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  “Che Chou, so hot. Burn.”

  “Shhh.” Chou shushes her. “My pretty girl, I’m going to tell you the story of why the cows cry and the horses laugh.” Kung’s eyes flicker slightly at the mention of her favorite folktale story. “Would you like that? I’ll tell you the story again.”

  “Che Chou, I hurt so much.” Kung’s voice is smaller now. Chou kisses her hand and forehead, her tears dripping into Kung’s wet hair.

  “When the god made the animals, he made the cows fat, dull, and ugly. And he made the horses beautiful and gave them shiny hair and elegant long tails. But then he looked at the animals and thought that it isn’t right to give one animal so much. To balance them out, the god gave the cows very special magic shoes that allowed them to run very fast. The god then gave the beautiful horses very big, clunky shoes that only let them go very slow.” As she speaks, Chou’s steady voice lulls Kung into half sleep.

  “Che Chou, I hurt.” Kung’s eyes are closed now but her pain stays with her. Chou holds Kung’s hand, touching each of her fingers delicately.

  “Well, with their special shoes, the cows became very haughty and thought themselves better than everyone.” As Chou continues, her voice grows more gentle and calm.

  “Because they were very fast, the cows were always the first to arrive at the drinking hole. But instead of taking care of the water so others might drink, too, they would run around and splash one another, muddying up the pond. When the other animals arrived, they found the pond water all dirty and muddy. ‘Please brother and sister cows,’ the animals asked, ‘we humbly beg you to consider us and not muddy the water so much!’” Chou mimics the tiny voice of a very small animal. “‘Ha!’ the cows reply, ‘it is not our problem if you are too slow. We will drink and play the way we want!’ And with that the cows swish their tails and turn away from the other animals.” On the plank, Kung breathes deeply as Chou lifts a strain of damp hair off her cheek and fans her forehead to keep her cool.

  “Then one day,” Chou lowers her voice, “the cows arrived at the pond and took off their shoes before going in. The horses saw this and slowly snuck up behind them. While the cows were busy muddying up the water, the horses took off their own clunky shoes. Since none of the other animals screamed out to warn the cows, the horses were able to put on the cows’ fast shoes and run away. As they sped away, the horses laughed ‘heee, heee, heee!’ When the cows found out what had happened, they cried and mooed. And that’s why cows moo and horses laugh today.”

  “Chou,” Aunt Keang whispers and takes Kung’s hand from Chou. “Go cook dinner.”

  “Yes, Aunt.” Chou kisses Kung’s warm cheek, and leaves her with Aunt Keang.

  As she leaves the hut, the world becomes a blur. Her legs go weak and, leaning against the wall for support, she remembers a Khmer Rouge hospital filled with sick people but no real doctors or nurses. With her eyes closed, Chou remembers the last time she saw Ma and Geak in that crumbling, moldy, rat-infested hospital. Geak was five years old but her shrunken limbs and swollen belly made her smaller than three-year-old Kung. Surrounded by sickness and death, Geak’s body cramped up and caused her much pain when she tried to sleep. Occasionally, Geak’s cries were answered by women who came by and gave her a few small cubes of sugar and a cupful of water, but they could not tell the sick from the starving. Pol Pot’s men had killed most of the doctors and nurses, and those who survived hid their identities and themselves. Chou squeezes her lids tight together and wishes she can retreat into her hard shell like a turtle, taking Geak’s and Kung’s pains so they would not have to suffer. She rages against Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge soldiers.

  “Pol Pot’s men killed the doctors. Now we have no hospital, no doctors to help us when they’re sick. And it’s all Pol Pot’s fault!” Chou spits out the words like poison on her tongue. “I pray he dies a painful death, and his body rots with diseases. I pray he returns as an earthworm!” Chou sends her pleas to the sky gods, the trees gods, the rivers gods, and any other gods who will listen. But as fast as the fire of hate ignites in her, it burns quickly out. Chou pushes herself away from the wall and heads for the kitchen. She squats down to make the fire to cook the family’s dinner. As the smoke flows into her eyes, she lets her tears fall freely down her face. Taking deep breaths and blowing it into the fire, Chou knows that wasting energy and anger on things she cannot change is useless when there’s so much to do.

  While Chou is busy preparing dinner, Uncle Leang furiously pounds a round-edged wooden stick into a bowl of salve. When his muscles burn, he takes off his shirt and returns to his work. From her place, Chou watches his long spine flex and bend like a snake crawling up his thin back. Once in a while he stops for Cheung to add more leaves and herbs. As he mashes the leaves into a thick paste, his face is stiff and his jaws are immobile. When he is done, Cheung takes the salve to Aunt Keang to apply to Kung’s wounds.

  The next day, Kung’s burns turn into black blisters and infected boils. With no doctors or medicine, the family does all it can to help ease her suffering. With swollen eyes and dampened hearts, they take turns massaging her arms and legs, fanning her body, and turning her head from right to left to prevent a crick. When she complains of a belly itch, Chou slides her hand under Kung’s little body and scratches her tummy. Sometimes, she goes outside to sit with Kim. In their silence, he cracks open a green coconut, empties its juice into a bowl, and serves it to her. Then he sits back down near her and stares at the hut. Chou watches Kim’s fingers dig into his skin like a pair of plows into dirt as he rubs his tired eyes and face. When he looks at her again, she notices his eyes are red and puffy.

  “Why don’t you go see her?” Chou whispers to him.

  “I have.” His voice is resolute and grave. Chou knows that he has only entered the hut to glance quickly at Kung and leave.

  “At least we can say our goodbyes.” Chou speaks the words they both don’t want to hear. They never had the chance to say their goodbyes to Ma, Keav, and Geak. Pa was the only one they got to hold and send off with their love. Silently, Kim gets off the bench and walks toward the hut. “We can say our goodbyes,” Chou repeats quietly as her eyes begin to sting again.

  For three days, Kung hangs on to life as her family dresses her wounds, holds her hands, entertains her with stories, and tells her she is loved. With borrowed money, Uncle Leang buys beef and pork for Cheung to cook for Kung. Aunt Keang chews and grinds the tough meat in her mouth and feeds it to Kung with watery rice congee. When Kung is thirsty, Khouy and Kim rush out into the fields and return with bunches of green coconuts. Aunt Keang dips the tip of a krama scarf into the bowl of coconut milk and wrings out the liquid into her parched lips. As her life dims, Kung continues in her small voice to beg for help to relieve her pain.

  When Kung stops talking, the men try without success to find a monk to help Kung pass easily from this life to the next. Knowing they can do nothing to ease her pain, the men leave the hut to sit outside. Inside, the women wash Kung’s body, hair, hands, feet, between her toes, and under her nails. Then they move to her face, wiping away the dirt in the creases of her neck, eyelids, and ears. Slowly, Kung’s breath becomes uneven and jagged. Sitting in a circle around her, the women kiss her face, whisper in her ear, and sing her favorite songs. Outside the sun moves across the sky and passes over the village and the hut, waking up the owls, bats, and crickets. Together, the night creatures sing as Kung’s body goes into shock and becomes damp and cold.

  Chou lays her hand on Kung’s arm and marvels at how beautiful she still is. Chou regrets all the times she spoke harsh words to her and wishes she could take them back. She prays to the gods to help Kung be born into a better life in her next incarnation. She buries her nose in Kung’s cheek and says the farewell she wished she’d said to Geak. As the candlelight flickers on Kung’s face, Chou kisses her forehead, eyes, and hands. The smoke from the incense rises and spreads all about the small hut, as if infusing the room with Kung’s spirit. Chou then lea
ves the room and turns her face up toward the dark sky, forcing her tears to stay down her throat.

  “Ma, Pa, Keav, and Geak. Please take care of Kung.” The stars blink in the sky as if to answer her. “She’s a good girl,” Chou whispers, and goes to prepare the family’s meager meal. As the fire cooks their soup, Chou digs enough red clay from the ground to mold it into figures of Ma, Pa, Keav, Geak, and Kung. From the dirt, she creates crude wagons, horses, and cows for them to have in the nether world. She lines them up to dry by the fire. When she looks up from her clay family, she finds Kim looking at her knowingly from beneath the tree.

  Inside, Aunt Keang gently massages Kung’s neck and holds her tiny face in her palms. In the soft light, Kung looks asleep and at peace. Hooking her arms under Kung’s shoulders and knees, Aunt Keang lifts her daughter and presses her into her bosom. In the dark, she rocks her child in her arms, but Kung is gone and makes no sound. More candles and incense are lit as the men and women gather around. One by one, each family member goes up to Kung to say a final goodbye.

  11 the first american ung

  December 1980

  “Here she comes,” Mrs. McNulty announces, her voice dancing on the walls. “Isn’t she a beaut?”

  Behind her, Eang climbs the stairs to our apartment slowly, carrying the first American in the Ung family. I rush over to the living room and arrange the cushions and pillows in a nice neat order on the couch. When they walk into the living room, I see that Eang’s face is pale and puffy like a marshmallow, but I keep my mouth closed. Next to her, Meng’s skin is brown and dry like stale crackers.

  “Well, Meng, you and Eang have to wait for five years before you can become Americans. But this little girl, she’s an automatic citizen!” Mrs. McNulty exclaims, laughing.

  Meng has already explained to me that while he and Eang will have to live in America for five years before they can apply for their citizenship, because I’m a minor, I will have to wait until I become an adult at eighteen to become an American.

  “She is a beauty, Meng. You must be very proud,” Mr. McNulty tells Meng quietly.

  “Yes, I am happy she is healthy.” Meng smiles as he follows Eang into the living room.

  “Yep, the Medical Center Hospital of Vermont knows how to take good care of its people,” Mr. McNulty declares with hometown pride.

  It is December 23, and outside the world is fluffy and white again. Meng says that falling snow looks like white Chinese blossoms. Inside, our home is warm and smells of the pine spreading out from the five-foot tree in front of the window. Colorful glass balls and popcorn strings hang from the thick branches behind the wires of white lights.

  When one of our sponsors showed up at the front door with this ugly, spindly pine tree, I wanted to ask if we could have a prettier one with big green leaves and blooming flowers. Though Meng, Eang, and I don’t understand what this needle tree has to with the birth of Christ or Christmas, we decorate it the way we’ve seen people do it on TV.

  “Mrs. and Mr. McNulty, something to drink?” Eang asks as she rocks the baby in her arms. I smile at how much Eang values proper etiquette and showing respect to guests. Even if she’s on her deathbed, I think she’ll still try to offer her guests something to drink.

  “No, no, thank you,” Mrs. McNulty answers. “I guess we’ll leave and let you rest.” Mrs. McNulty gets up and Mr. McNulty follows.

  “Thank you so much for bringing us back from the hospital,” Meng tells them again as he walks them to the door.

  I skip after Eang and sit myself next to her on the couch. Slowly, my hands part the white bundle of cloth in her arms. I peel the layers off like lotus flower petals to discover a light brown and smooth baby inside. With her eyes still closed, she squirms and suckles her lips. As Eang takes the baby out of her wrappers, I reach over and touch her pink baby pajamas and caress her wrinkled hands. She purses her mouth as if warning me to leave her alone and let her sleep. Slowly I pull off her little hat to see the mass of black hair covering her soft spot. She yawns and scrunches her face as if to let out a cry before I quickly replace the hat on her head. Then I lift her tiny hand to my nose and lips, giving her first a Cambodian kiss and then an American kiss.

  “Hi, baby,” I coo. Her eyelids squeeze together but she breathes so deeply it sounds like she just sighs. “You’re so cute!” Her soft skin smells of baby powder. My head spins with visions of having my own living doll to play with, dress up, and feed. “Open your eyes, open your eyes,” I urge her, but she ignores me.

  “Her Chinese name will be Geak Sok.” Meng is suddenly next to me, gazing warmly at his daughter. I stare at him, my breath caught in my chest. As I exhale slowly, the room seems to grow darker and the lights on the tree less bright. In front of my eyes, the lines on Meng’s face etch deeper in the creases around his eyes and mouth. For a moment, I fear he will break our unspoken rule not to talk about Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge, Ma, Pa, and especially Geak.

  “Because she is born on December twenty-first, the first day of winter, her Chinese name means jade-snow.” Meng continues and lets our rule stay unbroken. “She is named after Geak and snow.” For a moment, Meng’s voice is far away, but his smile never leaves his face.

  “That’s pretty,” I agree, and continue to play with her soft fingers. Somewhere inside me, sad memories stir and try to push themselves to the surface. “Geak Sok.” I whisper the name softly and stare at the baby’s pink cheeks. I caress them with my finger and wonder if someday they will ripen like red apples just like her namesake’s. But as the baby squints and attempts to open her eyes, memories of Geak’s cries and swollen belly crawl back into their dark hole like a defeated mouse.

  “But we’ll call her Maria,” Eang declares, and transfers the baby into my arms.

  “That’s pretty, too!” I giggle approvingly and try not to stare at Eang’s heaving breasts that seem to have grown twice their size in the two days she stayed at the hospital. In my arms, Maria stretches and purrs peacefully in her sleep. “She’s so tiny,” I tell Eang, and focus my attention back on Maria. I gaze at her tiny lashes that look painted on and at how her tiny nostrils flare like a harmless baby dragon when she breathes. Not able to resist, I lower my face and nuzzle against her cheeks. With her head resting on the crook of my elbow, Maria feels like a small, lumpy, warm water sack. “Maria like The Sound of Music.”

  “Yes, good movie,” Eang agrees.

  And so Maria joins our family and the next two days she spends sleeping in each of our arms. On Christmas Day, we celebrate by opening our gifts, eating dried turkey, and settling down to watch on TV the movie all our sponsors talk about, It’s a Wonderful Life. Outside, the snow falls softly and the world is quiet. At the end of the movie, the family cries and gathers around Joe Bailey as he rushes back into his house after having gone missing all day. Joe Bailey’s face lights up and his eyes glisten with tears when he sees the big crowd of family and friends waiting there for him. Then there is much laughter, hugging, and kissing as everyone celebrates being together. All of a sudden, I cannot stand the movie anymore and quickly turn the TV off.

  “The movie’s over already?” Eang asks groggily.

  “Yeah.”

  “Time to sleep,” she yawns and taps Meng on the arm. And together, they slowly make their way into their room where Maria dreams in her crib.

  In the dark, I lay my head on its cushioned armrest and lie diagonally across the rocking chair. Outside the window, above the phone and power lines, the moon frowns and the stars twinkle like the lights on the pine tree. As the chair rocks back and forth, I bring my legs to my chest and curl into a fetal position. “It’s Christmas,” I say to myself. “You should be happy. Everybody’s happy on Christmas.” The sobs come faster now, pushing against my diaphragm and out of my throat. “But I am so lonely.” I cover my hand over my mouth so Meng and Eang won’t hear me. I don’t want them to know.

  “I miss my sisters,” I say out loud to the empty room. My chest heaves as I
realize it’s the first time I’ve said it, not just thought it. “I miss Chou.”

  The lights on the tree shine brightly on my skin, but inside my body the darkness grows. It’s Christmas night and so many people are alive and together and happy! And tomorrow, more people will come and wish me a happy holiday and Eang will tell me to smile. But how do I tell them how difficult it is to curve my lips when anger makes my face stiff? When the other kids brag about what their parents bought them for Christmas, I am silent because I want nothing from Ma and Pa. I just want them to be here. I want to sit on Pa’s lap. I want to see Ma’s smile. I just want them to be alive.

  Exhausted, I drift off to sleep in the armchair with the sound of bells still ringing in my ears. Then I see Ma and Geak together. It is daytime. The sky is bright and a light breeze sweeps their hair into their faces. Ma’s eyes are shiny and when she smiles, her lips stretch widely, exposing her gum. On her lap, Geak laughs, her fat cheeks glowing with health as she reaches up and wraps her arms around Ma’s neck. In silence, they lean their bodies in together, Geak resting her face on Ma’s chest, Ma setting her chin on Geak’s head. They look beautiful. A smile creeps onto my face. They look so real. I want to throw my arms around them. I want to believe that they’re alive. But I don’t, not even in my sleep.

  Suddenly they disappear. I run after them, calling out their names and begging them to take me with them.

  “Please wait, wait for me!” I scream, but they are gone. “Come back, tell me when you will come back,” I plead. Their disappearance hurts so much, I want to crawl into a grave and let the earth take me in until I lose my memory.

  “Ma, wait for me!” I beg, but no one hears me.

  In my panic, I finally notice the heavy load in my arms. I bend my head down to see that I am holding a newborn baby. The baby is pale as a ghost and lies limp and unmoving in the crooks of my arms. I stare at her and a cold chill travels up my spine before spreading like an artic blast all over my body.