When in Vanuatu

by Nicki Chen

  Praise for

  When in Vanuatu

  “It’s never easy to be a trailing spouse, as Nicki Chen so lovingly shows in When in Vanuatu. Whether in the Philippines or the South Pacific island of Vanuatu, both in times of political upheaval, Chen tells of the often unspoken hardships and heartbreaks of finding home and family in a new land.”

  —SUSAN BLUMBERG-KASON, author of Good Chinese Wife

  “Nicki Chen has, once again, deftly created a story of an exotic world. In When in Vanuatu, you will meet a fascinating international community of men and women intent on contributing to global development despite significant obstacles, both at work and in the homes they endeavor to create in a distant land. Enlightening and captivating.”

  —SALLY STILES, author of Plunge! and Like a Mask Dancing

  “Once again, author Nicki Chen demonstrates her mastery of writing place and characterization. Having been an expat living in foreign countries as a young wife, I resonated with many of the opportunities and challenges Chen portrays. Give yourself the gift of peeking into not only the life of the protagonist, Diana, but also her community of friends and the unique cultures of the Philippines and Vanuatu!”

  —KIZZIE JONES, co-project manager for and contributor to Writing In Place: Prose & Poetry from the Pacific Northwest

  “In When in Vanuatu, Nicki Chen explores exotic locales and universal struggles. In this moving, fast-flowing novel, Diana’s experiences in the Philippines and Vanuatu illuminate challenges of friendship, marriage, identity, and family that so many women, at home and abroad, face. It’s ideal for book clubs or anyone who would want to read a modern, feminist Graham Greene.”

  —TEGAN TIGANI, book buyer at Queene Anne Book Company

  When in

  Vanuatu

  Copyright © 2021, Nicki Chen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2021

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-034-5

  E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-035-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020914056

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For all the expatriate wives I’ve known

  for their courage and enthusiasm

  for all they gave up and all they gained

  for their friendship and fun and the delicious food they served

  Manila

  1989

  1

  Diana was high on hope that morning. Energized. How else could you explain the pace of her speed-walking? Her long-legged husband could barely keep up.

  “Hey!” Jay called after her. “What’s the rush?”

  She jogged in place a few beats waiting for him to catch up. Then she took off again. This time he stayed with her. Jay was not unathletic, but, like most expats in the Philippines—herself included—the tropical weather slowed him down.

  The service road that ran between their apartment building and Roxas Boulevard wasn’t your typical walking or jogging path. In fact, Diana had never seen anyone else use it for exercise. It was a road, after all. But it was convenient. And at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, you didn’t encounter many cars and jeepneys. Today the first car they met, a silver Toyota with kids bouncing in the back seat, was turning into the American Embassy compound, the guard waving it through.

  “Only two more days,” she reminded herself out loud.

  “Two more days?” Jay wiped the sweat off his forehead and frowned.

  “Our appointment with Dr. Feliciano.”

  “Oh, right. The test results.”

  They dodged to the right as a jeepney approached, blaring pop music and throwing flashes of reflected sunlight from the profusion of mirrors and silver horses on its hood. The passengers, three in a space meant for ten, stared across the aisle at each other, unseeing. Suddenly the jeepney’s wheels hit a pothole and splashed muddy water on Diana’s white socks and bare legs.

  “Reminds me of school,” she said, reaching down to brush the muddy water off her leg. “How nervous and at the same time eager I used to be waiting for test results.”

  “That’s because your tests always came back with an ‘A’ scrawled across the top.”

  “Not always.” Slowing her pace, she glanced at Jay. “Whatever these tests show, I’m ready for it.” She gave a determined nod and took a deep breath of air that smelled of diesel fumes, sun-warmed grass, and seaweed. She was more than ready. After three and a half years of trying and waiting and trying again, finally she would know what was wrong with her. Two more days. After that, no matter what Dr. Feliciano prescribed, she’d do it. Gladly.

  Jay gave her a half smile and kept walking. He didn’t like to talk about “their problem.”

  About half a mile beyond the American Embassy compound on a narrow strip of unoccupied land, the usual little open-air Saturday market that sold bananas, papayas, and T-shirts had added a big display of parols. The colorful tissue paper-and-bamboo Christmas lanterns had doubled the market’s size. It was still November, but lanterns, the quintessential symbol of Christmas in the Philippines, came out early.

  “See a lantern you like?” Jay asked. “We can drive by this afternoon and buy one.”

  “Yes, let’s do.” A red, white, and green parol with a three-dimensional star in the middle and white-and-yellow cut-paper tails had caught Diana’s eye. The past few years when she and Jay lived in a house in Makati, they’d hung a parol on either side of their front door. This year in the apartment they could hang one on the balcony.

  By the time they reached the end of the service road, they were covered in sweat and slowing down. Like every good trail hike, their Saturday walk ended at a point of interest. Not a waterfall or a viewpoint—this walk ended at McDonald’s.

  They pushed open the door together and got in line. Diana couldn’t help but notice the women on either side of them and behind the counter who were looking at Jay, some of them with a quick glance and a blush, others with a bold stare or even a flirty smile. Jay was good-looking in any country, but in the Philippines, where he was taller than average, he attracted more attention than he did back in the States.

  “The usual?” he asked.

  Diana nodded. Eggs and pancakes at McDonald’s had become a habit. It had all started on their first walk after moving into the apartment. They’d walked two miles in Manila’s perpetual heat, and they were hot and thirsty. Then, like an oasis in the desert, McDonald’s came into view. They’d just go inside, she thought, soak up some air conditioning, have a Coke or some coffee. If Jay hadn’t said he wanted eggs and pancakes, Diana might have been satisfied with a coffee. But now, every Saturday when Jay wasn’t on mission, they came out in tennis shoes and shorts intending to exercise for their health while at the same time fully aware they w
ould stop at McDonald’s for eggs and pancakes with extra butter and syrup.

  They got their pancakes and sat down across from each other in a red-seated booth by the window.

  “I have to go to Korea on Thursday,” Jay said, sliding a pat of butter between his pancakes and slapping another on top.

  She caught her breath. “Thursday?!”

  “Thursday morning.” He peeled back the foil on a syrup container and poured the whole thing on his pancakes. “A car will pick me up,” he said, reaching for another syrup.

  “Honey.” She straightened up, frowning. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just found out yesterday. Chang was supposed to go, but Sanjaya wanted him to take over the Bangladesh Cement Plant project instead.”

  Stabbing her egg, she watched the sticky golden yolk bleed into the white and then down the sides of her pancakes and onto the plastic plate. Didn’t he remember that Thursday was supposed to be the start of her fertile period? “How long will you be gone?”

  “Ten days. If I can speed it up, I’ll be home in nine.” He licked his finger and gave her an apologetic look. As though he would stay home if he could, for her sake. As though having a baby was all for her, not for both of them.

  2

  Jay was the only man in the room. The blond expat flipping through a magazine was already pregnant, and the cute Filipina across from her was carrying a baby and giving instructions to a yaya who was watching her toddler. Both women were past the point of needing to bring their husbands to an appointment with Dr. Feliciano.

  Diana squeezed Jay’s hand.

  “Hey,” he whispered. “It’s going to be all right. Calm down.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He tilted his head toward her and raised his eyebrows.

  “Jay, I’m fine.” She pressed her heels into the carpet and held her jiggling knees together with her hands. He knew she had this thing—this restless leg syndrome. “I’m not nervous.” She gave him a mischievous look. “Are you?”

  “Humph.” He smiled and looked away.

  “Let’s go look at the fish,” she suggested.

  He glanced at the folder on his lap. Then, taking one last look, he snapped open his attaché case and slid it inside. “Sure. Let’s look at the fish.”

  The huge tank of saltwater fish was the focal point of Dr. Feliciano’s waiting room. Like everything else—the blue-gray carpet, the tasteful modern paintings—it added to the feeling of calm and confidence. The spot-on decorating choices showed that Dr. Feliciano had a sense of what worked—in interior design anyway.

  As they walked past her, the Filipino woman raised her chin in greeting, and Diana raised her chin in reply. The pregnant expat glanced at Jay first. Women always did. The woman smiled at Diana, and she felt for a moment that they belonged to the same club of mothers-to-be. Or would, as soon as Diana finished her long, drawn-out initiation.

  “We haven’t gone snorkeling in a while,” Jay said as they stood watching the fish flit and hover. There were bright yellow butterfly fish with long pointed noses, orange-and-white clown fish, angelfish, tangs, and little bright blue fish. “We should plan a beach trip for Christmas. Bamboo Beach or Anilao. See fish in their natural environment.”

  “Or Hundred Islands,” she answered, still watching the fish. “Abby knows someone with a place there. We could all go together, all three families.” It was true; they hadn’t been on a trip with the Rahmans and the Dinhs in ages.

  In the early days, when they were all new to the Philippines, every few weeks the three families would drive off to some vacation spot on the beach or in the mountains. But these past few years, with all the coup attempts following the People Power Revolution, the shine had come off the Philippines. Or maybe they’d just lost their enthusiasm.

  “Hundred Islands.” Jay put his arm around her waist. “Let’s look into it.”

  “Let’s do.”

  A fat-lipped white fish swam straight toward her, his translucent little fins spinning at his sides, his mouth pulsing. She did love to snorkel. But first they had to find out what Dr. Feliciano could do for them.

  The short hallway leading to Dr. Feliciano’s office was flanked by two corkboards covered with photos of babies—naked babies, swaddled babies, bald babies and babies with lots of hair, babies in cribs, and babies in the arms of their beaming mothers. An obstetrician’s trophies.

  The most prized trophy, though, was reserved for Dr. Feliciano’s desk. Inside a filigreed pewter frame, the diminutive doctor and her husband posed with their five children, a stair-step array of boy, girl, boy, girl, boy. It was a graphic demonstration of what could be done if you knew how to make it work.

  “Please, have a seat.” Dr. Feliciano indicated two leather chairs angled toward her desk. Settling into her own chair, she nearly disappeared behind the oversized mahogany desk. “Now,” she said, “let’s see what we have here.”

  Diana, balancing on the edge of her chair, glanced quickly at Jay. The way he leaned back and spread his legs, you’d think he was getting ready to open a beer and watch TV. He raised his eyebrows and smiled a half smile.

  “Hm.” Dr. Feliciano leafed through the papers, pausing now and then and nodding, shuffling the papers and then pausing and nodding again.

  Diana reached for Jay’s hand and squeezed it.

  Finally the doctor leaned on her elbows and folded her hands. “Based on these tests . . .” She spread the papers out, picked one up, and studied it. “No.” She shook her head. “I can’t see anything wrong with either of you.”

  “But, Doctor . . .” A cold flash shot up Diana’s spine. There had to be something. She was counting on those tests to give her the answer. She was prepared to do whatever was necessary—medicine, shots, even surgery. As she shifted her weight, the damp skin behind her knees separated from the seat with a kissing sound. “But, Doctor, if there’s nothing wrong, then why can’t I get pregnant?” Her legs were as steady now as a couple of tree trunks, but her heart was pounding in her ears like woodpeckers on a log.

  “I understand, Mrs. McIntosh.” Dr. Feliciano’s smile was cancelled out by the ice behind her dark brown eyes. “You’re impatient. You’d like to start your family as soon as possible. But for women your age, it takes longer to conceive. A period of three or four years is not unheard of.”

  She turned to Jay. “Your sperm count is excellent, Mr. McIntosh, for a man of your age, but naturally it’s lower than that of a younger man. And the motility and velocity is . . .”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” he interrupted. “So, Doctor, under these circumstances, what do you recommend?”

  “You need to keep your sperm cool: no hot baths, and wear boxers instead of briefs. Mrs. McIntosh, you should continue to monitor your fertile periods. Record your basal body temperature every morning without fail.”

  Diana nodded. “I’m doing that.”

  “Exercise daily, thirty minutes of moderate exercise.”

  Diana and Jay both nodded. The doctor continued down a memorized list that closely resembled the written instructions she’d given them during their first appointment: adequate sleep, lots of fruit and vegetables, limit their fat and sugar intake, take the multivitamins she recommended for each of them, and maintain the ideal weight for their height.

  “Remember,” she said, looking directly at Jay, “continue to practice missionary-style sex. And . . .” she paused for emphasis, “you should try to limit your business travel as much as possible.” Jay must have rolled his eyes because the doctor tilted her head and added, “Every opportunity missed decreases your possibility of success.”

  Before they stood up to leave, she had one more piece of advice for them. “You must relax,” she said. “Stress can impact every aspect of your health, including your ability to conceive. I’ve observed you here in my office, and you both show signs of stress. Especially you, Mrs. McIntosh. If you want to have a baby, you must find a way to relax.”

  3


  Each time Diana drove to Makati, the traffic on EDSA—all eight lanes of it—seemed more congested and the smog thicker than the time before. Everything was gray now: the sky, the ten-story–high blocks of office buildings, the sidewalks. Even the few remaining low buildings at the edge of the highway seemed uglier than before, more covered with dust. By the time she turned onto Ayala Avenue, she was driving too fast, dodging jeepneys and buses and a few pedestrians.

  She pulled into Makati Commercial Center, parked, and jumped out. She’d agreed to meet Abby and Madeline at Dulcinea at two forty-five. She glanced at her watch and ran.

  By the time she reached the bakery, she was hot and irritated and almost ten minutes late. She yanked on the heavy glass door and stepped into air-conditioned sweetness. In an instant, the stink of diesel, sweat, and roadside garbage disappeared, replaced by the fragrance of toasted sugar, melted butter, and coffee.

  Abby was waving at her from a window table, jangling her bracelets to get Diana’s attention. Even without her bracelets, with the sun turning her auburn hair full-toned-Irish-lass red, Abby was hard to miss. Madeline was there, too, smiling and fluttering her fingers in greeting.

  “Hey,” Abby said. “You made it.”

  A complaint about the horrendous traffic was on the tip of Diana’s tongue until she looked at Madeline’s sweet, unflappable face. You couldn’t complain around Madeline. At least Diana couldn’t. Not without thinking about all that Madeline had endured during the Vietnam War. Despite all the friends and family who’d been killed or left behind, every time Diana saw her, Madeline was smiling.

  “Sorry I was late,” Diana said. She pulled out the little wrought-iron chair, adjusted its lavender cushion, and sat down. “I was thinking about churros con chocolate all the way here.” It was true, more or less. The thought of spending a pleasant hour with her friends, talking, and eating one of her favorite treats had kept her from spending the entire drive stewing over her appointment with Dr. Feliciano and dwelling on the slow progress of the smoke-belching traffic.