Thai Ad Writer is Genius

At two in the morning, Bangkok rain commits. It turns every neon sign into a smear of green and pink, like a drunk watercolorist who gave up halfway and went home. In a hospital room on the seventh floor, an ECG machine draws a green line across the screen, loses interest, draws another. The old woman sits by the bed, holding her husband’s hand. His hand is light and dry. It feels like a stalk of water spinach left in the sun. He opens his eyes. His lips move. He says, “Kwang Toong.”

Then he stops breathing.

The nurse comes in. She checks the machine. She checks him. She says, “I’m sorry.” The old woman asks, “What is Kwang Toong?” The nurse says, “I’m not sure. Maybe a medicine?” The doctor comes in. He has a tie with tiny elephants on it. He says, “It’s common. Terminal nonsense. The brain says random words.” The old woman says, “He was not a random man.” The doctor nods, writes something on a clipboard, and leaves. The funeral man comes in. He has a laminated price list and the smell of cheap jasmine. He says, “I’ve heard many last words. ‘Mama.’ ‘Buddha.’ ‘Lottery numbers.’ ‘The safe is behind the fridge.’ Never Kwang Toong.” The old woman nods. She takes out a handkerchief. It is blue plaid, washed so thin you can see her fingers through it. She wipes the corner of his mouth. She folds the handkerchief. She puts it in her pocket.

She goes home. The house is forty years old. The floorboards creak in different pitches, like a choir that never rehearsed. She opens his drawer. On top: stomach pills. Below: electricity bills. Below that: a photograph. Her husband, young, stands in a market, holding a bunch of bok choy. He is grinning like he stole it. On the back, in ballpoint pen: Kwang Toong.

She remembers their first date. He took her to a small restaurant with plastic stools and a fan that rotated too fast. He ordered oyster sauce bok choy. He said, “This is Kwang Toong.” She said, “Cantonese?” He said, “Thai.” She laughed. He smiled and did not explain. She ate the whole plate. He watched her eat. He moved his chopsticks maybe twice. She thought he was polite. Later she learned he hated bok choy. He ordered it because she had said, once, that her mother used to cook it. He remembered. He never told her he remembered. Every year on their anniversary, he ordered the same dish. She ate it. He watched.

The next day, she goes to find the oldest farmer in the village. He is in the field. His pants are loose. He hoists them up with one hand while holding a hoe with the other. He says, “Kwang Toong? Guangdong vegetable. Bok choy.” She asks, “Why would he say that at the end?” The farmer says, “I don’t know. Ask him.” She says, “He’s dead.” The farmer hoists his pants again. “Then ask him why he didn’t eat seasonal.”

She takes a tuk-tuk back to the hospital. On the way, they pass a market. A stall is piled with off-season bok choy. The leaves are green and shiny, like plastic. She looks at them. She does not get out.

Her husband is unconscious. She leans close to his ear. She says, “Kwang Toong.” Nothing. She says it again. His eyelid twitches. She says it a third time. He opens his eyes. He looks behind her. He says, “The camera is this way.” She turns. There is only a wall. On the wall is a calendar. It is stuck on March. She laughs. Tears fall on his hand. She wipes them. More fall. She does not say anything else. She puts his hand back under the blanket. She tucks the corner. Then she walks out. In the hallway, she buys a bottle of water from the vending machine. The water is warm. She drinks one sip. She screws the cap back on. She throws it in the bin.

That night, she goes home. The fridge has a bunch of off-season bok choy. The leaves are green and fake. She takes it out. She puts it back. She puts on her jacket. She walks to the night market. The vegetable woman is closing. She asks, “Do you have seasonal?” The woman points to a pile of Chinese kale. The leaves have holes. Bugs have been there. She buys a bunch. The woman gives her change. A coin drops. It rolls toward the drain. The old woman bends down, picks it up, blows on it, and puts it in her pocket.

At home, she smashes garlic. She pours oyster sauce into the pan. The greens go in. They hiss. She puts them on a plate. She sits at the table. She eats. It is bitter. She eats one bite. Then another. Halfway through, she puts down her chopsticks. She picks up the phone. She calls her daughter.

Her daughter answers. In the background, a child is screaming about a tablet. The daughter says, “Ma? What’s wrong?”

She says, “Buy seasonal tomorrow.”

The daughter says, “Why?”

She says, “Your father’s last word.”

The daughter says, “What word?”

She says, “Kwang Toong.”

The daughter says, “What’s that?”

She says, “Bok choy.”

The daughter is silent. The child in the background screams louder. The daughter says, “Okay.”

She says, “Hang up.”

She hangs up. The faucet is not closed tight. It drips once. The plate is still on the table. The food is gone. She puts the plate in the sink. She turns on the water. She rinses off the oyster sauce. The water is cold. She turns it off. She wipes her hands on a towel. The towel hangs on the faucet. She goes to the bedroom. She pulls back the blanket. She lies down. The other side of the bed is empty. She reaches over. She straightens the pillow on that side. Then she turns off the light.

Outside, it is still raining. On the nightstand, the photograph lies face up. The young man holds the bok choy. He is still grinning.