The Merit Birds by Kelley Powell Read Free Book Online Page A

university instead of going to work right away.
    â€œIt reminds me of my sister, because I used to massage her in the evenings before we slept. So yes, I guess I like it,” she said.
    â€œHey, your English is good.” The falang looked happy about this.
    â€œThanks. I studied a lot.”
    â€œI’m new here,” he said.
    â€œYou all are,” Nok answered and stood up to leave.

Shards
    Cam
    â€œCam, I’m so glad you’re getting into Lao culture,” Julia said when my visits to Fa Ngum Massage grew more frequent. But Somchai figured it out pretty quickly.
    â€œMeet a beautiful poosao ?” he asked one evening when I got back from the massage house. I just grinned and passed the basketball to him harder.
    I could tell Nana was trying to hide a smile each time I requested Nok to be my masseuse, but I noticed how Nok’s body would stiffen when Nana led me to her. Was that a good sign? I didn’t think so.
    We began to talk about a lot of things after each massage. I asked about her parents and she said they went to political retraining camp. She said it was like a school where the Lao government sends people to learn about communism.
    â€œWhen are they going to be done?”
    Nok just shrugged.
    I surprised myself by beginning to talk about my dad. The last time I’d said his name I was seven years old. I’d been waiting all morning for him to pick me up and take me fishing. Kneeling on the couch, my nose pressed against the window, I waited for his car to pull into Julia’s driveway.
    â€œGreat day for fishing!” she had said brightly as she’d opened the curtains that morning. But she was growing increasingly agitated. I could tell by the spastic way she cleaned the kitchen, folded the laundry, tried to keep busy.
    I watched as our neighbour across the street pulled out of her driveway and came back some time later with a trunk full of groceries. I saw Matthew from down the street practising how to ride without training wheels. His dad held on to the back of his bike seat and ran beside him over and over again, just like I’d seen other parents do. Parents except for mine; I still needed training wheels.
    My father had called me two weeks earlier and promised this would be the day. We would catch a lake trout big enough for dinner, he said. I hadn’t seen him in a year and a half. He was going to be amazed at how tall I’d grown.
    â€œMaybe you should call him?” I said to Julia. “See if he’s still coming.”
    But by this time, Julia’s forced cheeriness had fizzled. “I’m not calling that bastard.”
    I whined at her to call him, but she just went back to her frenetic housework. I tried screaming and she ignored me. I pounded on her chest with clenched, seven-year-old fists. She left the room and I frantically grasped at whatever I could and chucked it until it smashed. A Royal Doulton figurine that was my grandma’s. A crystal sugar bowl Julia only used when company came. I liked that I was in charge of how they broke, how I had produced the razor-sharp glass shards myself.
    Julia came back into the room but didn’t say a word. She had seen these kinds of tantrums before. The counsellor had instructed her not to react when they happened, to stay calm, keep cool. He (or was it she? I had seen so many counsellors by age seven I can’t remember) told me to count to ten, take deep breaths, think of something that made me feel good. But he didn’t know how good it made me feel to see my mother’s cherished belongings smash against her expertly wallpapered wall.
    She picked me up, and, with my arms thrashing viciously, carried me into my room. That was before I was stronger than her. Later, she would have to just leave the house. It was the only thing she could do.
    In my room I overturned the oak dresser Julia had bought after the divorce. I punched a hole in the wall — the third one in