Page 38 of That's Not a Thing

“She was not all right, though.”

Though I can’t understand his words directly, I can hear that Moe’s voice is laced with anger now.

“She had been made pregnant by the Tatmadaw.”

Moe pauses to clear his throat, turning his gaze out the window in an effort to compose himself. While I wait, I realize that he hasn’t mentioned his sister’s age.

Finally, he continues.

“When I found people to get us the documents,” Arnie translates, “so that we could go out from the country, through Bangkok, she was so near the time when the baby would come. I said we should wait to go until after the baby came, but she refused to travel with the child. She thought it was safer for them both just to stay at Mae La. Safer for me also, if they didn’t hold me back, she said. She refused, refused,” he repeats.

Moe looks at me and pauses for a moment to wipe his eyes.

“And I left anyway. I left her behind.”

We are all silent as we absorb the enormity of Moe’s words.

“How did you make the choice?” I ask, my curiosity genuine, not simply a desire to fill in blank spaces on the I-589.

He purses his lips, thinking for a moment. When he finally speaks, Arnie nods before translating:

“I decided that she would not want me to give up my future for her.”

Although Moe makes this declaration as though the decision had been a simple one, I can see virulent emotions simmering just below the surface. As I watch the vein pulsing in his forehead, I wonder what I would have done in his place. My lawyer’s mind notes that Moe’s application will, in fact, be significantly stronger with this new information about his uncle’s arrest, his mother’s disappearance, and his sister’s sexual assault, all of which will establish that the alleged pattern of mistreatment by the military directly affected his family. Shame on me for not having discovered this information sooner, as the offenses committed against his family go toward proving the legitimacy of the threat of harm he perceived toward himself. It will help if Moe has any proof of these events —papers regarding his uncle’s arrest, or even a photograph of his sister with a bulging belly. I worry that if I ask, I’m going to find myself holding a photo of twelve-or thirteen-year-old girl.

I open my laptop to stall for a moment, and I see an email waiting from Peri Holz, the administrative assistant I share with a few other junior lawyers. I click the message and read,Emergency Kinderwohl meeting in twenty minutes.

I quickly tap back a reply:Thanks. Pls let them know I’ll be a few min late bc I’m with another client.

Screw them and their chewing tobacco. I’m not leaving this meeting before it’s good and finished. Maybe there’s a part of me that wants to poke the hornets’ nest, provoke the higher-ups into firing me. But when I think about how pissed Alexandra, the supervising associate, will be that I didn’t come running to the meeting, I flinch. Okay, so maybe I should start wrapping up this conversation.

I ask about a photo, but Moe has nothing of the sort. Rose reappears and sits back in the chair she had vacated, without saying a word, as if she is waiting for me to fill her in. Moe’s reference to his future has reminded me that we still need more information about his plans, about how he is going to become a contributing member of American society if his application is granted. I remind Rose about this line of questions, and she asks Arnie.

“The IRC got me a position in a Chinese restaurant uptown. I wash the dishes and sweep the floors. I hope soon they are going to give me more hours of working time.”

I wonder if I should try to get Moe into the class Wesley is running at the soup kitchen, help him learn skills that could translate into more hours of work for him somewhere. But then I remember that Wesley is almost finished with the course. If he’s not teaching another semester of the life skills class, he must know that his health is about to start deteriorating more rapidly. I swallow the lump that has suddenly risen in my throat and turn my attention back to Moe. “We’re going to do everything we can,” I say, looking directly at him, as though we don’t need Arnie’s help in order to communicate, “to make sure you get the future your sister wanted for you.”

Chapter Seventeen

May 2017

Iwake up to bright sunshine streaming in through Aaron’s weak excuse for blackout shades and feel strong arms wrapping themselves around my middle. It’s been more than five weeks since I moved in, but I still haven’t finished unpacking my boxes. I tell myself that it’s some sort of new procrastination trait I’ve developed and not a metaphorical act symbolizing a reluctance to commit. I’m trying my level best not to let any of my lingering feelings for Wesley jeopardize my future with Aaron. While I must admit to myself that I haven’t completely ejected Wesley from my thoughts since I saw him last, I have made a concerted effort to avoid him, which is also an effort to protect my relationship with Aaron.

Although now, as I lie in bed with my eyes open, staring at the six closed moving boxes piled on top of each other against the opposite wall of the bedroom, I wonder if I should just check to see how Wesley is doing. When Aaron asked me nearly two months ago, the day after our argument on the topic, what I was going to do to help Wesley, I told him that I didn’t think the disease had progressed all that far yet, that I could wait until Wesley really needed physical assistance before I stepped in. Neither of us has brought it up since. I have also stopped going to the soup kitchen, having finally realized that my plan to desensitize myself to Wesley by spending increased time in his orbit was just a weak rationalization on my part.

It’s Saturday, and Aaron is starting a shift at the hospital in a few hours. I decide to get up and make us brunch before he heads to the gym. Better yet—I pull out the stack of takeout menus above the fridge in his kitchen, pick up my phone, and order us some crêpes and omelets from the French-Greek gastro-diner down the street.

The food arrives twenty minutes later, and I marvel at the speed at which things can happen in this great city I’ve lived in for the last decade. I tiptoe back into the bedroom and then ask myself why I’m creeping, since I’m planning to wake Aaron anyway. I sit on the side of the bed and take a moment to admire the expanse of his naked back. I feel a primal surge of lust thinking about the vast amount of space this one human manages to occupy, and an equal sense of contentment as I run my hand over his bare shoulders.

“Good morning, Dr. Rapp,” I say too loudly, knowing the noise will jar him into consciousness.

He turns over relatively quickly and fixes me with one of his irresistible grins, all teeth and just the littlest hint of a single dimple. “Ooh, are we role-playing? Are you finally going to be my nurse?”

“Shut up.” I punch him playfully in the thigh, or what I think is his thigh, beneath the white sheet. “I ordered Nutella crêpes and spinach omelets. Come.” I give a little yank on his hand. He ambles out of the bed, pulling on a pair of drawstring jersey pants that greatly flatter his abs, and then follows me to the living room.

As we sit on the couch and each unwrap the foil from our crêpes in our standard “dessert first” brunch move, I breathe in the smell of chocolate spread and decide that today I am going to wear my big-girl panties.

“So, I think I’m going to visit Wesley today,” I announce, proud of myself for declaring my intentions in advance of my actions.