5. Not my father
This is the sixth chapter of Misfortune Cookie
All I knew was that something was wrong. After Mom had disappeared, a strange woman picked up my baby brother and tried to take my hand. She didn’t speak English, and I didn’t speak Thai. But that didn’t stop me from asking a barrage of questions.
Where’d Mommy go? Where’s Daddy? Where did Mommy go? Where are we going?
I twisted my hand out of hers. I wouldn’t budge until she said something. I was five, Larry was two, and I’d always been with my parents. Her eyes struggled, trying to conjure any word I’d understand before she leaned down and said, “Daddy.”
And then we were sitting outside waiting on benches in a small garden next to a white building. It was a clear blue day. Sometimes I sat down, other times I looked around wondering how long we were going to wait. I didn’t wander far, but I continued to ask questions she couldn’t answer.
She’d give me a weak smile, shift my brother from one hip to the next, or nod. So we waited in the sun in silence. Larry was quiet which didn’t seem right, but nothing did.
It was the end of 1979 and the beginning of 1980. Six years had passed before my parents returned to Thailand. But then the moment arrived, Mom finally got to introduce her children to her sister, six brothers, and proud parents. We were greeted with open arms and great excitement. They had already met Dad, and he was well-liked. He even declared he wanted to retire here.
Lamphun was a village of dirt roads, water buffaloes, rice paddies, and houses on stilts. Air circulated under the homes, helping to keep it cool, the shade underneath provided a place to hang out like a living room. The grownups spent a lot of time talking, drinking, and laughing here.
But I wasn’t used to sleeping on naked wooden floors on thin mattresses, looking up underneath mosquito netting in the same room as the rest of the family. I didn’t like the way they laughed at me, after they handed me the lighter, and I burned myself trying to use it. Grandma ate something that turned her mouth red, which scared me. We took bucket baths. And afterwards, Mom patted white powder all over Larry to keep him cool. I saw a crowd of legs, peeked in, two roosters fighting, people yelling, and walked away, instinctively feeling something was wrong. But most of all, no one spoke English except Mom and Dad.
We divided our time between the countryside, Lamphun, and city life in Chiang Mai, visiting the famous mountain top temple on Doi Suthep, watching Northern hill tribe weavers and their vibrant looms, admiring detailed handicrafts, shopping at the outdoor markets, eating well, and sightseeing all that our corner of Thailand had to offer. It was the family vacation Mom had been waiting years for, until the day someone ran into the village screaming for her.
The plan was for Dad to drive into Chiang Mai, spend the night there, check-out of the hotel, and then return to Lamphun the next day. Mom wanted to spend as much time as possible with her family before our departure. She didn’t want to leave, so he was supposed to take care of logistics on his own. But Dad didn’t want to be away from us. He could get everything done on the same day, he figured. Lamphun wasn’t far. It was about 15-20 miles away.
His wife told him to not drive in the dark, but it wasn’t dark yet. It was dusk. John looked at his watch, 16.01. He felt comfortable on his brother-in-law's red Yamaha motorbike. It was a quiet countryside Chiang Mai-Lamphun road, no traffic, no street lights, no helmets, simply driving in the open air.
He was halfway, when there was a holdup at an intersection. He waited at the four-way, but unknown to him, a bus driver behind him had become impatient.
The driver didn’t see what the problem was, so he went around the other vehicles and drove through the intersection. It was only after he heard a dragging sound, that he stopped the bus. After he discovered my unconscious father, the driver, along with another person or two, carried him onto the bus. There they waited while someone volunteered to drive back into Chiang Mai to get an ambulance.
We don’t know how long Dad waited before he received medical attention. Nobody knew who he was. The only thing in his pockets was the business card of the hotel.
The next day, Mom’s sister, Sangjun, decided to go to the hotel to say hello to Dad. She and her husband run a small grocery shop in Lamphun, but she regularly rises early to go to Chiang Mai to restock the shelves.
But when she arrived, she discovered he had already left. A hotel clerk explained that McCormick Hospital had called last night to see if they could identify a man who had been in an accident. They could not, and had no contact information.
Fearing the worst, Sangjun went to the hospital, but since they had shaved his head, she couldn’t, or wouldn’t recognize him. Overwhelmed with panic, she headed straight for her sister back in Lamphun.
Finally, someone came and led us through the white building. A door opened, and I was asked to enter the room. My baby brother and the woman stayed outside.
I realized then that I was at a hospital. The room was unnaturally large. Mom’s face was twisted and soaked under tireless waves of grief. There were nurses and doctors, and a sleeping man tucked into crisp white sheets in the corner of the room.
Mom looked at me. “Don’t you want to see your Daddy?”
I turned towards the bed, but then stopped. That man had no hair. I didn’t know who he was, but he wasn’t my father. I moved back.
That man wasn’t the one who rescued me after I broke my ankle.
We were out for a neighborhood bike ride, and I was sitting in the back. Maybe I was three. Maybe four. And I wanted to see what would happen if I stuck my leg in the wheel of a moving bike. After I found out, I cried out. Dad carried me to the nearest house, while I sobbed and watched the blood wash away in a white bathtub. I received many stitches that day, a cast that prevented me from walking, and a happy balloon.
Nor was this the man who showed me the way home, after my first day of kindergarten.
Everyone was walking confidently to where their parents were picking them up. But when I tried walking in the direction I thought I should go, I stopped. I got confused. I walked one way, then tried another, and kept doing that until I stood in front of the school, frozen, with tears running down my face.
As the sky darkened, and the school emptied, someone finally asked what was wrong, and went into the office to call my house.
Dad rode up on his bicycle because, apparently, he had been combing the area looking for me. He scooped me into his arms, and we held each other tight. We breathed together, and I never wanted to let go.
He didn’t laugh, or admonish. He almost seemed to savor the moment. And he didn’t zip me home straight away. Instead, Dad took his time, walking alongside me, making sure I understood how to get home. The way wasn’t through a neighborhood, but a shortcut through Oahu’s infamous red dirt, the land cleared for some future purpose. He made me look back and forward. He wanted his girls to be independent, just like when he taught Mom to drive, no matter how terrified she was, despite all her protests.
Maybe he knew. Maybe we all did. But we weren’t ready.
I went back to Mom, avoiding the man in the bed, and moved closer to her, but a cold metal table prevented us from touching. A big phone was handed to her, and I wondered how she was going to speak under all those tears.
“M-Ma? It’s Jan.”
They called Hawaii! I could hear Grandma’s voice through the static!
“Jan? Is that you? Jan? What’s wrong?”
“There... was an accident. John, John is…
“What happened to my baby?”
“John’s dead.”
“John’s dead.”
Hugs, Lani. Sitting alongside you for a while.
I felt the grief, shock and awkward unknowing within and between the lines. Heart squeezing for you.
Oh my God, Lani!