Janice Lee - The Expatriates

What she can’t stand, also, is how many “of courses” there are in her life. The sympathetic women murmuring “of course” all the time. How do you tell your travel agent that you lost your child, literally lost him, more than a year ago, and that now you’re going on vacation? Of course, it’s impossible.

The check-in woman tries to say their seats are canceled because G is not there and they are on a special group ticket — another side effect of Rosalie’s superb efficiency in getting them the best tickets for the cheapest prices is that they are usually immutable in their classification and resistant to any sort of change in plans or attempts at spontaneity. Somewhat like Rosalie herself, Margaret has thought on more than one occasion. Clarke sorts it out by raising his voice and demanding to see the manager — typically American behavior, which is amplified in an unusually distasteful way in Asia. When he does this, when she does this, to be really honest with herself, the usually dormant 25 percent of herself that is Korean raises its head and asks why a big, rich white man is shouting at a poor, small Asian person.

Clarke waves at her to get the kids away so they don’t have to listen to their father angrily explain their situation to yet another person. The manager, a thin young man in his thirties, listens, bewildered, to the insane story he is being told.

They sit on the bench and wait for it to get sorted. Airports must get this all the time, she thinks. Like hotels or other clearing spaces, there must be tragedies and romances and happy endings every single day. Criminals on the lam, boys pursuing girls, families separated and reunited. The departure halls and detention rooms must be filled with tragic stories, the arrivals lounge with unbelievable happiness.

The boarding passes get issued finally, and they go through immigration, but Clarke is still fuming. In all fairness, he probably is angry at her but had to take it out on the airline clerk because he can’t yell at Margaret. Later in the lounge, where they go because Clarke travels so much he’s a VIP, he sits next to her and says, “Margaret, I understand why you did it, but come on! That was so much worse than it needed to be. Daisy and Philip are upset now.”

And they are. Daisy’s reading on her Kindle, and Philip is playing his DS, but their faces are tight and withdrawn.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Because that’s all she can say. She can’t say it won’t happen again or anything that will help the situation. She can just express her feelings of empathy for what her husband is feeling. Clarke sighs and heads over to the noodle bar to get a bowl for a late breakfast.

After the short flight, they are greeted in arrivals by a smiling young man holding a wooden sign with their name in one hand and a tray of cold, damp towels in another. Escorted to the car and offered water, they settle in and set off for the hotel. They have been to Phuket once before. It was their first vacation after they moved to Hong Kong three years ago. Margaret once heard a woman deride the island as the “expat starter vacation.” They stayed at an American chain hotel on the beach. This time, they are staying at a French chain hotel on the beach. She didn’t want to go to the same hotel.

“There is no way forward in these countries,” Clarke says, looking at all the young men sitting outside. “What are they going to do with their lives?” Margaret looks at the people talking, drinking beer, some animated, some resigned, and thinks, This is life. These people are living. They are not waiting. But, of course, some of them must be. Just as they cannot see her and what she is doing, how she is not living.

She shakes it off.

In a bright voice, she says, “No matter how many times it happens, I can’t believe that we can be in one place in the morning and then in another country in a few hours. And they speak a different language and eat different food. Isn’t it amazing, guys?”

Daisy nods, still reading her Kindle. Philip is looking out at the streets.

“Do you think we can surf?” he asks his father. “I want to try surfing.”

“Sure,” Clarke says. “I’ll try it with you.”

“What do you want to do, Daisy girl?” Her mother ruffles her hair.

“Maybe snorkeling?”

“Let’s see.”

They arrive at an enormous thatched-roof lobby, then are brought into a reception area overlooking a wide reflecting pool filled with lotus flowers. They can hear the sea and smell the humid tropical air. They are seated on red Thai silk sofas and given a fruity drink and more hand towels while Clarke registers at the front desk. The first time they did this, Philip put his feet up and said with satisfaction, “This is the life!” and they laughed, and then G did it and they laughed again. Clarke looked on with pride, seeing the life he had provided for his family: Thailand! And in such style! Margaret thinks, she will not do this for the whole trip. She will not think of the last time they were here and when G was here.

They go to their rooms and get their luggage, unpack, and change.

This is when she really feels like she’s on vacation: when she changes into a sundress and applies sunscreen to her kids’ faces. It’s so visceral: the smell of coconut sunblock and the feel of the white lotion, the light cotton of your dress on your pale body.

She unpacks the children’s clothes and puts them away, finds their toothbrushes, stands them up in a cup in the bathroom.

Is the change from three to two that different? There’s that funny equation that people talk about when they’re having children. The first is the hardest. The second is hard because it impacts the first so much. Then some say you don’t even notice the third. Others say you’re going from man-to-man to zone defense, that funny football analogy. But what is the reverse? Going from three to two means it’s simpler in terms of management. Two parents, two kids. Two girls, two boys. Simple. With a ghost in between.

They leave their room and walk down to the pool. The paths are wide and paved, and they pass housekeeping golf carts and smiling employees who greet them in the traditional Thai way, palms pressed together as if in prayer, murmuring, “ Sawadee ka .” Large palm trees sway overhead, providing shade. There’s that disorientation that happens the first day in any resort — not knowing how to get from your room to the breakfast restaurant, to the pool, to the health club. By the end of the vacation, everyone is at home, familiar with the layout, just before they have to leave.

By the pool, they acquire loungers, towels, cold drinks. Margaret sits under an umbrella someone has set up perfectly so she is in the shade, sipping an iced tea, with a hat and dark sunglasses, the very picture of relaxation. But this is what she is actually doing, if anyone looks carefully: She is closing her eyes, trying to conjure up a picture of G. It is so difficult. She is getting panicked, heart racing, that his picture won’t pop up when summoned. It is so hard now to get a visual of him. She has a picture of him in her bag, but she doesn’t want to cheat. So she lies there, eyes fluttering, finding it harder and harder to breathe, feeling this sick sense that she is losing him all over again.

How can she not picture her child on command? So then she tries to picture Clarke and Daisy, and Philip. She is relieved to find they don’t spring instantly into focus either. So then she tries to think of a photograph, and then she can imagine all their faces. So this is how it starts. You remember the child. Then you remember the photograph. What comes next? These generations of memories. They fade.

Her children step carefully, lightly, into the pool, as if they know how fragile everything is, and of course they do.