Breath 16
Somewhere several blocks away,
two small figures hurried under the broken streetlights,
skirts flapping in the night breeze.
Ploy gripped her ninety-year-old mother's hand tightly,
nearly dragging her along the cracked sidewalk.
"Mẹe, come on!" she hissed under her breath. "We gotta move!"
Her mother yanked her hand free,
adjusting her tiny pink purse across her chest,
her face pinched with stubborn irritation.
"ทำไมต้องวิ่ง! ฉันเหนื่อย!" ("Why must we run! I'm tired!")
Ploy bit back a groan.
There was no time to call the cab
"Mẹe, please, the agents could still be around! And that means only want thing
back to Thailand, right?"
Her mother puffed out her cheeks dramatically and waved her hand in the air.
"ส่งฉันกลับสิ! ฉันจะได้ไม่ต้องกินอาหารแย่ ๆ ของที่นี่!"
("Send me back! Then I won't have to eat the terrible food here!")
Ploy nearly tripped over her own feet.
Of course, this is not the time nor the night to start a “we should go back to Thailand”
debate with her mom: She has a business to run,
she did not go through the horror of getting her citizenship with
her late abusive husband for nothing.
She built her life here.
She will stay.
And die here, in America.
But then again- there’s her mom.
They turned the corner, slipping past a shuttered laundromat,
and Ploy thought for a second—just a second—that they were safe.
Until a low voice called out from the side street.
"Hey—ladies! Hold up!"
Ploy froze mid-step.
Her mother squinted suspiciously into the dark.
A black SUV sat idling near the curb.
A man leaned against it, tapping a flashlight against his palm.
Immigration.
Ploy felt her stomach plummet.
"Evenin'," the agent said lazily, strolling toward them.
"Out for a midnight stroll, huh?"
Ploy yanked her mother's arm again. "Just getting some air, sir."
The agent's eyes narrowed. "You two from that Thai place back there?"
Before Ploy could think of an answer, her mother piped up loudly:
"ใช่! เรามาจากไทยแลนด์! อาหารของเราดีที่สุดในโลก!"
("Yes! We are from Thailand! Our food is the best in the world!")
Ploy wanted to melt into the concrete.
"She, uh, doesn't speak English very well," she muttered.
“How come?” the agent asked suspiciously.
“Dyslexia.” In Ploy’s mind she can’t believe that’s the reason she gave,
she doesn’t even know what that term means. She heard it on one of those tv
dramas that her mom love to watch back at her restaurant’s kitchen.
The agent chuckled, shifting the flashlight from one hand to the other. "Cute. Real cute."
He stepped closer. Too close.
Ploy’s pulse hammered.
She squeezed her mother's hand hard, giving it a signal: Play along. Smile.
"Mẹe," she whispered in Thai, "ยิ้มหน่อย! ยิ้มเหมือนคนโง่!" ("Smile! Smile like an idiot!")
Her mother bared her teeth in a terrifying, shark-like grin.
The agent blinked, visibly startled.
Ploy seized the moment.
"Well, gotta go! My mom needs her... uh... insulin! Blood sugar emergency!"
She started speed-walking away, half-carrying,
half-dragging her mom, who was still grinning like a lunatic.
Behind them, the agent scratched his head,
muttered something about "weirdos," and climbed back into his SUV.
They didn’t stop moving until the restaurant was several blocks behind them,
the streetlights flickering like dying stars.
Ploy finally exhaled, laughing breathlessly.
Her mother glanced up at her with smug satisfaction.
"เห็นไหม? ฉันบอกแล้ว ฉันฉลาด!" ("See? I told you. I am smart!")
Ploy hugged her fiercely, heart still pounding with leftover terror.
Smart? Maybe.
Lucky? Definitely.
