Live to Share, Share to Live

As the small crowd huddled around Amber, Mel could only hear soothing whispers, the occasional gasp, and the wail, “Why is he always like this?” Mel knew that “he” could be Amber’s boyfriend, father, or brother as they’d all been the source of her misery at one time or another. Her boyfriend for being passionate about his various causes but cold to her; her father for being snide and dismissive about her boyfriend; and her brother for getting the best version of their mother’s affection.

Mel didn’t want to know any of this information about her colleague but given the small compressed space they’d been given for lunch and breaks, it was impossible to avoid what Mel had secretly begun to call, “Amber’s in-person facebook status updates”. Because of Amber’s need to over-share, Mel was in the know about stubbed toes, cheating neighbours, perfect crème brulee, lazy naps, sex mishaps, and recently formed ass dimples.

Amber with her permanently rosy cheeks, big innocent brown eyes, and naturally pouty mouth got away with overcrowding the staff room with her day to day tribulations. She was part woman, part toddler and her co-workers wanted to protect her from the sharp edges of adult life. Except for Mel who inwardly winced whenever hearing her vocal fry and squealing at anything “adorbs”. Mel imagined holding a fist in front of Amber’s face 70s Dad style and sputtering, “I’ll give you something to cry about”.

Though the moment Amber let out her usual “Lads, get this one” Mel imagined jet-packing through the ceiling and into space in order to escape the anecdote, Mel was mostly jealous. Not of the attention—she’d hate to have the constant concerned eyes of the staff posse focused on her, the older women tucking strands of hair behind her ear. No, that’d be much worse than being a silent audience to a one-woman melodrama. She wished she could just do the simple act of sharing, whether it be a rant, observation, or as she wished most of all, relief of breaking open to let out whatever was simmering just below the surface. She feared that all that lie supressed would slither and wind its way around the cells of her body, suffocating and mutating them into incurable blocks, which would kill her days after being discovered. At least that’s what the women’s magazines and self-help books said would happen if she didn’t open up more to the world.

So, on New Year’s Day Mel decided as her only resolution to “share my mind and open my soul to others.”

She figured that talking about Christmas would be an easy opener for the first day back to work. But her recounting of how her creepy Uncle Peter grabbed her ass as she put away the leftovers of the big family dinner and said, “That’s some fine ham right here” didn’t have the jovial ring she was going for, mostly because she forgot to explain that he was the husband of her mother’s sister and not a blood relative. The staff just stared at her awkwardly which made her laugh and turn red. When she added that the only presents she received were five pairs of socks, they nodded as if this made perfect sense.

In the following days, she chewed on and spit out at least one random thing that had been in her thoughts. “I had my recurring dream last night that I had a baby and kept forgetting to feed it or change it for days. The tiny thing was scrawny as hell but didn’t even cry. At least last night I didn’t dream I was drunk, like I usually do.” She could see some of the women give each other the almost imperceptible sideways glance before saying benignly, “Probably your subconscious trying to soothe itself for you not having any.” She hadn’t thought of this and wished she could stuff that share that felt like a big balloon back down her throat.

She tried the trick of grousing, which she noticed was a sure way to get out pent up rage. After one colleague lamented that he could have slept for five more hours, she said, “Today when I woke up, I fantasized for about five minutes stabbing a fork into my forehead just above my nose. I often have this fantasy.” They laughed nervously and one made the joke, “We better hide the cutlery!” before all suddenly found something fascinating on their mobiles.

Health was another common worry maker so she shared that she had a constellation of moles getting all funky looking on her back. This resulted in a round of “ewwws”; “TMIs” and “you oughta tell a professional about that” but none looked in her eye or rubbed her shoulder as they said it. In fact, they seemed to back away. Which made her try harder, “Lads, I feel numb every day. I feel like I’m wading in wet cement just to get through life. I feel like I’m losing myself.” They stared at her in a silence for so long, that for the one and only time, the sound of the refrigerator humming could be heard during a work day. “Mel, you really oughta see a professional. That’s all outside our wheelhouse.” They backed away even more, so she said brightly and with a laugh, “Yeah, you’re probably right.” She ate her apple in silence.

After that day, she stopped sharing anecdotes about sitting on benches for hours to watch the pigeons. She kept to herself the joy and fear of being followed by a fox on a morning run. And she didn’t tell anyone she successfully made a pavlova.

Because she no longer had the floor and avoided the floor at all costs, she started to notice that Amber had become quiet in the New Year. When one day a colleague asked her if everything was ok, she nervously looked over at Mel and replied, “Nobody wants to hear about my silly life.”

 

 

Family Fortunes

Aunt Mary’s apartment always smelled of strawberry incense, cigarettes, cat shit, and the cabbage she boiled as part of her “weekly detox”. The windows were permanently fogged up and the once white walls were covered in a sticky browny-yellow film. Every space not occupied by a cat, held a brightly printed pillow, antique lamp, stack of books, or porcelain figurines of wolves and fairies.

It was Vanessa’s favourite place in the world.

On that winter day, Vanessa walked along the creek behind the cul-de-sac all the way to the river on the north side and then to the part of town where the houses were tiny but the streets were straight and logical. In her pocket, she carried Aunt Mary’s gift from her mother, Ruth, who was Mary’s sister.

When Mary opened the door, she gave a raspy, “Come here, girl!” and enveloped Vanessa with her plump arms and soft bosom. She smelled of vanilla and earth and laughed as the two of them rocked back and forth. She was dressed in the red velvet robe, the one she wore on “special occasions”.  Her others—one for each day of the week—were only “a sorry woman’s sari” a joke Vanessa didn’t get until many years later.

Mary quickly ushered her into her favourite chair in the living room—a plush recliner that could only be described as “burnt orange”. Soon, she had a cat in her lap, a pillow under one arm, and a cup of mulled wine that warmed her inside and out in the chilly room. She chatted excitedly about her upcoming early graduation and starting college the next month.

Vanessa watched carefully as Mary opened the envelope with a perfectly manicured nail the colour of the wine she squeezed from a box throughout the day. She smiled and raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Well, well. What have we got here?” Usually, Ruth bought Mary candles or bubble bath.

As a rule, Ruth never went to Mary’s house, claiming an allergy to smoke. But Vanessa once overheard her mother tell a friend “I had to hose myself down with disinfectant. Absolutely vile. How can she live like that?”

Vanessa never understood why people said her mother and aunt were “chalk and cheese”. Chalk and cheese are both white, soft, and break easily. They were more like chiffon and chutney.  In high school, Mary derided Ruth’s “white suburban Stepford wife dream”, and Ruth sneered at Mary’s penchant for “hitchhiking god-knows-where, mixing with all sorts of low-lifes.”

Mary stared at the paper as if doing so would change the words. Her eyes were slightly narrowed and Vanessa could see the lines above her lips which her mother always referred to as “smoker’s wrinkles”. The voucher for a manicure was cruel on three levels—it was the type of impersonal gift you might get from a boss; Mary did her own manicures impeccably; and Mary rarely left the house.

Though Ruth was a housewife, it was Mary who spent the most time at home. In her 30s, the endless highways and unexplored towns that had been her freedom had become giant mouths threatening to swallow her whole. If she walked past the barrier of her sidewalk, she heard a deafening static like a broken TV. The first time it happened she thought she was having a heart attack or stroke. But after all the MRI scans and several more attacks, she was diagnosed with anxiety disorder and agoraphobia.

To supplement her disability income, she read palms. She predicted enough adulterous affairs, twins, heart attacks, and job offers to be considered “the real deal” and through word of mouth, often had as many as five clients in a week. Ruth had once said, “Clients? More like suckers. She takes their money for a lie and then takes their tax money to pay for her invisible illness.”

Mary put the voucher on a tall pile of magazines and smiled warmly at Vanessa. “Cash would have been better. I could have treated us to a pizza! Ah well, it’s the thought that counts, right? How about a refill of Christmas juice and then we’ll do that reading you’re always bugging me for. Consider it your Christmas and graduation gift.”

Vanessa jumped up, cat and pillow falling to the floor, and rushed over to give Mary a hug. She’d been begging for Mary to read her palm for years, but Mary had always said, “In the long run, it’s best not to know what’s going to happen.”

As she entered The Room, a spare bedroom whose walls had been painted with tree murals so realistic, Vanessa could almost smell the pine needles and hear the wind in the leaves. The only furniture was a table covered with a maroon velvet cloth and four chairs, all different sizes and styles. A cd player sat in the corner, playing “Rain Forest Meditation”. The heavy curtains were tied back and the bright winter sunlight made the room less creepy than usual.

Vanessa never told a soul her aunt saw that she’d have to search many corners of the earth before she found her true love. After graduating, much to the dismay of her parents, she joined the Peace Corps and was away for several years.

When Mary and Ruth’s mother died, Vanessa came home for the funeral, a man black as night on her arm. When she saw Mary, she gushed, “You were right all those years ago. Look, I found him. Best gift ever.” Zeke, having heard many a time that he was Vanessa’s destiny, smiled and thanked Mary. Ruth, who overheard the exchange, demanded to know what they were talking about.

After Vanessa recounted the entire romantic tale, the sisters locked eyes, on Mary’s face the slightest triumphant smirk. It was a look borne from a lifetime of the tug of war of hurt and payback.

Mary leaned and whispered in Ruth’s ear. “Maybe I should have just given her a voucher, eh?”

 

 

 

 

 

The Dish Washer

Mother and Daughter stood side by side and watched the white sky grow shades darker as the sun set itself in the usual spot behind the shed. The mountain of dishes beside them contained the remnants of their annual Thanksgiving feast, the cranberry sauce bright purple spots amongst the brown splotches. As they fell into the rhythm of washing and drying, Denise noticed her mother’s grip upon the plates had become more claw-like.

At 6:00 every night since Denise was old enough to stand on a step stool and reach the countertop, they’d done this ritual, the steam from the soapy dishwater covering half the window. Then, she was slow and awkward, constantly worried about breaking the plates and cursing the house with an uneven number. By the time she was a teen, she could grab a dish with her left hand and with two or three swipes to the front and back, put the dish on the counter in time to grab the next proffered one. They’d had a good rhythm then, speeds easily matched, and it freed their concentration to look out at the yard as they talked about the latest gossip and injustices among family and friends.

Now Denise waited patiently as her mother moved the greying dishcloth around and around the same plate and eventually passed it over with the slightest of shakes. Denise concentrated on the gurgle and splash of the dishes and the familiar thin towel embroidered with ducks and apples that somehow always dried the very last spoon, despite being sopping wet.

“Mom, you should be able to rest more, especially after these big meals. Let me get you a dishwasher.”

“What on earth would I need of those cockamamy things for? They’re noisy and they use gallons of water and electricity. They’re a scam. Remember when your Aunt Margie got one? She had to spend an hour rinsing and scraping and then putting the dishes in just so and then two hours later, she’s got super shiny plates with crud all over them. Total waste.”

Denise had heard the Margie dishwasher stories a hundred times. Margie liked keeping up with the latest gadgets and trends and nothing made her mother happier than when these failed abysmally.

“But Mom, they make them much better now. They save energy and water and they’re actually a ton cheaper than when Margie got one 30 years ago!”

“No way, Jose. And besides, where on earth would I put the damn thing?”

What Denise’s mother didn’t realise was that in a few days, that new damn thing would replace the old oak stand under the south facing window. For years a ceramic basin and pitcher sat upon it proudly, reflecting the afternoon sun. It had been Denise’s great-grandmother’s and was among her mother’s only connections to her European ancestors.

On the day of the installation, Denise’s mother was across town, under the blasting heat of an ancient hairdryer, as she had done twice a month for the last three decades. Despite the roar of the dryers, the women had no difficulty chewing the fat, especially after a major holiday. The haircut sorely lacking on a grandkid; the son-in-law who drank too much of the good sherry; and the comparisons of total hours invested to make the perfect turkey that was devoured in ten minutes.

Denise’s mother admired her daughter for her crisp and clean business suits, immaculate nails, and no-nonsense tone when taking calls on the back porch. She had no idea nor interest in what she did but bragged at the salon that Denise’s company couldn’t survive without her. So because of her love and admiration for her daughter, she smiled graciously upon seeing the new shiny metal box snugly installed beneath the window, the basin and pitcher looking sad and lost, on top, like a doily on the moon.

But in fact, she hated the damn thing. It whirred and gurgled and moaned for hours and when opened, emitted a steamy smell of a bleachy bin. She tried watching TV while it carried on, but found the news to be just a repeat of what she’d watched at 5:00. The game shows left her feeling hollow and anxious and she missed watching the sun setting behind the shed. After two weeks, she threw the powdery disks in the bin and filled the sinks.

Christmas came and with it the baked ham, cherry pies, and various side dishes. After the men and women had spent the requisite amount of time chatting at the table, the men shuffled off to the den to watch other men crash into each other; the kids went out to hurl snowballs.

Denise rose and began carrying the plates and serving dishes into the kitchen.

“Mom, I’ll load the dishwasher. You just relax.”

Denise’s mom sat at the table, playing with a napkin and listening as her daughter rinsed and scraped and crammed as many dishes as possible into the two levels of the machine. She suddenly remembered a Christmas day years ago when they had hid some leftovers on two plates and after washing and drying nearly the entire cupboard’s worth of dishes, they brought two chairs onto the back porch and gorged on cold ham and pie, leaving the others to fight over the little they left in the fridge. How they had laughed and held their bulging stomachs that day.

Denise was now standing in front of her, clearly annoyed.

“Where is the soap for the dishwasher?”

“Oh, I must have run out.”

Sinks filled, Denise fumed in silence, grabbing each cleaned dish and rubbing it furiously with the cloth. She noticed her mother smiling.

“What?”

“Just like when you were 16. You’d rather be doing anything other than drying dishes.”

“And wouldn’t you?”

Denise’s mother turned and put two soapy hands on her daughter’s shoulders and spoke the long remembered words quietly.

“Anything that brings you even the teensiest bit of joy is never a waste of time.”

 

Strings Attached

The afternoon light coming in from the window cast a buttery glow over the decades old décor of the small hotel room. It softened the lines on their skin and washed out the grey of their hair. Cora felt as if they were in a Rubens painting and through her half-closed eyes, the chipped and stained walls were made of marble and the floral duvet and carpet were a real garden.  The fading light meant that John would be expected at home soon, so she gently nudged him awake and told him she was leaving.

As Cora drove home, she looked in the mirror to catch a glimpse of the pink and orange brightening behind her and thought for the hundredth time that day that she loved being “a mistress”. A month ago, she would have been sitting on her sofa in her pyjamas eating three-day old Chinese food and watching a re-run of “Law & Order”. The same night she’d had again and again for years. What made her giddy was that she would still go home and put on her pyjamas and eat take-out but with the adrenalin rush of the rendezvous still buzzing inside her.

John, too, was driving home though with a bit more unease than his recent companion. He looked in the mirror and saw the kind of asshole he never wanted to be. But it was fun, dammit, and he wasn’t ready to stop yet. And besides, Cora said they would stop immediately when it became “cringy or boring”.

The fact that Cora worked with John’s wife did not make the situation very easy to ignore. They’d met at a work function, waiting at the bar for a drink. Cora asked him how he’d been screwed into coming to one of the infamous “booze n’ snooze fests” and when John said he’d come to keep Kathy company and get free drink, Cora replied with an “Office Space” impression that made him spit out his drink in laughter.

When John returned to Kathy with their drinks, he said he’d met her colleague Cora. Kathy said she was someone who was a bit odd and kept to herself but always had people in stitches when she made fun of the managers.

The next day, John found himself on the company’s website, looking at the contact information for the staff. When he found what he was looking for, he sat in his chair for a very long time pretending to weigh pros and cons, but knowing exactly what he was going to do.

Cora had waited until five minutes before she was due to leave work to reply that an early matinee and a drink sounded like the perfect way to spend a Tuesday afternoon. She then sent an email to her boss stating she had a dentist appointment the following day and would be leaving early. The two emails made her giggle and she wasn’t sure if she was more excited to skip work or to meet a stranger in a darkened cinema.

They spent the entirety of the film looking straight ahead, their fingers barely touching over the chasm of the drinks holder. After as they walked down winding back streets, he pulled her into doorways for a long kiss, breaking away before they started groping. Over a pint in an old man’s pub, they talked and joked easily, their lack of familiarity with one another loosening any inhibitions. He ran his fingers up and down the inside of her thigh, thankful she’d worn a dress just this side of slutty.

John got them track phones and when hers vibrated in the early afternoons, she tried not to look in the direction of his wife’s desk as she tapped out her reply, heart racing and face flushed. When she did occasionally pass Kathy in the corridor or on the way to the staff toilet, she felt a shame that gripped her intestines and stopped her breath. But as she sat on the toilet, staring at the screen of the phone she justified the disgrace by reminding herself and later John, that their meetings were temporary and only physical.

That all changed the moment Cora walked into the staff canteen and saw John sitting across from his wife, a half-eaten salad on a tray between them. Her fork was poised gracefully over the leaves as she smiled and spoke animatedly. He sat, nodding and laughing. Suddenly, Kathy paused as she noticed the strings attached to her blouse at the cuff had come undone and were dangling into the salad bowl. John immediately put down his fork and gently grabbed his wife’s arm and tied the string into a delicate and perfect bow.

Cora’s hands shook as she took out the change for her bag of popcorn and Diet Coke and didn’t stop until she was back at her desk. As she munched and scanned news headlines, she tried to ignore the thoughts of John’s tenderness towards his wife.

At their next meeting John was surprised when Cora put a foot on his lap and asked rather seductively if he’d put a plaster on the blister on her pinky toe. He wasn’t about to touch anyone’s foot, especially one that had been crammed tightly into a shoe all day. Cora continued to make odd requests—shoulder rubs, splinter removals, and zipping up her dress, which he’d seen her undo on her own just 10 minutes ago.

She daydreamed about moments where he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear or kissed the tip of her nose. But they continued as usual---sneaky pints and hotel rooms that felt dingier as the sun began to set sooner. She began thinking about what to get for dinner before he even finished. They put their clothes on in silence, ignoring the creak of old springs. They didn’t kiss good-bye.

When she ended it, he was relieved, but had to know why.

“I guess I want strings attached after all.”

 

 

Tale of the Coveted Shoes

Beth wanted more than anything to hate Whitney. Whitney with her shiny blonde hair, two missing front teeth, a pack of older brothers and sisters who adored her, and two parents who were still happily together. But mostly she hated that Whitney had a perfect pair of black and white saddle shoes.  

What Beth didn’t realise was that they were Whitney’s only pair of shoes—in fact, only piece of clothing—that wasn’t handed down from an older sibling. She’d saved money from her paper route every day for three months during the summer so she’d have the shoes when school started in the fall. After school, she cleaned and buffed the shoes until they looked new again.

When Beth begged and whined for a pair of her own saddle shoes, her mother reminded her that she already had a perfectly good pair of sneakers that she had picked out just two weeks ago. Besides, she’d have them ruined in a week or would get tired of them.

“Remember the jean jacket you had to have? Remember when you used it as a rope to climb a tree and ripped the arm off?  Go play outside and leave me alone. I don’t want to hear another word. Got it?”

Beth stormed out of the house, making sure to slam the door and giving an “I hate you” as a parting farewell.  She then went and jumped in every mud puddle she could find and rubbed grass all over the sides of her sneakers. But her mother didn’t budge.

In late October, Whitney’s family hosted a Halloween party for all the neighbourhood kids. Though Beth and Whitney didn’t talk much at school, they rode bikes around the block and played gymnastics on an old mattress in Whitney’s backyard. Beth always felt out of place with Whitney’s funny friends, but she was too bored not to go.

The night of the party, the house was decorated with fake cobwebs, candles, posters of witches and skeletons, and scary noises were coming from a scratchy boom box somewhere in the kitchen. Whitney’s mom made the kids put on blindfolds and touch eyeballs, brains, and teeth which turned out to be grapes, spaghetti, and chiclets.

The boys were dressed as pirates, cowboys, and vampires, and the girls, princesses, black cats, and witches. Beth was covered in a white sheet that had two holes cut out for eyes. Her mother had made two large circles around the holes, using her liquid eyeliner. She liked that nobody could see her face and she didn’t have a mouth cut out, so she didn’t need to talk.

At one point, they were herded up to go out to the “haunted garage” which involved Whitney’s dad and older brothers jumping out from behind stuff and scaring the living bejesus out of everyone. The kids squealed and ran out to run and hide behind trees, which as it turned out, sheltered more scary brothers. They ran around and around, laughing and dizzy on their own fear until Whitney’s mom told them to come back inside.

“And take off your shoes this time! There’s a lot of mud out back”

Beth was one of the last to add her shoes to the growing pile near the backdoor. As she threw hers down, she noticed the saddle shoes sitting neatly and pristinely apart from the others. The kids all went into a large family room that had two worn sofas and several pillows on the floor. Whitney’s mother had made popcorn balls and was setting up the VCR to watch “It’s A Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown”.  Beth wanted to plop down with the others but there was something she wanted even more.

Heart pounding, she quietly went out of the room and towards the back entrance. She grabbed the white and black prizes and stuffed them down her pants under the white sheet. As she put on her own shoes, Whitney’s dad came in and said, “What you up to, Kiddo?” She said that her tummy hurt, politely refusing the Dad’s offer of escorting her the half-block to her house.

Once outside, she started running, feeling the soles of the shoes scraping her skin, the dangling laces tickling her thighs. The air was colder and the trees much taller and more menacing than before. She felt if she turned around, she would see Whitney chasing her.

Her mother wasn’t surprised to see her home early. Beth often had enough of social events before other children. She was glad that Beth had gone at all.

Beth shoved the shoes in between the box spring and the mattress and didn’t sleep at all for fear they would somehow walk out into plain sight. When her mother was in the shower the next morning, Beth was horrified to find that they were too small. It hadn’t occurred to her that Whitney’s feet would be so much smaller than her own even though she was about three inches shorter.

She thought about bringing them back to Whitney’s and saying she put them on by mistake, but realised they would ask about her own shoes, which she hadn’t left behind. She thought about just putting them on their porch but was terrified someone would see her. With the kind of logic that only comes from childhood panic, Beth decided to throw them in the gutter on the corner.

The next Monday, Whitney arrived at school, wearing grey canvas shoes that were probably once white. After school, they rode bikes around the block and Whitney didn’t say a word about the shoes.

At night, whenever the phone rang, Beth’s heart nearly exploded, so convinced was she that the shoes with her fingerprints were discovered in the gutter. Each day she crouched down and peeked into the dark hole and saw the white tip of a lone shoe. The stab of guilt and fear became a part of her daily routine, even after the spring rains washed the evidence away.

 

Crushed

Lora couldn’t quite bring herself to call Nanthap a stalker. Though he brought her mangoes and langoustines each day before class and added a heart as his only comment to her facebook statuses, he never actually spoke to her or seemed to want anything from her. In class, he sat apart from the others, dutifully copying words whose sounds he couldn’t form and whose meaning might as well have been Greek philosophy. Yet he copied and attempted repetitions and smiled blankly when called upon.

“Hello, Nanaphat. How are you?”

“19.”

“Nanaphat, what do you do?”

“How do you do, Teacher.”

“Thank you so much for everything you’re given me. I really like that part of you.”

The other students fell over themselves not because they had mastered these basic greetings themselves, but because Nanaphat replied in the same breathless tone of wonder usually reserved for rendezvous on balconies.

Lora had initially assumed Nanaphat was taking the piss. After all, she was 15 years older, 5 inches taller, and likely 50 pounds heavier than the boy. She sweat profusely in the sauna called a classroom, making her made up eyes rather clownish by 11:00 am. She felt awkward in this room of 35 engineering students, 32 of whom were males, which made her act all the more school-marmish. Yet there he was day after day, a young man earnestly admiring her.

As the semester wore on and the students finally started to grasp a few coherent sentences, Nanaphat’s advances became more verbal. Upon her desk where ripe fruit was once presented as a token of adoration, now were short notes written in a shaky scrawl.

“Teacher you like garden person. I am vegetable. Thank you.”

“Song meets bird then bird fall earth world. You are song.”

“Please give good score.”

After class he carried her books from one building to another and gave her rides to the teacher flats after school, she sitting side-saddle and he beaming at the front. Lora found she began to like the attention and assured herself she was not on the path of Mary Letourneau and wasn’t doing anything to encourage the young boy’s passion. 

One of the teachers, delighted to know the slang phrase, always made jokes about “Teacher’s Pet,” suggesting that she demand more of the student such as lunch for the staff and collecting all the photocopying for the day. Lora just smiled and said that she liked all her students equally and only wanted them to learn to not be afraid of English.

But in reality, Nanaphat was her favourite student. It was a strange existence being the only white female in a town of 50,000 people. 50,000 pairs of eyes watching her every move, laughing at her attempts to buy shoes and trousers that fit, laughing at her freckles that seemed to multiply every day, laughing at her inability to remove chicken from the bone with a spoon. They shouted to her in the street, “You you!!! USA!! Hollywood!! Jack and Rose!! My heart go on!” and there was no point explaining how she was just an ordinary woman from an ordinary Midwestern town.

Though the students were generally respectful to all teachers, Nanaphat seemed to regard her as more than an exotic foreigner. He treated her like a human.

That is, until he saw her with Mark, a retiree from Canada, who spent his days drinking and fishing or drinking and reading, depending on the weather. Lora had met him when a sudden downpour forced her to take shelter in a beachside cafe.

“I love Inspector Moltalbano! A witty man with an appreciation of good food.”

“Not to mention good at solving crimes.”

“That too. I’m Lora. Do you mind if I sit here for a while? It’s raining buckets out there.”

Lora was never this forward with a man and especially not a white man in Thailand, as they were certainly not there to meet tall, pudgy white women pushing 40. But there was something about the graceful way his legs were crossed and the slight furrow of his brow as he read that were instantly endearing. As the rain continued to fall in sheets, they sat and shared big bottles of Leo beer. Like most ex-pats who found themselves in the tired southern town, they glossed over some chapters of their history while spinning wild tales from others. Though he never said it, regret was his catalyst and lack of purpose hers.

As with many stormy afternoon trysts, theirs ended in a small non-descript room, in this case one that also had a kettle and a hot plate. He explained that he was living as cheaply as possible to stretch the retirement money to its fullest but lamented not being able to cook. He smiled sadly as he recounted afternoons spent getting the gnocchi just so.

“Now, it’s instant noodles and coffee.”

“Just like a college student.”

“You make me feel like a college student.”

She didn’t mind nor really notice the age gap and he didn’t seem to mind nor notice that she wasn’t a young, slim Thai girl.

On the way home the next morning, she forgot to tell him to take a route that would avoid the roads used by the students. She saw several familiar faces and hoped her mascara wasn’t too smeared or hair too mussed. She wondered if they knew the expression, “the walk of shame” and how she could ever possibly explain it.

When she arrived in the teachers’ office, she saw the teachers look from her to her desk, expressions giving away nothing. She heard a buzzing noise and saw a basket of rotten fruit.

Under it a note, the last English words ever written or spoken by the young Thai man. Words that made Lora turn crimson; words that led to whispers, laughter, and eventually banishment.

“You were lady of day but now lady of evening. You were bird in sky but now fallen lady. You are true American.”

 

The Waterfall

By the second night, Anne was sprawled out in the middle of the bed, limbs bending and stretching in every direction. It was the best sleep she’d ever had. Delicious and luscious, like being nestled in a noiseless, weightless cocoon. The feeling of not wanting to ever move disturbed only by a throbbing bladder.

Anne was supposed to be in this huge bed in the cosy bungalow with her partner of eight years. But as she’d expected for a long time, he’d found another big bed, belonging to someone not younger or prettier, just not her. “More present” as he had put it.

Her personality had swallowed itself in the last few years. Each day a vat of wet cement to be trudged through. The listening, smiling, nodding, and replying required hollowed her to the core. Anne sometimes glimpsed at him as she watched soaps in silence, wondering when he’d put the withering thing out of its misery. She couldn’t be bothered to do it herself.

Anne went to the rooftop for the complimentary breakfast and as she drank her coffee and stared out to the sea, she thought about when she and Mike had last eaten breakfast together. They usually spent Saturday morning at a greasy spoon called Heartland Café, where they watched couples in various stages of decay, newspapers as buffers. They’d wondered if the silence was companionable. Was everything already said? They’d vowed in those first years to never be like those couples. But on that last morning the only sounds between them were the scraping of knives on toast and the slurping of coffee. She thought about asking him what he thought these people were going to do after they paid their bills. He would have answered animatedly, making her laugh with his turn of phrase and unpredictable ideas. But she said nothing and neither did he and after they paid, she went to the library and he went for a ramble through the city.

After breakfast, Anne went to the appointed spot for a trip she booked to a waterfall. As she awkwardly climbed into the songthaew, she saw that she was the only customer and felt a stab of fear and loneliness. Then she remembered the last trip she had taken with Mike, each of them in different seats on the train so they could “both have a window view” and feeling lonelier when they were forced to sit together on the way back.

 The palm trees were unnaturally tall, like redwoods and the layers of green suggested untameable places with snakes, spiders, and all types of horrifying insects. When Anne was a child, her father brought the family out on Sunday drives out in the country. She would project herself out the window and watch herself run in the tall grasses and fields, her arms held out, face turned slightly towards the sun. On this ride in the jungle, Anne feared any projection of herself would be strangled and consumed by all that green. But she imagined it anyway.

She heard it before she saw it. Louder than any thunderstorm and strangely calming. She laughed at the enormity of it, a wall of white that stretched as far up as she could see. In the sun the droplets of water shone like diamonds.

The driver slid out of the truck and lit a smoke. He looked at Anne and then seemed to scold his young companion, who shyly beckoned with a skinny arm for her to follow. He didn’t smile or look at her and she imagined that he’d much rather be hanging out with his pals in an internet café than schlepping a middle-aged white lady through the jungle.

As the climb became more difficult, she noticed how deftly the barefoot boy jumped from rock to rock, spotting the easiest route for her to take. The boy frequently held out his hand to help her over steep and slippery spots. At first she felt weak and reluctant to feel his small, slender almost bird-like grip on her but as the energy drained from her legs, she welcomed the boy’s strong and gentle hand and found herself not wanting to let go.

In the beginning, she and Mike had always had their fingers laced or at the very least, touching. Walking down the street, sitting on the old broken sofa in their favourite pub, at night when falling asleep. She had known every line, vein, and callous of his hands by touch. Why had she started burying her hands deep in her pockets and sleeping with them curled under her chest?

As Anne struggled to breathe in the thick air of the jungle, she gasped at the realization that the simple act of withdrawing her hands had been the first act of sabotage. The gradual silence had followed.

Anne and the boy were now at a relatively flat area of the mountain, a giant bench that had been carved out and covered with a soft layer of grass. The water was shallow and there were large smooth stones shining in the sunlight. Anne slowly trudged up and over stones and climbed onto a large rock. She felt the spray of the waterfall behind her and could see the sheer drop before her. She let herself be surrounded by the noise before beginning to sob into her hands.

She suddenly felt two hands covering her own as the boy hugged her from behind. He rested his head between her shoulder blades and she could feel his mouth on her skin whispering kind words in a language she didn’t understand.

As Anne walked back to her hotel hours later, the boy ran to her. She immediately thought she should give him a tip and began digging in her bag. He put his hand on her arm and with a smile thrust a small, smooth stone into her hand. He said something, which could have been anything, really, but for her was always, “Don’t let go.”