Where I Found You

by Heidi R. Kling

  She giggled and clapped. We were communicating!

  Glancing out the open window, I watched the now late-afternoon light cast shadows across the icky walls. I thought about the boy with the limp and wondered if he was thinking about me, too.

  Chapter Eight

  My face feels drizzly, like lying under sprinklers on a hot summer day.

  And I’m not alone.

  He leans over me, strong arms bent, peering from behind a wedge of thick brown hair, haunted eyes holding me in place under the fresh grass mist. I can’t unlock my eyes from his and without waiting to be invited, I need to find out why. Without fear or guarded delay, I reach out, grazing his cheek with my fingertips. I’m not sure if I’ll burn or break, and I don’t care.

  Why are you looking at me this way?

  What do you want to tell me?

  Are you going to kiss me?

  His skin is soft and hot like wet velvet under my fingers.

  Cocking his head to the side, a piece of wet hair falling across a deep scar on his forehead, he looks at me like he wants to tell me his story, but doesn’t quite know how. My heart blows up like an overfilled water balloon that might burst from all the sadness.

  And then…pop.

  I woke up in a panic. The boy, his eyes, his secrets, evaporated into sauna-like vapors, vanishing with the rain.

  Where did he go, where had he come from, and how had he known where to find me flooded my brain, and all I wanted was to get him back and force him to stay so I could touch him again, and then bam! I banged my head on something hard and sharp. I cried out in pain, rubbing my forehead as my eyes slowly focused on a blunt blue corner.

  The shutters. The dorm. The orphanage. Or pesantren. Whatever.

  Light streamed through the dewy crack in the window. I blinked.

  How long had I been out? More importantly, how could I have imagined something so vivid? My dreams were real, but never that real.

  Outside my window, raindrops splashed onto the dirt, and the sky was thick with wet heat. Inside, the bunk beds sat empty, still draped with layers of worn cotton. No little girls. No Dad. No mysterious boy. I was alone. I rubbed my head harder, the tingling sensation from the boy’s skin still warm on my fingertips. I didn’t know why, but I knew exactly who the dream was about. It was, without a doubt, the boy beating the crap out of his drum.

  I had to find him.

  Instead, I found Dad a few minutes later, passing out newly inflated soccer balls with his trusty sidekick Vera. A group of boys were crowded around Tom, listening to him eagerly as if he was the coach in a huddle.

  “Hey,” I greeted Dad.

  “There you are! I lost you after the ceremony.”

  “Oh, sorry. There’s this little girl, Elli. She sort of dragged me out and then showed me around her room, and then I guess I crashed. I’m so exhausted. Anyway, she wants me to sleep in there with her. Is that cool, or am I assigned a different dorm?”

  “That sounds great! We were going to put you in with the youngest girls anyway.”

  “Good.”

  While Dad and I discussed the logistics of bunking with the kids, and what to look out for as far as PTSD signs, Vera approached a group of teenage girls.

  “What’s she doing?” I asked.

  “Gathering interest in her group therapy session. We hope all the survivors with PTSD symptoms will participate, but we’re definitely not going to force them.”

  Dressed in various pastel-colored hijabs, the girls listened to Vera intently. Some nodded, intrigued, while others looked away as if they didn’t want to hear her words at all.

  I personally fell into category B.

  Past them, I noticed a group of older boys I recognized from the ceremony but who were now dressed in T-shirts and long pants, sauntering along the edge of the lawn. I scanned their faces, but the drummer boy wasn’t among them.

  “Are you okay, kiddo?” Dad pulled a bottle out of his backpack. “When is the last time you drank water?”

  I shrugged off a bit of disappointment, wondering where the drummer was. “The airport.”

  “Sienna! You’re dehydrated. I need to take better care of you. Sorry, sweetie. Here, sit down, sit down. It’s so hot here, even at night it doesn’t cool down.”

  I noticed. I sat down. I drank. But I still didn’t feel much better.

  “It’s jet lag,” Dad said. “You’ll feel better after a good night’s rest.”

  Vera flagged Dad over, and I couldn’t help but notice the bounce in his step when he answered her call. Something was between them, that was obvious, but he still wore his wedding ring. Even if she was gone, he was still married to my mom. It was one of the things that made me admire him. Even if it was totally irrational—Oma said that repeatedly—Dad hadn’t given up on her, either.

  And yet, Vera was there, traveling in Mom’s place. If Dad wasn’t going to fess up about what was going on, I wasn’t going to acknowledge it, and the longer I didn’t acknowledge it, the less comfortable I knew he’d feel fessing up. In that awkward space, I found peace.

  Dad spoke with Vera for a moment before tossing one of the fluorescent yellow soccer balls we brought as gifts to a grinning boy about eight or so. He was wearing a ripped-up X-Men T-shirt and too-small shorts. All the kids were now dressed in play clothes, I realized. Maybe the fancier stuff had only been for the ceremony. The Wolverine fan caught the ball easily and kicked it to a friend.

  “You like soccer?” I asked, gesturing to the ball.

  He nodded and chattered at me in his language. I didn’t understand a word of what he and his friends were saying, but their excitement, like Elli’s, was contagious.

  “Is he speaking Acehnese or Indonesian?” I asked Dad when he wandered back over.

  Dad asked the boy, and they talked for a few minutes.

  “He’s from Aceh,” Dad said when the boy trotted off, “so he speaks both languages. Most of the younger children don’t speak English. Many of the older kids do, though. They’ve been studying longer.”

  Tom, from across the field, kicked a soccer ball at me. I caught it as he jogged up, red-faced and panting. “You guys talking about how I’m the next Beckham?” he huffed.

  “Yes, what else would be talking about?” Dad said, and I laughed.

  “Dad’s explaining who speaks English, and who doesn’t,” I said.

  “Ah,” Tom said, collapsing onto the grass. “I know one English speaker who will be getting plenty of attention. Especially from the boys. I’ll give you a clue. Her name rhymes with Vienna. And she has long blond hair. Anyone?”

  Tom’s chest heaved, even as he tormented me. But I couldn’t help flashing on my drummer boy, hoping, in this one instance, Tom was right.

  “Leave my girl alone,” Dad said, handing Tom a fresh bottle of water. “Sienna has more important things to concentrate on than boys. Besides, she’s too young for all of that.”

  Please. “Dad. I’m seventeen, not seven.”

  He scowled at me, and I laughed, kicking the ball high into the air. All the little guys ran after it, then kicked it back to me.

  When I turned back to Dad and Tom, my dad was smiling so wide I thought his face might rip. What a total 180.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I knew it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Bringing you here was a great idea. You’re already bonding with the kids.” He shot friendly daggers at his best friend. “And I don’t mean those teenage boys, Tom.”

  One teenage boy, I thought. Specifically, one.

  I changed the subject. “Can I help with art therapy?”

  “Definitely. Tomorrow morning. Use the markers and chalk we’ve brought and do free art. Let us know if their drawings are about the disaster or about their time here at the orphanage. It really helps us gauge where they are mentally.”

  I kicked the ball back to the boys. “Where are you two going to sleep?”

  “Tom and I are sharing a priva
te room near the Aceh boys’ dorm…”

  When he said “Aceh boys,” I wondered if Dad would be sleeping anywhere near the drummer boy.

  “…then once you’re settled into the art, you can start working with Vera’s therapy group in the afternoons, like we talked about on the plane.”

  I had been halfway delirious on the plane. Nothing I agreed to there should stick. “Why can’t I help you and Tom?”

  “It would be inappropriate to have a young woman in the boys’ group.”

  There was a large degree of sexism in the conversation that I wasn’t enjoying.

  “Vera’s an expert in talk therapy,” Dad continued, a note of pride in his voice. “You’ll be learning from the best.”

  I’d experienced Vera’s version of therapy, making her patient feel totally inferior to her. Yeah, good times. If she was the “best,” I couldn’t imagine what the worst was like. I zeroed in on the only part of the conversation that mattered to me. “Why is it inappropriate to work with the boys?” If I got into Dad or Tom’s group, I might run into the drummer again.

  “It’s a cultural thing,” Dad said. “The boys could feel uncomfortable having you there and may not speak as freely.”

  Getting tongue-tied around the opposite sex—I got that completely. Sighing, I gave in. “What am I supposed to do to help Vera?”

  “You could be her assistant in group. Since you understand some of what these girls are going through, Vera and I thought that perhaps you could be an extra ear. Having a peer who understands how they’re feeling, some of their symptoms, the nightmares, the anxiety, might help them feel more comfortable.”

  Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Dad wandered back across the field to Vera while I imagined afternoon after afternoon sweating in the stifling heat listening to her talk. Coincidentally, a rogue soccer ball slammed into my ankle at the exact time I felt like smashing something into oblivion.

  I tossed it into the air, watched it spin, and then launched it super-hard, as hard as I could, straight down the field.

  I wasn’t trying to hit her. I really wasn’t.

  Lucky for Vera, Dad dove into the air Superman style, swooping in seconds before the ball smacked her upside the head.

  “Sienna!” he yelled across the field. “You almost hit her!”

  “Good thing you were there to save the day,” I muttered under my breath.

  While they made their way toward me, I kicked at the dirt, my orange Converse muted by dust.

  “You need to apologize,” Dad said, his voice full of disappointment. “Sienna. I’m waiting.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not to me! To Vera!”

  Um.

  Thankfully, at the very moment, Tom started doing belly-baring handstands and lopsided cartwheels. His audience grew larger as more kids gathered around. Some of the kids yelled, “Gemuk! Gemuk!” as they danced around him. The apologizing-to-Vera moment had passed as we all turned to look at the commotion. I asked Tom what the kids were saying.

  “They’re impressed with my girth,” he said, not at all embarrassed. “Gemuk means ‘fat,’ and in Indonesia to say someone is fat is a compliment.”

  “I’ll have to let Bev know. Maybe that will change her mind about carbs.”

  “They also like big noses, which is probably why your dad is so popular,” Vera said.

  “Very funny,” Dad retorted, matching her playful tone.

  Do they love skunk stripes, too? Because if they do, you’re bound to be a hit.

  “Sienna, don’t you have something to say to Vera?”

  Oh God.

  Suddenly I was five and had just stole a cherry snack pie from the mini-mart, and Dad was making me confess.

  “Sorry I almost hit you with the soccer ball,” I said.

  Vera rubbed her head. “That’s okay,” she said in a saccharine voice. “Accidents happen.”

  “So I hear,” I muttered.

  “Sienna, your tone, please.”

  “It’s fine, Andy.” Vera held up her hand. “It’s been a long day. Sienna must be exhausted. Not to mention jet-lagged and dehydrated. Lay off her.”

  Yeah, lay off me. Wait. Did Vera just stick up for me?

  And then my dad, instead of announcing, I AM HER FATHER. I KNOW WHAT’S BEST, like he did when Oma intervened, said, “You’re right, V. We’re all tired. It’s okay, sweetie.” But he wasn’t looking at me when he said it.

  He was looking at her.

  After Vera left, Dad and I sat quietly on the grass, just the two of us, watching the kids play with Tom.

  I was amazed at how happy they seemed. The kids. I expected something…different. I thought they’d be wandering around homesick or depressed or something. Maybe they were like me. Maybe they were pretending.

  “I want to talk to you about something,” Dad said suddenly.

  I closed my eyes and leaned back on the moist lawn. “Dad, I already apologized for the soccer ball incident.”

  “No, no, not that. Listen. I need your help with something.”

  I sat back up, slowly. “What is it?”

  Dad lowered his voice. “After the welcoming ceremony, the pesantren owner spoke with me privately about a boy named Deni. He’s popular with the Aceh boys, their leader, it seems. I don’t want to ask the other kids about him because it will get back to Deni that the owner mentioned him specifically. Information here spreads like wildfire. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. Nothing is private.”

  “Why didn’t he just point him out?”

  “Deni was gone by the time I spoke with the owner, or he would’ve. I guess he was one of the boys in the drum circle.”

  The leader of the Aceh boys? In the drum circle? I wondered if it could be the same boy.

  “They like to gossip?” I knew all about gossip. The queen bee of our class, Sandra Bismarck, was the queen of gossip. You could tell her something in the morning, and the whole school knew by lunchtime.

  I learned not to tell her anything.

  Dad rubbed his beard. “Gossip has more malicious implications. The Indonesians don’t gossip with ill intent; they just don’t have the same sense of autonomy that some Westerners do. If something happens to one person, it affects the whole.”

  “So what’s the problem with this Deni guy?”

  “Apparently, he has issues with the way this place is run, argues with the owner… I don’t know much more than that—but I do know that we’re here to help the kids from Aceh assimilate into the pesantren with the rest of the kids, so…”

  “Why aren’t they assimilating?”

  “In Aceh, things were different. They had more freedom, fewer rules. This is a very conservative institution: strict bedtimes, school schedules, mealtimes. It’s like, imagine transferring to a Catholic boarding school after living at home and going to El Angel Miguel High, where you have an open campus and wear shorts to school.”

  “And worse, if I was going because my entire family was dead.”

  My words looked like they caused Dad physical pain. “Yes. You can imagine how hard it would be to adjust after you’ve lived with so much freedom.”

  “I get it.”

  “So if Deni has a problem with the pesantren owner, I don’t want him to get the idea that I’m on the owner’s side of the conflict,” Dad explained.

  My eyes popped open. “So you want me to be a spy?”

  He tilted his head. “Not a spy, per se. I just want you to find out who he is if you can.”

  I matched his sly tone. “Ah. I see, and what will I get for said information?”

  “You will be forgiven for past crimes with soccer balls?” He eyed me knowingly.

  “Fine,” I said. “Game on.”

  “I knew I could count on you, kiddo. Just ask around, see if one of the kids will point him out to you. The pesantren owner has to leave town for the next few days, and before he gets back, I’d like to make some headway with Deni. I really want to help smooth over their conf
lict before we go back home.”

  “Why is it so important to bond with Deni? I mean, he’s just one kid,” I said.

  “If I want the Aceh kids to be honest about what’s going on with them and their emotions during group, it needs to start with their leader. Acehnese are a very patriarchal society. These kids don’t have a father anymore, so they look to this boy Deni as their father figure. If I’m going to help with their healing process, it’s going to need to start with Deni, and then the rest will follow.”

  I thought about the drummer boy subtly letting the younger kids know what to do during their performance. How they looked at him, emulating his every move.

  What Dad said made sense.

  Dad put his arm around me and squeezed. “I hope I won’t disappoint,” I said.

  “You won’t,” Dad said in a tone I believed.

  I yawned, sucking in a bit of burnt air.

  We watched silently as the sun finally slipped into the sludgy river. The haze was pink and brown and reminded me of Mom’s story about the ship captain. This had felt like the longest day of all time but after my catnap I was awake enough to make it till the girls’ bedtime. The trick to jetlag was to get on the arriving country’s schedule ASAP. I fought back heavy lids and focused on my dad.

  “Remember the story Mom used to tell about the ship captain?” Dad asked.

  Seriously?

  I laughed. “I was just thinking the same exact thing.”

  “Really? How funny. I was thinking about it on the plane over, too—especially the bit about the sailor hurrying home. The sky here, it reminds me of the light the captain was looking for, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, except it’s not pink and orange like at home; it’s brownish—Fudge Popsicle Haze instead of Orange Popsicle Haze.”

  Dad didn’t smile. “You look so much like her now, you know.” His voice cracked, and the lines in his face deepened.

  “Dad…”

  “And here,” he continued, “for some reason, you remind me of her so much more. It’s hard to put a finger on exactly what it is, but it’s something.”

  He used to tell me that a lot when I was little. You lovelies are two pearls cut from the same oyster, he’d say with pride. Now, me looking like Mom only made him sad.