Grandma Gerd got up.
“But, wait! You can’t go yet! How, when, why—”
Grandma Gerd is my birth mother!? How could I not have seen it? Both five feet ten, lanky limbed, with bad vision. Did Grandma have dark hair before she went prematurely grey? And that photo in her Everything Book of her wearing a pouffy A-line dress—it wasn’t pouffy: She was pregnant with me!
My brain somersaulted around in my skull. My dad was no longer my dad—he was my half brother! But then again, he was also adopted, so what did that make us? My whole world had turned out to be a fabrication, a sham, an illusion!
“Dad’s whole silverware triangle analogy was completely bogus!”
The hut and its occupants receded into the background. Grandma Gerd and I were the only two people in the entire world at that precise moment.
The right side of my brain said: How exciting! Now you can conduct studies on nature versus nurture! The left side of my brain said: Uh-oh. What if I turn into Grandma Gerd!?
I had to block both sides. I simply couldn’t bear to think about it anymore. Blackness oozed around me. I quickly put my head between my knees.
“Madam! Please! Must go NOW!”
“In a minute, Bounmy,” Grandma replied.
He groaned and wilted against the door frame.
“Then, who … who’s my real father?” I asked in a muffled voice.
“You were conceived during my first visit to Malaysia. At a beach resort on Tioman Island. With a man I’d just met.”
A sinking sensation in my stomach. A ringing in my ears. “Who was he?”
A sheepish look crossed Grandma Gerd’s face.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know!?!”
“I was lonely, it was dark, and the gin and tonics were doing the thinking for me.”
I was physically incapable of responding.
“Bounmy in much, much trouble!” moaned Bounmy, crushing his now empty Lotus cigarette pack.
“Hey, I’m not proud of my actions, but I am proud of the result.” Again, she squeezed my shoulders. “Did you know Tioman Island is where they filmed South Pacific? But instead of washing the man right out of my hair …”
I remained motionless.
“It was all very escapist. His wife had just left him for a bass player, and I was still the grieving widow—after all those years. I woke up seven hours later, alone on the sand. Very ashamed and very sunburned. I never saw him again. Three months after that I was in Malta where—surprise! The rabbit died.”
“Rabbit died?”
“You know”—she gestured toward her stomach—“pregnant.”
The complete and utter mess of it all!
“Believe me: After that, I gave up recreational drinking—other than the occasional glass of wine. Which lately I don’t seem to have a taste for, thanks to your Foreign Food Sanitation Spray.”
“So you can’t tell me anything about … my real father?”
She tilted my face toward her. “I can tell you he had eyes the color of a Hershey bar. And a couple of those.” She pointed to my cowlick. “And that.” She pointed to my chin dimple. “He loved discordant jazz. Oh, and he was Thai.”
“What?!”
“He was Thai—as in Thailand.”
“Are you positive? But … but … I don’t look … Asian.”
Was that me speaking? So calm and collected?
“That’s not uncommon for a Eurasian.”
Eurasian!?
Back went my head between my knees.
“Please, madam, I beg you!” Bounmy fidgeted in the doorway, almost in tears, his mouth twitching away.
“All right, Bounmy. I’m coming.” She walked toward the door.
I unsteadily stood up. My legs seemed to be made of Silly Putty.
The right side of my brain said: This proves life has infinite possibilities. It’s not cut and dried and inevitable. There’s a part of you that’s an unknown variable. A mystery. The left side of my brain said: Danger! Alert! Chaos! Out of control! Messy! Unplanned!
Bounmy handed me some line-dried beef jerky and sticky rice wrapped in a banana leaf. Then he gently pulled Grandma Gerd into the doorway.
“I can’t believe this … I’m still so … shocked … so …”
“We’ll talk more about it later, Frangi, don’t you worry.” She smoothed my hair—then pulled something out of it. “Saving this for later?”
It was a piece of sticky rice.
“Can’t let your grooming go to pot just because you’re a hostage. What would Althea say?” She tried to play it light, but her voice wavered. “Now don’t forget to—”
“LIM,” I finished weakly. My mind was still attempting to process it all. Then Grandma—my mother!?—hugged me tightly until Bounmy pried her off me and propelled her out the door.
As they disappeared around the corner of the hut, Bounmy’s strained voice wafted through the air: “You exonerate Bounmy? You shall explain to my boss? And exonerate Bounmy?”
Ly firmly closed the bamboo door, slid the wood barricade in place, and gave me a look that said, “Don’t even think about it.”
And then, for the very first time in my life, I was … alone.
CHAPTER TEN
???
I’m adopted!?!
I’m Eurasian!?!
I’m a hostage!?!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I Wait
Part of me appreciated the time alone to process. And being held hostage afforded a whole lot of quality-processing time. My life pre–Southeast Asia had been neat and organized. Everything in its proper place. Straightforward. All planned out.
And now. And now … it was as if someone had removed my glasses and I couldn’t see one step in front of me. Speaking of seeing:
Very carefully and using as little water as possible, I put in my lone contact lens.
Stick Girl squatted near me, carefully counting and recounting her sticks—a puzzled look on her face. After a few times through, she turned and glared at me suspiciously.
“I didn’t take it, but I know who did,” I said, giving her a big smile.
But she just glowered even more at the sound of my voice.
The lackluster women of the hut all went about their chores, ignoring me. I could have been one of their wooden stools for all the attention they paid me. The morning opium customers filed in. They were mildly curious to see a soiled American girl sitting on a mat in the corner, but soon forgot me in their hazy reveries.
I opened my notebook. Perhaps writing it all up as a chapter would help me process. But my right hand remained motionless. So Mom and Dad had kept The Big Secret from me for sixteen years—and had kept Grandma Gerd away as well. What did I think about this? How did I feel? Overwhelmed—yes. Confused—yes. Numb—yes. Betrayed? That seemed too harsh. They all had probably kept the secret for “my own good.”
And what would Denise, Amber, and Laurel make of it all? And here I’d thought getting my first kiss was big news!
I closed the notebook, too fatigued to ponder any longer, and gestured that I needed to use the bathroom. Ly opened the hut door but assigned Stick Girl and Scraped-Face Boy to tail me. They squatted on their haunches inches away from me as I urinated, their unblinking owl-like eyes watching my every move.
After I finished, I surveyed the village. The same gregarious children Grandma Gerd had sketched the night before now stared at me reproachfully. Why? For spoiling their fun? Obviously the news of my “disrespect” had spread. Even the friendly mothers kept their distance and didn’t return my smiles.
Now I knew how Hester felt. All I needed was a scarlet “D” on my shirt.
From the Big P to the Big D—all in less than two months.
There had been joy in Vang’s village. But in this one: oppression. Addiction. Fear.
I strolled a little way up the hill to stretch my legs, but Stick Girl followed me, poking me in the leg with one of her stick
s until I turned back around.
Around six o’clock, Mrs. Ly and her fellow zombies prepared rice, vegetables, and mystery meat. But they didn’t even offer me any. How inhumane! Especially since I’d eaten all my jerky and sticky rice for lunch.
As I sat on my mat in the corner, I scarfed down two oatmeal cookies, a handful of raw cashews, and a Crunky bar. Mr. and Mrs. Ly had commandeered their bamboo platform. Everyone continued to ignore me except Stick Girl, who kept trying to unzip my daypack. I finally had to lock it. She growled—then immediately started stabbing the lock with one of her sticks. No one even noticed.
That night I once again stuffed all my clothes in and around my freezing body and was grateful for Grandma Gerd’s additional blanket. Just as I was lying down—yes, with my feet facing the right direction—surly Mr. Ly gestured for me to pick up my mat, daypack, and blankets. I slowly got to my feet and followed him. What exactly did he have in mind? My senses intensified. If he tries anything, go for the eyes and the groin. Mom had once instructed me exactly how to position my thumbs and apply pressure in order to pop the eyeballs out. I subtly removed the Maglite from my backpack and gripped it in my right hand. It wasn’t much, but at least it was metal.
He led me into the enclosed room where the children had slept. But they were all now sleeping in the main room—except for Stick Girl. He motioned for me to sleep on the dirt floor. Then he backed out and closed the door—and secured it from the outside with a bamboo pole. Stick Girl and I were penned in for the night.
The moon shone through the cracks in the bamboo strips and highlighted her suspicious face. She lay on her bamboo mat, still clutching the bundle of sticks, completely motionless except for her eyeballs following me around the room.
Soon I could hear the deep breathing and snoring of the family in the main room—the walls of the room obviously more for show than privacy.
I switched on my Maglite, and the narrow beam of light fell on the bamboo-slated wall closest to me. I squelched my scream just in time. Thick white webs covered the wall, dotted with the wrapped bodies of dead insects—guarded by furry black spiders the size of bagels! Not only that, three cockroaches the length and size of chalkboard erasers clung to the parts of the bamboo not covered with web.
ICK! Ickity ickity ick ick! Don’t think about it, don’t think about it.
I moved as far away from the wall as possible without invading Stick Girl’s space. The creatures didn’t seem to faze her—maybe they stayed where they were. I gingerly removed my lone contact lens. Then I rummaged in my daypack for a piece of sugarless gum since I was too tired to brush my teeth and needed to conserve water. Instead, my hand closed on the Polaroid that Grandma Gerd had taken of Hanks and me at the Siem Reap café.
Hanks.
Flip-flop.
Just wait till Hanks finds out I’m Eurasian.
What irony, my first real boyfriend being Asian. Talk about foreshadowing!
Are you somehow supposed to feel different, once you discover your genetic makeup is not what you thought it was? Does it really make any difference if you weren’t raised in that culture? And while we’re at it, just what about nature versus nurture?
I,Vassar Spore, am a science experiment.
CHAPTER TWELVE
And I Wait
Something wet dripped on my face. I opened my eyes to see … blood spurting from the dangling severed head of a rooster!
“Disrespect! Disrespect!”
Ly cackled riotously as he shook it harder. I tried to sit up, but his dirt-caked children climbed on me, each sitting on a separate limb. Blood covered my face, filled my eye sockets, as soon as I spit out a mouthful of blood, more poured in. I was drowning in it. I couldn’t breathe—
I woke up to find Stick Girl kneeling beside me, rhythmically spitting on my face.
Bounmy and Grandma Gerd erred most grievously in approximating their schedule. They were most certainly not back in two days. Nor three days. Nor four.
My nerves were fraying. What if something had happened to them on their way down the mountain? What if Grandma Gerd had had a heart attack? What if disgruntled relatives of Mr. Ly had followed them and macheted them to death!?
What if Mr. Ly forces me to participate in the cow sacrifice, the chicken decapitation, and throwing blood in the air!? Complete with metal rattle?
I forced myself to block such thoughts. I couldn’t afford to indulge in speculation. My mental well-being was fragile enough as it was.
Having no running water was also taking its toll. Besides the fact I couldn’t bathe, the bottles of drinking water were running out. Natural water was difficult to get, and the tribal people drank it sparingly. And even if they did offer me any, I’d be risking my life by drinking it. I might contract giardiasis from the contamination. I was already at risk for malaria, dengue fever—and possibly leprosy. Not to mention cavities. My staggering body odor along with my ever-growing underarm and leg hair did nothing to boost my spirits.
Neither did the fact that Stick Girl had finally managed to get into my daypack by slicing it with her dad’s machete. I found her wearing my retainer on a string around her neck and my surgical face mask on her head with the elastic under her chin like a party hat, absorbed in rubbing my Baby Powder Fresh Deodorant Stick all over her legs and feet and face.
I laughed for the first time since I’d been taken hostage. What a character! The deodorant would probably do more for her than it was doing for me.
To pass the time, I wrote up my chapters … keeping my notebook with me at all times in case Stick Girl got any ideas.
July 27: I’m freezing. My head itches. I can’t remember the last time I had a shower or anything to eat besides sticky rice. This is not how I planned to spend my summer—or end my life. If only we hadn’t answered the door that rainy night in May …
And I had another distraction: lice. The entire hut had it, so it was just a matter of time before I did. The itch was unbearable. I watched Stick Girl pinch and pull the lice out of her hair and tried to mimic her. Harder than it looked. After half an hour of watching me attempt to de-louse, Stick Girl took pity on me. She inched over toward me and after giving me a wary I-don’t-know-if-I-should-do-this-but-you’re-so-pathetic-I-can’t-just-sit-here look, began to pick the creatures out one by one with her deft fingers. I felt like a monkey. Once her mission was accomplished, she inched back to her corner and began counting her sticks. I handed her a cinnamon Certs I found in my daypack pocket. She just stared at the round white object in her hand. I motioned for her to pop it in her mouth. After considering me a moment, she tentatively licked it. Then licked it again. She savored that mint, rationing herself to one lick every hour so it lasted for two whole days.
By the sixth day, the Ly family were outright hostile. They had just about given up all hope of their $350. And I was sure that they were contemplating what to do with this overly tall, disrespectful “Western” (make that Eurasian!) girl who’d brought curses down upon them. Occasionally, to prevent them from having a corpse on their hands, they allowed me a minuscule bowl of purple sticky rice. My stomach growled painfully, but they showed no mercy. By then, I’d eaten all my cookies, nuts, and Crunkys.
And I had just one bottle of water left.
And I’d run out of Kleenex—and forced to resort to my Latin quotes. Not quite the use my friends had had in mind.
I had to face the fact that something had happened to Grandma Gerd and Bounmy—and maybe even Hanks!
My skin shimmied.
No one knows I’m here.
What was I going to do?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
You Can Plan Your Way out of Anything
On the seventh night after Ly barricaded the door to my sleeping room, my roommate was already sound asleep, her runny nose whistling softly—and still wearing her retainer necklace and face mask party hat. I opened the last of my Latin quotes to use for my pre-bed squat. The paper was wrinkled and smeared, but I could still make
out the words:
Carpe Diem.
Seize the day.
Seize. The. Day.
Seize the day!
And why not?
Why stay here? Why not escape? The path is well trod, and I have my Maglite. Why sit around waiting for impending doom? (Or, at the very least, messy retribution.) You have no choice, Vassar. The water supply is almost depleted, and your life’s hanging by the proverbial thread. Get going!
I didn’t pause to ponder the plausibility of such a plan. The very idea of the Big P gave me an adrenaline injection that sent my heart into palpitations. Empowerment! Action!
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam! Like Hannibal and his elephants, I’d either find a way or make one.
Could I really plan myself out of this situation?
My eyes fell on the urine-soaked dirt at the wall’s edge—Stick Girl’s and my nighttime bedpan. Several bamboo strips attached to the corner of the wall there were severed. I crept over and pushed my hand through. The pliable strips bent backward like a flap, creating a small opening. Did the kids normally enter and exit without the knowledge of their parents?
Stealthily, I laced up my jungle boots (centipede check!) and slipped my Maglight into my pocket. Then I put in my gas-permeable contact lens, wetting it with just a drop of precious water. Only three fourths of a bottle left. Time to think like a camel. Luckily, going down a mountain took far less energy than coming up. I removed my Savvy Sojourner’s Laotian Guidebook and my Genteel Traveler’s Guide to Laos from my daypack—then replaced them. No, Vassar, think light. I set them next to Stick Girl’s head. She could enjoy the photos, at least. I cinched my money belt tightly around my waist with a safety pin.
Then I crept back over to the edge of the wall. Using a squashed, empty water bottle, I furtively dug up the wet earth, simultaneously making a slight snoring sound to cover the scraping. While I did so, I mentally rehearsed my escape: Leave a blanket bunched up so that in the dark, Stick Girl would assume I was still sleeping; bring one blanket in case I had to sleep in the jungle; push my daypack out first, then follow; replace the frayed wall flap carefully after me; and head for the trail. The Angkor Wat-ch showed 1:16 a.m. That meant I had at least four hours of darkness to run down the mountain to Vang’s village.
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