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I woke to the sound of rain splattering against the windows. Dehydrated, I wandered into the kitchen where brown sludge gushed from the faucet. I rummaged through cabinets and found bottles of sparkling water. I aggressively twisted off a cap and guzzled. There were cans of soup, beans, and baby corn on shelves in the pantry. But I wasn’t hungry.
I hadn’t showered since leaving Malaysia. I felt the same way I used to after a night out with friends in KL. Since ninth grade, my classmates had frequently thrown parties that typically began in hotel ballrooms and ended at clubs in the heart of the city. I always smelled of cigarette smoke and whiskey after those escapades.
I threw on my jacket and ventured into the damp, empty street. The crisp air of Oregon was a stark contrast to the warmth I had known for years. I took a bus to the local YMCA and registered as a new member so that I could finally shower.
While washing my hair, I observed other members whose gray hair and wrinkles suggested wisdom and maturity. They talked about the environment, the war in Yugoslavia, and some guy named Ralph Nader. In contrast, Mom’s expat friends sported fashionable designs and expensively dyed hair. They chatted about shopping, plastic surgery, and extra-marital affairs.
Standing in the old locker room, I quickly dressed. As I climbed into my jeans, I thought about money. I wanted to talk to Dad’s lawyer but didn’t think I could afford his fees. Besides, what would I say? More importantly, could I even trust him?
After leaving the Y, I went on a long walk to the public library, which gave me time to think. In order to get running electricity and water, I’d call the utilities company and pretend to be Mom. Our old account from last year would be on record.
When I arrived at the library, I managed to find a vacant computer. Sandwiched between homeless men who smelled of liquor, I thought about emailing Dara. I carefully crafted an email, but got scared and wondered if this was a good idea. Who might be able to read my emails? Would they then figure out my whereabouts? I trashed the message and performed some perfunctory Internet searches. According to my findings, after a seven-year absence, I could collect Dad’s life insurance benefits.
Later, I wandered into a convenience store and bought a phone card. I called Dara twice, from a phone booth, but her line was disconnected.
As I headed home, I considered things. I wouldn’t turn sixteen until next year, so finding a job besides babysitting would be difficult. I thought about renting out rooms in the house, since there were four additional ones, but that would be risky. If a tenant caused trouble, or if my cousin found out, I could end up in foster care. So for now, I had to support myself through babysitting.
When I finally got home, with a bag of fruit, nuts, and soymilk, the sun was setting, so I lit a few candles.