THE AMERICANS’ STRANGE DESIRE FOR CONTROL

That firm resolve lasted until eleven thirty, when her assistant, Sisithorn Wichasak, came to get her for lunch. Ladarat looked up to find the girl peering through the door, her head protruding from the right-hand edge. Perched there, with only her head visible, she looked a little like a puppet.

She really was pretty, but in an awkward way. Admittedly, her oversize glasses and oversize feet didn’t help. The glasses, in particular, gave the impression that she hadn’t quite grown up yet.

And in some ways, perhaps, she hadn’t. She was so serious, for instance. Like a child memorizing her lines for a school play in which she would impress everyone. She reminded Ladarat of herself, twenty years ago. Hoping that if she worked hard enough, and attended to every detail, success would come to her naturally.

And like Ladarat herself had always been, Sisithorn was a good listener. And a good watcher. She often noticed things that others didn’t. She would have been very good at finding hidden elephants.

“You work too much, Khun,” Sisithorn said suddenly. “You need to take a break and clear your head. So you can be more… effective.” She knew, somehow, that would be the argument that would be most likely to have an impact. The promise that a rest now would make her more effective this afternoon. Very wise for someone so young.

But no. She had too much to do. “I don’t have the time,” she said. “For me to go down to the dining room, and to take the time for lunch…” The hospital was counting on her. She knew that. To spare even a half hour wasn’t right.

But Sisithorn was nodding. “I knew you would say that. That’s why I brought your lunch to you.”

And she piled through the door, bearing plastic bags that she unceremoniously set down on Ladarat’s little desk. Without waiting for permission, Sisithorn began to unwrap and open Styrofoam containers. There was tom yum gung—the spicy prawn soup that was to have helped her be productive tonight. And gang keow wan, classic Thai green curry that would probably be a little too spicy for Ladarat.

Ladarat sighed, pushing the pile of guidelines away from her. These would wait.

“So tell me,” Sisithorn said, “about the American man. Will he survive?” She helped herself to the curry.

“It is bad luck to speculate about such things,” Ladarat told her, a little more severely than she’d intended.

She tried a couple of spoonfuls of the soup. Ahh, very good. Just spicy enough, and sour enough to make your mouth water.

“Besides,” she said more softly, “it is impossible to know such a thing so soon. Instead, the real question we should be asking right now is…”

“How to help the family,” Sisithorn said promptly.

“Exactly so. We cannot do anything more to help the man, Mr. Fuller. But we can certainly help his family.”

“But what sort of help do they need?” the girl asked. “Of course we should make them comfortable, as guests. But they are waiting, the same as us. Surely we can’t help prepare them for his death, because we don’t know if he will live or not. So what can we do?”

Sisithorn wasn’t being argumentative, Ladarat knew. She was genuinely confused. She sighed. So clever, but she couldn’t put herself in the position of other people. She couldn’t experience true compassion.

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong. They are in a strange place, with no one they know,” she explained patiently.

Sisithorn nodded uncertainly.

“Imagine… Imagine you are in… Chicago. And you are with a loved one who is very sick and in the hospital. You don’t know anybody else. And you don’t speak the language. You have no idea what is happening. What would you want? What would help you?”

“Gang keow wan?” She smiled.

Thinking back on her year in Chicago, and the sterile hospital cafeteria with its casseroles and meatloaf and mashed potatoes, Ladarat had to smile, too. A little gang keow wan would have made her year much more bearable.

“But what else?”

“Ah, I would want… someone to talk to.”

“But not just anyone, yes? You would want…”

“A friend.”

Ladarat nodded. “Exactly so. You would want a friend.”

Sisithorn thought about that for a full minute as she progressed from the curry to the soup.

“But how do we find them a friend?” she asked finally. “Much less a friend who is an American like them?”

“We don’t find them a friend, exactly. No one can do that. But we can visit often. We can help them get their questions answered. Americans, remember, want to be in control. They want information. They want people to be telling them what is going on.”

“Even if there is nothing they can do?”

“Especially then.”

“That is… strange.”

Ladarat shrugged. “Perhaps. But it is normal for them, just as it is normal for us to defer to the physician. Anyway,” she concluded, “we do what they expect. What they need. We help them get information. And slowly they will come to appreciate having us there. We still won’t be friends, but we will be helpful in that way.”

“I see,” Sisithorn said, smiling as if to say she most certainly didn’t see. But that was all right. She would take her assistant with her to see the Fullers after lunch.

They talked about other things—the other patients and issues and, of course, the inspections, until finally, triumphantly, Sisithorn unpacked the last item from the plastic bag at her elbow. Proudly, but nervously, she unwrapped her offering. She held out a small package, wrapped in a banana leaf.

Ladarat’s favorite: kanom maprao. A soft, fantastically rich coconut cake made with coconut milk and shaved coconut. More like custard, it was creamy and sweet with clumps of coconut that would surprise you.

“I know you like this,” Sisithorn said simply.

“Thank you, you are most kind.” She took one of the three pieces and Sisithorn took the second. That was very thoughtful. And perceptive. How had Sisithorn known that the cake was her favorite sweet? Ladarat couldn’t remember ever discussing such a thing. Yet Sisithorn must have paid attention. She must have noticed. She was indeed very good at noticing things.

Ladarat had observed that talent in the past. Like when that Frenchman last month was confused and disoriented, it was Sisithorn, and not Ladarat or even the doctors, who noticed that he got worse whenever his girlfriend came to visit. (It turned out that she’d been bringing him heroin that he’d inject into his legs.)

“I’m so glad you like them. Please, have the last one,” the girl said.

“No, thank you. You should have it.”

“No, I insist.” She wrapped it up and pushed it across the desk, smiling shyly. “Or then you should save it. It will keep.”

Ladarat agreed that it would. And she thought that it would be exactly what she’d need later in the afternoon, as she was struggling to finish reviewing all of the hospital guidelines.

“So now we’ll go see the American family. We will do our best to make sure their questions are answered.”

“And Kate and I will be… like friends,” Sisithorn added.