Lucky Child Page 13

  After I’ve finished with my chores, I feed and bathe Maria. Then it’s time to tuck her into bed.

  “What book tonight?” she asks in English, crawling under the sheets.

  With her parents gone, I am the one who, with a flip of the page, turns Maria from a toddler into Snow White, Cinderella, or Sleeping Beauty. When she is not a princess, Maria makes friends with Snoopy and the Peanut gang, follows Froggy as he goes a courting, swings on vines from tree to tree with Curious George, and twirls around with the mysterious Twelve Dancing Princesses.

  My closet, once a place to hide from the world, is now a library where I can escape into my books. The shelves that once held a big jewelry box filled with colorful pins and barrettes are now taken up by books of all kinds. Gone is the cold metal chair; in its place, Meng brought me a school chair with a folding table. Eang sewed me a pillow to warm and cushion my buns while I read. On the walls, magazine pictures of sunflowers, California palm trees, banana plants, and Wonder Woman intermix with numerous cartoons of Snoopy, Pooh Bear, Mickey Mouse, and baby pictures of Maria.

  “How ’bout if we make up our own stories tonight?”

  “Okay,” she agrees, and I climb into bed with her.

  “There once was a beautiful princess named Maria. And she was a very smart and clever princess. Then one day she walked into the woods and saw …”

  “A giant butterfly!” Maria exclaims. “And the butterfly was very beautiful and had many colors and it flew very fast. Then the princess ran after it, and …”

  “And she took out her magic rope and tried to catch it.” Together Maria and I weave a story until the princess catches her butterfly in the end.

  As she lies in the crook of my arm, I watch Maria sleep peacefully. In the soft nightlight, her round face is warm and full. Suddenly a fleeting image of Geak comes back to me. I try to imagine Geak’s face when it was as full and round as Maria’s. But without a picture to hold on to, her beautiful face turns to hallowed cheeks and sunken dark eyes. As my nose itches and drips, I fantasize again about killing Pol Pot. I still want him dead. I want to wrap my fingers around his neck, feel my thumbs tighten against his Adam’s apple, and crush it. As hate boils in my body, it suppresses and overwhelms my sadness. In my arms, Maria moves closer against my chest, her breathing regular and deep. For a moment I feel old and maternal, but when I close my eyes the girl returns. When I open my eyes again, Meng and Eang are home. Quietly, they take Maria to their room and leave me to sleep alone in my bed.

  In the morning, I’m awakened by other Cambodian voices in the kitchen. As I recede into my closet to read my books, Meng, Eang, and their friends talk about Cambodia. Because Meng’s English is better than most of the other refugees’, they flood our house every weekend asking for his help translating various documents or filling out job applications. Sometimes these refugees only stay for a few hours, and other times they stay for days. The longer they stay, the more they talk about Cambodia, making it very difficult for me to block it out. When I complain about the stream of visitors, Meng’s only reply is that we need to help one another, especially other Cambodians.

  The truth is all I care about is becoming an American. Already I wear jeans and baseball caps wherever I go, listen to Loretta Lynn, and watch Crystal Gayle on TV. At school, I even make myself eat boring cafeteria meat loaf, hamburgers, and shepherd’s pie without making faces. But Meng tells me that until I have my citizen papers, I still am only a legal alien.

  “Eldest Brother, why do we have to wait so long before we can be Americans?” I asked Meng one night.

  “Maybe the government wants to make sure we’re good people.”

  Meng says that he and Eang have only two more years before they can apply for their American citizenship, but already he is studying the exams to make sure they’ll pass their tests. Meng tells me that as an American he can begin the paperwork to sponsor Chou, Kim, and Khouy to come to America. When he sees how excited I am about seeing Chou again, his face clouds over and he cautions that even with his citizenship, it may still take many more years for us to bring the rest of the family over.

  “But, Eldest Brother, when we left we told them we’d be together again in five years,” I remind him. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

  “They’ll have to wait a while longer,” he answers.

  “How much longer?”

  “I don’t know,” he says sadly.

  Meng then explains how Cambodia is not recognized as a country by the United Nations because of the Vietnamese occupation. Meng says he believes that because the United States lost the Vietnam war, the government is still angry with Vietnam. As a result, the United States has no diplomatic relations with either Vietnam or Cambodia and therefore we cannot send any letter or packages there. But because Canada is a super nice country and likes everyone, their government has relationships with Cambodia and we can mail our packages to Cambodia from there.

  Until America, Vietnam, and Cambodia become friends, we can’t send letters or anything else to our family in the village. But every time Meng runs into a store, he brings his coupons and returns with multiple packages of Tylenol, cough drops, cold medicines, eye drops, tea, and Chinese herbs. When there is a big clothing sale at the department store, Eang comes home with shirts, pants, skirts, and dresses in all different colors and sizes.

  Meng and Eang sort the items, tape on Khmer and Chinese instructions for their usage, and write the name of each recipient. In his letters, Meng describes our lives and growing family, and includes addresses of family and friends in Canada, France, Australia, and Vietnam. Then carefully he packs the items into a plain brown box and completely wraps it with packing tape. On all four sides of the box, he writes only Khouy’s name and an address in Phnom Penh. While he prays that his message will reach Cambodia, I send no words for Chou in the box.

  “Tomorrow we go to Montreal,” Meng announces happily while I yawn and get ready for bed. Since we received our green cards two years ago, Meng has made the two-hour trek to Canada every month, often piling the rest of us in our used Nissan Stanza with him, so he can send his letters and packages to Cambodia.

  The next day, in Montreal’s Chinatown, while Eang fills our carts with fifty-pound bags of jasmine rice, salted fish paste, oyster sauce, dried squid, rice papers, dried golanga root, and other Asian food we cannot find in Burlington, Meng waits in line at a Canadian post office, his arms laden with boxes and letters. From the post office, Meng picks us up and we go to visit his friend whose address we put on all our boxes to Cambodia.

  “No,” his friend tells Meng. “Nothing from Cambodia.” After the visit, Meng walks back to our car with stooped shoulders.

  Back in Vermont, March gives way to April as the birds chirp loudly in the trees and peck at springtime’s new buds. In our house, just when I’m sure the dark circles below Meng’s eyes will never leave him, the phone rings.

  “Hello,” Meng answers. From my seat on the rocking chair, I watch Meng lean forward on the couch. His face breaks into a big smile. “When?” he asks, and his hand grips the receiver so tightly that his knuckles turn white. “Only three months old?” Meng exclaims, his voice sounding like a boy. “What does the letter say? Please read it.”

  “Who is it? Who is it?” I ask, but Meng waves me away. Alerted by all the commotion, Eang comes in from the kitchen to sit next to Meng.

  “A letter from Khouy has arrived!” Meng finally tells us excitedly. “And it’s only three months old!” Eang leans her head into his and presses her ear against the receiver.

  Inside our home, it is as if time has stopped. For a moment, I can hear my breath inhale and exhale. In the silence, I watch Meng’s facial muscles quiver as he fights to hold them still. When his friend reads that Khouy, Chou, and Kim are alive and well, Meng’s smile shines with such brightness he reminds me of Pa.

  13 a box from america

  August 1983

  It is early morning and the sun has yet to burn throug
h the haze. Beside the hut, Chou squats and grabs a handful of grass, her thick calluses protecting her palm and fingers. With her other hand, she cuts the grass with her sickle and tosses it on the pile in front of the cows.

  “Second Brother,” Chou hears Kim greet Khouy as his motorbike roars to a stop in front of their hut.

  Chou drops her sickle and walks to the door to welcome Khouy. When she gets there, Kim is already beside him, his arms heavy with a big brown cardboard box with Western writing on it.

  “It’s a package from Eldest Brother,” Kim announces excitedly.

  “Truly?” Chou gasps and feels her legs bend like wilted plants.

  It’s been three years since Meng and Loung left them and this is the first they’ve heard from them. “Second Brother,” she greets him, her heart racing in her chest. “Is the box really from Eldest Brother?” Chou clenches her sarong in her hands while she waits for Khouy’s answer.

  “Yes, it’s from Eldest Brother,” Khouy tells her gently. “I just got it last night. I got here as fast as I could this morning.”

  “Thank you for coming so early.” Chou lets go of her sarong as the three of them rush into the hut. As the family gathers around the kitchen to eat rice porridge and eggs for breakfast, Khouy sits himself down at their new homemade wooden table.

  “Second Brother, how did we get this?” Chou asks, her voice cracking.

  “Eldest Brother writes that he’s been sending boxes to all different addresses, but only this one got here,” Khouy says and cups his hand to light his cigarette.

  Next to Khouy, Kim’s hands tremble as he opens the envelope. Suddenly he yells out, “But, Second Brother, this letter is dated four months ago!”

  “It took three months for the box to arrive at the address in Phnom Penh, and my friend has had the box for another month.”

  “A month!” Kim gasps as Chou sidles up next to him.

  “Kim, everybody is busy. It’s not like before the KR in Phnom Penh when they can call us up on the phone and tell us to come get the box. On a motorcycle, the trip from Phnom Penh to our village is long and dangerous. My friend had to wait until he had some business in the village before he could come.” Khouy looks up, takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette, and adds, “The box was already opened when my friend got it.”

  “Were many things taken out of the box?” asks Aunt Keang.

  “From Eldest Brother’s list of what he sent in the letter, they stole most of the clothes, shirts, pants, and dresses. There are still herbs, headache medicines, eye drops, and a few other things in there. Eldest Brother taped names of who they go to and instructions on how to use them.”

  Chou looks into her box and hides her disappointment because she knows the missing dresses were for her. The last time she owned a beautiful dress was before the Khmer Rouge. “Is everybody well? Eldest Brother, Eldest Sister-in-Law, and … Loung?” Chou hugs the box as if it is her family in the flesh.

  As Khouy stubs out his cigarette, Kim reads the letter to himself with Chou peering over his shoulder.

  “Read it out loud, read it out loud,” Chou urges, grabbing his arm to lower the letter so she can see. Around them, other family members gather to hear the news from America.

  “Here in America,” Kim starts, his voice steady and smooth, “Eang and I have found good jobs working in a factory not far from home. From Monday to Friday we work, and on the weekend we spend our time visiting with friends. Loung is a good student at school. Every day she studies and makes no trouble for the family. We now have a daughter we named Geak Sok.” Kim stops and clears his throat at Geak’s name. “Geak Sok is three years old and growing very fast.”

  As Kim’s words flood her mind, Chou envisions Essex Junction to be a prosperous town with lots of paved roads, big houses, and large farms that house hundreds of cows, pigs, and chickens. Try as she might, Chou cannot imagine being so rich that she could own hundreds of animals. Here in the village, a family is doing well if they have a pair of cows, or a few pigs and chickens. Chou is shocked when Eldest Brother writes that these American cows are often twice the size of a Cambodian cow and that they don’t do anything but make milk! It sounds very lazy to Chou; her cows work as hard as the family. They help carry water, plow rice, and pull the family’s wagon. But then Chou thinks, if Cambodia had paved roads that could fit four or five cars, their cows wouldn’t have to do much either!

  Kim stops and takes the pictures out of the envelope. The sounds of sniffing and nose-blowing echo through the hut as Kim stares at the pictures in his hand. As his eyes widen and blink rapidly, Chou can wait no longer and grabs them out of his hand. One by one, Chou brings the photos close to her eyes and stares at the faces. As she gazes at the images, her throat begins to ache and soon tears slide down her cheeks and drip off her chin and onto her lap.

  In the first picture, the sky is blue and the trees are full and green. The family stands on the grass in front of a clean, white building. There are no signs of dust, dirt, or grime. Standing straight, Eldest Brother is wearing a pressed blue cotton button-down shirt and brown khaki pants. Chou brings her nose closer to the print; as she stares at his face she sees that in spite of his cleanliness and smile, Eldest Brother’s eyes are sad and somber. Next to Eldest Brother, in her pink, soft sweater and calf-length black skirt, Loung smiles widely.

  “Loung looks like Keav!” Chou exclaims, laughing. “But look at her hair. It’s so big and frizzy!” Next to her, Cousin Hong grips Chou’s hand and they stare at the picture giggling.

  “But it’s pretty on her,” Aunt Keang chimes in. Chou smiles; even if Aunt Keang thinks Loung’s hair is ugly, she would never say it.

  “Loung is beautiful,” Chou says like a proud sister. “She has a lot of good flesh and skin on her, too. She looks very much like Keav but with more flesh.” Chou looks at her own dark brown skin, colored from spending so much time working in the hot sun. Without thinking, Chou’s fingers begin to scratch at her dry skin.

  “This must be Geak Sok.” Hong leans into Chou and points at the toddler. “She’s beautiful.” Standing beside Loung, dressed in a blue sweater-set and black pants, Eldest Sister-in-Law holds Geak Sok in her arms.

  “Geak Sok is beautiful,” Chou whispers softly. The family nods and comments on her round eyes, full lips, and little nose. Still staring at the picture of Loung, Chou tries to find the sister she held during the Khmer Rouge, the one who was fearless, who always wore a scowl, who was a dirty fighter. But the sister staring back at her looks so clean and unscarred. Chou tries again to spot the Loung she played with in Phnom Penh before the war, the clever girl who got in and out of trouble all the time. This time there is a flicker of recognition. For a moment, Chou’s breath catches at the thought that she might never see Loung again. Quickly, she shakes off the feeling.

  “Chou, pass the pictures,” Aunt Keang urges. Reluctantly, Chou hands them the family portrait and slowly flips through the others—family poses in the different rooms of their home.

  “Their home is so big!” Chou’s voice breaks the silence. “Look at how long and big that chair is. It’s as big as a bed!” The cousins chatter in their awe. When Chou is done looking at all the pictures, she waits for the images to make the rounds before taking them back so that she can stare once more at the faces of Loung and Eldest Brother. Before long, Khouy stretches his legs and announces that he has to return to Bat Deng.

  “Second Brother, can I keep some of these pictures?” Chou clutches the photos to her chest.

  “Take a few for yourself; the rest is to be shared among the family,” he tells her.

  Chou flips through the pile of pictures and greedily pulls out the ones showing all the family together and hands the rest back to him. After he leaves, the family returns to their work in the fields. Alone in the hut, Chou reaches under the plank for her personal wooden crate. Gently, she pulls out a bundle and unfolds the cloth to reveal Ma’s face in black and white. Under Ma’s photo are her other treasures
: pictures of Pa, Geak, and Keav. They are the only pictures that survived, and that they survived at all is a miracle. Chou remembers when Kim came home excitedly with them two years ago. He’d been to Phnom Penh and told her how he had come to possess them.

  Though Chou has yet to return to Phnom Pehn since their forced evacuation in 1975, Kim and Khouy have made many trips there in search of surviving families and jobs. On Khouy’s old rusted bicycle, that first trek into the city was over a half day long, bumpy, and painful.

  When he first entered the city, Kim told Chou, he was shocked by the destruction of the many beautiful houses that were abandoned to the monsoon rains when their owners left in haste during the Khmer Rouge takeover. The buildings were blackened with mold, the walls damp, and the foundations crumbling apart. The once-wide, beautiful shaded boulevards were lined with tree stumps. Slowly, they rode along Charles de Gaulle Street on Khouy’s bike, quiet and lost in their own thoughts.

  As they weaved around potholes, Kim noticed that though the streets were noisy and overflooded with refugees and displaced people, there were no cars, no motorcycles or any other vehicles on the road. As they got closer to their old apartment, Kim focused more and more on the rolling of the bicycle wheels propelling them forward; when he looked up, everywhere he saw the child he’d been, running after food vendors, laughing with his friends, scaring his sisters, and walking to noodle shops with Pa and Ma. Holding tight to the seat of the bicycle, Kim made his body rigid and ground his teeth together. When they arrived at the movie theater, Khouy stopped the bike and Kim jumped off.

  “It’s not our house anymore,” Kim remembers thinking as he looked up at it.

  After the Khmer Rouge abandoned Phnom Penh, there were no laws regarding ownership of properties or land. At that time, whoever arrived and settled into a house first got to claim ownership. Silently, Khouy pushed his bike onto the cracked pavement, his feet shuffling heavily to their old door.