When in Vanuatu

by Nicki Chen

  Abby’s first letters from Vanuatu were angry. Even her handwriting had been angry. She’d shouted her complaints, the words landing with a smack on the page. I’ve been exiled, she wrote. Like Napoleon. Only worse. Napoleon’s Elba was only a few kilometers off the coast of Italy. This little speck of land is in the middle of the largest ocean on earth. A sitting duck for the next typhoon or tsunami.

  In those early letters, she made lists of the things Vanuatu didn’t have: no cultural events, no movie theater, no newspaper deserving of the name, no shopping after noon on Saturday and all day Sunday, and, she added again, there isn’t a single bloomin’ stoplight on the whole bloody island. I should pack up the twins and move back to London. To civilization. Damn it!

  Her vehemence had worried Diana. Surely she would cool down before long. She shot off letters, encouraging Abby, telling her she would like Vanuatu eventually. “I know you,” Diana wrote. “Before long you’ll be right in the middle of all kinds of fascinating activities and projects.”

  And now she was. Only four months after moving to Vanuatu, Abby’s life was full. She was volunteering at the twins’ school, and she’d joined the Natural Science Society, a quirky organization with old colonial types as members. She was helping them organize a trip into the interior of the island to look for a rare orchid endemic to Vanuatu. There were parties and picnics, and everywhere Abby turned she ran into interesting people with exotic stories to tell—a British sailor straight out of a tale by Robert Lewis Stevenson, a beautiful dark-skinned woman who was said to be one of the many mixed-race children of the Frenchman in James Michener’s Tales of the South Pacific, Aussie adventurers, and Chinese and Vietnamese businessmen whose great-grandparents had been brought to the island by the British and French.

  In this letter, the one hand-carried by Marshall Charbonneau, Abby talked about planting papaya trees from seeds and banana plants from suckers. Everything grows so fast here, she wrote. We’ll be eating our own fruit in no time.

  That’s when Diana had to stop reading. The words and enthusiasm reminded her of herself four years ago when they were new to the Philippines. You can plant a broomstick, and it will grow here, people used to tell her. And so it seemed. When she and Jay drove out of the city, they saw plants climbing all over each other in their enthusiasm for growth.

  That first year everything Diana saw delighted her—the clouds of pink bougainvillea, the fat carabao mangoes, the fish and squid fresh from the sea laid out on market tables, the squids’ ink spots still dancing under their thin, transparent skin. Everyone she met delighted her—the dressmaker who worked without a pattern, the boys who sold garlic-roasted peanuts on the highway, the beautiful old Filipino woman who owned three houses in Manila and a condo in Hawaii and lived in the oldest one, a house beside a stream that attracted snakes.

  And the expats. Diana was delighted to have friends from all over the world, men and women whose ordinary conversations were peppered with hints of the exotic places and lives they’d seen and lived. No wonder Jay had been so eager to take a job with D-TAP and live overseas. Finally it made sense to her.

  When he had sprung the idea on her back in Seattle, though, she’d balked.

  They were eating breakfast when he found an ad for an Economic Development Specialist in the back pages of The Economist. “That’s me,” he shouted, jabbing the page with his index finger, his eyes shining. “I’m perfect for the job.”

  “Where is it?” she asked, crunching into her toast.

  “Manila.”

  She put her toast down and licked the raspberry jam off her lips. “Jay,” she said, frowning. “You already have a job. We already have jobs here.”

  “Not like this one.” He pushed his chair back and stood, holding the magazine to his chest. “This is the kind of job I worked for all the way through graduate school, the kind of work I wrote about in my doctoral thesis.” He circled the breakfast table, a dreamy look on his face.

  That day, she’d had no intention of leaving behind the life they were building in Seattle. They both had good jobs: Jay teaching at the University of Washington, Diana as an accountant for the city. They had a beautiful house and a mortgage. They didn’t have children yet, but they didn’t need to move abroad to have a baby.

  Jay was so happy, though, so enthusiastic that it was hard to tell him straight out how crazy she thought the idea was. So when he said there’d be lots of competition and he probably wouldn’t get the job, she’d agreed that it couldn’t hurt to apply. If he did get a job offer, they could decide then whether or not to accept it.

  He didn’t hear anything for a couple of months, so she’d nearly forgotten about it.

  Then, one fine July afternoon, she pulled into the driveway and found him sitting on the top step of the porch grinning. It didn’t enter her mind that his obvious glee had anything to do with a job offer that would upend their lives.

  It was one of those long daylight-savings-time summer days when the sun hangs in the sky way past its bedtime. Jay was already in his shorts. He stood up and waited for her to get out of the car, never once losing his silly smile. “I got the job,” he said when she was halfway up the sidewalk.

  “What?” She skidded to a stop. “What job?”

  “D-TAP.”

  “D-TAP? What’s that?”

  He was too caught up in his good news to slow down. “Development Trust for Asia and the Pacific. Remember?” He skipped the last two porch steps, landing with his feet apart and his arms spread wide. “They want me to start September thirtieth.”

  “Wait.” The conversation they’d had months earlier came back to her in a rush. And suddenly she was scared.

  “Come on. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  She hesitated. She had a feeling that if she unglued her feet from the sidewalk, she was going to fall into a deep dark hole she couldn’t climb back out of.

  “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  She picked a stem of lavender and rubbed the flower between her fingers. When the sweet, piney fragrance dissipated, she crushed the sprig between her palms and let the bits and pieces scatter over the sidewalk and onto the shiny black toes of her high-heeled shoes. Then she brushed her hands together and followed Jay into the house.

  He strode down the hall and into the kitchen. “It’s a fantastic deal. A great salary and a very generous relocation allowance.”

  “Hey. Slow down.” The kitchen still smelled of their breakfast bacon, she noted as she kicked off her shoes. “I thought you said your chances of getting the job were slim.” Her feet were killing her. She leaned against the counter and lifted one foot to give it a good rub. She’d spent the last nine hours in shoes that were too new, too tight, and too high.

  “They were slim. And yet, I got it.”

  She let go of her sore foot and straightened up. “But Jay, why would you want to work in Manila when we have perfectly good jobs here?”

  He pushed away from the counter. “I have an okay job, Diana.”

  She stepped back, puzzled by his apparent anger.

  “I have a dull pay-the-bills, soul-destroying job as opposed to this position in Manila, which is my dream job.”

  “What?!” She squinted at the man she’d been married to for the past two years. “I thought you liked teaching. You never said anything about a dream job.”

  He threw up his hands. “Teaching the Theory of International Development to college students is a pale facsimile of being out in the field and doing the work myself. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “Of course, but . . .” She felt him dragging her into it, proving his case as much by his fervor as by his arguments. She slid her hand over the countertop, grabbed a dishtowel, and rubbed at some fingerprints on the fridge. Every time she entered the kitchen, she congratulated herself on the paint colors she’d chosen. Ecru was just right for the molding, and she loved the way the sunflower yellow walls caught the morning light and held onto it for the rest of the day. She t
ossed the dishtowel over her shoulder and gazed at their lovely walls. “We just painted the kitchen and breakfast nook,” she said, immediately aware of how foolish she sounded.

  “If that’s what’s bothering you . . .” He gestured at the sunflower yellow walls.

  “No, no. It’s not just that.” Where did she start? It was her job and her mom and brother. Andrew lived on the other side of the state. Who would look out for Mom? And what about their friends and neighbors? What about their house, the lovely old Wallingford house they’d saved for and repaired and painted?

  He turned and walked away, hitting the backs of chairs with the flat of his hand. When he reached the French doors, he stopped and stared at the deck and the yard, the apple tree and the hydrangeas and rhodies. She was on her way to put a sympathetic arm around him when he opened the door and stepped outside.

  She couldn’t see his face, but the backs of his ears were red. He was leaning on the deck railing, his head down, elbows out, the muscles in his back and arms showing through his T-shirt. The pale skin on his arms and legs, even under all that black hair, always made Diana aware of his vulnerability. He was hurting. And she was the cause of it. But really! Moving to the Philippines? Wasn’t that a crazy idea?

  She poured a Pepsi for herself, grabbed a beer for him, and took them outside. For a while they sat in their wrought iron chairs, drinking and watching a squirrel steal seeds from the bird feeder.

  By the time the squirrel had his fill and scurried away, Jay seemed to have calmed down. He put his beer on the table and looked at her sideways. “The salary is fifty-five percent more than what I’m making now,” he said. “You wouldn’t have to work.” He raised his eyebrows. “And you’d have maids.”

  She chuckled. “Maids? What would I do with maids? I’m really sorry, honey. But I don’t know why you thought I’d agree.”

  Above them, a small white cloud was breaking apart, the pieces floating away and dissolving into nothing.

  “Think about it,” Jay said, giving it what she thought was one last shot. “All that cosmopolitan culture, the parties, lots of time to take up new hobbies. My mom has always loved expat life.”

  “Jay.” Diana shook her head. “Your mom and I are nothing alike. Another beer?” she asked, draining her Pepsi.

  He shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, honey.” She thought it was over then. Picking up the bottle and empty can, she started through the door.

  “Diana.”

  “Yeah?” She turned back around.

  “Please. Just think about it. We don’t have to decide for another couple of weeks.”

  She couldn’t remember now what he’d said to convince her or whether she’d convinced herself. One way or the other, though, as the days passed, she came to believe it wouldn’t be so bad after all to give up her job and their house. She started questioning whether she’d always played it too safe, wondering whether she actually did want a settled life with one day very much like the one before it.

  She did remember that Jay was the one who brought up the baby. Earlier that year, she’d stopped using birth control, and they both assumed she would be pregnant soon. “If we move,” he said, “you’d be able to take care of the baby. You wouldn’t have to rely on daycare.”

  Maybe that was what convinced her: imagining what it would be like spending all that time with their baby. Or maybe it was just that the “dream job” at D-TAP seemed more important to him than their ordinary life in Seattle did to her.

  That must have been it, she thought as she folded Abby’s letter and slid it back in the envelope. She was leaning down to tuck it into the outside pocket of her bag when a kalachuchi blossom fell, brushing against her arm. She picked it up and held it to her nose, took a sniff, and tucked it behind her ear.

  It was her fault, she supposed, the way she felt. She wanted to blame Jay for talking her into moving. She’d like to blame Jay’s mother for deceiving him, for pretending she loved being an expat wife, that it fulfilled her to trail her husband around the world, filling her time with bridge games and tennis lessons and charity bazaars. But that wasn’t the true picture of Diana’s mother-in-law. Whether or not Linda McIntosh had chosen the unsettled life and her supportive role in it, she did make the most of it. She became an expert on the history and culture of every country they lived in. She had friends all over the globe and kept up with them. She initiated a small project to sell placemats hand woven by poor Ghanaian women.

  Diana stared straight ahead, unmoved by the shimmering blue of the pool. Happiness was out there somewhere. Was it her own fault for not finding it?

  A small group of school-age children was just entering the pool area, the boys whooping and running ahead while their mothers and one smug little girl in a ruffled pink and purple bathing suit tagged along behind. The lifeguard raised his megaphone and shouted at the boys, who switched to speed walking until they were close enough to the edge of the pool for a quick run and a leaping cannonball. Diana watched the little girl walk to the shallow end and ease herself into the pool, holding tight to the ladder. She hesitated before letting go. As she sank into the water, she gasped, eyes wide, as though the water and her immersion in it were a shock. Then, just as quickly, she gave her mom a big smile and a wave.

  There must be millions of ways to be happy. But right now for Diana, there was only one.

  18

  It sounded like one of those big open-air buses, the kind with rust bleeding into its multicolored paint job. Diana winced at the grinding of gears, a long painful effort that ended when it dropped into its normal baritone growl. The noise below rose and fell—jeepneys and trucks and motorized tricycles, each with its distinctive, irritating sound. You’d think all that racket would disperse a bit before reaching their fourteenth-floor apartment.

  Squeezing her eyes tighter shut, Diana tried once more to empty her mind. Meditation was turning out to be a lot harder than she’d expected. Her mind kept jumping around, restless as a baby kangaroo escaping from its pouch. “Don’t worry,” Marilu Reyes had told her. “If your mind wanders, simply bring it gently back.”

  Rama, Diana chanted, silently repeating the mantra Marilu had given her. Rama . . . Rama. A bead of sweat rolled between her eyebrows and into her left eye. Rama, she recited, trying to ignore it. Her eye stung, though, a stinging itch that wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t resist wiping it away.

  Below, someone laid on his horn, followed by the inevitable screeching of tires.

  She was sitting in the study, the door closed so Clarita wouldn’t interrupt her. The window was open, but even so, the room was stuffy. And noisy. The power was out again and had been since midmorning.

  Settling back in her chair, Diana focused on her mantra for a few seconds before sliding away into thoughts and questions that clamored to be heard. What about Marilu? Why had she decided to teach yoga and meditation? And in her mother’s house! Did she live there? Did she have her own children?

  Diana jerked her mind back to her mantra. Why couldn’t she do this? Was she incapable of meditating?

  No. No no no. She wouldn’t accept that. She gripped her knee to make her leg stop jiggling. She wasn’t the problem. It was Manila. All this noise. And heat. And traffic. No wonder her mind kept jumping around.

  In one of her early letters, even when Abby still hated Vanuatu, she’d said that Diana would like it. It’s so laid back, she wrote, you’d think everyone was stoned. Except they’re not. Ever since that letter, Diana had thought about Vanuatu, imagined what it would be like to live in the “most relaxing place on earth.” Her mind wandered to the possibility of visiting Abby, soaking up South Pacific calm for a week or two.

  Wait! Her eyes blinked open. What was it Marshall said at lunch yesterday? She’d been focusing on the sad news of Johnny Gamboa’s stroke, blinded by an old “good girl” habit of selflessness from seeing the opportunity his misfortune presented. Damn! She was ashamed even now for making the connection. And yes, poor Joh
nny Gamboa. But Marshall didn’t expect him to recover enough to come back to work, and if he didn’t, Marshall would have to hire a replacement. Why not Jay?

  She was in the kitchen helping Clarita with a recipe for curried cream of chicken soup, when she heard a series of small familiar sounds. She and Clarita glanced at each other, smiled, and looked away as the door closed and Jay’s footsteps tapped across the hard-wood floor.

  “Hey!” he said, kissing her hot cheek. “It’s stifling in here.” He took her hand and led her into the dining room. “What do you say we head down to the Westin Plaza for dinner?”

  “Ohhh!” she sighed. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. I’ll tell Clarita. She can save tonight’s dinner for tomorrow.”

  “If you hurry, we might be able to get a table in their Japanese restaurant. I’ll give them a call.”

  Diana had become expert at taking a quick shower. Like most people in the tropics, she had plenty of practice. She dried off and grabbed her current favorite for eating out, a form-fitting cotton dress. She’d chosen the subtle blue, green, and lavender print for its relaxing quality.

  “Zip me up?” she asked, anticipating the kiss Jay always gave the back of her neck when he finished. Then she put on her lipstick and earrings, stepped into her shoes, slung her purse over her shoulder, and off they went.

  Walking between the potted bamboo and into the coolness of the Japanese restaurant was like stepping into a manmade miniature version of a park in springtime. Diana hadn’t always appreciated the stark simplicity of the Japanese aesthetic, but tonight she understood. By subtracting the excess that cluttered the world, Japanese design allowed the mind to rest.

  Jay put his arm around her while they waited. And for a moment she felt deeply content, as though this were enough, the two of them together.

  A young man, who could have been Japanese but was probably Chinese, led them to a table. He pulled out her chair and placed heavy menus in their hands. The vase between them held a single iris and two sword-like leaves.