Sea

by Heidi Kling

  She smiled and joined Deni inside. I watched to see if she laid her carpet next to him, knowing I’d be jealous if she did. But she didn’t, and I was glad.

  Azmi lingered behind and followed me around the side of the building.

  INDONESIA MENANGIS was spray-painted on the white chipped paint. “What does that mean?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the sun’s bright glare.

  His beaming smile faded. “Cry,” he said. “Indonesia cry,” he translated before deciding to join the others inside.

  While they prayed, I wandered around the marshy land, hyper-careful of where I stepped.

  It was so hard to believe this was the place where so many died.

  I felt weird walking there, but I was curious and I didn’t want to wait in the car. I slopped through the mud over to what must have been the foundation of a house. Concrete blocks laid in a rectangular shape, with rusted metal pipes sticking out. Everything was covered with sand and muck.

  I walked around the inside, imagining the people who had lived there.

  Were they home the day the sea came?

  A rusty pot handle was sticking out of the dirt. Were they cooking when they heard the roar? Did they run out the door and toward the mosque or toward the mountain? Did they have a teenage boy who escaped by motor?

  I watched him tuck the prayer rug back into the barrel and walk down the steps toward me. His eyes were red, and I could tell he’d been crying. I touched his arm. I couldn’t help it, and for the moment I didn’t care who saw. He took a deep, long breath and looked up at the sky.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Are you?”

  I thought about all the images I’d seen that day: the mass graves, the beat-up cars, the destroyed homes. I thought about Dad back at the pesantren, awake now and certainly worried about me. I thought about how everything was a million times worse for Deni.

  “Yeah,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I’m okay.”

  DENIAL

  At Azmi and Siti’s house, we were asked to sit on a large bamboo mat that covered most of the small living and dining space.

  “Come, come, come, come. Please, sit, sit, sit, sit,” said their ibu, who was wearing wide round glasses and a peach silk scarf on her head. She was soft and round in all the places a mother should be. Their bapak was short, with Azmi’s beaming smile. Dressed in dried-mud-covered pants, he smelled like fresh fish when he took my hand and placed it to his heart.

  “Where your father? Your mother?” Ibu asked me immediately, taking her turn with my hand in her rough warm one.

  I glanced at Deni, who nodded. “My father is joining me soon,” I said.

  Frowning, Bapak turned to Deni and asked him directly, “You bring American girl here alone? Without her father?”

  “He’s coming,” Deni insisted in the same firm voice, glancing over at me like, We better stick to this story. I nodded quickly.

  “Okay.” Bapak grinned with open arms. “Tonight you stay here. You are our family tonight. Deni, Azmi tells us you are coming home, that you sent letter from Yogyakarta! We are happy! Please. Sit. Eat.” He gestured toward the mat where tea and plates were set up, waiting.

  “I’m happy too, Bapak,” he said. “I have missed my friends.”

  Ibu held tight to Deni’s arm. “Much has changed in Aceh. Much is better, no?” she asked.

  Deni nodded. “Much has changed, but much is still the same.”

  Ibu poured steaming tea into our cups. At a trillion degrees with a gazillion percent humidity, sweat was dripping down my back. I would have done about anything for a bottle of ice orange.

  Ibu and Bapak were smiling at me.

  “Drink, drink,” they said, pointing at the steaming cup in my hand.

  Deni eyed me. I felt rude not drinking but remembered his warning: Wait until the second offer.

  “Drink, please, drink,” Ibu repeated with more urgency.

  That was two.

  All eyes were on me as I took a sip of what? Jalapeño sugar water? The scalding liquid burned my throat. I choked down the spicy tea and set the cup back onto the saucer.

  “Delicious,” I said. Deni was right: it was very, very hot tea.

  “Hungry?” asked Siti, who had been in the kitchen since we arrived. She set bowls of smooth curries, fried fish and funny-shaped fruits onto the center of the mat. Everything looked delicious. We hadn’t eaten since the snack on the plane. I tucked my feet even farther under my butt to make sure I wasn’t pointing my toes at anyone. Deni winked at me. So far, so good.

  Ibu disappeared into the kitchen and returned with covered aluminum round bowls, like the ones in Thai restaurants, filled with fluffy jasmine rice.

  “Thank you so much.” I hoped they couldn’t hear my stomach growl. “This looks delicious.”

  “Eat, eat,” Ibu said, gesturing toward the food.

  Wait.

  “Eat, please, eat,” she said again.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Everyone was staring at me. Deni leaned over and whispered, “Guests eat first.”

  So I dished up some rice with the serving spoon and covered it with seafood curry. Individual bowls of water sat in front of us to rinse our fingers off between helpings.

  “Brothers and sisters in America?” Ibu asked me after we’d all dished up.

  I shook my head. “No. I wish I did, though.”

  “Siti’s sisters and mother were taken by the wave,” Bapak explained. “She is our family now.”

  “I thought Siti and Azmi were brother and sister?” I asked Deni.

  “No,” he said. “Cousins.”

  Azmi explained that their house was built by Habitat for Humanity. A cute wooden structure with a porch, their home was small but clean and seemingly well built. They were one of the lucky families, Azmi explained. Many still lived in the tent camps.

  “Did you live in the tent camps after too?” I asked Deni.

  Deni shrugged. “Tents were for families.”

  And Deni was alone. His whole family was gone.

  “Our tent was full,” Azmi said. “Or he would have been with us.”

  My heart broke for him. He lost his whole family, and he wasn’t even allowed to stay with friends? No wonder he left.

  I wondered when he was going to ask Bapak and Ibu about his father.

  “Where did you stay?” I asked carefully.

  “A different place each night. Mostly I slept on the highest ground I could find, on a dry blanket if I could find one. Tents were a luxury after the storm.”

  He read my face and stopped talking. I knew no matter what, he didn’t want me to feel sorry for him. I looked down at my tea, pretending it was the steam misting up my eyes.

  “There was not much time for sleep,” Azmi said, “with so much work to be done.”

  Deni nodded in agreement, but his brow furrowed and I blinked.

  I cringed, flashing on the mass graves. Deni and Azmi hauling bodies out of the muck.

  And Deni with no place to go home to after.

  Perhaps to change the conversation to something lighter, Azmi said, “Many celebrities were here after the tsunami. I forget their names, but they were from a strange religion to do with science?”

  “Scientology?” I guessed.

  “Yes! They set up booth and tried to convert Muslims to their way of thinking. One of the famous American movie stars was here!”

  Deni laughed for the first time all day. “They were surprised when they were asked to leave Aceh.”

  I rubbed my head, embarrassed. How obnoxious. No wonder Dad insisted: We are here to help with their PTSD, not to comment about religion, customs or anything else. Would we want Indonesians coming to El Angel Miguel and criticizing how we live? Always be respectful.

  Then Deni said, “So many Westerners offered to adopt tsunami orphans that the Indonesian government declared no non-Muslims could adopt the children.”

  Bapak added, “I
t was very important, especially after disaster, to keep our culture for the children.”

  “That makes sense,” I said.

  And then Azmi asked randomly, “You know Arnold Schwarzenegger?” He dipped his fingers in the water bowl and then pantomimed someone shooting a machine gun.

  I laughed. “Well, I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen some of his old movies.”

  After dinner, we took a walk, Deni, Siti, Azmi and me. I was completely aware of Deni’s hand swinging closely to mine as we walked. When we passed a tall, smooth tree with hairy twigs and huge yellow and orange flowers, Deni stopped short. I stayed with him as Azmi and Siti kept walking.

  “It is a jeumpa tree. Jeumpa flowers.” He picked a flower and held it close for me to smell. “You remember the song the little girls sing at the pesantren?” Deni asked quietly, his eyes lighting up. “It is the song of their homeland. See?” Deni stroked the smooth bark of the tree. “The song is about this flower. It only grows here. In Aceh.”

  I breathed in the sugary scent, taking a mental picture of this moment, this place. I paused on Deni’s face, memorizing the way he was looking at me for when we weren’t together anymore.

  He moved a lock of my hair and tucked the flower behind my ear.

  BARGAINING

  I’d seen some movies where they depict refugee camps, but nothing like this.

  After the jeumpa tree, we reached a field dotted with hundreds of canvas tents. They were set up on a flat piece of land that must have been dozens of acres.

  I couldn’t believe six months after the tsunami, people were still living in tents.

  Deni, Siti and Azmi pointed out a bunch of construction sites beyond the camp, telling me stories as tractors moved mud and trucks rolled down the road carrying long pieces of wood. Hammering and sawing buzzed in the distance.

  “It looks so different,” Deni said, looking around in amazement. “So changed since I left for Yogyakarta. The reconstruction hadn’t begun.” As we walked, canvas tents were on either side of us, many small ones and a few larger ones. Children were playing outside and then running back inside the tents.

  A goat walked by attached to a rope. A skinny boy led the way.

  A chicken squawked, and I noticed coops near several of the larger canvas tents. A closer look told me doves were inside.

  “Some birds have beautiful singing voices and enter competitions,” Deni told me. “My ibu kept doves when I was a boy. She would buy cassette tapes of famous doves singing and play them for our pets so they could learn to copy the beautiful voices.

  “We have a folk story that says, ‘A man is only considered a man if he has a house, a wife, a horse, a keris—a dagger—and a singing dove in a cage.’” He pointed down the street. “There used to be a bird market a way down the road. I wonder if it is still there.”

  A thought hit me as I checked out the long row of dirty cages and noisy birds: Bird flu. One of Bev’s warnings and here I was maybe in the heart of it. I asked Deni about the outbreak. He nodded worriedly. “We will stay away from the bird market if you wish.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  His arms swung casually by his sides, but his face drew tense. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I think we should start asking in the tents for my father,” he said quietly.

  “Should Azmi and Siti help too?” I said, my voice low.

  “They will look and ask too, but still they say they have not heard that my father is alive.”

  “Well. We’re not giving up yet,” I said. “What should I do?”

  “You ask, ‘Rahmad—father of Deni.”’ His voice cracked when he said it. My hands sweated nervously for him. This was huge.

  “Okay,” I said. “The NGO tents start over there ...”

  “NGO?”

  “Nongovernment agencies—it’s what World Doctors is.”

  The first tent was big and bright yellow. Deni opened the canvas door flap and entered. I followed him in.

  A woman, dressed in a powder blue sari and black pants, was sitting behind a small counter. She smiled warmly at us, and Deni asked her something in I assumed Acehnese. People were lined up on the floor, but instead of sitting in chairs, they were resting on bended knees. A woman nursed a young baby, a man held a cloth on his bleeding hand, a couple of kids looked woozy, like they might throw up—their mother was fussing over them. This was obviously a medical tent.

  Then a woman came in that I instantly recognized. “Hiya, Sienna, hello, Deni. How are you doing?”

  “Amelia,” I said, feeling at ease. She asked too many questions, but maybe she could help us.

  “What brings you here?” she asked.

  I glanced over at Deni, who was still talking to the woman behind the desk. She was digging through papers while Deni looked on anxiously.

  “Deni’s looking for his father.... Well ... he’s asking around to see if anyone has heard from him.”

  “His father? Does he have reason to believe his father is alive?”

  I nodded. “That’s the reason we came,” I whispered, smelling her vanilla perfume. “Someone is looking for him here.... Don’t say anything to him, please.... I don’t think he wants to talk about it. I mean, unless he asks you about it first.”

  “I haven’t heard anyone asking for a Deni, but I’ll keep my ears open, and I won’t say a word.”

  “Thanks.”

  “While you’re here, would you like to have a look around? Your father will be arriving soon, no?”

  My face flushed. “Oh yes. Really soon,” I lied. “Deni? I’m going with Amelia, you want to come?”

  “I will catch up,” he said.

  I hated leaving him, but I was curious about the NGOs that I’d heard so much about from Dad. So I followed Amelia to the green tent next door, a feeding tent, which was not much more than a line of people waiting for food. A few people worked behind a long table—scooping cups of porridge out of huge tin pots into bowls. One woman handed out one hard-boiled egg to each person in line; another man handed out one biscuit each.

  “We try and get fresh fish, fruit and vegetables when we can,” Amelia said. “Today was a bad day,” she added to explain the simple dinner. I thought about the delicious meal we had back at Azmi’s and felt guilty.

  Back outside, a Land Rover, just like Azmi’s, screamed by, blaring a siren.

  “That’s the ambulance,” Amelia said. “They’re bringing in a new patient. I’ve got to dash—please stop by later if you get a chance, and good luck finding Deni’s dad.” She waved over her shoulder as she ducked back into the medical tent.

  A few minutes later Deni met up with me, Azmi and Siti outside. “The Land Rovers are ambulances?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Deni said. “They were donated after.”

  “Were we driving in an ambulance all day?”

  “Ibu works for the clinic sometimes,” Azmi said. “I asked if we could use it. It’s very exciting Deni returned. People who left Aceh do not return.”

  A heavy silence fell before I asked Deni, “Did that lady know anything about your father?”

  “No.” He shook his head, frustrated. “After all that, no.”

  I looked down at the row of tents. If we went together, it would take too long.

  “Let’s split up. Me and Siti can take the right side of the street, you and Azmi the left. Okay?”

  “Terima kasih,” he said, using my version, his eyes shining with hope.

  I had my script ready to go.

  “Rhamad—father of Deni?” I asked at the next tent. The woman dug through papers, just like in the medical tent, and shook her head no. No luck at the second tent either, or the third, fourth, fifth. After a dozen or so, Siti and I met back up with the boys. The setting sun cast a shadow across Deni’s face. I could tell he’d had no luck either.

  “We should go toward home soon,” he said regretfully.

  I wanted so badly to try and make him feel better. “Don’t give
up yet. There are still two more to try,” I said.

  The four of us walked together through the crowds of people, past chickens and bicycles, in the dusky heat toward a bright orange tent that read REPRODUCTIVE HEALTH.

  The boys went across the way into the Red Cross tent, and Siti decided to wait outside. I ducked under the yellow tent’s simple flap. I squeezed my fists tight.

  Come on, be the one.

  A few girls walked in after me, one carrying a toddler on her hip. They joined a line of women and teenage girls kneeling along the canvas. The tent was set up much like the medical tent. A sleepy-looking woman was sitting behind a card table.

  I waited my turn in line. When she asked me if I needed help, I said, “I’m looking, well, my friend is looking for his father ... Rahmad, father of Deni, does that sound familiar?”

  She blinked, suddenly wide awake. “Rahmad? Father of Deni?”

  “You know him? My friend Deni ... he’s been living at an orphanage in Yogyakarta. Someone called him, from an NGO here, we just don’t know which one....”

  Her head tilted to the side as she looked me over. “You’re American?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  She leaned closer. “How old is your friend?”

  “Seventeen,” I said.

  Her lips closed tightly before she permitted them to open again. “Come back tomorrow.”

  “So? Do you know something about him?”

  Her eyes flashed wildly, but she said in a calm voice, “Tomorrow, you return.”

  I didn’t know what to tell Deni. The woman didn’t tell me anything, but it was obvious she knew something. I decided it was better not to get Deni’s hopes up based on a strange woman’s odd behavior. I’d just go back tomorrow like she said.

  It was late by the time we walked the long way back to Siti and Azmi’s house, and everything was dark and still. I felt Azmi’s and Siti’s curious eyes on us as we walked home in the dark and again now in the front room. Siti excused herself, and then Azmi and Deni spoke intensely in their language that I didn’t understand.