The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(43)

“Did Ci-do go back to Spring Well?” Her eyes gleam with an unsettling combination of desperation and loyalty. When I tell her we have not seen him, she remains silent for a long while. “I hoped he’d gone home,” she says at last.

“What happened?”

“Where do I start?” she asks. “When my monkeys were born”—I wince at the euphemism for her human rejects—“no one would look at us. You know that Ci-do wasn’t allowed to wear his turban nor I my headdress. He didn’t carry a crossbow, and I had milk leaking from my breasts. It wasn’t hard for people to guess we’d been banished for having human rejects. We kept walking until we reached Thailand.”

“San-pa says life is good there.”

“You’re here with him?” she asks, surprised. Of course she’d remember the incident of the stolen pancake. “But how—”

“Finish your story, and I’ll tell you mine.”

She sighs. “Life for the Akha is bad in Thailand—”

“But San-pa says—”

“We circled back to Myanmar. We never entered a village, but we kept looking for one where we might be accepted. We built this place between this village and the next. The people here are all Akha, and I began to barter with them. My embroidery skills have always been praised, so I made pouches and kerchiefs, which I traded for eggs. Eventually, I was able buy Ci-do a crossbow—not as good as his old one, but he was always a good hunter and we no longer went to sleep hungry.”

In the distance, San-pa shouts, “Wife! Wife!” I don’t respond. A part of me hopes he’ll come looking for me, and yet I need Deh-ja’s advice.

“Tradition demanded we could not speak to anyone for twelve months,” she continues in a monotone, “so we gestured and grunted to make ourselves understood. One morning I woke up, and he was gone. That was seven years ago.”

I should offer comforting words. Instead, I weep at the inescapable brutality of fate. “I also had a human reject. I didn’t perform the rite. I took her to Menghai. Now San-pa and I are married, but she’s gone. To America.”

Deh-ja draws the back of her hand across her mouth. How can I know which part of the story shocks her most? That the little girl she once knew had a baby without marriage? That I didn’t rid the world of my human reject? That I gave her away?

“Wife! Wife!”

I ignore San-pa. I’m less than one full cycle married and already I’m disobedient.

Now it’s my turn to grab Deh-ja’s arm. She doesn’t pull away, but her muscles tense under my fingers. I’ve been through too much already. Leave me be.

“What do I do?” I ask. “How do I go on?”

Her laugh carries weariness and despair. “All you can do is live,” she says. “You don’t have a choice. Life continues whether we want it to or not. The sun will rise despite our suffering.” She pauses. Her eyes take in the meagerness of her surroundings. “Maybe this is better than nothing. Maybe this is all we deserve. No nima can find a cure for us. No ruma can mix a potion. But isn’t this better than no life at all? Isn’t it better than hearing the tree that represents me in the spirit world crash to the ground?”

I don’t want to accept her words, but a part of me knows she’s right. I remember that woman who had multiple stillborn babies but kept trying until one lived. And Deh-ja has been through the very worst that can happen to a woman and yet she’s still scraping by.

It’s getting dark now. I must get back to my husband. Before leaving, I dig through my carrying basket, pull out the hidden pouch, and offer some money to Deh-ja. At first she doesn’t want to take it, but I insist.

“When—if—San-pa and I come this way again, may I visit?”

“Of course. And if you ever encounter Ci-do . . .” She juts her chin, and the light in her eyes fades.

“But we found each other,” I respond, wishing good omens for her. “Anything can happen.”

She walks me to the edge of the village. “Be careful,” she says before disappearing back into the jungle.

I find San-pa, sitting on the ground, sound asleep, his head resting on his folded arms. I have a hard time waking him. He slowly nods at me, trying to bring me into focus, as if he’s still dreaming. No. I understand now. He’s found someone to sell him opium as anyone suffering from grief might seek out my a-ma for the same dulling remedy. I don’t need to question him about it. To my eyes, he’s far more upset about Yan-yeh and the whole turn of events than I could have imagined. I love him for that, and I understand his need to numb his sorrow. I’ve had months to try to accept the loss of our daughter. He’s had days. Later, after we’ve made camp, I reach out to him. I don’t enjoy the intercourse, but it’s something I must do to quiet my emptiness and help my husband too. Bring me a baby. Let it be a son.

The next morning, we continue south. We ford what San-pa says is the Nam Loi River. He tells me we’ve gone too far east when we reach the Mekong River. We work our way back into the dense greenery, staying out of sight, but keeping the river to our right. The border into Thailand? I don’t know when we reach it. I don’t know when we cross it. We’re on just another trail snaking through the creeping vines and densely growing trees as wild animals call their indignation at our presence.