by Heidi Kling
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello!” she mimicked, her voice sweet as maple syrup.
She repeated the traditional gesture, my hand to her forehead, and gave another shy grin, like she was inviting me into a game only she knew how to play. Her energy dazzled me. Both of her parents were dead? How could she seem so alive?
At the end of the greeting, she didn’t let go. Instead she tugged on my hand, led me out of the crowded room and into the drizzle. I glanced back at Team Hope, who were standing around chatting. The little girl was the end of the line, so it probably didn’t matter if I took off. I almost called out, letting Dad know that I was going, but instead I held on tight to her hand because it was pretty obvious that she knew more about life here than I did.
“Hello!” she said again once we were outside.
“Hello!” I said back, trying to match her enthusiasm.
“Nama saya Elli,” she said, touching her chest.
Oh. My name is Elli.
“Nama saya Sienna.”
“Sienna!” she said. “Sienna!”
Shyness evaporated, she dragged me by the hand down the same muddy path we walked to the meeting room. Past the decrepit dorms and into one of the white buildings with open blue-trimmed windows that I had been peeking into before.
The room was in worse shape than I had imagined.
Metal bunk beds lined the floor. Articles of clothing flopped awkwardly over rusted frames. The air smelled like moldy bread and stagnant pond water. Two small rattan dressers on the far wall held overstuffed drawers. The open window had no glass and no screen, just chipped blue folding shutters that I doubted could even keep the big bugs out.
I focused on keeping my expression neutral so Elli didn’t feel my honest reaction to the place that was now her home.
“You,” she said happily, pointing to the top bunk by the window. “Me.”
Then she pointed to the bottom bunk under the one she said would be mine. My reaction probably wasn’t what she wanted, so she repeated louder and clearer, “Sienna.” Point. “Elli.” Point. She tilted her face expectantly.
I got that she wanted me to sleep above her; I just didn’t want to imagine actually sleeping on that stained mattress. I forced a grin. “Okay.” I pointed to the top bunk. “Sienna. Thank you, Elli. Terima kasih.”
She giggled and clapped. We were communicating.
Glancing out the open window, I watched early-evening light cast shadows across the moldy walls. I thought about the boy with the limp and wondered if he was thinking about me too.
GAMES
I found Dad a few minutes later passing out newly inflated soccer balls with his trusty sidekick Vera. A group of boys were crowded around Tom, listening to him eagerly as if he was the coach in a huddle.
“Hey,” I greeted Dad.
“There you are! I lost you after the ceremony.”
“Oh, sorry. This is Elli. She sort of dragged me out and then showed me around her room. She wants me to sleep in there with her. Is that okay, or am I assigned a different dorm?”
“That sounds great! We were going to put you in with the youngest girls anyway.”
While Dad and I started talking about the logistics of bunking with the kids, what to look out for as far as PTSD signs, Vera approached a group of teenage girls.
“What’s she doing?” I asked.
“Gathering interest in her group therapy session. We hope all the survivors with PTSD symptoms will participate, but we’re definitely not going to force them to.”
Dressed in various pastel-colored jilbabs, the girls listened to Vera intently. Some nodded, intrigued, while others looked away as if they didn’t want to hear her words at all.
I would definitely fall into category B.
Past them, I noticed a group of older boys I recognized from the ceremony but who were now dressed in T-shirts and long pants, sauntering along the edge of the lawn. I scanned their faces, but the drummer boy wasn’t among them.
“Are you okay, kiddo?” Dad pulled a bottle out of his backpack. “When is the last time you drank water?”
I shrugged off a bit of disappointment, wondering where the drummer was. “The airport.”
“Sienna! You’re dehydrated. I need to take better care of you. Sorry, sweetie. Here, sit down, sit down.”
I sat down. I drank. But I still didn’t feel much better.
“It’s the jet lag,” Dad said. “You’ll feel better after a good night’s rest.”
Vera flagged Dad over, and I couldn’t help but notice the bounce in his step when he answered her call. If they weren’t working together, I’d swear they were interested in each other. Thank goodness Dad didn’t date. He still wore his wedding ring. Even if she was gone, he was still married to my mom.
It was one of the things that made me admire him. Even if it was totally irrational-Oma said that over and over again—Dad hadn’t given up on her either.
Dad spoke with Vera for a moment before tossing one of the fluorescent yellow soccer balls we brought as gifts to a grinning boy about eight or so. He was wearing a ripped-up X-Men T-shirt and too-small shorts. All the kids were now dressed in play clothes. I guessed they changed after the ceremony. The Wolverine fan caught the ball easily and kicked it to a friend.
“You like soccer?” I asked.
He nodded and chatted to me in his language. I didn’t understand a word of what he and his friends were saying, but their excitement, like Elli’s, was contagious.
“Is he speaking Acehnese or Indonesian?” I asked Dad when he wandered back over.
Dad said something to the boy and then turned to me. “He’s from Aceh, so he speaks both languages. He was speaking Indonesian to you. Most of the younger children don’t speak English. Many of the older kids do, though. They’ve been studying longer.”
Tom, from across the field, kicked a soccer ball at me. I caught it as he jogged up, red-faced and panting. “You guys talking about how I’m the next Beckham?” he huffed.
“Yes, what else would we be talking about?” Dad said, and I laughed.
“Dad’s explaining who speaks English, who doesn’t,” I said, throwing the ball to a kid.
“Ah,” Tom said, collapsing onto the grass. “I know one English speaker who will be getting plenty of attention. Especially from the boys. I’ll give you a clue. It rhymes with Vienna. And has long blond hair. Anyone?”
Tom’s chest heaved as he tormented me. But I couldn’t help flashing on my drummer boy, hoping, in this one instant, Tom was right.
“Leave my girl alone,” Dad said, handing Tom a fresh bottle of water. “Sienna has more important things to concentrate on than boys. Besides, she’s too young for all of that.”
With a burst of energy, I grabbed another ball and kicked it high into the air and watched the little guys run after it.
Dad was smiling at me so wide I thought his face might rip.
“What?”
“I knew it,” he said.
“What?”
“Bringing you here was a great idea. You’re already bonding with the kids.” He shot friendly daggers at his best friend. “And I don’t mean those teenage boys, Tom.”
One teenage boy, I thought. Specifically, one.
I caught the ball. “The art stuff sounds good. When do I start?”
“Tomorrow morning. Use the markers and chalk we’ve brought and do free art. Let us know if their drawings are about the disaster or about their time here at the pesantren. It really helps us gauge where they are mentally.”
“Where are you two going to sleep?” I asked.
I kicked the ball back to the boys.
“Tom and I are sharing a private room near the Aceh boys’ dorm ...”
When he said “Aceh boys,” I wondered if Dad would be sleeping anywhere near the drummer boy.
“... then once you’re settled into the art, you can start working with Vera’s therapy group in the afternoons, like we talked about on the plane.�
��
Ugh. “Why can’t I work with you and Tom?”
“I’m afraid not, kiddo. It would be inappropriate to have a young woman in the boys’ group. Besides, Vera’s an expert in talk therapy,” he said, a note of pride in his voice. “You’ll be learning from the best. Remember you already agreed.”
“Yeah, but why is it inappropriate?” I asked, ignoring the inane Vera praise. If I got into Dad’s or Tom’s group I might run into the drummer again. And besides, I’d experienced Vera’s version of therapy, making her patient feel totally inferior to her. Yeah, good times. If she was the “best,” I couldn’t imagine what the worst was like.
“It’s a cultural thing,” Dad said. “The boys could feel uncomfortable having you there and may not speak as freely around you.”
Getting tongue-tied around the opposite sex—I got that completely, but how was I supposed to get to know this awesome guy if I couldn’t be around him? “What am I supposed to do to help Vera?”
“You could be her assistant in group. Since you understand”—Dad cleared his throat: uncomfortable subject warning alert—“some of what these girls are going through, Vera and I thought that perhaps you could be an extra ear. Having a peer who understands how they’re feeling, some of their symptoms, the nightmares, the anxiety, might help them feel more comfortable—I’ll be right back.” Dad wandered across the field toward Vera while I imagined afternoon after afternoon sweating in the stifling heat listening to her.
Coincidentally, a rogue soccer ball slammed into my ankle at the exact time I felt like smashing something into oblivion.
I tossed it into the air, watched it spin and then launched it super-hard, as hard as I could, straight drive down the field.
I wasn’t trying to hit her.
I just had bad aim, you see. But lucky for her, Dad dove into the air Superman-style, swooping in seconds before the ball smacked her upside the head.
“Sienna!” he yelled across the field. “You almost hit her!”
“Good thing you were there to save the day,” I muttered under my breath. They both walked up to me, faces masked with disappointment.
“You need to apologize,” Dad said. “Sienna. I’m waiting.”
“Sorry.”
“Not to me! To Vera!”
Um.
Thankfully, at the very moment, Tom started doing belly-baring handstands and lopsided cartwheels. His audience grew larger as more kids gathered around. Some of the kids yelled, “Gemuk! Gemuk!” as they danced around him. I was relieved the apologizing-to-Vera moment had passed as we all turned to look at the commotion. I asked Tom what the kids were saying.
“They’re impressed with my girth,” he said, not at all embarrassed. “Gemuk means ‘fat,’ and in Indonesia to say someone is fat is a compliment.”
“I’ll have to let Bev know. Maybe that will change her mind about carbs.”
“They also like big noses, which is probably why your dad is so popular,” Vera said.
“Very funny,” Dad retorted, matching her playful tone.
Do they love skunk stripes too? Because if they do, you’re bound to be a hit.
“Sienna, don’t you have something to say to Vera?”
Oh God.
Suddenly I was five, had just stolen a cherry snack pie from the mini-mart and Dad was making me confess.
“Sorry I almost hit you with the soccer ball,” I said.
Vera rubbed her head like she felt invisible pain. Please. “That’s okay,” she said in a saccharine voice. “Accidents happen.”
“So I hear,” I muttered.
“Sienna, your tone, please.”
“It’s fine, Andy.” Vera held up her hand. “It’s been a long day. Sienna must be exhausted. Not to mention jet-lagged and probably dehydrated. Lay off her.”
Yeah, lay off me. Wait. Did Vera just stick up for me?
And then my dad, instead of announcing, I AM HER FATHER. I KNOW WHAT’S BEST, like he does when Oma intervenes, said, “You’re right, V. We’re all tired. It’s okay, sweetie.” But he wasn’t looking at me when he said it. He was looking at her.
“I’m heading back to the dorm for a bit. I’ll see you in the morning?” Vera said, her eyes lingering on my dad’s.
“See you,” Dad said softly.
What?
Should I say something? Confront them?
No. It was just my imagination playing tricks on me. Dad. Dad loved Mom. Vera probably loved ... furry nocturnal animals. She was the classic crazy cat lady—destined to be found by neighbors dead from natural causes on the floor of her studio apartment at age one hundred and something with her only companions, twenty beloved cats, eating her bony remains.
Nothing was going on between them, I convinced myself. Nothing at all.
PRETENDING
After Vera left, Dad and I sat quietly on the grass, just the two of us, watching the kids play with Tom.
I was amazed how happy they seemed. The kids. I expected something ... different. I thought they’d be wandering around homesick or depressed or something. Maybe they were like me. Maybe they were pretending.
“I want to talk to you about something,” Dad said suddenly.
I closed my eyes and leaned back on the moist lawn. “Dad, I already apologized for the soccer ball incident.”
“No, no, not that. Listen. I need your help with something.”
I sat back up, slowly. “What is it?”
Dad lowered his voice. “After the welcoming ceremony, the pesantren owner spoke with me privately about a boy named Deni. He’s popular with the Aceh boys, their leader, it seems, and I don’t want to ask the other kids for him because it will get back to him that the owner mentioned him specifically. Information here spreads like wildfire. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. Nothing is private.”
“Why didn’t he just point him out?”
“He said Deni was one of the boys in the drum circle, but he was gone by the time I spoke with the owner. He said if I couldn’t find him by tomorrow, he’d quietly point him out.”
The leader of the Aceh boys? In the drum circle? I wondered if it could be the same boy.
My boy.
“They like to gossip?” I knew all about gossip. The queen bee of my freshman class, Sandra Bizmark, was also the queen of gossip. You could tell her something in the morning and the whole school knew by lunchtime.
I learned not to tell her anything.
Dad rubbed his beard. “Gossip has more-malicious implications. Their talk-talk doesn’t have ill intent; they just don’t have the same sense of autonomy that some Westerners do. If something happens to one person, it affects the whole.”
“So what’s the problem with this Deni guy?”
“Apparently, he has issues with the way this place is run, argues with the owner ... I don’t know much more than that—but I do know that we’re here to help the kids from Aceh assimilate into this pesantren with the rest of the kids....”
“Why aren’t they assimilating?”
“In Aceh things were different. They had more freedom, fewer rules. This is a very conservative institution: strict bedtimes, school schedules, mealtimes. It’s like, imagine transferring to a strict Catholic boarding school after living at home and going to El Angel Miguel High, where you have an open campus and wear shorts to school.”
“And worse, if I was going because my entire family was dead,” I blurted out.
My words looked like they caused Dad physical pain. “Yes. You can imagine how hard it would be to adjust after you’ve lived with so much freedom.”
“I get it.”
“So if Deni has a problem with how this place is run, I don’t want him to get the idea that I’m on the pesantren’s of the conflict,” Dad explained.
My eyes popped open. “So you want me to be a spy?”
He tilted his head. “Not a spy, per se ... I just want you to find out who he is if you can.”
I matched his sly tone. “Ah ... I s
ee, and what will I get for said information?”
“You will be forgiven for past crimes with soccer balls?” He eyed me knowingly. He knew full well that wasn’t a complete accident.
“Fine,” I said. “Game on.”
“I knew I could count on you, kiddo. Just ask around, see if one of the kids will point him out to you. The pesantren owner has to leave town for the next few days, and before he gets back, I’d like to make some headway with Deni. I really want to help smooth over their conflict before we go back home.”
“Why is it so important to bond with Deni? I mean, he’s just one kid,” I said.
“If I want the Aceh kids to be honest about what’s going on with them and their emotions during group, it needs to start with their leader. Acehnese are a very patriarchal society. These kids don’t have a father anymore, so they look to this boy Deni as their father figure. If I’m going to help with their healing process, it’s going to need to start with Deni, and then the rest will follow.”
I thought about the drummer boy subtly letting the younger kids know what to do during their performance. How they looked at him, emulating his every move.
What Dad said made sense.
Dad put his arm around me and squeezed. “I hope I won’t disappoint,” I said.
The beginnings of sunset bounced off the plain gold band that he wore on his left finger. The steadiness of Dad’s wedding ring soothed me.
“You won’t,” Dad said in a tone I believed.
I yawned, sucking in a bit of burnt air.
We watched silently as the sun slipped into the sludgy river. The haze was pink and brown and reminded me of Mom’s story about the ship captain.
“Remember the story Mom used to tell about the ship captain?” Dad asked.
Seriously?
“I was just thinking the same exact thing.”
“Really? How funny. I was thinking about it on the plane over too—especially the bit about the sailor hurrying home. The sky’s like the light the captain was looking for, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, except it’s not pink and orange like at home; it’s brownish—Fudge Popsicle Haze.” I started laughing.
