Hattie smiles. “And his vision?”
“Fine.”
“How very very lucky.” That shattered occipital bone, after all, with his occipital lobe just below it—his primary visual cortex—Hattie shudders.
“The surgeon said time will tell but that he has good karma. He said my mom must’ve built it up for him.” Sophy turns the radio on herself, surprising Hattie; maybe it’s something she does in the blue car?
“Is the doctor Buddhist?”
“Jewish, I think. But he knew a lot about it. Like he was asking what Theravada Buddhism meant. I guess he only knew about Mahayana, because it’s, like, more popular.”
“It must be hard that your sisters went back.”
“I wish they could have stayed.”
“Your mom, too, I bet.”
“My mom?” Sophy loosens her seat belt, freeing her kangaroo pocket.
“Wishes they could’ve stayed, I mean.”
The children don’t stay
.
“Yeah, well, Sophan’s home was cool about her staying longer, but Sopheap’s home wanted her back, like, immediately, I guess because they were traveling unsupervised, and once this other girl went home and got in trouble. And Sophan and Sopheap wanted to go back if they were supposed to, so they could get out of there on time. Like they were trying to make the right choice for a change.”
“That’s great.”
“I guess.” Sophy moves her hands around in the pocket. “Anyway, it was a lot of godless chatter with them around.”
“That may be,” says Hattie carefully, “but wasn’t it great?”
“I don’t know.” Out pops a hand; Sophy plays with an earring. “It was complicated.”
“I bet.”
“But it was great, too, I guess.” She gives a lopsided smile. “They liked you.”
“I liked them.”
“Really.” Sophy leans over, inspecting herself in the side-view mirror—something else she’s never done before. “They think you’re all right.”
“Do they?”
“It’s true. They liked you a lot more than they liked Ginny.”
“Did they really?” Hattie tries not to smile too broadly, though she can feel the dopamine levels rise in her brain; it is a wonderful drive.
Of course, they’ve driven together, just the two of them, before. As Joe used to say, though,
Contraries are known by contraries;
what with Sophy’s sisters gone, the car seems far quieter to Hattie than it used to. And maybe to Sophy, too, because she seems to be trying to fill up the air.
“I don’t think they really even understood what happened until they saw Sarun in the hospital,” she says chattily.
“Do you understand what happened?”
“I think my dad has PTSD. You turn left here.”
“Sarun’s not in the main building?”
“He’s in the new one.”
“Ah. I bet you’re right about the PTSD. Do you know what that is, exactly?”
Hattie expects her to say yes or no, but instead Sophy says, “Ginny said you wanted something from us, but I never could figure out what it was.”
“Really.” Hattie turns on the wipers; Sophy closes her window.
“She said that one day I’d know and that it would be like a rock rolled back.”
“Did she.” Hattie musters up her courage. “I guess I’d have to say,” she says, “that I’m just a lonely old bat.” The windshield wipers go.
“You go right at the light.”
Hattie puts on her turn signal. “I’m an old retired lady with a dead husband and a faraway son and no sisters. I’ve got Reveille and Annie, as you know. And I’ve got friends. But first Joe died two years ago and then my best friend went, right after him. Her name was Lee.” She stops. “And now Cato.”
“That sounds hard.” Sophy hits an adult note even as she flicks her zipper toggle up and down.
“It is. Joe was a good man. And Lee was wonderful. Funny.” Hattie makes her turn. “For a long time, I wished that I’d died, too.”
“You should go to church more.”
“I go every week, just about,” says Hattie. “And I go to the library. There are always warm bodies there. And my walking group is great.”
“Except for Ginny.”
“She’s not my favorite,” admits Hattie. “And you know, there’s no getting around the fact that I need other people more than they need me. I’m just not an integral part of anyone’s picture, if you know what I mean.”
She makes her turn, expecting Sophy to ask her what “integral” means, but instead Sophy says, “You mean you’re old.”
“Yes. In a way.” Hattie nods. “Though you’d have to say I was always old, then. Or that I’ve been old longer than most people. Or that coming to America made me old.”
Sophy doesn’t ask Hattie what she means by any of that, either. Instead, she plays with her cross. “Sarun didn’t steal any plywood, you know,” she says suddenly.
And Hattie is just as suddenly grateful that she is in such a concertedly even frame of mind. “That was Ginny’s idea, wasn’t it?” she asks, coolly. “To blame him.”
“It was. But he didn’t do it.”
“Don’t I turn left up here?”
“At the light.”
The wipers squeak on their downward stroke.
“She wanted to blame him because whoever got blamed for the plywood might just get blamed for the fire, too,” guesses Hattie. “And she wanted to burn down the mini-mall to get Everett. Is that it?”
Sophy nods, more open now than Hattie has ever seen her. “How do you know everything? I told Sopheap and Sophan that, and they said you were just smart.”
Hattie shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” She frowns.
“You keep going straight.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, wait, you see? You know everything. Go right, kind of around that island.”
Hattie steers. “I have a question about all that, though.”
“You mean about the fire and everything?”
“Yes.” Hattie glances sideways; Sophy’s face is open and friendly. “Did you really think that would work—that people would link the fire and the stealing in the end? Without evidence? Did you really think Sarun and his friends would be convicted when they were innocent? Just because they were strangers and made people nervous?”
Sophy slumps a little, her hands back in her hoodie pocket. “I don’t know. I mean, sure. I mean it was, like, Jesus’s plan, so …” She shrugs. “Ginny said we were like Esther, put where we were put for a reason, we just had to look at what we were given and, like, try to figure out what it was. Like it was a puzzle.”
“And you let her try to pin it on Sarun because he was ruining things for your family. Is that it?”
“I guess. Straight.”
“Because here your family was, starting over, and he was driving your dad crazy. Messing things up with his gang. Disturbing things.”
“He was no good.”
“And this was a chance to stop him.”
“The Lord gave us this chance—I believe that. I mean, why else would He have sent the white van, right? Why else would He drive it right up to our trailer and put it right under our noses? Why else would He have terrorists attack America so people would believe anything?”
Why else would He have terrorists attack America.
“You mean, spooking people so they would believe almost anything about that scary van,” says Hattie, slowly.
Sophy nods. “I mean, the terrorists were probably sent to help a lot of people with a lot of things, not just us,” she says.
“The Lord God acting with divine efficiency.”
Sophy nods again.
“His plan,” says Hattie, “just happening to accord with your hopes.”
Sophy nods a third time.
“Because your father didn’t want Sarun anymore, and you didn’t, either.”
“I told my sisters the whole thing was my fault, but they said I was too sensitive. Like how could it be my fault, they said, just like they didn’t think they ended up in foster homes because of me, they said they just did stupid things themselves. Like the time Sopheap stole that car with her boyfriend. She said that was her own stupid decision, she just wishes somebody had told her she’d end up in a foster home for it. And Sophan said she was stupid to break into people’s houses and, like, try on their clothes and listen to their stereos and shit. She didn’t even steal stuff, but it was break and entry anyway, and they definitely should not have snorted any of the people’s coke. Like that was just so stupid. And when I said didn’t they feel that people looked down on them because of me, they said that was no excuse. They said they made bad choices and didn’t think about the consequences. And now they’re making, like, different choices. Like Sopheap says she’s going to be an independent woman and not get married or have children or anything. She says in ancient Cambodia women were more powerful than men, and that she’s going to go back to that and be like a she-man.” She makes a muscle.
Hattie laughs. “Wonderful. But this thing with Sarun really is your fault, you’re saying.”
“It is.” Sophy’s eyes suddenly fill. “I’m no good, Hattie. I’m not even a real older sister. Like when I was talking to my sisters, they sounded so much smarter than me—like they sounded older than me, instead of my being older than them. And look at the mess I made. I should never have been born.”
“Oh, Sophy.” Hattie pulls into a parking spot and turns her engine off. “You know, part of this may be your fault, but what about Ginny?” She digs some tissues out from the between-seat storage compartment. “Hasn’t Ginny sinned, too? I mean, who set the fire, right?”
“I set it.” Sophy blows her nose.
Hattie shuts the compartment lid.
“I did. I set it,” Sophy says again. “Do you see what I mean? How wack I am? Do you see?”
“Did Ginny help?”
“She showed me how to strike a match.”
“Was she there when you did it?”
“No.”
“Did she drive you there?”
“No.”
“Sophy.” Hattie speaks slowly, clearly, as if she is talking to Mum. “Did you know what you were doing? Did you know it was wrong?”
“I thought it was Christ’s plan.”
“You were like Esther, and Sarun was like Haman.”
“He was, he was like Haman—like he didn’t like anyone doing things different than him, or following different laws. He couldn’t tolerate difference.”
He couldn’t tolerate difference.
“He couldn’t tolerate holiness,” Sophy goes on. “He wanted to kill it because he knew he was doing bad things.”
“Was it drugs?”
“Bear stuff. Bear paws and bear—what do you call it—gallbladders. You know, like people use for traditional medicine. I guess the paws are for soup or something. The gang got them from the hunters and brought them up to some guy in Canada—it was all Sarun’s idea. I mean, some of the
puak maak
knew guys who did it in Cambodia, I guess in Cambodia there were guys who, like, sold stuff to Hong Kong and Korea, places like that. But it was Sarun who realized they could do the same thing here.” Sophy blows her nose again.
“He was the mastermind.”
Sophy nods with energy—as if despite herself she’s a little proud of Sarun. “The
puak maak
liked it because it was a new gig. Like they didn’t have to compete with a zillion other gangs, it was theirs.”
“Is it illegal?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“So why didn’t you turn him in for that? Why try to get him for plywood the gang didn’t even steal? Or did they.”
Sophy folds up her tissue so she can wipe her nose on a fresh part. “I don’t think so.”
“Was it because you’d have to act by yourself on the bear parts? Whereas this way you had company?”
“I don’t know.” Sophy looks genuinely confused. “I mean, it just didn’t seem like that was what Jesus wanted, I guess. Like Jesus sent me Ginny, and that wasn’t what Ginny wanted, so it didn’t seem like that’s what He wanted. It didn’t seem like the reason we were given what we were given.”
“I see. But let me ask you—did Ginny make you help her? This is important, Sophy. Did she make you?”
“No.” Another flash of pride. “I wanted to, I wanted to be like Esther. I knew Jesus would give us victory, I knew that He’d protect us.” Sophy’s face is blank, but her voice is strong. “I knew He’d be with us when we passed through the water and the fire. I knew He’d make sure we wouldn’t get, like, drowned or burned.”
“Or caught?”
Sophy slumps. “Anyway, that guy was building on the wrong foundation.”
“You mean Everett?”
Sophy nods.
“ ‘For other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is Jesus Christ,’ ” quotes Hattie. “Is that it?”
Sophy unfastens her seat belt.
“How does it go after that?” Hattie looks up, undoing her belt, too. “ ‘Every man’s work shall be made manifest; for it shall be revealed by fire.’ Something like that. First Corinthians.”
“You know a lot of scripture.”
“I can’t always remember what happened yesterday, but I remember my scripture from when I was a girl. Oh, wait, I’m missing part of it. ‘For the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man’s work of what sort it is.’ ”
“I’ll never be as good as you.”
“Of course you will, if you want to be. But tell me—you’ve heard that verse before?”
Sophy hesitates but then nods.
“From Ginny,” guesses Hattie.
“She said Everett was meddling with God and should know better!” Sophy says. “Like he should know that verse ‘Forbear thee from meddling with God’ something something—”
“ ‘Forbear thee from meddling with God, who is with me, that He destroy thee not.’ ”
Sophy plays with her toggle. “I just wish someone would destroy me,” she says, in a small voice. “I do. I wish someone would put me in jail.”
“What about a foster home again? Or a girls’ group home? I don’t think they’re going to put you in jail, Sophy.”
Sophy presses her tissue to her eyes. “I made a bad choice,” she cries. “I made a bad choice.” Her earrings swing.
Hattie puts a hand on her hoodied back; Sophy’s whole body is shaking.
“I should have listened to you. Why didn’t I listen to you? I loved Annie so much!”
“Annie loved you, too,” says Hattie. “And still does, you know.”
But Sophy does not hear her. “I am ashamed to have been born,” she sobs. “I am. There’s no reason for me to live. I’m sorry I was ever born.”
“Don’t say that,” says Hattie, but there’s no stopping Sophy. She cries even as the clouds start to part and thin and lift; she cries even as visiting hours end and Hattie starts up the car. There is nothing to do but fill up the gas tank and head home.