The Unwanted

At twelve years Araya was the oldest kid at the orphanage. The other children looked up to her, and she helped care for them in the way she thought a real mother would. At night, while Araya fantasized about her future—about being a real mother someday, with a real family—the other children secretly dreamed of being reunited with their parents. Though Araya had never felt at loss for affection it was evident in the behavior of the other children that there were not enough caretakers to give them the attention that they craved. They never went to bed hungry, but the orphanage was poor. They were long overdue for an increase in funding from the growing Thai government.

Because the children listened to her so well, and the orphanage was understaffed, the other caretakers relied on Araya for help. During the day when it was time for schooling Araya would take the children aside who were struggling and help them work on their reading or mathematics; before dinner Araya helped prepare food while the other children played outside; and in the evening before bed Araya would read them a story from one of the books that they had heard a million times. With these responsibilities came special privileges. Araya was allowed to roam freely about the premises and had access to parts of the building usually reserved for the caretakers.

By this time of the year the grueling stretch of summer was drawing to a close, and the darkening skies foreshadowed the coming rainy season. Araya watched pleasantly from the kitchen window as the children played outside.

“Why don’t you go join them,” Khun Mae, the head-caretaker, said encouragingly.

“That’s alright,” Araya answered. “We haven’t finished preparing dinner.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Khun Mae said waving her arm. “It will get done. Go enjoy yourself.”

Araya smiled and slipped outside where she was immediately ambushed by two six year old boys, Han, and Boon-mee, who had grown particularly fond of her.

“Come on, come on,” they shouted, pulling her by the arms. Araya smiled and aloud herself to be dragged over to the trampoline.

“How high can you jump?” Han asked.

“Well one time I jumped so high that my fingers slipped through the clouds,” Araya teased.

“Oh, yea, well I bet I could jump all the way up and touch the sun!” Boon-mee exclaimed.

“If you do that you will burn your fingers,” Araya warned, and the two boys laughed.

The three of them bounced around, arms outstretched to see who could reach the highest. As they did, Han and Boon-mee carelessly collided into one another. Han lost his balance, collided with the trampoline, and bounced back to his feet. Boon-mee fell into Araya and the two of them slipped over the edge. They collapsed to the ground, and Boon-mee’s screams immediately pierced the air.

Araya sat up slowly feeling dazed, and immediately turned to help.

“Its okay,” Araya said, running her fingers through his hair. Khun-mae rushed outside to see what happened. “I will take care of it,” Araya said, confidently motioning her away. She helped Boon-mee to his feet and took him inside to clean off his scrapes. Once the blood had disappeared it was as if nothing ever happened.

“Will you pull me on the wagon?” Boon-mee pleaded.

“You are the one that just knocked me off the trampoline. I think that you should pull me,” Araya joked.

“But your too heavy,” Boon-mee explained.

“I know, I know,” Araya said.

Boon-mee hopped onto the wagon and Han piled on behind him. The three of them paraded around the playground, and immediately the other children wanted a turn. Araya spent the next ten minutes exhausting her self giving wagon rides until the dinner bell finally rang. When they sat down to eat the children vied for seats next to Araya and the caretakers.

That night after Araya and the other caretakers had quieted the children, she read them a book from their small collection. When she finished she stood up to turn out the lights. Boon-mee motioned her over, and asked her to come close.

“Can I ask you a question?” Boon-mee whispered shyly into her ear. Araya smiled and nodded. “Will you be my mom?” he asked.

The question made her feel proud, but uneasy.

“Of course,” she whispered back, unsure how else to respond. She kissed him on the forehead then turned out the lights. For the first time in a long time Boon-mee did not fall asleep fantasizing about the parents he would never have.

Later that week while Araya helped Han with his spelling she noticed an unfamiliar car pull up out front. Visitors were unusual. Araya was curious to know what it could be about, but she knew that it was not her place to ask. If the caretakers wanted her to know they would tell her. After she finished helping Han, Araya ran off to collect the mail. This was one of her favorite responsibilities. She was not aloud to open the envelopes, but she enjoyed reading the addresses and dreaming about traveling to the places where they had come from. She could explore the world through television and sometimes the computer, but she had no memories outside the orphanage. These letters were the only tangible connection that she had to the outside world.

As she carried the mail to Khun Mae’s office she heard voices coming from behind the cracked door. She stopped outside and waited politely for them to finish their conversation.

“I am sorry,” she overheard a man saying, “but the government has turned down your request for additional funding.”

“What!” Khun Mae shouted. “How can you do this? Do you think that food is becoming cheaper? Huh? Is life so hard for you in the city that you cannot spare your change for these children?”

“It is not my decision,” the man fumbled. “In the government’s eyes it does not seem wise to spend so much money on children who,” he hesitated, “who have no future.”

“Having HIV does not make these children less than human!” Khun Mae screamed. When Araya heard these words she went numb. The mail slipped between her fingers. Khun Mae caught a glimpse of the letters as they scattered to the floor outside her door. She rushed over and swung it open. Araya stared up at her with glossy eyes. Khun Mae grabbed her and held tightly.

“Get out!” Khun Mae shouted at the man, and began spitting curses at him in a tone Araya had never heard before. The man cowered away, disappearing down the stairs.

Khun Mae took Araya into the caretaker’s courters, sat her down on a bed, and tried to console her. Araya was too overwhelmed to listen. After several minutes her shock turned to anger. She felt cheated, betrayed. Her childhood had been spent preparing for a life she would never lead. She thought about the perfect family she would never have, the children she would never raise. She lay passively in the arms of Khun Mae, but she did not want consolation. Araya could not help feeling that Khun Mae and the other caretakers were somehow to blame.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Araya finally asked.

“Araya—” Khun Mae began and then trailed off. She did not know what to say. How old should kid be before you decide to end their childhood? How old before you tell them that they will never live long enough to realize their dreams? Is it any consolation to tell them that they are not the only one, that there are hundreds of thousands of other children who through no fault of their own will face the same fate? Khun Mae did not know.

“I am so sorry dear,” is all she could muster. She cried onto Araya’s shoulders. Araya gazed up at the ceiling fans, watching them spin their lives away.