Time had not dulled Frank’s grief. He held himself partly to blame for the loss. How could it have escaped his notice that she was clinically depressed? It took Doctor Somsri to point it out to him after her death. Of course, he corroborated Somsri’s account for the purposes of the investigation. It was the only face-saving thing to do. But it would always sadden him that he’d failed to see what was wrong in time to save Maryanne from committing such a grave sin. She’d seemed like such a bright, spirited young thing.
Frank was more vigilant about the wellbeing of his volunteers these days. That was Maryanne’s legacy. While it wouldn’t save her soul from the fires of Hell, it was something positive to remember her by.
His phone rang. He restored the Delbeck file to its place in the cabinet and closed the drawer.
‘Frank Harding, hello.’
‘We’ve got a problem,’ a voice said in Thai.
‘What is it Doctor Somsri?’ he answered politely.
‘Seems your midwife friend overdid the painkillers.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Girl you saw last night,’ Somsri said, ‘sixteen-year-old from Kalasin. She didn’t make it.’
‘Didn’t make it?’ Frank crossed himself. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Sorry doesn’t cut it with the people I answer to,’
Somsri said. ‘They said to tell you there are penalties for incompetence.’
Frank bristled at his tone.
‘But—’
‘Body to dispose of, cops to be compensated, forensics paid to lose blood-test results. Someone’s got to pay for all of that.’
Frank clenched his fist around his crucifix. The people behind Doctor Somsri had wealth beyond Frank’s imagination. This was not about the money.
‘Surely your superiors are aware of what a delicate operation we run here,’ he began.
‘As far as they’re concerned, if you can’t do the job right, they’ll find someone else who can,’ Somsri said.
‘You can’t mean—’
‘I know how hard it would be to replace someone with your skills,’ he added, his tone softening, ‘but that’s not how they see it, Khun Frank. We have no choice. We have to make amends. Anything on the books we could expedite?’
Frank hesitated. On the rare occasions he stepped outside legal boundaries to speed up adoption cases, it was because the best interests of the child were being served, not because of the money. Frank wasn’t naïve. He knew Somsri answered to people higher up the chain of command who treated their overseas adoption service as a profit-making enterprise. Nothing ever happened in Thailand without high-level patronage. Frank didn’t dwell on it, sleeping sound in the knowledge that his own intentions were pure.
‘There is one,’ he said, ‘a boy. I’ve already matched him to a couple in the US. I’m sure if I can work on the mother just a little longer—’
‘No time,’ Somsri said, ‘unless you want them to work on the mother.’
Frank heard the echo of a laugh in the background. He shivered.
‘Reassure your superiors that won’t be necessary,’ he said, keeping his voice steady. ‘We’ll take care of it.’
‘Yes, we will,’ Somsri said.
Frank’s hands were shaking. He took a deep breath.
‘It’s in the best interests of the child,’ he murmured to himself.
11
As Mayuree’s songthaew pulled into the kerb, a motorbike slowed alongside her. She clutched her bag to her chest but relaxed when she saw her friend Wen descend from the pillion seat.
They exchanged a smile.
‘On time for work this evening,’ Wen said.
‘Making up for yesterday,’ Mayuree answered. ‘What brings you to my part of town?’
‘Late shift,’ Wen said, yawning. ‘Thought I’d stop by for a chat. Okay na?’
‘Ja,’ Mayuree nodded. ‘It’s still early.’
They walked towards the Coconut Club. Wen teetered in her stilettos and clutched Mayuree’s arm to regain her balance.
‘You all right?’
‘Just tired,’ Wen said. ‘The boss is putting pressure on us to work double shifts or take a cut. He reckons there’s another crackdown going on.’
‘In the middle of high tourist season? I doubt it.’
‘Think about it, sister. Now’s when everyone makes more money. The cops know it, and they want a piece of the action. That’s what my boss says.’
‘You’re so gullible,’ Mayuree said. ‘It’s just an excuse to keep more of the profit for himself.’
‘I’ve been getting forty-five per cent,’ Wen said. ‘He wants to cut it to forty.’
‘That’s not fair and you know it. You should be earning at least fifty per cent.’
‘Easy for you to say. You’re out of the main game. These days we’re competing with Russian girls for the good jobs.
Russian girls. In Thailand. The world’s going crazy.’
She shook her head.
‘Tell me about it,’ Mayuree said, nodding towards the bar.
The Russian men from the day before had colonised the same table, this time with several surly young women in tow who might have been their daughters or their mistresses. It was hard to tell as all Russian women seemed to dress the same: tight, short and shiny. The air around the table was thick with cigarette smoke. Next to them a young farang man with a yellow hammer and sickle on his red T-shirt was chatting up a Thai girl in a strapless gold dress.
Not for the first time, Mayuree was thankful to be out of the main game, as Wen put it. Working in the beer bar meant less take-home pay, but she had a regular salary that didn’t require navigating the agendas of bosses, clients, competitors and police. Best of all she got to go home alone and safe, not in the arms of some stranger.
‘The boss says everyone has to take a cut and if we don’t accept forty, he won’t have enough to pay off the police and they’ll shut the place down,’ Wen said, sitting down at the bar.
‘Jing reu?’ Mayuree called from behind the partition.
‘You really think it’s serious?’
‘I don’t know for sure. I don’t want to lose my job.’
‘Do you have to stay at that place?’
‘I’m not like you,’ Wen said as Mayuree rejoined her and began wiping down the bar. ‘I’ve got debts.’
Mayuree took a good look at her friend. Wen was an attractive woman, but the work was taking its toll. There were shadows under her eyes and her skin was drawn. She’d lost weight and beads of sweat glistened above her upper lip, despite the mild evening weather.
‘Well, as long it’s not because you’re doing anything stupid,’ Mayuree said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You know.’
Wen shrugged.
‘I take a bit of ya ma now and again, but only when I can barely stay awake. It puts you in the mood, too, and let’s face it, given some of the dog-hearted guys that walk through the door, that can only be a good thing.’
Mayuree smiled but her heart ached for Wen. She knew a lot of the girls took ‘horse medicine’ to get through the long hours. The more unscrupulous bar owners encouraged it. Once a girl got hooked, she was easier to push around.
The real danger with ya ma was it made you feel invincible, made you take risks. Like letting a client go bareback because he was prepared to pay more, looked nice and said he really liked you. And in your drug-addled state you think, maybe this is it. Maybe my life’s about to change.
And it does, but not in the way you hoped.
‘More beer here!’
The command, issued from the Russian table, snapped Mayuree back to the present.
She placed her hand on Wen’s arm. ‘I’ll ask around. See if there’s any word on a police crackdown. That way you’ll know if there’s room to negotiate.’
Wen nodded, managed a tired smile.
‘And look after yourself,’ Mayuree muttered, bea
ming at the Russians as she headed for their table. ‘For your son’s sake, if not your own.’
‘Do you think the Russians could spare a cigarette?’
Wen called after her.
‘I don’t know about the Russians but I can,’ Jayne said, sidling up to the Thai woman at the bar.
Jayne had returned to the Coconut Club, counting on the rapport she’d established the previous night to help her circumvent the usual wait for drinks. She recognised Mayuree’s companion from the New Life Centre and held out her packet of Krung Thip.
‘I’m Jayne,’ she added. ‘Your friend can vouch for me.’
She waved at Mayuree, who raised her eyebrows in greeting.
‘I’m Wen,’ the woman said, still wary.
She looked from the packet of cigarettes to Jayne and back again. Jayne got the message, summoned the barman and ordered a packet of Marlboro Lights. Wen perked up and accepted the new offering. Jayne leaned forward to light it for her.
‘You’re Mayuree’s flatmate.’
Wen looked surprised. ‘Yes.’
‘Mayuree was telling me you both have sons about the same age, right?’
‘That’s right,’ Wen said as Mayuree joined them.
Mayuree lifted two jugs on to the counter, placed them under adjacent beer taps, set them pouring. ‘She’s okay,’ she said to Wen. ‘Same as last time Jayne?’
She nodded and Mayuree, still keeping one hand on the jugs, passed over a bottle of Singha beer in a stubby holder.
‘Thanks,’ Jayne said. ‘I think I saw your boys today.’
‘Really? How was my—’
‘What was he doing—’
They both spoke at once. Jayne held up her hands.
‘I’m not sure they were your boys,’ she said. ‘What do they look like?’
‘My Moo has exactly the same pig-nose as his father,’ Wen said.
‘My Kob has ears like an elephant,’ Mayuree added, tilting the beer jugs under the taps.
‘Kob has such beautiful eyes,’ Wen said, ‘whereas my poor Moo has small eyes and they aren’t even a nice colour.’
‘But your Moo has such lovely pale skin,’ Mayuree protested. ‘My poor Kob is black as a sea gypsy.’
Jayne knew such banter was designed to keep jealous spirits at bay, the same reason they gave their babies unflattering nicknames like Moo meaning ‘pig’ and Kob meaning ‘frog’. She smiled to think of the horrified looks that would greet mothers in Australia who spoke so disparagingly of their offspring.
‘True, Kob’s skin is very black,’ Wen said.
Mayuree smiled, knowing she’d won.
‘WHERE IS THE BEER?’ a voice thundered. One of the Russians had risen to his feet.
Mayuree took a jug in each hand and conjured up a smile. ‘Coming now, Sir,’ she said. ‘And yours will be the first one I pour as I can see you are a very hot man.’
This seemed to mollify the Russian who resumed his seat.
Jayne and Wen watched as Mayuree worked her magic.
They couldn’t hear the conversation above the boy band crooning over the in-house stereo system, but they could see her chatting and laughing. She patted one patron playfully on the upper arm, wagged her finger at another.
Within minutes she had the erstwhile pushy man grinning like a puppy and even the surly girls were having trouble maintaining their scowls.
‘Do you work nearby?’ Jayne asked Wen.
‘Further south,’ she said. ‘Club called Monkey Business.’
‘I don’t know it.’
‘On The Strip,’ Wen said, stubbing out her cigarette so hard it broke in two. ‘I hate it. But I’ve got bills to pay and a kid to raise. At least, I want to raise him, only sometimes I wonder if that’s really what’s best.’
‘Of course it is,’ Jayne said. ‘You’re his mother.’
Wen smiled at her for the first time since they’d met.
‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘that’s very kind of you.’
Jayne shrugged, drank her beer.
‘So, did we establish whether it was our boys you saw today?’
Mayuree returned to the bar, picking up the conversation where she left off.
‘Not quite,’ said Jayne. ‘The Kob I saw was almost walking. And Moo had a runny nose.’
‘It sounds like my Kob,’ Mayuree said. ‘He’s just started pulling himself up on to the furniture.’
‘And it sounds like my Moo, too,’ Wen said. ‘He had the sniffles on Sunday. Are you going to be looking after them?’
‘No, they only let volunteers work with the orphans,’ Jayne said.
‘They let Maryanne—’ Mayuree began but stopped short. ‘It’s good they keep things separate between the orphans and boarders.’
‘Maryanne?’ Jayne said. ‘The Australian girl? Did you know her?’
‘I met her once or twice,’ Mayuree said, wiping down the bar. ‘She volunteered at the centre when I used to take Kob there for check-ups before I...before he started staying there overnight.’
Jayne got the impression there was more to the story, but this was not the time to pursue it. The bar was filling up, Wen was ready to leave and Jayne needed to psych herself up for her first day at the orphanage. She settled her bill and pressed the Marlboros on Wen.
As she walked down the street from the bar, she scribbled a reminder to follow up with Mayuree about Maryanne and almost tripped over a sandwich board advertising a computer school. She took it as a sign and dialled Rajiv’s number.
12
Alicia asked her husband to repeat himself. ‘Our case has been expedited,’ Leroy said. ‘They want us to fly over now. Tonight if possible.’
‘How come?’
‘I don’t know.’
He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his scalp. He’d been out of the Marines five years but still wore the buzz cut.
‘They said the timeline they gave us was a worst-case scenario. Seems our application advanced faster than expected.’
‘From months to days?’
‘I don’t understand it either, honey. Maybe my military record counted for somethin’. Who knows?’
He crossed the kitchen and encircled her in his great arms. ‘It’s what we dreamed of.’ He kissed her forehead.
Alicia raised her head to look at him. ‘It all seems so sudden.’
Leroy ran his fingers through her long, black hair. ‘It’s been ten years, honey.’
How could she forget?
They’d hoped for a child from the moment they married.
A honeymoon baby, Leroy declared. By the time their second wedding anniversary came around, they were concerned enough to consult a minister and a doctor. But neither the prayers of the local Baptist congregation nor expert medical advice seemed to help. Still childless after four years, concern turned to panic and they started fertility treatment.
Alicia did everything she could. She joined prayer groups.
She left a job she liked because it wasn’t compatible with the treatment. She gave up coffee and chilli because she read they increased the risk of miscarriage. She substituted wild, spontaneous sex with carefully timed acts of intercourse to maximise the chance of conception. Back in the days when they could still joke about it, Leroy said she did the Pope proud, the way she reserved sex for procreation.
Then they stopped having sex altogether. Fertilisation took place ‘in vitro’ and conception via the intervention of medical experts. Alicia gave up every last vestige of pleasure.
Still there was no baby.
For six years she subjected herself to mood-altering drugs and invasive medical procedures, followed by two weeks of symptoms—swollen breasts, hunger pangs, fatigue, irritability—that in a cruel twist could signify either pre-menstrual tension or pregnancy. In her case, never the latter.
Everywhere she looked, other women were pregnant, breastfeeding, pushing babies in prams. Alicia stared at them with such envy she learned what it meant to put the evil eye on
someone. She couldn’t bear to be around friends with children. ‘They gloat,’ she told Leroy, who said she was paranoid. What would he know? He had work to take his mind off what was going on around them. Alicia caught the pitying looks and read their implications. Hers was the story told to make others feel better when they were having a run of bad luck. ‘So you’ve been trying to get pregnant for over a year? That’s not so long. I know someone who’s been trying for six years and not even IVF seems to be working for her, poor thing.’
It took thousands of dollars and twenty-seven failed attempts before they finally faced the painful truth that they’d never have a biological child. Even surrogacy was ruled out. For reasons they didn’t understand, God had decided this would be their cross to bear.
Alicia couldn’t imagine how painful it would be to lose a child, when losing the idea of a child hurt this much. There was no public ritual to acknowledge the loss, no sympathy cards from family and friends. It was a death with no body to weep over but her own.
Then Leroy came up with a proposal: why not adopt a baby from overseas?
Domestic adoptions in the US were fraught. Assuming you could get access to a relinquished baby that wasn’t crack addicted, sooner or later, likely as not, you’d have to deal with family of origin issues. It was more cut and dried with inter-country adoptions. You registered with a local accredited agency affiliated with an orphanage overseas. The US agency made sure you met the requirements as adopting parents and the foreign agency matched your file to a baby or child in their care. Once the paperwork was in order and the child given a clean bill of health, he or she would be issued with a passport and an immigration visa for the US.
You could even state a preference for a boy or girl.
‘Boy,’ Alicia had said without thinking. ‘But from which country?’
‘Thailand,’ Leroy said.
Alicia smiled.
Thailand was where they’d met. Leroy was docked in Pattaya on R&R when Alicia stopped off on her way to Koh Samet. Alicia didn’t make it to Koh Samet until they returned to Thailand a year later for their honeymoon. Back then they thought nothing would ever be stronger than their faith and the desire they felt for each other. It seemed fitting that in going back there they might find the one other person they longed for.
The Half-Child Page 9
