Sea

by Heidi Kling

  I noticed the cook kept her left hand tucked behind her as she scooped with her right.

  “Why is she holding her hand behind her back?” I asked.

  “Should we tell her?” Tom said, his eyes sparkling.

  “Um. Yes, that’s why I asked.”

  “Guess,” Tom said.

  “It’s a custom?”

  “You could say that.” Tom grinned. Oh no. Tom grinning like that was never a good thing.

  Vera, rolling her eyes at Tom, lowered her voice and leaned in toward me. “They do everything here with their right hand: greeting people, eating, serving, everything. You never use your left hand in public.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you use the left hand for cleaning yourself,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Cleaning yourself? Like a washcloth in the shower?”

  “No, cleaning yourself like your hand is toilet paper,” Tom said, and burst into rumbling chuckles.

  “Ha, ha,” I said. “Good one.” Even though I loved him, sometimes I could hardly believe Dad’s friend functioned in the real world, never mind made it through medical school.

  Vera flashed him a chastising look. “Thomas, seriously. Sienna needs to understand this. It’s not a joke.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” He waved her away and went back to scooping food into his mouth.

  With his right hand.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “Dad, come clean,” I demanded. “Is Vera telling the truth?”

  When he heard “come clean,” Tom laughed out loud again.

  “Shush, Tom,” Vera said. “You don’t want to embarrass the kids. To them it’s perfectly normal.”

  “I know it is! I think it’s a great custom. It’s hygienic, and it saves money on TP.”

  Dad lowered his voice too, bending his head toward me. “It’s really no big deal, but I’m sure you noticed there was no toilet paper in the mandi?”

  “Uh. Yeah. They obviously just ran out, right?”

  “Can’t run out of something that was never there,” Tom said. “And people have to wipe with something.”

  Wipe with something? “They wipe themselves with their hands?” I said a bit too loudly. “Seriously?”

  Dad nodded, trying to act serious, but the corners of his lips were raised. “You pour the water over your bottom and then—well, you wash your hands very well afterward. It’s quite sanitary once you get the hang of it.”

  The pitcher in the bathroom. That’s what it was for.

  I screeched a whisper. “Do you all do that? Do you wipe your butts with your hands?” I looked from face to face. All three members of Team Hope shrugged. Guilty as charged!

  “When you work abroad, you adjust to local customs,” Vera said.

  I shook my head in disbelief. I couldn’t imagine wiping my butt with my own hand. I mean, seriously, if the kids at school found out about that, I’d be shunned forever. “So because they don’t think it’s sanitary? That’s why they don’t use toilet paper?”

  “It’s also a waste of resources,” Tom said with a mouthful of rice. “They can’t afford to waste paper like we do. We shouldn’t do it either, but we do. Ask your social studies teacher when you get home. We’re the most wasteful country in the world.” Watching Big Doctor Tom shovel piles of food into his already two-ton belly didn’t just prove his argument; it won the case.

  “Yeah, well. I’m not doing it!”

  Dad nodded. “You don’t have to. That’s why I brought the baby wipes.”

  Subject change. Someone? Anyone? “Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “So after art, do I have a break before therapy?” I wanted to start asking around for Deni.

  “We’ll break for lunch,” Dad said. “And yes, then group therapy with Vera in the afternoon.”

  “Is there anything else to eat?” I was still hungry after my small bowl was empty.

  “I’m afraid not, honey. They don’t have much, and to share with us is very generous. Maybe we can go out to lunch later in town,” Dad said.

  Glancing down the rows of kids, I thought about how they must still be hungry too. Rice wasn’t much for a whole meal. Besides, no protein, dairy or vegetables? That wasn’t good for growing kids like Elli. I thought about our kitchen at home with the big bowls of fresh fruit I took for granted; the endless boxes of pasta and cereals in the cabinet and organic milk and yogurt in our fridge.

  “Can we do something to help them get more food? Talk to the pesantren owner or something?”

  “The thing is, they rely on donations to keep the place going. If they have a donor come, they have a better variety of food; if they don’t, it’s a lean month for the kids.”

  “Oh. It just seems like, maybe we could think of something? Maybe donate something?”

  “We are. We’re donating our time. It might seem odd to you, but it’s all we can do, sweetie ... ,” Dad explained. “Our specialty is mental health, so that’s what we’re giving them. They aren’t starving; look at them.” I looked around at their mostly happy faces. They were thin, but definitely not skinny.

  “Compared to most developing countries, believe me, these kids have it good,” Tom added.

  It didn’t seem like enough.

  And then a loud ruckus broke out at the other end of the table.

  Some older boys were roughhousing around, but they seemed kind of angry. A big scrappy boy pushed a scrawnier, shorter kid, and I couldn’t really tell what was going on, but the energy in the dining hall changed. Chatter quieted; everyone stopped eating to watch. The kid that got pushed started whaling on the bully, and then a group of maybe three or four older boys took sides and got all up in each other’s faces.

  My stomach squeezed like it did at school when the rare fight broke out, usually among the football players. I hated fighting. The cook yelled at them in Indonesian. She grabbed the scrappy boy by the back of his T-shirt and threw him out the door. Scrappy’s friends protested, standing up with their arms raised, talking fast in Indonesian, but one of their voices was louder than the others.

  He spoke slowly and firmly, his feet steady on the ground like he wasn’t moving until she heard what he had to say. His friends stopped yelling, so he lowered his voice too but kept his tone serious. I had no idea what he was saying, but there was fiery passion behind his eyes, and I could see that the woman was listening to him. He was gesturing, and I guessed explaining what had happened. Then he looked at her expectantly, but she was already grinning like she was his friend too. He nodded once gratefully as she walked away.

  Impressive.

  The other boys sat back down at the table and reluctantly continued eating, looking at the boy like he was some kind of hero.

  But he wasn’t looking back at them.

  As he cast his eyes down the table, they stopped on mine just for a moment, a flash of something in them. Some sort of question. Was he checking to see if I was watching? I raised my eyebrows once, a tiny smile on my lips. He nodded back quickly, but his eyes danced. I knew it.

  “That’s him,” I heard my voice whisper to Dad. “The leader of the drum circle. He’s the leader of the Aceh boys. I know it. That’s Deni.”

  “Hmm. Maybe you’re right,” Dad agreed.

  Tom asked incredulously, “How do you know for sure?”

  My heart skipped a beat when I said with utter authority, “I just do.”

  He stayed only a few seconds longer before he disappeared out the same door his friend was ejected from.

  “I’ll see you at art!” I said, darting for the exit.

  It was sprinkling now. I looked around but didn’t see him at first. Then I noticed an older boy heading down the path away from me. From this distance I wasn’t sure it was him, so I sped up. As I got closer, I could see he was walking with the same slight limp as the drummer. Bingo.

  The rain fell harder and I walked faster. I didn’t have a plan other than to ask him his name, and for now, that was enough. But then thu
nder cracked once above me and the rain seemed thicker and hotter and was falling faster. I jumped and ducked behind a building, watching as a younger boy about six or seven cried out at the sky’s snap too. I wasn’t sure what he was doing out here alone while everyone else was eating.

  The older boy whipped around and without a second thought scooped him up onto his shoulders. Lightning zipped through silver clouds and lit up the path. The older boy glanced up at the sky as if daring it to do it again. I was close enough to see water dropping against his clenched jaw, pouring down his sinewy arms.

  And then he was looking at me too.

  I felt like I was caught spying, but he wasn’t mad. He was just staring, and so was I.

  I couldn’t look away; my eyes fused to his. Finally, lamely, I waved.

  He didn’t wave back, but he didn’t turn away. What should I do? Calling out through the brewing storm, “What’s your name?” suddenly didn’t sound like the greatest idea.

  Streaks of electricity shot against the sky as the-boy-I-guessed-was-Deni grabbed hold of the younger boy’s ankles, dangling from his shoulders. Then he furrowed his brow and yelled, “The storm comes, rambut kuning. Go.”

  Rambut kuning? What did that mean?

  And he spoke English?

  I flashed on my nightmare. The boy stumbling down the aisle of the crashing plane.

  I grounded my feet in place to keep from running after him as he took off into the storm as fast as he could manage with a limp and a kid on his shoulders.

  Finally, with thunder cracking over my head, I ran too, toward safety.

  THERAPY

  It was pouring rain. Pouring. Like gallons of water being dumped on the dorm’s roof.

  My little roommates were hanging out waiting for instructions when Vera finally knocked.

  Her mascara was smeared and running down her cheeks. Mascara? Seriously, in this weather?

  “Sienna? We’ve decided to relocate art to this room.”

  “Okay.”

  She nodded as if surprised I was being so cooperative. “Great. Well, the children’s regular classes were canceled because of a major leak in their classroom’s roof. Andy, I mean, your father, said that room is already starting to flood.”

  Vera set down a wet box of art supplies: crayons, markers, pencils, paper, that we brought from home.

  “So what should I do?” I asked.

  “I will gather the girls and you can pass out the supplies?”

  Easy enough.

  We all sat in a big circle on the floor. The girls sat on their knees, so I did too.

  Vera cleared her throat and sat up tall. “I’d like you all to draw home. The first image that comes to your mind when you hear the word home.” I think Vera said it in English for my sake, because the kids looked blankly at her until she repeated it in their language.

  The kids all started coloring, so I did too.

  I colored a house with Dad, Mom and me standing in the front yard throwing around a Frisbee. I drew myself with short yellow hair and red overalls. I was about six. I don’t know why. Maybe because that’s how old I guessed Elli was? Maybe because that’s the first image I thought of when I thought of home.

  I peeked over at Elli’s drawing. A few green palm trees, a small brown house. A purple airplane flying in the bright blue sky between two puffy pink clouds.

  Half of the piece of paper had a red background. The rest was white.

  “Home?” I asked her quietly, not wanting to disturb the other kids who were busy working.

  She didn’t say anything. Kept scribbling more and more and more red.

  “My home,” I said, pointing to my picture.

  She looked over at the family with the young child. She narrowed her eyes, confused.

  She said something to Vera.

  “Elli wants to know why you aren’t in the picture with your little sister,” Vera said.

  I felt sheepish. “Tell her that is me when I was a kid. That I don’t have a sister.”

  She did.

  Now Vera must have thought I was even nuttier than she did before.

  Crayon-art evidence of me being stuck in the past.

  But Vera didn’t look judgmental at all. “We all think of home in different ways” was all she said.

  Then we went around the circle discussing our pictures. Some of the kids drew big waves. Some drew rainbows. Some drew the pesantren.

  “Why did she draw an airplane?” I asked Vera, referring to Elli’s art.

  Vera asked her in a smooth, patient tone.

  Elli looked at her lap while she explained. My gut told me it was some awful reason.

  “Because she wished an airplane would have flown in to rescue her mother from the sea. The day the wave came.”

  How ironic, I thought. One kid’s nightmare is another kid’s hope.

  “What is the red about?” I pressed.

  Vera asked Elli.

  “She thinks of the tsunami as death and she said the color of death is red.”

  My voice caught in my throat. “Like blood,” I said.

  “Yes,” Vera said sadly, “like blood.”

  I cleared my throat and felt hot. Listened to the pounding rain on the roof. Poor Elli.

  Vera asked me to hand out a fresh piece of paper to all the girls. I did.

  The rain outside was getting louder.

  “This time I’d like you to draw yourself. Any way you’d like. Just make sure you are in the picture.” She said it in English, then translated to the group.

  Elli scribbled quickly another palm tree with a tiny stick figure standing below it. This time, thankfully, there was no red.

  “You?” I asked, pointing.

  “Elli,” she said, patting her chest.

  “It’s good.” I smiled. Then I turned and whispered to Vera, “Why did she draw herself so small?”

  Vera’s eyes widened as she translated Elli’s answer. “She said that is how she feels when she wakes up each day without her family. Very small and very alone.”

  Tears stinging in my eyes, I grabbed a green marker and even though I probably wasn’t supposed to, I drew a stick figure on Elli’s paper next to the tiny one.

  A tall girl with yellow hair and orange shoes.

  I pointed to my Converse. “You, me, together,” I said.

  Elli leaned into my shoulder before beginning to draw again.

  This time she drew another figure, then another.

  She was drawing her friends here at the pesantren.

  “You are not alone,” I told her. And I think she may have understood what I said. Maybe next time she would draw herself a little bit bigger.

  Maybe I would too.

  At lunchtime we ran into the hall to eat more noodles before breaking into afternoon groups.

  This time in one of the older girls’ dorm rooms.

  I noticed the boy with the limp wasn’t at lunch and wondered when I would see him again.

  Wind slashed against the shingles. Vera spoke loudly above the rain.

  We were sitting cross-legged on the floor. The girls were sitting on kaleidoscope-colored prayer mats. One girl offered to share her mat with me, so we were sitting together.

  Vera said I could take pictures, so I zoomed my lens on the doe-eyed face of a girl about my age who was wearing a lime green jilbab. I listened as she told her story, in English.

  “I was home with my mother and my sisters when I heard the sound. The sound of thunder. My father and my brothers were fishermen and were working. I ran out the door and saw people running toward me, away from the ocean. They were crying out: The sea is coming, the sea is coming. My mother grabbed my baby sister and the two older girls and they ran. I grabbed my younger sister’s hand and we ran as fast as we could away from the water. My sister was seven and couldn’t run any more. Even though she was big, I lifted her into my arms, and together we ran until she was too heavy and I stumbled on a fallen man and my sister slipped from my arms. I tried but I c
ouldn’t reach her. There were many people running. The water moved so fast behind me and was so thick and tall that ...”

  She stopped talking and crumpled forward onto the carpet.

  Vera said something too quietly.

  The girl wiped her eyes and continued talking. Her words had frozen me to the floor and I didn’t know what I wanted more: for her to stop talking or to finish the story.

  “It’s okay,” Vera told her, gently prodding.

  “My sister was swept away.”

  The knot in my throat swelled up. I leaned in to hear the rest.

  “I had no choice but to run. To leave her behind. I climbed up a banana tree and hung on tight as muddy ocean rose around me. Many people go past me. And some already quiet.”

  She lowered her voice. Her face was broken.

  “Finally, when I cannot hang on any longer, the water falls back to the sea. When I climb down, for days and days I look in the camps for my mother and for my sisters. One of my sisters is here at the pesantren with me. But not the sister I lost. I never found that sister again.”

  Vera put her arm around the girl and spoke quietly, letting her talk and cry.

  “It’s not your fault,” Vera said in English before translating. “You were a hero for trying to save your sister. You are a hero for saving yourself.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. I could tell Vera’s words really helped her and I believed they were true too.

  I set the camera down without taking a picture.

  THE TEMPEST

  I screamed. But this time not from a nightmare.

  Lightning flashed through the pitch-black room like a strobe light, followed by a massive crash of thunder.

  It had to be the middle of the night.

  After a long first day of the emotional art therapy with Elli and then the super-sad teen therapy group, I was completely drained by bedtime and quietly cried myself to sleep replaying the girl’s story in my head to the melancholy beat of the rain pounding on the roof

  And now this.

  Rain poured through the narrow slits in the shutters, leaving half my bunk soaked. Elli was so afraid, she jumped up onto my bunk and clung to me.