Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness (4 page)

“Well…” Again the sad laugh.

“Yes?”

“You see, we have not told her yet.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.”

So the director did not want to tell the woman. He did not want to be the bearer of bad news, and above all, he did not want to cause distress. So very Thai. And yet so very wrong. Did he not have an obligation to share this news honestly? He most certainly did.

“Ah, I see,” she said. “And so… when you do tell her, you are worried that she will be upset. Of course I understand. When you tell her, we should invite one of the monks from Wat Sai Moon.” That was the monastery across the road from the hospital. “Would that be helpful?”

He shook his head. “No… I mean, yes, it would be helpful. But it’s just that we… I… thought that it might be better if you tell her.”

Oh dear.

“I see,” she said. “But why would that be?”

Ladarat knew exactly why that would be, but she pressed on. “You know his condition better than I ever could. After all, you’re his doctor, and the director of the ICU. Such information should come with authority. Who better to explain his condition and prognosis?”

“Ah,” he said. “But you… you’ve spent time in America. In Chicago.” He pronounced that city with singsongy Thai vowels that oddly seemed to fit her memories of the city better than the prosaic pronunciation to which she’d become accustomed.

“I thought that since you know Americans, and how they think,” he continued, hurrying, “you’d be better able to explain his condition.”

“And what is his condition?”

Relieved to be back on firmer ground, the director stopped fidgeting and assumed the calm, patient demeanor to which Ladarat was accustomed. He smiled sadly and explained that the man’s condition was very grave indeed. “He has no evidence of brain function. His pupils are not contracting, and he cannot breathe on his own.” He paused. “It is, truly, very bad.”

Ladarat nodded, beginning to see why the director wanted her to convey this information. In the United States, she knew, this man would be brain-dead. His life support would be stopped. That would be very sad for the man’s family, of course. But at least they would be able to close that door behind them.

But here in Thailand there was no such door for them to close. There were no such hard-and-fast rules about what to do. So it would be difficult indeed to explain the man’s situation to his wife. And if his situation were not explained correctly—and perhaps even if it were—she might insist on keeping him “alive” and supported artificially, for weeks or even months.

Their hospital could not afford that. Their ICU was always full, she knew, and there was always a waiting list. As long as the American was there, there would be patients who would not get the ICU care they needed.

Of course she would help. There was no question of that. Wasn’t this why she’d been sent to receive ethics training at the University of Chicago? Wasn’t this why she had braved a year of extreme cold, and rude people, and bland, salty food? Food, in fact, that was so tasteless that eating a meal was no more satisfying than reading a menu. She suffered all of that for a year so she could bring the principle of ethics back to the best hospital in northern Thailand.

So she would have to help. No question. But this was the director’s responsibility as well.

“Then we should meet with her together,” she suggested. “I will need to ask you for the medical details and prognosis, and of course, the importance of your position and status will make the conversation easier.”

A little flattery, Ladarat had always found, worked wonders with doctors. With everyone, actually. But with doctors more than most.

Yet the director did not seem to be overly enthusiastic about this plan. He looked down at his hands. Then up at the tiny mail slot window set high into the wall behind her.

“You are the expert in injuries of this type,” she explained gently. “Everyone knows this. It would seem strange, would it not, if you were absent for such an important discussion?”

This direct appeal to his vanity was her last hope. The director considered for a moment. At last, Khun Suphit seemed to agree that his absence would be strange indeed. He nodded.

“But you will do the talking?”

What could she say? She nodded. “I will do the talking.”

The director stood up, at least partly relieved. This meeting had not gone quite as well as he’d hoped, but it had gone better than he’d feared.

And that, Ladarat had always thought, was the way things usually worked out. One’s hopes are never fully realized. Or almost never. But on the other hand, one’s fears are not usually justified. If she were wise enough to write a book like Professor Dalrymple’s, that would be the sort of advice she would offer.

“Then we should go now,” the director announced.

“Now?” Ladarat’s stomach gave a modest lurch of protest as she realized that there would be no
khao neo dam
in her immediate future. Nor would she be able to begin her work as a detective. Nor would she be able to prepare for the upcoming inspection.

“Right now,” the director said. “You see, she has been transferred out of the ICU and is in a private ward. And the man’s parents are here. They flew here last night from Alb… Alb…”

“Albuquerque?”

“Yes, that’s it. Al-bu-quer-que. And they want to know what is happening.”

“I’m certain that they do.”

And she was certain, too, that the man’s parents wanted their son to get the best possible care. No doubt they were deeply suspicious that anyone could get the best possible care in Thailand, of all places. If he’d had the good fortune to be in a Bangkok hospital, which everyone knew rivaled the best in the United States. Instead, they were here in Chiang Mai. Little more than a point of departure for tourists and trekkers venturing into the wild forests of the Golden Triangle. At least that was what they thought.

So she would need to reassure them that Sriphat Hospital was the equal of any hospital in Bangkok. Or Albuquerque. Or even Chicago, for that matter. But that, she knew, wasn’t going to be easy.

As Ladarat rose to follow Khun Suphit out of her little office, her gaze rested for a moment on Professor Dalrymple’s wise book. She thought of another wise passage from that very wise book: “One must never tell a patient that there is no hope. There is always hope. It’s just a matter of helping our patients hope for what is reasonable.”

That was good advice indeed. But what could this poor man’s family hope for? And certainly there was no simple aphorism that could offer comfort to his wife. Still, perhaps Ladarat could offer something.

THE ETHICAL RIGHTS OF A BAREFOOT VISITOR

K
hun Suphit led the way, swinging his thick arms around a broad middle section as he strode down the low-ceilinged hallway. It was not difficult to remain a few deferential steps behind him as they walked to the north elevators. The director moved very quickly for a man of such… roundness.

She caught up with him at the elevator, just as the doors slid open. It seemed to have been waiting for him. Odd how some people inspire the world to give them what they need. Somboon had been like that. Relentlessly upbeat, he always expected the best, and usually received it. Up until the very end, he’d been irrepressibly cheerful. And even hopeful.

But she, Ladarat, was not one of those people. Doors seemed to open for her grudgingly, as if they had better things to do with their time. And people, too, did not step out of their way to help her as they did for Somboon. They didn’t hinder her, exactly. It was more that she wasn’t… noticeable. Ah well.

She and the director discussed their strategy as the elevator took them from the basement up to the ICU on the sixth floor. They would see the man first, they agreed, and review his case. Then they would go to see the wife.

“Together, yes?” she clarified.

“Yes… of course, Khun. Together.”

A moment later, the elevator doors opened onto a different world. Where Ladarat’s basement office was dark, with just a small window close to the ceiling, the hallway that led to the ICU was broad and light-filled, as was the waiting room at the far end. Tall windows offered spectacular views of the mountains that began just a few kilometers to the west, and Ladarat knew that if you looked up and to the left, from some of the waiting-room seats you could see the Doi Suthep temple perched on the mountainside. That must be such a comfort to many visitors, in this Buddhist country.

There were hardly any visitors today, though. It was still early, and many friends and family members needed to travel from the countryside. Chiang Mai was really just a small city in the midst of rich farmland and—to the north and west—endless forests. Visitors might take an overnight bus, arriving midmorning, if they could come at all. They’d pay their respects, and then return home in time to work the next day.

Many patients came from small villages, where people earned money only if they worked. The fields wouldn’t tend themselves, and if people didn’t work, they didn’t eat. So the waiting rooms were often empty, except if a patient came from very close to Chiang Mai, or was in the city itself.

This morning there was only one man in the waiting room, in the far corner, with his back to the wall that separated the waiting room from the ICU. Despite the fact that there was a wide field of empty chairs in front of him, the man was squatting on the floor, his arms cantilevered out over his knees. He was rocking back and forth very slowly, in time to some rhythm in his head.

The man’s posture reminded her of the people from the hill tribes where she’d grown up, near Mae Jo. Coming into town for the day to buy or sell or trade, they’d avoid chairs and benches, preferring to squat as this man was doing. As if there was safety and security in being as close to the ground as possible.

Ladarat looked more closely at the man but was careful not to stare, which would be rude and inhospitable. He was a guest, after all. Moreover, he could be here only because of a serious tragedy, so he deserved her compassion.

She followed Khun Suphit across the waiting room, turning to admire the view. As she did, she glanced over just long enough to see that, in fact, the man did have the long face of one of the Karen hill tribe people. Their light skin was distinctive, too. He was probably from a small village along the border of Thailand and Myanmar, perhaps even on the other side of the border. Most of the hill tribes didn’t care about borders—they’d lived here long before anybody thought to divide the Golden Triangle into the territories of Myanmar, Laos, and Thailand.

The man noticed Ladarat looking at him, so she stopped, of course, and greeted him formally as one should greet a guest. Startled by her attention, he got to his feet, revealing very thin arms and legs, with prominent veins and corded muscles. He appeared to be in his forties or fifties but was probably much younger. His body and face had been weathered and molded by a difficult life of hard outdoor labor and just enough food—mostly fruit and fish and sticky rice—to survive.

He stooped, keeping his head at a respectful level below hers. And that was difficult for the poor man, since she herself was only one and a half meters tall. Then he returned her greeting with a mumble that was barely audible and offered a deep
wai
. Joining his hands, palms together, in front of his chest, he brought his nose down to touch his fingertips, bending almost double at the waist. It was as deep a
wai
as Ladarat would offer the dean of the school of nursing, or a high government official.

Yet despite that demonstration of profound respect, the man did not linger. Instead, after a pause that was just long enough to avoid an appearance of disrespect, he scooped up an old gray burlap bag that had been behind him, slung it crosswise over his shoulder, and scurried toward the hallway. It was only as he padded away that Ladarat noticed that he wasn’t wearing shoes.

But she didn’t have time to think about that, because Khun Suphit was waiting for her at the large double doors to the ICU. He’d been watching her interaction with the Karen man, and now he was nodding.

“Yes, it’s strange,” he said. “The man arrived here last night. I don’t know who he’s here to see. He just sits and waits. And he’ll run away if you try to talk to him. Last night the charge nurse told him he couldn’t stay there all night, so he left, but I don’t know where he went. Then first thing this morning he was back.”

“If he’s from a village, it’s likely he doesn’t have a place to stay here, or anything to eat,” she said. And that is no way to treat a guest, she thought.

He nodded. “I’ll make sure the volunteers know to send him to Wat Sai Moon.” Many staff prayed at that temple and gave their donations there to make merit. In return, the monks would visit patients and would take in visitors who needed a place to stay.

The man might not want to accept their hospitality. Indeed, he had seemed almost painfully shy and was almost certainly overwhelmed by the big city. It was, in all likelihood, the first time he’d been to Chiang Mai, and almost certainly the first time he’d been in a hospital. So it was all the more important that they make him welcome.