Authors: Christine Brae
In This Life
In This Life
Copyright © 2016 by Christine Brae
Cover Design by Lindsay Sparkes
Editing by Jim Thomas
Interior design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
Through all the joys I’ve had
And all the tears I’ve shed
I wish that you could see
You never left me.
“But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!”
—Robert Burns
“ONE FOR ME,
please, Miss.” The smiling boy reached out his bony arms before me. I resisted the urge to squeeze liquid sanitizer into his hands before dipping the ladle into the steaming cauldron and filling his filthy cup. It had been a long day, doling out watered down chicken noodle soup in the makeshift shelter supported by flimsy poles set into the sand. One of three white tents for food, medicine and emergency medical care.
“They need their daily dose of grace,” I muttered, convinced of my purpose for being there.
It was a typical day in Thailand, five days since I arrived on this medical mission—a choice I made rather impulsively. I traveled here from New York with a group of idealistic twenty-somethings, ready to help the less fortunate. There were seven of us, mostly med students from different parts of the world.
Ban Nam Khem, a serene fishing village located on the coast of the Andaman Sea, featured beautiful sandy beaches, crystal clear water, and a host of natural rock formations. We were there to serve at the orphanage for children affected by the tidal wave last year.
Mud and remnant debris were still evident in some places, but if you walked down the stretch of sand far enough, you were met by unexpected bursts of paradise. The stench of sweaty bodies, some close to death, pressed together in the hot, humid air, filled my nostrils despite the endless backdrop of sea and shore. This paradise, this place of beauty, was also filled with sadness and need. Everyone here was in need of something—food, shelter, hope.
For me, hope was a cold drink and a long bath, although I would have settled for a cool breeze—something to dry the sweat trickling onto the sides of my face, and to unglue my hair from the back of my neck. Or anything to drown out the taste of salt from the soppy surgical mask stuck to my skin. My movements were restricted by a thick layer of sunblock, greased fingertips and mud-caked sneakers.
As if in a fog with no chances of ever lifting, I watched people move around sluggishly. No one seemed to be in any hurry, and I was sure that the weather had much to do with the slow pace of life. Maybe it was the fear of expending too much energy. Or maybe it was the acceptance of a situation so dire, you did what you did in the course of a day knowing full well that change was unlikely.
The smiling faces that greeted me each day were nothing short of amazing. The fact that they could live in squalor and still consider themselves blessed was a gift and an inspiration, making the days go quicker and the tasks easier to carry out.
It was early evening by the time I made my way along the winding gravel path that led to our dwelling. The house was one of the few made of stone, a sprawling white bungalow with arched windows and a raised terracotta roof. It stood out a bit like an eyesore, a solid concrete structure surrounded by bamboo huts.
Our host for the mission was a businessman who built this home in the middle of nowhere. It must have been a good investment then—who would imagine that this happy little corner of the world would one day become swallowed up by the sea? The aftermath of that disaster captured global attention and exposed this small town to an outpouring of goodness from the Western world.
I entered the house before the others got back. The smell of bacon wafted through the hall as I made my way past the sparsely decorated living room. The afternoon sun shone dimly through the tall windows, reflecting rust-colored tiles against the yellow walls.
“Hey, Spark. A bunch of us are hanging out by the beach tonight. Are you coming?” My friend and partner-in-crime, Dante Leola, called out from the kitchen. He began calling me Spark years ago, because I was always on fire.
Would you rather I call you Ants in Your Pants Anna, or Spark?
Dante said that I did everything with fearless passion. Somehow I managed to convince him to travel here with me on a whim. I packed up and left, and he came running right behind.
We need this break before we turn into adults, I told him. When else will we get to take three weeks off once you’re in business school and I’m in med school?
Dante walked towards the sink with a frying pan in his hand. There were neatly arranged strips of bacon on a square plate by the stove. He picked up a few pieces and shoved them hungrily into his mouth. “You could’ve eaten straight from the pan,” I said with a laugh.
“Yeah, I could have.” Typical answer from someone who took no shortcuts.
“Who’s going?” I asked, while proceeding directly to the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water. I had yet to interact with the rest of the group, having spoken briefly to them when we arrived at the airport.
“The usual. That French dude, the English guy, and those two Russian chicks.” The rush of the water drowned out the sound of his voice. I watched while he rinsed the pan and laid it face down on a kitchen towel that was spread out across the marble counter. The space embodied a contemporary feel, with grey and white stone structures contrasted by wooden cabinets and solid oak barstools. It was the most updated area of the house. “Ah. The ones you hooked up with the other night,” I teased.