Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett Page B

out of gas, is he?” He smiled. “Okay, now that’s something to go on.”
    Sisithorn looked at her in confusion, but Ladarat had grown used to this strange and obdurate optimism during her year in the United States. Any good news became the focus of families’ attention. You could say that a patient’s kidneys were not working, and that he wasn’t waking up, and that his liver was failing. But if his blood sugar was normal, that was viewed as a good sign.
    It was a little like those fortune-tellers in Isaan who would read your future in tea leaves. If they wanted to find good news—or if they sensed that their client was willing to pay more for good news—they would be sure to find it somewhere. If a farmer came to town on a Saturday, he might be poor and childless, and his wife may have left him. But he could depend on a fortune-teller to say, with perfect sincerity, that perhaps his tiny house would get a new roof in the spring.
    Once again, Ladarat found herself thinking about kling wai korn, pho sorn wai . To do whatever needs to be done. Anything to get past a crisis.
    Not for the first time, she wondered if that rule of thumb was invented to help Thais deal with foreigners. It certainly seemed to be necessary particularly often when dealing with farang in general, and Chinese in particular. They were so demanding, and so hopeful. Often there was no choice but to tell a little white lie that would spare them discomfort and spare the hospital embarrassment. So that is what she did.
    “Ah, so there is some brain function. You are right. My reference to the car that runs out of gas was not a good one. I apologize. How much function, you should discuss with Dr. Jainukul.”
    Mr. Fuller had other questions, and Kate did as well. But the older Mrs. Fuller was strangely silent. Perhaps that was just her personality. Ladarat had known women of her generation in the United States who seemed content to let others do the talking. They were paying attention, and listening carefully, but didn’t feel the need to be in the middle of things. Those women were often very patient. Those women, she thought, were also very Thai.
    She and Sisithorn answered Kate’s and the elder Mr. Fuller’s questions as best they could, about what tests had been done (many) and what the lab results had shown (surprisingly normal).
    They talked, too, about what had been done so far. The ventilator, for instance, and antibiotics to prevent infections. Dr. Jainukul had also used drugs to reduce the swelling in Mr. Fuller’s brain. Ladarat described many of these treatments in excessive detail, for no other reason than to make sure the Americans knew how much they were doing, and how hard everyone was working to save Mr. Fuller.
    Eventually, though, the Americans ran out of questions. It was clear that all of Andrew Fuller’s troubles were fixable, except for his brain. That would be the problem they could do nothing about. They would simply need to wait and see, and that was something that Americans were not good at.
    As Ladarat and Sisithorn stood to leave, the elder Fullers stood, too. Whether that was a mark of respect was difficult to tell, but Ladarat wanted to believe that it was. And why not?
    Sisithorn promised to come back later that afternoon. She spoke to all of them but looked in particular at Kate, who smiled shyly and nodded. That unfortunate girl could definitely be helped by talking with someone her own age. And someone who was not related to her husband.
    But where was her family? Surely her parents would have come to provide support? She was not as seriously ill as her husband, but still… Ladarat made a note to herself to have Sisithorn find out.
    As they rode the elevator back down to Ladarat’s office, she asked Sisithorn what she thought. They were alone in the elevator, and Sisithorn took her time to think.
    “Mr. Fuller seems angry,” she said finally. “But I don’t think he’s angry at us.” She shook her head,