The Merit Birds by Kelley Powell Page A

river.
    â€œWe’re going to the clinic, Cam. They don’t have much, but they will see what they can do,” Somchai said.
    The clinic was nothing but one bare room with some hospital-green cabinets in a corner, and one light bulb dangling from the ceiling. They laid me on the floor in the stretcher. The doctor took out his penlight and began to examine my broken body.
    â€œConcussion. Sprained ankle. Three cracked ribs,” Somchai called out my injuries as the doctor explained them to him. Just the sound of his voice was assurance that everything was going to be okay. “You will be in pain for a while, but you’re going to be okay, brother. The doctor says you will heal.”
    I took a deep breath of relief.
    â€œThere’s just one thing,” Somchai said, wincing slightly.
    â€œWhat?” I asked, afraid of the look on his face.
    â€œYou need stitches in your chin.”
    â€œOkay, that’s not so bad, considering.”
    â€œWell,” Somchai began. “The good news is that they do have suture thread here at the clinic.”
    â€œAnd the bad news?”
    â€œThey don’t have anesthetic.”
    I swallowed.
    â€œCan the stitches wait?” I asked.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œUntil we get back to Vientiane?”
    â€œBrother, I am sorry, but you aren’t going to be ready to travel back to Vientiane for a few days. We are going to miss most of Lao New Year.” He looked away. I knew that to him it was the equivalent of missing Christmas.
    â€œOh, man,” I said. “Your sister is coming, right? From Thailand.”
    â€œI’m not leaving you here, Cam.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, and I meant it.
    The doctor prepared the stitches. I pressed my lips together. As he approached me I could see the flash of the silver needle. I flinched. The doctor said something to Somchai.
    â€œBrother, it is important that you stay as still as possible. Here, I will hold your hand.”
    I felt like a child as he rubbed the top of my hand and then took it in his. He began to sing softly. I felt the sharp sting of a needle puncturing my flesh.
    â€œIt’s my favourite Lao folk song,” Somchai began to talk quickly, trying to distract me. “It’s about farmers who have nothing. Their fields won’t grow.”
    The needle pierced me, stinging each time it moved in and out, in and out. I clenched my toes. The pain seared from my chin all the way down to my groin. It was all I could do not to scream.
    â€œBut the farmers are not sad. Instead they dance in a lam vong circle with their families. Everything is okay,” Somchai continued.
    I thought of Jon and the basketball guys back home. I couldn’t remember experiencing friendship quite like this. My heart swelled with a kind of love that I had never felt for a friend before. Finally the doctor pulled away from me.
    â€œIt’s finished,” Somchai said. Then he negotiated with the doctor to buy some crutches. I saw some money pass between them. Then I remembered. This wasn’t Canada; there was no public health care here. All of this was costing Somchai. He must have had to pay all that he could to get the doctor to come to the cave. I would pay him back, but for right now the bills in my pocket were soaked with my own piss.
    I wrapped one arm around Somchai and leaned on the crutch on my left side. Together we hobbled to our guesthouse, moving as slowly as a farmer after a long day in a sweltering rice paddy. That night I slept fitfully. Every time I woke Somchai was there, sitting at the foot of my bed reading Thai comics.
    â€œNeed some water?” he asked. I propped myself up as he held a straw to my mouth.
    â€œGo to sleep,” I murmured.
    â€œThe doctor said I have to watch you because you’ve had a concussion.”
    â€œCome on, Somchai. You’ve done enough. Sleep — otherwise you’ll look like an old man and you’ll never