Thirty-Four

“What the hell, Lola? Vietnam? The police? Are you all right? What have you done? What am I supposed to tell Margaret?” Despite the eleven-hour time difference that put Lola’s call at three in the morning Montana time, Jan was fully awake.

The police, after calling Jan, had finally released Lola, apparently convinced—almost—that she wasn’t a drug dealer. Mai was to join her later at the hotel, after returning to the orphanage to explain her absence. The cabdriver had deposited Lola at the hotel door, still so shaken by his experience with the police that he almost waved away the bonus she pressed upon him for finding the orphanage and Mai.

She’d hurried past the front desk, ignoring the clerk, face bright with questions, and pretended not to see the way the rest of the staff found excuses to linger in doorways as she passed. Safe in her room, she turned the air conditioner up to high, plugged her phone into its charger, swept her overturned belongings from the bed, and fell onto it, calling Jan as soon as the phone beeped back to life.

Something caught in her throat at Jan’s trademark blend of worry and accusation. It escaped in peals of laughter. She drew her knees up to her chest and flung out her arms and let it rock through her, even as she thought God, how long has it been?

“Lola? Lola? What’s wrong with you? Because nothing about this is funny.”

Lola pressed a hand to her chest, willing her mirth back inside. Her friend was right, she knew. And she herself heard the edge of hysteria in her guffaws. But after so long, it felt so good! She thought of the pressure from the aunties, from Jan, to have sex again. But really, laughter was almost as good. Better, even, under the circumstances.

“I know. It’s not. But everything’s fine, Jan. It’s really fine. You won’t believe this.”

Just like the laughter, the story came out in a rush, the impulsive decision to fly to Vietnam without even knowing exactly what she was looking for—“following your gut, just like you used to do,” Jan interjected with satisfaction—or even where to look.

“How did the police get involved?” Early on in their friendship, Lola had styled herself a mentor to Jan. Now, as her friend homed in on the weak link in her story, she wondered if she’d done her job too well.

“Something the cabdriver said, maybe.” Lola hurried on to the part about Mai before Jan could probe the unspoken “maybe not” part of that particular equation.

“It’s unbelievable. Trang—Frank—thought his sister was dead. And when she saw the police, and they asked her about him, she thought he was. It’s a great story, the kind of happy story that stupid magazine loves.”

Jan’s voice muffled in the familiar way that meant she’d bitten down on her braid. “No, it’s not. Because that kid is still in jail, looking at Murder One.”

Any laughter remaining in Lola’s lungs fled with her next breath. “Right. There’s that. There’s something else, too.”

Pfft.

Lola wondered if Jan had any braid left.

“What else?”

“I don’t know what any of it means. Trang wanted to come over here, presumably to find out what had happened to his sister, given that he thought she was dead. I get that. And maybe somebody wanted to keep him from coming here. That’s why whoever killed Sariah, if someone else did kill her”—the old reporter’s caution against assuming anything kicked in—“that person tried to make it look like Trang did it.”

Jan took up her train of thought, whacking the ball back at her in their familiar ping-pong routine of talking through stories, each playing devil’s advocate to the other, finding the holes, figuring out how to fill them in. “Because getting someone arrested for homicide is a surefire way to keep him from going anywhere.”

“But what’s that leave us with?” Lola answered her own question. “Nothing. From the very beginning, not one thing about this has made sense.”

Defeat, Lola’s boon companion these last few months, crept back in, surveyed the room, and did a victory dance. The old heaviness returned to her limbs.

“No. There is something.”

Lola’s eyelids drooped. The day at the police station, along with the effects of the virus or whatever it was—yet again, she refused to consider withdrawal—plus the jet lag, had left her exhausted. She longed for sleep. “What’s that?”

“Family. After all these years, this kid has a family. Since he can’t go there, bring that girl back here. Get them together. Who knows what will come up? And speaking of family … ”

Lola was tired, so tired. “What’s that?” she murmured.

“Someone wants to talk to you.”

Lola bolted upright. Defeat took a tumble.

“Mommy?”

“Margaret!”

“Mommy, are you all right? Aunt Jan was worried about you. I know, because I listened when I wasn’t supposed to. Don’t be mad. Mommy, I’m glad you’re all right because I have to tell you about school. And basketball. I’m a forward. Do you know what that is? Did you ever play basketball? Were you any good? I’ll bet you weren’t as good as I am.”

Lola didn’t know why her daughter had decided to speak to her again. Maybe the time away had served its purpose. Maybe Margaret, no longer confronted daily with her mother’s emotional collapse, had reverted to memories of better times. Whatever. The why didn’t matter. Just her daughter’s voice, full of life. Life.

As Margaret chattered on and on, Lola did a dance of her own around the room, pausing every so often to give Defeat another kick in the ass.