Lucky Child (12 page)

“You are twenty-one years old. You can do what you want. But Kim and Chou stay here,” Uncle Leang declares. Khouy is quiet. Chou grips the door tightly, torn between wanting to agree with Uncle Leang’s decision because he is their elder and head of the family, and wanting to live with Khouy, because he’s her brother. As the moment drags on, Chou realizes with a heavy heart that it doesn’t matter what she wants at all; she and Kim will stay with Uncle Leang. When Meng was with them, he took care of the siblings like a mother while Khouy protected them like a father. Without Meng, Chou knows Khouy cannot take care of them.

Chou turns her gaze on Kim who continues to eat slowly and stare into his bowl. Like Chou, he’s caught in a struggle he has no power to change and no voice to speak. In the silence between Khouy and Uncle Leang, Kim stops eating and sets his jaw so hard the bones push against his skin. As Kim fights to keep his face still, Chou steps out of her shadow to serve Kim tea. Kim takes the cup from her hand and seems to relax a little.

“I leave tomorrow for Bat Deng,” Khouy announces, finally breaking the silence. Then he sits back to roll his cigarette.

“We wish you well, my son.” Uncle Leang blesses him and lights his own cigarette.

Just like that, the storm passes by. Around the table, the rest of the family members let out their breath. Chou takes a few plates outside to the kitchen where she squats next to a bowl of water. As she scrubs the wok clean, the realization sinks in that she has always known Khouy would one day leave them. Even when she was young, Chou knew that Khouy was restless in spirit and body. Ma said he was born with too much fire and this was why his spirit was so restless and why he got into so much trouble. Hoping to find ways to calm him down, Ma enrolled Khouy in karate classes, guitar lessons, and sports, all of which he excelled in. But still he found time to get into trouble and fights.

Inside the hut, Kim gets up to clear the rest of the dishes, making sure not to look at Khouy’s face. Around him, the family continues their discussion about what to grow for the upcoming season, as if nothing has happened. Kim brings the dishes to Chou and squats down next to her. As a boy in a family with many girls, Kim does not have to do the women’s work of washing and cleaning. Chou knows this and appreciates his gesture. As he helps her with the dishes, she knows he is trying to fulfill his role as her brother. With no words to comfort her, Kim rinses the dishes and stays with her as she washes them through her tears.

That night, Chou dreams again of the Khmer Rouge soldiers. The dark men chase after Khouy in the jungle as Chou watches hidden behind a bush, paralyzed with fear. As Khouy runs, his arms and legs brush against trees and bushes, the sharp leaves cutting into his skin. The soldiers make gains on Khouy and aim their guns at him as Chou screams for him to run faster. But no matter how fast he runs, the soldiers are always behind him. In her hiding space, Chou feels herself go dizzy as her heart beats faster. “Run, Second Brother, run! Don’t let them catch you!” she yells at him. Suddenly, she dreams of watery pits filled with human skulls and bones.

In the morning Chou wakes early and quickly builds a fire to cook rice soup for Khouy’s breakfast. As she blows into the fire, her thoughts return to her childhood in Phnom Penh. When she was young, Chou thought Khouy was the funniest, strongest, and most interesting brother. He never beat her, but she knew he could be mean because the parents of
the injured boys he and his gangs did beat up kept showing up at the front door and asking Ma for help. When they left, Ma would bustle around the house looking for places to hide Khouy from Pa’s wrath. When Pa came home, he would storm all over the house, tearing open the closets, lifting up the beds in every room, trying to find Khouy. But Ma was always successful in sheltering him or sending him away to a friend’s house until Pa calmed down. Khouy would eventually return home to Pa’s simmering anger and threats to disown him if he continued to shame the family name. After a few days of tension, Khouy’s wild stories and jokes eventually won Pa over until the next fight.

As the sun slowly brightens the sky over the village, the rest of the family stirs in their mosquito nets. Chou remembers waking up in Phnom Penh to the cuckoo clock bird that came out of its wooden house at the top of every hour. Khouy was always the first one up and out of bed. By the time Chou came to breakfast, Khouy would have already had his and would be outside on the balcony squatting and leaping like a frog, doing his morning exercise.

Chou stirs the soup and turns to see Khouy under the tree stretching and swinging his arms like a child. He pivots and sidekicks an invisible enemy with a force Chou imagines would crack ribs if it had landed on a real person. This early in the morning, there are no clouds in the sky, but it is the rainy season and by late afternoon, torrential rain will fall. Hurriedly Chou returns to her fire and soup because she knows Khouy will want to leave early to miss the rain on his long walk. Her hands shake at the thought of Khouy going into battle.

Until the Khmer Rouge soldiers stormed into Phnom Penh, Khouy’s world revolved only around himself. But during the war, Chou watched Khouy change; his spirit was calmed and his feet took root around the family. When the soldiers reduced the family’s food ration, Khouy volunteered for the most physically demanding jobs because it meant he would get more food. Day and night, rain or shine, Khouy worked fourteen to sixteen hours a day for a few extra ounces of rice and salted fish. Even when he was sick and coughing up blood, he worked hard and always saved a portion of his rice to bring home to the family. Every other week, he would visit and deliver the food. As Ma and the young siblings clamored around the food, Khouy and Pa would sit and spend some quiet time
together. When it was time for Khouy to return to his work camp, Pa would grip his shoulders and tell him he was a good son.

“Chou, come have breakfast before Second Brother leaves,” Kim calls out to her.

Inside the hut, the family is getting up and preparing to leave for the fields. In the kitchen, Kim wears a tight smile as he serves Khouy his breakfast. While they chatter away about the farm and the weather, Chou slowly folds Khouy’s clothes and lays them on the plank. As her hands work, Chou remembers the one time Khouy lost control of his emotions. When Kim told him that the soldiers took away Ma and Geak, Chou watched Khouy’s bottom lip quiver and his eyes redden. “She was so small. She was so small,” he uttered in a raspy, broken voice while his hand lifted another cigarette into his mouth and his tears disappeared in the smoke. Sitting beside him then, Chou’s throat ached as she cried the tears Khouy could not. She no longer saw the mean brother she’d feared in Phnom Penh, but a man who loved his family so much he would go hungry for them.

Though everyone in their family has worked hard to adjust to a new, postwar life, for Chou and Kim the adjustment has been easier than for Khouy. To Chou, Khouy has seemed more lost with each day, his legs shaking with more urgency under the table. Chou believes that Khouy no longer knows where he needs to be, only that he must go.

When Khouy finishes his breakfast, he walks over to Chou.

Khouy imparts his brotherly advice to her. “Be a good girl and don’t fight with your cousins.” An awkward moment stands between them but neither one knows how to talk to the other. He then gently takes the sack Chou’s been packing and goes over to Kim.

“Look after your sister,” he says casually to Kim. Kim nods as Khouy swings his sack over his shoulder and follows the road to Ou-dong. Watching him go, Chou is visited by long-ago memories of Keav and Pa walking away, their backs thin and strong. Then she remembers Eldest Brother pedaling away with Loung on the back of his rickety bicycle. Just when she thinks she cannot stand to be alone, Kim comes and stands by her. He doesn’t say anything or touch her but Chou feels herself enveloped in his embrace.

Chou whispers a prayer under her breath. “A bullet flies in front; it
passes on. A bullet comes from the back; it will melt like wax in the sun. May the goddess Neang protect you.” Together, Kim and Chou watch as Khouy’s figure disappears into the bend in the road.

As the monsoon rain drenches the country, the ponds fill up and the fish feed on the bugs hovering above the surface. The snakes leave their flooded mud homes to swim across the rice paddies in search of drowned rats and other delectable critters. From his army base, whenever he can, Khouy sends word that he is well and living in a soldiers’ compound. Of the details of his life in the army and training, he does not say. In the village, news of Khmer Rouge attacks in nearby provinces drives the villagers to dig bomb shelters in the backs of their huts. Now every time Kim leaves the hut, Chou waits anxiously for his safe return at the end of the day. After a long day of growing their own food and collecting wood and water, the family quickly eats their meal and heads out back to dig bomb shelters in the ground. For Chou, life is so busy that whenever she has a little time to play, she relishes it like a precious gift.

And on this day, that gift comes in the form of a short bicycle ride with Hong in the countryside. Outside of an occasional bike ride and molding farm animals out of clay, Chou spends her spare time making drawings in the dirt, folding origami, making colorful necklaces and bracelets for herself from dried-up berries, playing hopscotch and sometimes a game of hide-and-seek.

Hong reminds Chou so much of Loung, it’s almost as though she lost one loud, reckless sister and gained another. In front of them, Chou sees a woman walking to the road carrying a metal pail. The woman stops, tucks her shirt in, and tightens her green sarong around her waist. She then lifts her pail and dumps its contents into a ditch beside the road. The garbage of banana leaves, sugar can stocks, coconut shells, and orange peels gives off a sweet decay smell.

“Chum reap sur!”
The girls scream hello as they pass by.

They ride by rice paddies, thatched-roof houses, and palm trees. Chou takes in all the details. She loves the country so much, sometimes she can barely believe she was born and raised in the city. No matter how many rice harvests she’s endured, she never grows tired of seeing the rich green rice stalks. At harvesttime, the rice paddies transform into beautiful
golden fields. Chou loves the small ponds that fill the country landscape with white and pink lotus flower that are always in bloom. Nestled beside the road, thatched-roof huts that were once bare and empty now have bright colored ribbons hanging at their front doors and makeshift altars to guard the residents from evil spirits. Surrounding the homes, banana, palm, coconut, mango, guava, and papaya trees provide shade and food for the villagers.

As the girls pass by another hut, a naked little boy saunters out to watch. He stands by the road, his stomach sticking out so much that it pokes out his little belly button. The girls wave to him as they ride by. Suddenly, his arms and legs pumping, he runs after the bike. When his mother calls, he reluctantly turns back, his little bottom bouncing behind. Chou follows him with her eyes and dreams of one day having children of her own. For a moment, her thoughts shift back to Geak, but then she decides to let the wind carry her away.

As they race down a small hill, Chou holds on to Hong as they descend upon a herd of cows grazing on the side of the road. Sensing danger, the cows scurry out of the way in midchew, their hooves kicking up rocks, their tails swinging with haste. The cowbells ring sweetly as Chou and Hong zip past, their hair flying and their mouths open wide. In front of her, Hong laughs gleefully, her legs pumping the rusty chain. The old faded bike squeaks and rattles, weaving like a drunk, but Hong pushes on, moving the bike forward as its bald tires kick up dirt in the air, creating a tiny dust storm behind them. With the wind blowing in her hair, Chou finally feels her old age stripping away, leaving behind a girl of twelve.

9 ghosts in costume and snow

October 1980

“What’s Halloween?” I ask Ahn McNulty Since the beginning of October, the kids buzz like swarms of flies around piles of cow manure as they go from one table to another to discuss their costumes.

“It’s a children’s holiday,” Ahn tells me in her grown-up tone. “And it’s the time when all the ghosts come out to play!”

“What?” I gasp.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Ahn laughs and slaps my arm.

“The kids at school said it’s a holiday for the dead,” I continue. My superstitious mind doesn’t like the sound of that at all.

“No, no. I don’t think so. Look, what’s important is that we get to wear costumes and ask for candies.”

“Costumes?”

“Yes, you can be anything you want to be. A witch, a princess, any cartoon character, a ghost.”

“No, no ghosts.”

Then Ahn goes on to tell me that on Halloween night, kids all over the country dress up and walk around the neighborhoods demanding “something good to eat,” and they get it! I cannot believe my ears! What a great country this America is!

For the next three weeks, while the green mountains surrounding Essex Junction turn crimson, red, and orange, my mind is fixated with
dreams of Halloween. Oblivious to my preoccupation, Meng and Eang marvel at the changing colors from our second-floor apartment. In Cambodia, we have three weather seasons. From September to December, our winter season is cool and green. The scenery changes little from January to April, the dry season when the weather is hot and humid. Then from May to August, monsoon rains drench the land, and the green, lush tropical jungles come to life with blooming flowers. As the rainy season progresses, the water soon overflows the ponds all over the country, creating puddles teeming with fish and crabs. But in Vermont, the changing weather does not bring rain or fish but rather a storm of out-of-state cars inching along on narrow, one-lane roads winding through the countryside. On a recent drive with the McNultys, Meng, Eang, and I finally understood why people drive so horribly slow through the mountains during the fall. As we crawled along in the McNultys’ car, the foliage spread before us as far as the eye could see. In the bright sun, the colorful leaves shimmered and danced as if the mountains were on fire.