Siriporn had fed Sophie and taken her to the river while Natalie wrote, so she anxiously wanted to hear how Sophie had done with the other elephants, though she sensed it must have gone well. If it hadn’t, the whole sanctuary would have heard about it by now. It didn’t take long for news to travel.
Mali was still in the kitchen when Natalie arrived at the platform, so she made a cup of tea and sat quietly at a table, watching angry gray storm clouds gathering above the mountains. Everything smelled like rain. The elephants huddled in a tight group at the far end of the platform. The whole baker’s dozen of them: trunk to tail to trunk.
They must sense another storm coming, she thought as she sipped the bitter and hot black tea. Elephants heard rain and wind more than a hundred miles away, often pointing with their trunks in the storm’s direction, Andrew had said in his lecture at the conference where she met him. African herds migrated at the end of dry season because they knew there’d be fresh water if they moved toward the area most likely to get rain. Meteorologists could put away all their fancy equipment if they learned to read animals, Natalie thought. Crossing her ankle over her knee, she once again marveled at all she had yet to learn about animals even after many years of schooling and many more of daily experience.
A breeze picked up and blew her napkin across the table. She wore long cotton pants for the first time in months and folded her arms to her chest to make up for the flimsy t-shirt she wore. The temperature had dropped ten degrees since she awoke, but she laughed when she realized it felt chilly though the temp hovered between eighty-five and ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Nowhere near the chilliness of a North Carolina winter.
A pair of feet came into her line of vision—dirty, missing two toenails on the right foot. Siriporn’s feet. She glanced up at his smiling face.
“In old day, instead of saying ‘Saw-a-dee,’ we ask ‘have you eaten yet.’ Show we care for you.” He plopped down next to her and folded his hands on the table. “So, have you eaten yet?”
She lifted her cup in answer. “Only this.”
“That not food. You too skinny. Voice not deep enough to command Sophie. Eat more!” He pounded his chest in a comical Tarzan imitation.
She laughed and shook her head, remembering her mother accusing her of being anorexic. Little did she realize that no matter how much Natalie ate, she didn’t put on a pound. “You have a hollow leg,” her father would say. Natalie laughed again. Siriporn seemed pleased to make her smile.
“How did Sophie do this morning?” she asked.
“Eat first. Then talk.” He padded toward the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the cement. She watched his strong, walnut-colored calves, wondering idly whether hers would ever be as strong. When he returned, he held two bowls of rice and placed one in front of her.
In silence, they ate for a little while, Siriporn scooping the rice with his fingers, the Thai way. Natalie gave him the respect he requested and waited for him to finish before she pointedly raised an eyebrow and asked again.
“All the ellies play in the mud with truck tire. Sophie watch, then she play like schoolgirl. That’s why her job perfect.”
“Her job?”
“She’s one of oldest females. Should teach younger ones. Good for her. Make her feel better.”
Natalie pondered Siriporn’s statement. True, Sophie had improved tremendously in the past couple of months, and she always got along better with elephants than with human beings and dogs. Could it be time to start putting her back in with the herd? The only thing stopping Natalie from doing so were the dozens of dogs who roamed freely throughout the sanctuary. If Sophie ran into one, Natalie had no idea what the elephant would do. PTSD could rear its ugly head at any time, and Sophie could easily kill any dog that irritated her. On the other hand, Siriporn could have suggested the very thing Sophie needed in order to take her next step in recovery. Giving to others worked for Natalie. Why not for Sophie, too? Perhaps Siriporn made a good point. Maybe they needed to try.
They spent the next half hour planning how to re-introduce Sophie to the herd, and when they were done, Natalie headed for Andrew’s cabin to ask him whether he could have everyone rein in the dogs and keep them confined to one area of the sanctuary for the next couple of days while she and Siriporn worked with Sophie.
It was the first time she’d visited his cabin since the day he’d upbraided her about complaining about Peter, and though she didn’t look forward to talking to him, she knew he held no grudges and would probably concentrate on the task at hand rather than bringing up what she’d said. She knocked on his door and waited a minute, hearing a bit of a scuffle like a chair being pulled back from inside. When he didn’t answer the door, she knocked again.
“Coming!” he said. Then the door opened and he stood there, red-faced, white hair wild, his shirt half-buttoned. “Oh, Natalie. Ummm . . .” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her, all the while buttoning his shirt. His feet were bare, and she suspected someone else shared the cabin, but she didn’t want to know who. Especially if it wasn’t Mali.
“Sorry to interrupt, Andrew, but Siriporn and I were just talking about Sophie and planning on reintroducing her to the herd and we wanted . . .” She rambled through the plans they’d discussed and asked about the dogs, wondering as she spoke whether he heard anything she said because he appeared thoroughly disconnected. Though he nodded as she spoke, he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he stared over her shoulder and cocked his head as if trying to hear any noises coming from within the cabin.
“Sounds good, sounds good,” he finally said and she heard a brushoff in his tone. “Let’s get together and talk about it at dinnertime, say? And why don’t we talk about your article then, too.”
She nodded, and he closed the door. In her face. Before she headed back down the stairs, she heard a woman’s voice from inside. Mali’s voice.
That was strange, Natalie thought as she headed for her own cabin. Why wouldn’t Mali say hello? She shook off her curiosity, certain she’d interrupted something.
By the time she’d reached her own cabin, she’d thought more about the article and had made a few more mental notes. Actually, it would be good to talk to Andrew about the paper she’d written about Sophie and how she’d worked with her, combining old mahout techniques with Protected Contact. She’d started sending out queries about it several weeks ago, and one of the international veterinary medicine journals had already expressed interest. It had been a long time since she’d published, so opening the email to read of the editor’s fascination with her project had given her a thrill. Unfortunately, she couldn’t share her excitement with anyone yet, because it wasn’t officially accepted. She’d probably push the “send” button on her rewrite late at night. Today was the first chance she’d had to speak with Andrew. Though he wasn’t a vet, he’d have some great input, for sure. She’d concentrate on that rather than her odd interaction with him, she decided.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror hanging by her door. Her dark hair was a mess, frizzy around her hairline from the humidity of the day and caught in a long tangle of braids that fell to the middle of her back, but her brown eyes were bright and her smile wide. She almost didn’t recognize herself. The shock made her step back and re-examine the image in the mirror. How long had it been since she’d actually looked at herself when she combed her hair or brushed her teeth? She didn’t have a mirror above the bowl she used for cleaning every morning. A previous owner had left this tiny mirror behind, and she had to be honest with herself: this was the first time she’d actually peered into it.
Now she stepped closer and examined herself. No makeup, no long hours spent working the frizz out of her hair, no monthly appointments for facials. This was her. Fresh. Simple. Unadorned. Her skin: blemish-free and browned by the hours she spent in the sun. Her eyes: clear. No dark bags underneath as there had been during the year after Danny
’s and Stephen’s deaths. She slept every night now. Sometimes she didn’t dream or even realize she was falling asleep. She’d simply lie down and suddenly she’d be conscious again, and it would be the next day. And even though she felt like she’d never get rid of the dirt under her fingernails, she didn’t look dirty in her mirror. She looked . . . what was it? Happy? No, not happy. Content. In spite of all the stresses of working with Sophie and the other animals and the tension with Peter Hatcher, she was content.
She stepped back and laughed. Content. No shit.
Twenty-Nine
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
-William Shakespeare
When Natalie spotted the bottle on her desk, she muttered aloud, “Another gift?” Mali’s friend and fellow cook, Hom, kept expressing her eternal thanks after Natalie saved her dog. Hom brought the dog to the clinic with a snake bite the week before. A vial of anti-venom and the dog was fine. No big deal, Natalie had thought, but Hom went out of her way to thank Natalie every time they saw each other—literally dozens of times a day. She had bought gifts for Natalie, as well. It was becoming embarrassing. She talked to herself all the time these days and found it helped her figure out problems or reminded her to do something later on or helped her vent, as she did now.
Natalie was surprised to see that it was brandy. The type of liquor that would roll smoothly down her throat, leaving a little trail of tasty fire. God, she loved a good glass of brandy, and she hadn’t had one since leaving the States. But how could Hom have known that? And where did she find a bottle of this quality? Where did she get the money for it?
Then she saw the white envelope. No writing on it. Odd, she thought. She slid her finger along the flap and opened the letter, fighting the mouth-watering taste for the brandy. If the brandy was from Hom, she’d return it. A bottle of this quality would be the equivalent of three months’ salary, minimum. Even if she had saved a member of Hom’s immediate family, Natalie didn’t expect a payment like this.
One eye on the burnished bronze bottle, she flipped open the sheet of paper and began reading. Andrew’s handwriting. “Congratulations,” he began, “your article on Sophie will soon be published. One of the editors is a friend of mine, and he called me tonight to ask more details about your work. He was quite impressed, young lady! You deserve a congratulatory drink. Cheers!”
She plopped into the desk chair, the letter still in her hands, a shocked grin on her face. She reached for the bottle, cradling it in her hands reverently.
“Damn it, you’re right, Andrew,” she said aloud in the quiet cabin. “I have a cause to celebrate. So I’ll start now. This very moment.”
It took a few moments to find something sharp enough to break the seal on the bottle and another moment to find a water glass to pour the precious brandy into, but when that liquid honey fire crept down her throat, she groaned like a woman climaxing.
She’d thank Andrew tomorrow. Tonight she’d enjoy this gift from the gods.
An hour and two drinks later, she brought the bottle and her glass down the moonlit road to Sophie’s barn. The elephant was sleeping on her side when Natalie arrived, but when she called out her name, Sophie raised her giant head and lumbered to her feet, instantly reaching her trunk out to touch Natalie’s arm.
Natalie put the bottle down and opened the door to the enclosure. Sophie rumbled softly, the greeting she always made when Natalie came near.
“You’re going to be famous, old girl,” Natalie said softly as she came abreast of Sophie. She leaned her forehead against the elephant’s lowered head and stood there silently for a moment wondering exactly when the two of them had come to this point of comfort with each other. She totally trusted Sophie now, and she knew the elephant felt the same way. It had taken many hours and days of work, but it was worth it.
Through the years, Natalie had owned dogs, trained horses, rescued more cats than she could count, but she’d never had a more profound relationship with any animal than the one she shared with this elephant. She knew now why mahouts were so happy. Sometimes it felt like Sophie actually realized and mirrored the emotions she felt.
She pulled her head back and looked into Sophie’s good eye. Sophie chirruped and reached her trunk towards the bottle Natalie had set on a bench. She chuckled. “I’d love to share a drink with you, Soph, but I’m afraid you’d drink the whole bottle, and god knows what kind of a drunk you’d be, so you’ll have to be content with a few bananas.”
She found some in the storage bin and fed Sophie, who shifted from side to side and tried to back up as she did when Natalie took her down to the river for a bath.
“No, we’re not going out right now, girl. It’s night-time.”
Still, Sophie backed up.
Natalie looked up the road, well lit by the moon. The night remained balmy and clear. The crickets had long since stopped. The only sounds breaking the silence were the ones she and Sophie made.
“Ah, what the hell. Let’s take a walk. But we’re coming right back, okay?”
They strolled silently side by side down the road. Natalie with her bottle, Sophie with as much spring in her step as an elephant could muster. Her version of wagging her tail.
Natalie watched Sophie frolic in the water like a huge moonlit shadow, rolling over and over and shooting fountains of river water into the air. The gentle splashes of water and Sophie’s occasional delighted shrieks echoed in the tiny canyon created by the surrounding hills. In the dark spaces cast by the moon’s light, Natalie imagined she saw movement or eyes watching them, but she brushed away the specters and found her thoughts easily diverted.
With the bottle cradled between her legs, she thought about what would come next, delivering the paper in front of an international group of her peers, and the feeling of dread at being in the spotlight again made her fingers tighten on the bottle’s neck.
No need for panic, she told herself sternly. Nothing’s happened. And this isn’t the States. The media’s far more interested in the revolution here than the story of some American woman who lost her children in a school shooting thousands of miles away. And no one’s going to send the paparazzi to hunt down a veterinarian who wrote a journal article about how to treat elephants with PTSD.
But she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling, couldn’t stop the fractured scenes from flashing in front of her eyes. She knew she was in Thailand, could feel the night air around her, but her vision was stolen and replaced with the scene in front of the school, borders of yellow tape, small groups of people huddled together. She saw the ambulances arrive, seen their spinning roof lights, heard the police’s orders as they tried to clear the parking lot where she’d come every morning to let the kids off. She smelled the Indian summer heat, knew even then that there’d been an afternoon thunderstorm that would wash the area clean of important evidence. And she must sit down because the vignettes come faster. She hears the questions from reporters and judges and lawyers and family and from herself. Questions that could never be answered. Questions she never wanted to hear again.
The scattered images blur her vision even more, blend in with each other, and time passes. She remembers the days after the shooting. The funeral plans her family made for her boys because she was unable to. She doesn’t remember the funerals, not one moment, but she sees herself in bed for weeks, remembers the heaviness of her head against the pillow, and doesn’t quite know how she rose from that bed, how she even functions today so far from home and all that was painful. Still, today, how does she function with both of her children gone?
She breathed into the fear which sat, fist-like, in the middle of her chest, convinced herself she’d feel better after taking another sip of her brandy. For more than an hour she sat on the riverbank nursing her drink before sleep crept over her and made her eyes droop. She called for Sophie, who didn’t argue and followed Natalie back to the enclosure.
It was past one in the morning when Natalie finally set the half-empty bottle back on her desk and fell into bed. Her last thought before passing out was that she had forgotten to write home.
Thirty
Women and elephants never forget an injury.
-Saki (Hector Hugh Munro)
When Mali put the soup down on the table in front of her, Natalie gazed into the kway tiew nahm sai and swallowed hard.
“This noodle soup is spicy,” Mali said. “The Thai cure for a hangover. Believe me, love, it’ll cure that pounding headache.” She mimicked the feeling by bulging her eyes and opening and closing her hands beside her head like a fireworks display. “And that queasy stomach.” She pointed to the bowl, and the smell wafting up practically burnt Natalie’s nose hairs.
“I’m going to puke,” she said. Never again would she drink liquor. Ever.
“You’re enjoying this a bit too much!” Natalie called, and instantly winced.
Mid-morning. Everyone at the sanctuary was either working or, like the kitchen staff, taking a break before the second part of their day began. Being alone at this time of day felt like a blessing, though Natalie hadn’t really raised her head high enough to acknowledge the peace and quiet since falling into bed in the wee hours of the morning.
She hadn’t even had the stomach to feed Sophie this morning, so she flagged down the other mahouts as they made their morning trek to the mud pits and asked Khalan to feed Sophie her bananas and squash breakfast. Siriporn had taken a few days off to go to some of his political meetings (in spite of a heated discussion with his mother), but Sophie seemed comfortable with Khalan now, so Natalie decided to trust him. She had no choice. She couldn’t have walked down the road if someone paid her this morning.
The Mourning Parade Page 22
