Tatjana Soli - The Lotus Eaters

The rehabilitation center was down in the Wilshire district, and Helen circled the hospital block a few times, finally parking a quarter mile away at a coffee shop. The day was hot, the air crackling dry with Santa Ana winds, the usual smog-stained haze replaced by a sharpness that etched the trees and buildings on the landscape. Helen sat in the restaurant, her appetite lost in the smell of grease, floor wax, and disinfectant. She tried to focus on the assignment, to think of Lan as just another story.

She was late as she muscled her camera bags onto her shoulders in the parking garage and pushed through the pounding sunlight, the sour smell of hot asphalt under her feet. On the children’s floor of the hospital, a whole platoon of doctors and therapists waited for her in their long, white, picture-ready coats. The head doctor on the case lectured about surgeries, using charts. His lab coat looked stiff and creased, as if it had just been taken out of a box. Samples of prosthetics had been laid out on a banquet table loosely covered by a long red tablecloth so that the display had the eerie feeling of an awards table, each flesh-colored appendage set apart and spotlighted from above.

“Where’s Lan?” she finally asked.

“I thought you should see her progress first,” the doctor said. He sulked at her lack of interest.

“How about I see her first,” Helen said. “We’ll talk after.”

The room grew quiet, the doctor coughed into his hand. “Well then, let’s go see her.”

In a quick decision to brief her on the run, the woman psychologist walked alongside Helen. She was short and made a little skip every third step to keep up. Each time she spoke, she bit her lower lip as if the coming words might be bitter. They passed rooms filled with children. “Lan’s by herself right now,” she whispered. “She’s had an aggression incident again with the other children.” The woman narrowed her eyes so they disappeared in the flesh of her full cheeks. “That’s not acceptable behavior. Biting.”

“It wasn’t ideal… her living conditions in Saigon.”

“But we’ve saved her,” the woman said.

“Actually we’re the ones who hurt her.”

The woman stroked her own cheek with a dimpled hand, as if the unpleasantness of Helen’s words might bring on a rash.

At the end of the hall, she stopped and opened a door. At first the room appeared empty, but then Helen saw Lan sitting at a low table in the corner, shaping a ball of clay. The adults formed a semicircle around the table, but Lan acted as if she heard nothing, did not move her eyes from the clay figure in front of her. Impossible to believe she was the same girl from Saigon-now filled out with rounded arms and cheeks, glossy hair tied in ponytails with pink yarn, wearing a pink Cinderella T-shirt and pants.

“Lan?” Helen said. “Remember me?”

The girl looked up with a heavy, bored look, as if bracing herself for more unwanted attention. Helen moved closer, bent down to hug her. Her skin smelled sweet and medicinal, like cough syrup. Close-up, it was obvious that her face was bloated, her eyes dry and hard. Helen wondered what medications she was on. Lan’s body remained limp in her arms.

Helen sat on a low plastic stool. The table was filled with toys, but Lan had attention for only the small ball of clay in her hands. She had the dull, listless behavior of an animal in the zoo. “You have a lot of toys,” Helen said.

Lan grabbed her hand. “You bring me candy?”

Helen laughed, relieved at the shared memory. The doctors standing around them made her feel she needed to offer something up. “I brought her candy in Saigon.”

Lan shook her head, impatient, with a sharp tilt of the chin. “Sam bring me candy. What you bring me now?”

“I came to take pictures again for the magazine.”

Lan yawned. “I’m hungry.”

The nurse stepped forward eagerly. “I’ll bring you back some lunch, sweetie.”

“I want hamburger,” Lan said to her retreating back as the door swung shut.

Helen looked from Lan to the doctors. “Should we start taking pictures?”

“What are you giving me?” Lan shouted.

Behind her the doctors moved off, whispering and marking their clipboards. Under her breath, Lan began to sing a tune, the words getting louder until they could be clearly heard: “ ‘There was a little honey from Kontum/Boy did she ever like boom, boom…’ ”

“No,” Helen said, bending down and hushing the girl. “Not in the hospital. Don’t let them hear you.” She felt a flush of parental embarrassment.

Lan shrugged and plucked at her hair, pulling out a few strands that she dropped on the floor.

“What do you want me to bring next time?” Helen said, figuring on bargaining with the child.

“A camera,” she said. “Sam promised me a camera, and he lied and goes to die instead.” The words froze Helen, and Lan noticed, becoming suddenly attentive. “He lied to you, too?”

“It was an accident, Lan. He didn’t want to die.”

“Mama says no accidents. I lose my leg because I was stupid girl.”

“That’s wrong. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I pick vegetables because they grow bigger and more easy than walking around to safe place.”

“It was an accident.”

The nurse came back carrying two cafeteria trays of food and put one down in front of each of them. She winked at Helen. “If you two finish your lunch maybe I can find you a dessert.”

Lan’s face turned red, her brow furrowed. “My mama’s right. No accidents. You’re stupid.”

Helen took a deep breath, suddenly tired of the whole idea of the shoot, the effort too hard; she just wanted to escape from the girl’s craziness. “You like America?” Helen asked, bending down and taking a camera out of its case.

“I want that camera.”

“This is mine. I’ll buy you your own.”

“I want to go home. Why can’t my parents visit?” Lan shoved the tray of food across the table, sending it flying over the edge and onto the floor. “I hate chicken. Lan is special girl, eat anything she want.” She jerked herself sideways on her stool, grabbing for the crutches against the wall, moving so quickly she lost her balance and fell.

Helen made no move to help her, and when Lan looked up and saw her sitting back, she cried louder as the nurse rushed forward and kneeled next to her.

“Don’t touch,” Lan screamed. “No touch me.”

Helen’s face beaded with sweat; she couldn’t breathe, the commotion bringing back the low, dark Red Cross room in Saigon, the close smell of urine and unwashed bodies.

Images clattered one after another in her head. Helen rose on unsteady legs as if rising from a heavy, drugged sleep. No matter what she did, she could not escape, that much was clear. Even a dangerous talent better than nothing.

She longed for cool air and quiet. Lan’s screams grew louder, more out of control, but Helen saw only the wounded children of Saigon in front of her, laid out on their beds sardine-style, the little boy in the courtyard eating bougainvillea blossoms. The camera in her hand shook. Lan rocked on the floor with the doctors kneeling around her like a wounded soldier attended by medics. Helen grabbed her camera bag and ducked out the door.

In the hallway, the cries muffled, Helen leaned against a cartoon rabbit painted on the wall and closed her eyes.

The nurse came out. “Sorry about that. Today’s a bad one.”

“She’s done this before?”

“Oh yeah. Back and forth. Shell shock for kids. Not pretty.”

“She wasn’t like that.”

“You don’t look so good yourself. Why don’t you lie down, and I’ll get a doctor.”

“That’s okay.” Helen moved toward the elevator.