. Surat couldn't stop the surrealism that had overtaken his mind. "Who are you?"
"My name is Isara. Come with me. There's someone I want you to meet." He turned and walked away.
Surat's thoughts collapsed into a wad of sticky rice. Mindlessly, obediently, he followed the rich man. Not far up the street sat a Mercedes. When they arrived, Isara motioned him inside and then slid in beside him.
"Take us to Khun Anya's house," Isara ordered the driver. They rode in silence.
Chapter 53
After the older Thai man and Surat were gone, Mike forced himself to stand. He hadn't been so sure of death since that night in Vietnam. The pain returned to his chest and his legs felt like he had just run a four minute mile. He barely noticed when Itta and Nuang came to his side.
"Are you okay?" one of the women said.
He stared dumbly. He recognized their faces but their names wouldn't come. At that moment he wasn't even sure of his own name. He was surprised at the strength of his fear. "Yes," he finally managed, "I'm okay." He leaned forward, put his hands to his knees, and breathed as deep as his ribs let him. "He was going to kill me. It doesn't make sense."
"He is angry," said Itta.
"Why? I've never done anything to him."
"You got my sister pregnant."
You got my sister pregnant, her words repeated in his head. How could she know? Math said she had never told anyone. "I thought only Math and I knew. I thought it was our secret. She miscarried. I guess you know that, too."
His confession caught her off guard. Itta didn't know about Math's pregnancy and miscarriage. After a slight pause she said, "I have two sisters."
A year-old scene invaded his head—an image of him and Nuang naked beside each other in bed. He knew that the sister Itta meant was probably Nuang. Why else would Nuang’s husband want to kill him? A lump settled in his chest. "What do you mean?"
Itta was opening her mouth to speak when Nuang took her by the arm and pulled her aside.
"He's not the farang who got me pregnant," she whispered.
Itta stared. "What are you saying?"
Nuang lowered her eyes. "He is not the one. I would rather not talk about it."
A million thoughts flashed through Itta's mind but only one came to the surface. If this wasn't the man, then Nuang had had sex with another farang. She had already admitted her baby was half farang. "Then who?"
"I don't know," Nuang lied. Mike Johnson was the man who had fathered her baby, but she didn't love him and there was nothing to gain by telling anyone that she had used him for her own selfish pleasure. There was no point in making things worse. "I may never know," she continued. "Tell him I told everyone about Math's pregnancy. Tell him thank you again for the beautiful ceremony he had for Math and that I still remember every minute of that day."
Itta stared at her sister hoping to make eye contact, but Nuang kept her head down. After a second she turned back to Mike, "Nuang told our family about Math losing her baby. She wants to say thank you for the ceremony you had for our sister. She also said that she remembers every minute of that day. I guess you do, too."
"I hardly remember it at all," he stammered. "It was a long time ago."
"Yes, it has been just over a year."
Silent embarrassment permeated the night. They both knew the truth.
"I have to go now," Mike finally said. "I'm not feeling well." He put his hand to his ribs for emphasis.
"I still want to talk with you," Itta said. "There are things you need to know, and much I want to know—about Math, that is. Can we talk?"
Images of Surat and the pistol filled his head. "I'm not sure it's safe for me to talk to anyone in your family."
"Please, I promise you will be safe. I must stay with Nuang and her baby for a while, but I want to talk to you later. Where can we meet?"
Mike knew he should tell her no, but he didn't. Despite everything that had happened he said, "It's the same as before. I'm going back to my hotel and have a few beers. You know how to find me."
Itta and Nuang went back inside the emergency room waiting area. Somjit was nowhere in sight. Nuang walked to the registration desk. "Is my baby okay?"
The nurse looked up. "I thought that other woman was the mother."
"She is my baby's nurse mother. Her name is Somjit, we are best friends. Is she okay? And my baby; is my baby okay, too?"
The nurse nodded, "They are treating your friend for shock. The doctors said your baby will be fine. Some cuts and scrapes and a dislocated shoulder, but nothing serious. I think she'll be discharged tonight. She's in examination room B."
Nuang took Itta by the hand. "Let's go."
"Wait," the nurse stopped them. "It's after hours. We have rules."
"But I want to see my baby." Nuang said.
"I understand and you can see your daughter. But the rules say only one person at a time after visiting hours. Your friend must wait here."
"She's my sister," Nuang protested.
Itta took Nuang by the arm and said, "You go ahead. There's something I must do. I'll come back later. You'll still be here, won't you?"
Nuang understood her sister's concern, but it was for nothing. She was tired of running away. She would stay here until little Tippawan was released. Then she would go home. Not to Chiang Mai, but to her mother's house in Phitsanulok. She never expected to see Surat again; that part of her life was finished. She took Itta's hand in hers and squeezed tight. "Don't worry; I'll be here."
Itta nodded and smiled, "Go to your baby. I'll see you later."
Nuang walked to examination room B. Little Tippawan was asleep. Her heart ached at the bandages on her daughter's little body. So much she wanted to pick her up and hold her close. "I love you," she whispered in the dim solitude. A tear welled and slid down her cheek.
A nurse stepped into the room, "Please, the doctor is coming. I think he'll reset her shoulder. It would be easier, if you wait in the lobby." Her voice was kind yet firm.
Nuang didn't argue. She went back to the waiting area and tried to get comfortable. She wondered what would the future bring? Would Surat come back looking for her? She hoped not. If he had been angry enough to kill the American, what might he do to her? After everything that had happened, she would deserve whatever he did.
The faint cry of a baby in pain reached her ears through the double doors of examination rooms. She cringed at the sound. She cupped her face in her hands and cried.
Chapter 54
As Isara and Surat drove farther from the tourist areas of the city, the lights and sounds that are the essence of Pattaya faded into stillness. The Mercedes turned left, then right, and then left again until Surat was hopelessly lost. Here the streets were unpaved. Here sidewalks were nonexistent. This wa
s the less glamorous side of Pattaya, an area not frequented by the cocky farangs with their bulging wallets and overactive libidos. Here was where the poorest Thais lived and loved and died, far from the beer bars and the discos and the fancy hotels.
The driver stopped in front of a short row of tin-clad shacks that made Surat's house in Chiang Mai seem like a mansion. Isara exited the car and waited.
Surat felt uncomfortable. He was in a strange city, with a strange man, in a seedy part of town. This man obviously had money. The only Thais he knew with money were an unscrupulous and untrustworthy lot. Why had the man brought him here? What was his connection to the farang? Something bad was going to happen—he could feel it. He wished he had his gun back. "What are you going to do to me?"
Isara reached inside, took Surat by the hand, and urged him from the car. "Come, I want you to meet someone."
Against his every instinct, Surat allowed himself to be pulled outside. A bitter taste of copper flooded his mouth. His fingers tingled and twitched. His motions were jerky. He was as scared as the farang had been.
Isara squeezed his hand firm but gentle. "You will be safe."
They walked like that, hand in hand. Isara stepped in a puddle splashing muddy water on his shiny shoes and dark trousers. In a minute he stopped in front of a house. "This is it," he whispered. They stepped through the doorway.
Surat expected the inside of the shack to be as stark and barren as the outside. He was surprised to find it immaculately clean and cozy. The small room was lit by two dim incandescent lamps. The inner walls were covered with tightly woven bamboo painted with dozens of true-to-life murals of rural Thai villages and bustling Thai cities. He scanned the paintings. Three characters repeated their appearance in each scene. One was a blond farang man, another was a young Thai boy, and the last was a beautiful Thai woman. Surat stared transfixed. It all looked so real, so warm, so ideal. He had seen artwork like that before but he couldn't remember where.
"See anyone you recognize, Surat?"
He turned toward the voice. It was a woman. She was thin but not gaunt. Her face was mature, but in a beautiful way reserved for the lucky few. She sat with her back straight. Strands of gray laced her medium length hair. She looked familiar.
"How do you know my name?"
"Do you see the young boy in the pictures?" she asked, ignoring his question.
Surat looked at the wall and then back at the woman. "Yes," he said. "I think I know him from somewhere."
"What about the farang? Do you recognize him, too?"
Surat looked. Hard chills crept up his back. "No. I've never seen him before. Should I know him?"
"He is your father."
Surat's senses reeled. His world turned inside-out. He reached over and put his hand on Isara's shoulder to steady his quavering knees. Sweat formed on his forehead and upper lip. Nui's words pounded at his thoughts. "And the woman?" It was an empty question; he already knew the answer.
"My name is Anya. I am your mother."
Surat's light brown skin turned chalky white.
When Surat awoke, he was in the woman's arms, held tight to her chest. She rocked gently. Images of the blonde farang crept through him. It couldn't be his father, that wasn't possible. His father had been a soldier in the Thai army and had died in a border skirmish with Kampuchea. He knew that much to be true. He had his father's army pistol as proof. He had the Thai military medals and campaign ribbons that had been his father's. His father had been a Thai hero.
"The farang is not my father," he said abruptly, denying everything his instincts knew to be true. "And you are not my mother." He wiggled from her grasp and stood. "I don't know who you are. My mother and father are both dead." He turned to Isara, "I want to leave now. I've seen all I want to see."
The woman's face twisted. Tears formed and slid across her cheeks. She stood and reached toward him but stopped short of touching. "Please Surat, don't go. If you hate me, I don't blame you. But please stay for a few minutes longer. Please give me a chance to explain."
"Explain what? That you are a whore and that my father was a farang soldier?" He lined his words with every drop of venom he found within himself. "Nui has explained that already." He watched as the old woman's knees buckled and she sank to the floor. Her sobs pierced every corner of the small room.
Instantly he regretted what he had said. All his life he had dreamed of his mother being alive and loving him, and of them being together. Now that it had happened he had attacked her with his lifetime of resentment. He didn't understand why. His thoughts scattered to the point of nonsense as his emotions ran rampant. He wished he could take back his words. He crouched down beside her and took her in his arms. "I'm sorry, mother; I'm sorry if I hurt you. I do love you."
She put her own arms around Surat and held on for dear life. "And I love you, too."
Isara waited until their crying stopped before he spoke. "Tell her about her grandchild, your baby daughter."
They both looked up at Isara; she in confused wonder and he in terrified realization. Surat was the first to speak, "Is that possible? I mean I don't look farang, even if my father was one." He fell silent as his thoughts cohered into chaotic understanding. He didn't understand the medical facts, but his basic instincts said that if he was half farang then his baby could be half farang, too. After a second he said, "The baby is mine, isn't it?"
Isara nodded.
Surat turned to his mother. "I have a baby daughter who needs her grandmother. Will you come to live with us?" His voice choked with emotion on each word.
Anya resumed her tears. This time from joy. "I would be honored, if it's okay with your wife."
His wife! Panic ripped through him. Nuang was the one who had given birth to a half farang baby. Surely, she must wonder how or why. Maybe she'd had sex with a farang, but maybe she hadn't. He was half farang and maybe the baby was his. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe he would never know the truth. At that instant, he decided he didn't care about the truth. He wanted his wife back and he wanted his baby. In his heart he knew he was the father. He looked up at Isara, "I need to find Nuang right away. Can we go back to the hospital now?"
Isara nodded.
As they rode, Anya told Surat the story of her life. She held nothing back, not even the things most humiliating. Her story was similar to what Nui had told him, but the details were different. She had fallen in love with an American soldier stationed in Phitsanulok during the Vietnam War. His duty had been to help train Thai army troops defend their borders against Cambodian and Lao insurgents. But he had done more than just train; he had taken part in their battles. It wasn't allowed but he had done it anyway. The Thai army had honored him with campaign ribbons and medals for bravery. He was proud of them and had given them to her for safekeeping.
He had been with the Thai army near the Cambodian border when she learned she was pregnant. She had never been so happy in her life. She could hardly wait to tell him, but he never came home. Two months before she was to give birth, she learned the truth. He was never coming home again. He had died without ever knowing he would be a father. A Thai infantry squad had brought her husband's pistol to her. The weapon of a brave man, they had said. The weapon of a man they admired.
But in those days Phitsanulok had been a cruel town, and respect for her farang husband hadn't reach beyond the military gates. The townspeople were against anyone who wasn't Thai. It hadn't taken long for word to spread that she had given birth to a foreigner's baby. She had been ostracized by everyone, even her best friends. Worse, the good citizens of Phitsanulok had shunned her parents as well.
Six months after Surat was born, Anya had escaped to Bangkok. She had wanted to take Surat with her, but she couldn't take the risk. Bangkok was a city that lured naïve young Thais with false hopes and dreams. As often as not, it chewed them up and spit them out less human than they had been before. She wasn't even sure if she would survive herself. She refused to expose her baby to a city filled with unknown
dangers. She left Surat with her parents. It was her only sane option.
Without an education her career choices were limited. Eventually, she took a job as a dancer in nightclub that catered to farangs. That was when she discovered just how much her body was worth.
Like a good daughter, she had sent money home. Like a bad mother she rarely came home to see her baby. The last time she had touched her own son was just before she went to Pattaya to work. Surat had been two years old at the time. He had been afraid of her and wouldn't let her hold him. Anya had been devastated by his rejection. She had never gone to her mother's house again.
In Pattaya, she had worked as a common bar-girl. She slept with more men than she could remember but never loved any of them. They used her body and gave her money in return. She sent most of it to her mother.
As she got older, the farangs found her less desirable. They wanted young girls and by then she was a woman past her prime. From there she had worked as a hostess, a hotel service maid, a laundress, a laborer, and a beggar. Anything to keep her alive. She had stopped sending money home long ago; long before her mother and father had died.
She returned to Phitsanulok three times during those years. Once when Surat graduated from sixth grade, once when her mother passed away, and once when Surat had married. She had always stayed on the fringes and never once made her presence known. She had been too embarrassed by her long absence and too afraid of facing the condemnation she deserved. Her sense of self-worth wasn't much, but it was all she had.
She had resigned herself to dying a lonely old woman in some back alley hovel that passed as a house. She had painted scenes on the walls of her home to be with the ones she loved but could never have. It was the closest she would ever come to having a family.
As Surat listened to her talk, he heard the painful repentance in her voice. Whatever resentment he had ever felt toward her dissolved into nothingness. Her life had not been an easy one. She had made the only choices given to her. She had done what was best for him.