Lucky Child Page 19

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Checking your breathing,” I reply nonchalantly. His brows knit together for a moment and then he laughs.

  “Eang and I shared a can of beer,” he explains, and points to the empty can on the coffee table.

  “So you’re drunk,” I smile as he falls back to sleep. I pick up the beer can and toss it in the trash. Meng and Eang rarely drink alcohol, but when they do, one can of beer is enough to make them pass out. Leaving them alone, I march back upstairs. After a short period of tacking drawings of Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and the Jetsons on my walls, I bring Maria to play in the living room next to her sleeping parents. As I unpack the boxes, I watch over Meng and Eang until they gradually come back to life.

  After dinner and more scrubbing of the bathroom sinks and floor, the family settles down for an early night. In their room, Meng and Eang sleep with Tori in their bed while Maria snuggles next to her teddy bear on a foldout cot in the corner. In my room, I hang up my dresses, fold my shirts and pants, and put them into drawers. When the digital clock’s red numbers read 11:00 P.M., I’ve finished with all my tasks and stand in the middle of the room inspecting my work.

  I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the door. “God, I hate my body,” I say out loud. Beneath the big shirt and long pants, the girl staring back at me is thin and has no curves. I move toward the mirror, pull my shirt tightly over my chest, and wince. Under the shirt, my breasts are tender and sore.

  “I hate them.” My confession drowns in the thick, shaggy rug. “I must, I must, I must increase my bust,” I sing quietly and wish for bigger breasts. Then I smooth my hands over my rumbling and bloated belly.

  “I hate myself,” I whisper. The words hang quietly in the air like an indictment of guilt.

  I walk across the room and sink into my twin-size bed. Outside my window, a cold spell moves across Vermont and freezes everything in its path. Far away from the winter’s sting, the bright moon leaves its distorted reflection on the icicles. As I lie face down, the wind whistles and howls like an angry beast slamming against the walls, trying to get in. Under two pairs of socks, my cold toes curl, wishing they were little piggies in blankets. The cold stings my skin and numbs my flesh wherever it touches, up my feet, across the softness of my arches, and around my exposed ankles. Without looking, I reach across the bed and turn off the lamp. This morning I was so happy about everything, and now my mood is dark as night.

  “Everything is great,” I try to convince myself. This is true. After many years of struggle, the family is finally doing well.

  Six months ago, Meng put on his pressed suit and Eang wore her best dress, and together the family made their way to the county court. There, Meng and Eang were sworn in as citizens with a roomful of other new Americans to cheers and applause. Before the jubilation even died down, Meng announced that it was time to buy a house. When he returned the next week from the bank with news that we’d been approved for a house loan, he looked as if he’d swallowed a lightbulb. For the next few months, he scanned newspaper ads, contacted real estate agents, and drove around the neighborhood scouring for FOR SALE signs. During meals, he talked excitedly about finding a home big enough to hold all of us, plus Kim and Chou when they come. With our first home, he explained, we are living the American dream, and in thirty years we will own a piece of that dream.

  “Everything is great,” I repeat. I know I have no reason to be sad, but despite the white shiny new paint in my room, inside I feel dull.

  “Everything is not great. I hate myself.” The thought makes the knotted muscles in my neck even tighter. I close my eyes, pinch my nose, and blow, trying to squeeze out the dark thoughts. For a brief time, nothing is in my head but the thudding sound of my heart pounding in my eardrums. But as soon as I let go, the sadness comes flooding back up my nostrils and into my brain.

  “Why can’t I be normal?” I turn violently in my bed, kicking off the covers. In my head, I see the Vietnamese soldier bending over me again, one hand gripping the back of my neck, the other covering my mouth and most of my face. As he lowers my head to the ground, he whispers “Shh, shh,” but a scream crawls its way up to my throat. When he tugs at my pants and pulls them past my hips, the scream explodes. I slide on my bottom to get away from him but he grabs my legs and thighs. With a surge of hate, I twist myself out of his grasp and crash my feet into his chest. While he gasps in pain, I kick him in the groin and get away. But as my body bleeds and changes with each passing moon, the soldier returns. In my sleep, he hovers over me as the war invades my body like worms burrowing into a dead corpse.

  When sleep will not come, I get up and go to the bathroom to draw myself a bath. When the tub is filled, I slowly lower myself in. As the warm water laps at my body, I reach for the hand towel and soak it in the tub. Then I fold the dripping wet towel in half and put it over my face to see if I will suffocate. Lately, I’ve craved to know how it feels to fight for breath. The thought sends a chill down my body. Still, as my body grows cold in the water, I begin to wonder what it would feel like to drown. I pile another wet towel over my face and suck in more water with each breath. When breathing becomes more difficult, I try to imagine being buried alive. In my mind, I’m lying in a mass grave where I know so many Cambodians were bludgeoned, and where many were not yet dead when they were buried. My lungs burn with lack of oxygen as I envision dirt and corpses pushing against my skin. I make myself stay in the grave and scream for those who didn’t escape, before letting myself pull the towels away. The water is cold when I get out of the tub and return to bed.

  In my sleep, I dream I am again running from the Vietnamese and Khmer Rouge soldiers. I know that if they catch me they will rape and kill me. I scream and try to tell them I’m a boy. I wrap my arms over my breasts and hips to hide my new body. Paralyzed with fear, I suddenly look down to see my inner thighs dripping with blood.

  “Help me!” I scream but no one answers my call. The blood slides down my legs and seeps into the ground between my toes. I reach down and try to wipe myself clean with my hands but succeed only in smearing the blood all over my thighs. There’s so much blood! I stop and crouch down to the ground. My trembling fingers dig into the soft earth and rub the dirt on my bloodied toes. But the blood does not disappear. Instead, it cakes to the mud and sticks like adhesive to my skin. Somewhere in the dense wood, I know the soldiers are waiting for me. I know also that if they rape me I will kill myself. I want to turn and kill the soldiers the way I’ve done many times before in my dreams, but I no longer know if I am strong enough. I struggle with my pillow, my legs kicking at the blankets. Abruptly, I awake sweating in my own bed. In the dark, I curl into a fetal position.

  When the alarm clock rings to get me up to begin the week at school, I’m already tired. My limbs are shaky when I climb out of my bed. I bend and stretch my aching back but flames of pain continue traveling down my legs and into my calves. When I pull my blanket back, I find a small pool of blood on the sheet. I strip off the dirty sheets and put new ones on before getting ready for school. On my new route to Beth’s house, I push away the images of blood and wonder how I did on my geometry test last Friday.

  19 a peasant princess

  July 1986

  “Chou, you know I think of you as my own daughter.” Aunt Keang speaks softly as she helps Chou tie up their mosquito nets. “And I’ve loved you as one of my own.” Chou smiles at her while her hands continue to work. Except for the two of them, the hut is empty. Outside, the rest of the family sits and fans themselves, seeking relief from the oppressive heat.

  “Chou, it is time for you to get married,” Aunt Keang announces gently. Chou stops and looks at Aunt Keang, her throat tightening.

  Already many months over eighteen, Chou is not surprised by Uncle Leang and Aunt Keang’s decision for her to marry. Many of her friends married at sixteen and seventeen. But the news still warms her face and makes her hands shake. With Ma and Pa gone, Ch
ou knows the task of finding her a husband is left to Aunt Keang and Uncle Leang. As she fights to still her hands, a small voice inside tells her that she can’t say no even if she wants to. No girl in her community has ever refused to be arranged or rejected her family’s choice of a husband. For a girl to refuse her parents’ choice shows great disrespect; it tells the world that she does not trust her elders’ judgment, and thus causes them to lose face. But no one in the village openly talks about those girls. If their names are brought up, it is only through gossip and scandals that spread through the village like an infectious disease, with each listener gasping.

  Because of this stigma, even thirty-five years after Ma defied her parents and ran away to marry Pa, her scandal still has the power to hush people up. Chou has heard stories from Ma’s childhood friends that when Ma refused Amah’s choice and eloped with Pa, Amah stopped talking to her. Chou is horrified that Ma is still being judged. The friends described how Ma wept at Amah’s feet and begged for forgiveness. “Ma and Pa loved each other,” she wants to scream. They were devoted to each other and their family. But it wasn’t until they had children that the family forgave them. While she struggles inside, outwardly Chou is calm and still. For a brief moment, Ma’s story inspires Chou to protest that she is not ready to take a husband. But before the words can escape, Chou clamps her lips tightly together.

  “Chou, your uncle, grandmother, and I have mulled over this for many months now,” Aunt Keang continues, and takes Chou’s hand.

  “We looked for someone with a good family history, animal signs, who knows how to make money, and who will work hard to support his family. We searched for someone who is kind, gentle, and who will be a good father. After looking at all of this, we have arranged for you to marry Pheng.” While Aunt Keang searches her face for a reaction, Chou stares at her hands on her lap. Then Chou exhales deeply and breathes with relief that at least she is to marry a man she knows. Though unable to express her emotions, she is grateful Aunt Keang has chosen someone her age, who is from the same village. In their girlish giggles, she has heard her friends say that Pheng is tall and handsome. She knows him to be kind, gentle, and nice.

  “I think your Pa and Ma would approve.” Aunt Keang’s voice trails off.

  Chou’s face warms at the mention of Ma and Pa. Chou has worked hard to be the kind of daughter she thinks they wanted her to be. On the many mornings when she wakes up too tired to be patient with the crying children, she stops herself from screaming at them because Ma wouldn’t have approved. When her anger rises with the amount of work she has to finish while the other cousins nap under the tree, she wills herself to be quiet and not to complain. Sometimes, she craves to burst out of her submissiveness, to scream, complain, and rebel against Aunt Keang’s rules, or the cousins dirtying too many dishes, or even Kim getting to go to school while she stays behind. Instead, when the frustration rises, she swallows it and pushes it down into her stomach. As her stomach cramps up, she remembers Ma’s words. “A proper woman is neutral, doesn’t gossip, never screams, complains, or throws tantrums, and blends in with the crowd. A proper woman is like warm water, not shocking like cold or burning like hot.”

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Chou manages to whispers.

  “Chou, do not cry. Be happy,” Aunt Keang urges. “He will make a good husband and father to your children.” Aunt Keang assures Chou and squeezes her hand. Chou finally looks up and wipes her eyes. In her blurred vision, Chou sees Ma smiling widely as she walks with Pa out of the village. She wishes she could follow them but resigns herself to her fate.

  Three months later, on the night before her wedding, Chou dreams that Ma and Pa are together. They sit side by side at their kitchen table in Phnom Penh. Next to Pa, Keav bounces Geak up and down on her lap. They all look so young and beautiful. Chou leans against the wall outside, looking in, and cries. The dream is so vivid, but deep in her consciousness she always knows they are not on earth anymore.

  “Ma, Pa, today is my wedding day.” She walks over to stand behind their chairs but they do not respond. Since Aunt Keang told her she was to be married three months ago, Chou has found herself talking to Ma and Pa more and more. She aches to feel Ma’s arm around her shoulders and Pa’s hands on her head. “Eldest Sister, Geak, I am getting married today,” she calls out to Keav and Geak.

  “Today is my wedding day.” The words float in her mind.

  Above her, the black flies, brown bugs, and tiny grasshoppers hang on the mosquito net, their jagged little feet caught in the threads. She stares at them from bleary red eyes that sting from too little sleep. As she sits up, her head spins and she feels dizzy. She smacks the net a few times with her palms, freeing the bugs and forcing them to flee. Quickly, she swings her legs over the plank bed, wraps the sarong tight around her waist, and makes her way outside.

  It is still dark. The stars sparkle brightly; the wind is quiet and cool. In their big round water jars, the smiling moon shivers when Chou dips her hands into the container. Under her feet, the grass and shrubs that lay trampled from the previous day are healing slowly with the morning dew. But it is too early for Chou to really register anything. She does not know what time it is. She knows only that it is so early that even the cows, dogs, and roosters are asleep. When Chou finishes washing her face, she pours the rest of the water onto her palm and splashes her neck and arms. Suddenly a chill spreads all over her body and makes the hair on her arms stand. Her knees go weak from nerves as she gasps for breath and grips the water container for support.

  After she is finished, she steadies herself and walks back into the hut. In her haze, she hears Aunt Keang and the older cousins rouse out of their sleep, their yawns and coughs echoing in the quiet air. Inside the web of nets, the young children, accustomed to loud noises, continue to sleep undisturbed.

  “Chou,” a soft voice calls from outside the door. Chou crosses the room to answer the call as Aunt Keang sidles off her bed and heads outside to wash her face. When she opens the door, Chou finds her next-door neighbor, a friend, and two distant cousins standing there. Usually, wedding banquets are held in the evening, but because the roads are unsafe to travel after dark, Aunt Keang decided to have the reception in the afternoon. This timing will allow the out-of-town guests to join in the celebration and return to their village without the fear of stepping on land mines or being kidnapped by Khmer Rouge soldiers during the night. Because an early wedding means less time to prepare, Aunt Keang has invited many people in the community to come help with the preparations.

  “Cousins, sisters, please come in.” Chou ushers them in.

  “Chou, today is your wedding day!” her friend gushes. “Why are you up so early? You should sleep a little more. This is your only day to be a princess!”

  “Sisters,” replies cousin Hong, “in the village, a poor woman like Chou can only be a peasant princess. That means we work even on our wedding days.”

  “But a peasant princess is still a princess!” Aunt Keang walks in from the outhouse and greets the guests. “And thank you all for coming.” She takes each of their hands in hers and guides them into the kitchen. “You have good hearts and generous spirits to come help.”

  “No need to thank us, Aunt Keang,” says her friend. “We are all family. Of course we will help.”

  “Today is your wedding day,” one of the cousins announces again, and touches Chou’s arm. “We are so happy for you. Your aunt and uncle have picked a very nice man for you. May you be blessed with much happiness and many healthy children.” Instantly, Chou’s ears ring loudly as the words travel into her heart and speed it up.

  In the dark, fear flickers across her face. After today, she will no longer be a girl but a woman and a wife. She is not sure she is ready to be either, but she accepts her fate in this world.

  “When the sun comes out, the cook will come to make the dishes,” Aunt Keang tells them. “For now, let’s prepare the ingredients: cut the vegetables, wash the fruits, slice the meat, make the noo
dles, set the tables.”

  As she leads them around to their workstations, Aunt Keang tells the women that when the sky is bright enough for the men to see, they will go to gather the wood, leaves, and ropes to make the tent. Then while the women help with the cooking and cleaning, the men will do the hard work of chopping the wood and collecting the water. When they are done with that, they will go around the village to borrow chairs and tables from friends and neighbors for the festivities.

  “Aunt Keang, how many have been invited?”

  Chou listens intently as Aunt Keang tells the women about the four hundred friends, family, and guests expected to attend her wedding. As the women gasp, Aunt Keang explains that because Ma and Pa were so well known and loved in the village, she wants to give Chou a big wedding to bring honor to them. While the women nod, Aunt Keang then goes on to list the eight dishes they will serve at the reception.

  “Young chicken soup to bless the new couple with healthy children, sautéed mixed vegetables, steamed fish with bamboo shoots, fried rice, shrimp lo mein, roasted whole chicken, lotus seed sweets, and rice cakes.” Aunt Keang finishes and leads the women into the kitchen.

  Leaning on the door frame, Chou is frozen by the thought of being a hostess to four hundred people. She is not accustomed to being at the center of attention. But her worries are cut short as more women arrive to help. Wasting no time, Aunt Keang quickly puts them to work while Chou washes dishes, knives, and cutting boards. Hong and a friend are washing pink lotus blossoms for table flowers. As their fingers rub the dirt and mud from the leaves, they chat, laugh, and gossip. Near them, two more women sit on footstools with their cleavers busily chopping bunches of scallions and dicing garlic. Beside them, another woman splits wood to kindle the fire to boil the water. When the water is hot enough, Aunt Keang picks up a chicken from the pile of fifty and holds it upside down by its feet above the hot water. The limp bird has been sliced across the neck and drained of blood, as Aunt Keang dips it headfirst into the pot. After a few minutes, she pulls it out and repeats the process with another bird until there are none left. Chou takes the hot, wet chickens and delivers them to a group of women sitting in a circle. Between laughs and giggles, they pluck the feathers. Chou leaves them and goes to stir a big pot of white rice congee soup sitting on the fire. Then she reaches over for a metal spatula and flips over the chunks of dried salted fish sizzling in a frying pan. Once everything is cooked, she ladles the congee into bowls and carries the platter of soups, spoons, and fish to the women.