Lucky Child Read online

  When night comes, Khouy sleeps in a hammock while Chou lies next to his wife and newborn baby. All night, Morm can only turn her head from side to side and moan until Chou wakes her to nurse. While Chou sits with them, Mom and baby soon fall asleep. By the time the sun peeks in again, all three adults are bleary-eyed and exhausted. Only the baby is well rested. Before Morm fully wakes, Khouy quickly leaves for work.

  “Sokounthea, that’s a pretty name,” Chou coos, giving the baby her finger. The baby gums her finger and continues to wail loudly. “Shhh … shh. Let your mom sleep a little longer.”

  “Kac, kac, kac. Waaaaaaa!” Sokounthea screams.

  “You like to cry? I’ll call you Kac then.”

  “Chou, bring the baby to me,” Morm calls out.

  After Morm’s milk puts the baby to sleep, Chou helps her to the bathroom. While Morm washes herself, Chou builds a fire and makes rice porridge for their breakfast. Back in bed, Chou turns Morm over on her stomach to reapply the herbal salve on her burns. As Chou gently lifts off the cloth that covers the layer of ground leaves, Morm clenches her hands into fists and bites down on her teeth. Next Chou peels the sticky, thick salve off Morm’s back and bottom to reveal brown, burned skin that looks like melted rubber. Beneath the skin, the pink flesh oozes with wetness and small blisters. Chou grimaces and holds her breath.

  “The top skin is drying up,” Chou exhales calmly and carefully reapplies the leaves. “And the blisters have burst and are drying as well.” Morm is quiet; her toes curl like claws rounding into her feet.

  As she works, Chou feels her anger rise.

  “But the gods must be looking after you because Kac is beautiful and healthy.” Chou peers at Kac sleeping peacefully next to her mother and her lips curl into a sad smile. In the four years of the Khmer Rouge, she cannot remember seeing a child born alive and healthy. Through the hard labor, starvation, disease, execution, and fear, she did not hear of many women carrying a child to full term.

  “Thank you, Chou. You are helping so much,” Morm whispers and sits up. Chou walks to the kitchen and returns with a bowl of rice soup.

  “Second Sister-in-Law, please eat this. You need to keep strong for the baby.” Morm takes a few sips and pushes the bowl away. “You must make more effort to eat your porridge. You are too thin,” Chou urges her.

  “Thank you, Chou. You will be a very good mother someday.” Morm manages a small smile and swallows a few more spoonfuls.

  “Just rest now and get better.” Chou straightens her mat and sheets before helping Morm to lie back down on her stomach. As Morm’s breathing slows, Chou gently covers her back with a light blanket and leaves to wash the baby, the dishes, and all the family’s clothes and diapers. Then she sits down to grind the herbal leaves to make the cooling salve for burns. As her hands work, Chou warms at Morm’s compliment. At sixteen, Chou is pretty, and though she has caught the attention of a few men in the village, she doesn’t care for them or their proposals of romance. Still, she dreams of someday having children and a family of her own to love and care for. What she doesn’t know is how to factor into this dream the ways she’ll be expected to be a wife to her future husband.

  16 sex ed

  September 1985

  “Five dolla, fa a goood time—five dolla,” the boys cry in their fake accent as I make my way to Essex Junction High School. I glare ahead at them, taking in the details of their wispy mustaches and facial hair straining to grow from their red, pimply faces.

  “Five dolla, fa a good time?” They laugh like hyenas, their mouths wide and fangs exposed.

  “Losers,” I curse, and hold my head high.

  Since the movie Platoon came out, I have been beseeched with requests for “a good time.” And though I have no plans—not now or ever—to see these war movies, many stupid boys somehow see me in them. I guess because I’m Asian and speak English badly, I must remind them of the Vietnamese prostitutes in these films. As I walk on, I brace myself for what I know will come next.

  “Boom-boom or yum-yum?” the pack calls after me, spits of saliva foaming at the corners of their mouths.

  “Losers,” I yell at them again, unable to think of anything else to say.

  Leaving the boys behind, I imagine I possess supernatural kung fu skills, like the girls in Chinese martial arts movies. In my fantasy, I reach the boys in two great leaps and a bound. Whirling around, I slap all their faces in one motion while their mouths hang open in shock and awe. Then I twirl into the air and kick them in the gut with a series of quick movements before landing softly, like a cat, on the ground. The boys stagger on their feet like drunken fools, their arms flinging about their sides as they try to balance. From my low position on the ground, I stick one leg out and spin like a helicopter propeller, knocking them off their feet. Standing straight and triumphant, I smile as they each land on the ground, a plume of smoke rising from the impact, their hair flying, small teeth spewing out of their mouths like popcorn, and their faces grimacing and twisting in slow motion.

  By the time my movie ends, I’m sitting in my finance class, buoyed by my imagined ass-kicking Supergirl alter ego and ready to show off my intelligence with my oral report. When it’s my turn, I march up to the front of the class and write the equation on the board. I then turn to face the class and smile confidently.

  At fifteen, I have lived in America for five years and am now a freshman in high school. The green-and-white sneakers and black stirrup pants that marked my days at ADL Intermediate School are behind me and have been replaced by white pumps and a long black fitted skirt. Above the skirt, much of my body is hidden under a bulky electric-blue V-neck sweater that hangs to my thighs. And though I spend time each night choosing what clothes to wear to school the next day, I spend even more time each morning coloring in my eyes and face. I make such an effort because a boy I met in Montreal’s Chinese community once told me I was like a rose—all sticks and thorns but with a blooming face. I assumed that, like everyone else, he was making fun of my round cheeks; now I hide them with my long, teased-up hair. On my face, thick black liner makes my eyes appear more open and Western, while purple lipstick gives me the look of an ice-cool person. Even if I have no money to keep up with the latest fashion trends, I am content with being a cheaper version of what’s in. Of course, Meng and Eang wouldn’t approve of my style and that’s why I continue to leave the house in the same boring plain-Jane outfit and change at school.

  “My presentation is about CDs,” I begin, then wait for the students to quiet down.

  “Class, quiet! Settle down!” The teacher gives me his support.

  “CDs or certificate of deposits.” The students in the front row shift their weight, making the chairs squeak. I straighten my shoulders and gently shake my head as all my hair moves as one complete unit.

  “Now, let’s say you have two thousand dollars. Instead of spending it on a car, you can invest that two thousand dollars in a CD and get five percent interest a year. If you keep that money in a CD until you’re twenty-six, with compounding interest you’ll …” The students in the back of the room move around restlessly while those in the middle section stare at me blankly. I try not to pay attention to them and continue to write the equations, interest rates, and percentages on the board to gear up for a big finale.

  “So in conclusion, if you have two thousand dollars, instead of blowing it on an old car, with your money gained from your CD’s compound interest, in ten years when you want to buy a place to live, you’ll have your start-up money to invest in a nice condom somewhere.

  “Oops,” I gasp, not believing that “condom” just popped out of my mouth. All around the room, students roll their heads back, clutch their stomachs, stomp their feet, and spit out their laughter.

  “I mean condo, not condom,” I say meekly, but the class is so out of control that the teacher has to tell the students to settle down again.

  For a moment, I wish that life could be like in a comic book, where your words are
captured in balloons floating over your head. Then at horrifying moments, you could prick the balloons with a needle and watch the words tumble on the floor, falling on top of one another until they’re indecipherable. If only life were like that, then I wouldn’t have to be known as “condom girl” for the rest of the year. But in real life, I make myself laugh louder than the others and walk back to my chair in the back of the room, my body feeling so much smaller in my big clothes and big hair.

  After school, I meet up with Beth at her locker.

  “Heard about what happened in class,” Beth says sympathetically. News in high school travels fast, especially if it involves humiliation or sex—and my news involves both.

  “Ugh,” I grunt.

  A few lockers away, I see Chris. Even in the ugly fluorescent light, Chris is still the cutest boy in school. He is also the most popular, and towers over the boys hovering around him, hanging on to his every word and action like a pack of monkeys.

  “Chris at his locker?” Beth asks when she notices my silence.

  “Isn’t he gorgeous today?” I whisper to her, happy to change the subject from the condom mishap.

  “Yep,” Beth agrees. And with that, we are both lost in our separate dreams of being Chris’s girl.

  I don’t know when I started noticing boys in this way. If I ask Beth, she’ll say that I’ve been boy-crazy since sixth grade. But before this year, I only saw boys as a way for me to fit in and possibly even become popular with the other students. It always seemed to me that girls who paraded the halls with their boyfriends all of a sudden became more visible, more important; they even started to look prettier. But something changed this year; now I find that my breath quickens and my heart jumps when I see Chris. But I don’t want to like him because I know there’s no chance in hell that he’ll like me back.

  And so I stare at my crush from afar and steal glances at his big hands deftly opening his locker, stuffing his books in his backpack, and shutting the door. Then Chris and his friends leave the school without even a tiny glance in my direction. As he disappears into the crowd down the hall, I can still see him. But while he’s always visible to me, I am that black spot that appears in his eyes after someone blinds him with a flash.

  Beth and I start for home. The May weather is cool and breezy, but my back is hot and sweaty from the weight of my heavy backpack dragging on my shoulders. One more month, and Beth and I will leave ninth grade behind for the better world of tenth graders.

  “Hey, Beth, what’s oral sex?” I ask. Beth giggles and turns around to make sure no one is within earshot.

  Meng doesn’t allow me to date—ever! Or at least until I’m nineteen and not living under his roof. So while many other students my age have kissed and even gone all the way with boys, I have yet to go on a date, hold hands, or kiss a boy. During sex education classes, while the guys snicker and girls giggle, I am fascinated and horrified by the drawings of men’s anatomy. Strangely, when I look at the pictures of naked men, my eyes paste a pair of paper cutout shorts in front of their private areas. When the textbook deals with male sexuality, a fear that’s hidden somewhere in the slippery ridges of my brain rises to the surface and makes my armpits sweat. So I close the book and instead study from diagrams. I methodically memorize the medical terms for the parts and organs to pass the tests.

  “So, what is it?” I hush my voice and lean closer into Beth.

  “Well, it’s when a girl …” Blessed with a nurse for a mom, Beth chatters on and is able to explain the mechanics of it to me.

  “No!” I stop in my tracks and scream, my palms over my mouth. “I thought it was talking dirty!”

  “Well, it’s a bit more than that.”

  “No! That’s disgusting!” I holler and make gagging sounds.

  When I get home, I run up the stairs and quickly drop off my bags. The house is quiet and stale, devoid of life and smell. For a brief moment, I flash to our house in Phnom Penh and the memories of all the brothers and sisters running in and out of the rooms. In a far distant time and land, the whirring fans blow the sweet smells of rice and charred garlic all over the house. Outside on the balcony, Pa and Ma sit and observe the world below them, rejoicing in their lack of privacy as Geak and I climb into their laps, our hands sticky from candies and sweet fruits.

  I leap back into my own time and shake off the uselessness of missing my family. The five years Meng said that it would take for us to make a home here and then bring Khouy, Kim, and Chou to live with us have come and gone. There are still no signs that the U.S. government will allow us to reunite. And even with the steady stream of letters we now receive every two or three months from Cambodia, Meng’s smiles are beginning to tighten again.

  As for me, I have come to accept that I might never see Chou again. I know that somewhere in Cambodia, the remainder of our large family is waiting to join Meng and me in America, but missing them has become too difficult. And so I’ve begun to think of myself as the only sister, even though I still remember being part of a big family. That life is gone and no matter how I wish it, it will never be so again. This thought makes me feel like the small dead critters I see on the road—crushed, flattened, and alone.

  In my closet, I change out of my school clothes and into an old pair of long pants and a T-shirt, and rush out the door. It’s three-fifteen P.M. and Eang and Maria will not be back for a few more minutes. Again eight months pregnant, Eang leaves work early to pick up Maria from kindergarten and will be home at three-thirty. Outside, I hop on the twelve-speed bike Meng bought me last summer and head for the road. As I pedal, the sun shines in the blue sky and the wind breaks apart the white clouds. Every once in a while I veer off to the side of the road to let the cars zoom by. With the wind in my hair, I leave 48 Main Street, the cemetery, the lonely house, and my warm closet behind. Yet no matter how fast I travel, Cambodia follows and I see Chou calling out to me, with her hand reaching. My hands clamp the handlebars and my legs push the pedals faster, rattling the chains as I try to push away memories of Chou’s palm against mine, our fingers entwined, and tears streaming down her face when we were forced to break our bond. “Five years from now we’ll see each other,” I promised her then.

  Every month, Meng continues to send letters and packages to Cambodia and waits for the U.S. government to normalize its relationship with the country of my birth. Until this happens, we will not be allowed to visit. The only other way for us to reunite would be for our Cambodian family to make its way to the refugee camps in Thailand. Then possibly we’d be able to sponsor them over. But that trek to Thailand would take them on a path littered with land mines and through Khmer Rouge-controlled jungles. They’d also risk being shot at by Thai soldiers in their attempts to cross the borders. In his letters, Khouy writes that he has settled down with his family and no longer wishes to leave, but, if possible, he urges us to bring Kim and Chou out.

  My mind full of Cambodia, I race down the hill with my ponytail flicking back and forth like a tail as I bounce over the gravel and potholes. Faster and faster I pedal on the expanded country road and ride my bike forward into my future. In front of me, the horizon looks bright with opportunities, possibilities, and hope. As I stand up on my bike, forcing my legs to pump harder, my stomach begins to cramp with guilt and shame, knowing that I am riding into a future where my sister can never follow. Behind me, Chou stops running and follows me with her eyes, her arms dangling listlessly by her sides, her feet flattening against the land as I leave her farther and farther behind.

  “Owwww!” I scream as my wheels skid on the gravel and the bike comes crashing down.

  When I open my eyes again, I am on the ground as searing pain shoots up from my knees and groin. Slowly I get up and pick the stones out of my flesh, watching droplets of blood beginning to ooze out of my skin. Except for the scraped knees, I’m not seriously hurt. I pick up my bike and straddle it. But as I lift my leg up, I notice a painful ache between my thighs that I’ve never felt before. Convinced
that the burning sensation is a bruise from the fall, I get on my bike and head home.

  By the time I arrive back home, the burning sensation in my groin has become cramps and a sticky wetness now flows down my thighs. I rush into the bathroom to check out my bruises and see that on one side of my inner thigh, a cut is caked with dried blood, but fresh blood still dribbles down my leg. Shocked by the sight of so much of it, I sit down in the bathtub to steady my shaky legs. Red liquid now stains the tub’s white porcelain veneer. As I stare at the blood, my mind takes me back to the only other times I’ve seen so much blood coming out of a human body. Suddenly, my head feels light and the room begins to spin and fade out, for in all those instances the person was either dying or already dead.

  In the bathtub, I wrap my arms around my knees and bring them close to my chest. Then I bury my head in my arms, as dark thoughts tell me I’m being punished for my bad behavior. Rocking my body back and forth, I try to push the images of the Khmer Rouge soldier’s execution out of my head. But I can’t stop the memory from resurfacing. I remember. I saw a man slaughtered like an animal while I’d watched without emotion. I’d stood in front of the crowd as an old woman stepped forward and approached the Khmer Rouge. Her face a mixture of hatred and sadness, she accused him of killing her family and smashed her hammer on his head. As his blood soaked the ground around him, I stared at it with fascination, knowing that when it all emptied out of his body, he would be dead.

  “I don’t want to die,” I whimper.

  I hear Eang playing with Maria in the living room, so I hold my breath to calm myself down. Part of me wants to go to Eang, but my fear of her seeing me so upset prevents me from getting out of the tub.

  “Kgo, is that you?” Maria’s voice from outside the bathroom shocks me out of my paralysis.

  “Yes, honey. I’ll be out in a few minutes. Go play with Mommy, okay?” I control my voice to make it sound calm for her.