Lucky Child (29 page)

By late morning, the new couple has received the blessings of family, friends, guests, and monks, and is officially married in the eyes of their community. Their last ritual is to go to every table and greet all the guests individually as food and drinks are served. At each table, more guests toast the couple’s happiness, prosperity, healthy children, and good health. As Chou takes sips of tea with her guests, she eyes the food keenly for she has not had time to eat. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Pheng, who is sweating in his suit and pale from hunger. Though they have said few words to each other, Pheng toasts Chou with their guests and often smiles at her. When they move around the room, Chou notices that Pheng keeps his steps small so she does not have to run.

When the sun passes over the tent and stretches long shadows, the guests have gnawed, chomped, slurped, sucked, and feasted on all eight dishes and sit happily rubbing their bellies. Then family by family, they leave the tent to slowly make their way back home.

Once the last guest has strolled out, Chou changes out of her princess dress and back into her peasant clothes. Back in their loose-fitting village attire, Chou and Pheng quickly eat the food put aside for them by Aunt Keang. Once they’ve finished, Chou and the female relatives clear the tables, sweep the floors, and wash the dishes and tablecloths. The men disassemble the tent and chop the poles into firewood. Once she is done with the washing, Chou scurries around looking for more chores to do. By early evening, even Khouy has ridden home with Kim and two male cousins piled on his motorbike.

“Take me with you,” Chou wants to yell, but she keeps silent and grinds her heels into the ground. Quietly, Chou and Pheng leave Uncle Leang and Aunt Keang’s house and walk a few feet to their new thatched-roof home built on the family’s land. With heart pounding and palms sweating, Chou watches as Pheng closes their door.

20 write what you know

November 1986

“Loung, wake up.” Eang peeks her head into my room.

“I’m up,” I grumble into my pillow, my hair a messy shawl hanging in my face. The clock on the nightstand says it’s 6:45
A.M.
but with all the curtains drawn, my room is as dark as night. On most days, I’m out of my bed the first time the alarm clock goes off, but today I’ve pushed the snooze button three times.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice full of concern.

“Yeah,” I mumble into my pillow.

With bleary eyes, I watch as Eang sits on the edge of my bed and stares at me. Since our contentious beginning as sisters-in-law, Eang and I have become more like a mother and daughter. Unlike Beth’s mom, Eang does not speak of her love in words but in her cooking of my favorite dishes, filling up my drawers with warm socks, and always bringing me a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips when she does the grocery shopping. I close my lids and feel her fingers brushing my hair off my face. She then lays her palm on my forehead and cheeks.

“You feel cool,” she says, “so get up or you’ll be late for school.”

“Okay,” I reply and watch her exit my room.

In the stillness of the house, I sit up and stretch my arms toward the ceiling, and an aching pain travels from my shoulders down my spine and lower back. When I stand up, the pain shoots down my thighs and calves.
In my groin, my stomach cramps while my pelvis throbs, as if my legs are being stretched and pulled apart.

“Ughhh, why do they call it ‘friend’ when it feels like a damn enemy?” I ask the wall.

In the bathroom, the night’s bad dreams hover over my head like dark, thunderous clouds. Every month for a year now, whenever my “friend” visits me, the war and soldiers follow. At night, I thrash in my bed fighting off the soldiers, werewolves, vampires, and other monsters as they try to rape and kill me. In the morning, the girl in the mirror stares back at me with dark, haunted eyes, ashen skin, and lips so dry that bits of translucent skin hang off them like shredded plastic on new construction. With my thumb and index finger, I pull the dead skin like hangnails. The more I pull, the more my lips tear and bleed. I brush my teeth, get dressed, and head out to school with the ghosts nipping at my heels.

At school, the clouds follow me everywhere. As I shuffle to class, the halls darken and lighten with the pulses of pain in my head. The kids around me move their mouths incessantly, their voices guttural and incoherent. In front of me, a group of boys high-five each other, flaunting their easy smiles and casual manner. The girls circle the boys, throw their heads back, and laugh with mouths opened so wide I see the pinkness of their tongues. I stare at these girls as they walk into their class together; their popularity, beauty, and confidence sparkle in the sunlight like magic dust in their wake. I want to run to them, grab them by their shoulders, and shake them until their secrets drop like fruits from a tree.

When I arrive in Mr. Johnson’s English class, I find him moving around the room like a 250-pound brown bear, ready to pounce on any unsuspecting student. As he passes our seats, Mr. Johnson frowns and glares at us from behind thick glasses. The girls laugh while the boys toss jokes back and forth with him like a game of Frisbee. It’s well known among the students that Mr. Johnson is more of a teddy bear than a grizzly. And this very popular bear is famous for jumping on his desk to serenade a student on his or her birthday.

“Class, settle down.” Mr. Johnson’s voice booms across the room. “We’re going to work hard today!”

With that, Mr. Johnson takes the class on a literary journey into the world of Ernest Hemingway and
The Old Man and the Sea.
As the class discusses
the book, I twitch in my seat as the redness flows out of my body and my thoughts drift to Ma. I look out the window and stare at the bright blue sky. The leaves are beginning to turn brown. Soon they will die and fall off the trees to rot on the ground.

You have to live for them because they died.
This thought suddenly snakes its way on to the white page on my desk. I put down my pen and clasp my hands together.
Did they die for me? Did they die for me?
My mind repeats the question like a dark spell.
Could Pa have escaped if he didn’t have to worry about me?
Below the desk, my knees shake and knock into each other. I imagine myself lying on the grass under the tree, covered by the falling leaves.

As Mr. Johnson continues, I lower my head and stare at the graffiti drawings on my desk. In faded black ink, I read,
S LOVES L
; next to it in blue,
A + M
is scratched inside a heart. Carefully, I pencil
C LIKES L
into the love fest. For the rest of the class, I daydream about Chris as my mind calms and forgets about Pa.

“All right, class. Because you’ve been good, here are your papers back.” Mr. Johnson slowly returns our papers; he puts my essay on my desk just as the bell rings. While the rest of the students hurriedly leave, I stay glued to my seat and stare at the A+++ grade on top of the paper.

“Mr. Johnson, this must be a mistake!” I stand up and exclaim. Mr. Johnson saunters over and sits on the desk next to me.

“No, it’s no mistake,” he says, and smiles. “The assignment was to write about an important event that changed your life. And your paper about growing up in Cambodia and the Khmer Rouge coming into your city was great.” Mr. Johnson then looks into my eyes and continues in a gentle voice. “I’m sorry you had to go through it. I’m sorry for all your losses.” I grit my teeth and stare at the A+++ in my hand. I feel Mr. Johnson’s gaze burning onto my cheeks.

“It’s my first A+++ ever!” I exhale the words and force a smile onto my lips to get us past the awkward moment. “I’m so used to getting papers back with all the red marks and corrections on them. This is so strange.”

“Well, your paper is great. But I will say this: You will not get another A+ in my class unless you learn the grammar rules. There are many grammatical errors in your paper but for this once, I wanted to let you know that sometimes content counts more than correct grammar.”

“Thanks, Mr. Johnson.” My smile is no longer forced as I gather my books together and shove them into my backpack.

“And, Loung, there is certainly a lot more to your story. If you ever want to write about it, let me know how I can help.”

“Thanks.”

“All right, now get to your next class.”

I leave Mr. Johnson feeling light and head for my appointment with the school counselor. For a moment, the clouds vaporize. Outside, the sun shines through the windows and brightens up the halls. On the ceramic floor, my feet tap to the rhythms of the Pointer Sisters’ “I’m So Excited!” which I can’t seem to get out of my head. At Beth’s locker, I spy the freshmen boys staring at her shapely tan legs in her miniskirt.

“Beth, you’ve got followers,” I tell her, motioning to the boys.

“Yeah, well, they can look but can’t touch!” She shuts her lockers and laughs. At fifteen, Beth is now a shade blonder than when we were in junior high school.

“Hey, I just got my first A+++ in Mr. Johnson’s class!” I tell her excitedly.

“That’s great! He’s an awesome teacher.”

“Totally,” I reply. “Want to come over to my house after school?”

“Sorry, but Mom and I have plans.”

And like that, the clouds spring back over me with the force of a marble thrown from a stretched rubber band.
Please tell me what it feels like to have a mom,
I want to say, but I don’t.

“See you after school.” Beth waves to me and runs to her class.

Above me, the sky grows darker. I try to push it away, to shake it off as I make my way to see Mrs. Berringer, the school counselor. When my
friend
started to visit me, I began visiting Mrs. Berringer. Every few months, I make the appointment to see her with the intention of gathering information about the back pains, the muscle aches, and the dark dreams. But when I’m sitting in her chair, my
friend
is usually not with me, my body is well, and the dark thoughts are forgotten. Today the dark thoughts are with me and growing bigger. As I knock on Mrs. Berringer’s door, the clouds dim and buzz quietly like a low-wattage electrical storm over my head.

“Please come in, Loung.” Mrs. Berringer motions to the couch in her
office. With a reach of her hand, the door swings closed with a click, shutting both of us in.

I sit on her couch and sink into the cushions. The couch is too big for me and leaves my feet dangling in the air. I hate it when my feet don’t touch the ground. I start to swing them, kicking the air as if it is water about to drown me.

“How are you today?”

My face cracks like I’m wearing a mud mask as I say, “Good, I guess.”

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

I like Mrs. Berringer. She possesses a kind and maternal face that reminds me of Beth’s mom. Still, I can’t talk to her. The sadness is so unending, I fear it will swallow me like a black hole. I’m afraid that if I let go and cry, I’ll never stop. And so I sit, hands clasped in front of me as I search for something to say.

“Well, I’m having a hard time with grammar,” I finally say. Suddenly my eyes are tired and my nostrils are wet from the inside. I turn my head from her gaze to stare at her bookshelves.

“We can get you help, a tutor maybe.” Mrs. Berringer writes something in her notebook. And like that, the moment is again broken. “I’ll talk to a few teachers and see what we can arrange.”

“Well, I’m also mad that Shelly passed a note to Nicole that said I’m annoying. I don’t understand at all. I’m not even friends with her but she’s saying bad stuff about me.” As each word pours out of my mouth, I wish I could cup my hands over them and push them back with my fingers. I want to tell Mrs. Berringer there’s so much pain inside me, that I’m lonely most of the time and scared a lot of the time. “Please help me,” I want to plead to her. But I don’t. I don’t know how to make my mouth form the words I need to say.

So for half an hour, I ramble on about nothing. Mrs. Berringer looks at me while I talk without saying much. I speak faster when I think she might be annoyed with me for wasting her time with such petty matters. As my mouth continues to move, above me the black clouds spread out across the room. Behind Mrs. Berringer, last night’s dream projects on the wall like a Technicolor silent movie. In it, I am running, the trees sweep past me, my long hair tangles around my neck, and my breath comes out short and shallow. A man chases me; although I can’t see him, I know he’s
behind me. Suddenly, I run into a house and grab a knife off a kitchen table. The man enters; the door creaks behind him. I grab him from behind and while I hold his neck with one hand, the other slices the knife across his neck. But the knife catches on his skin. I see that the edge is not sharp because I’ve grabbed a butter knife. Not letting go, I saw his throat back and forth as his blood splatters all over me. The skin on my arms still burns where his blood touches me. The thought stirs the bile in my stomach like thick gray toxic sludge. As the bile moves up, I grit my teeth and swallow a big gulp of air. When Mrs. Berringer looks squarely at me, I become even more nervous that she will ask me if something is wrong, so I begin to talk faster. While I spin my words, the air in the room grows stuffy and hot but my skin is damp and cold.

“Well, our time’s up,” Mrs. Berringer announces.

“Thanks for listening to me.” I hold my smile.

“Come whenever you want. And check back later about the tutor.”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

I collect my things, leave her office, and head to the bathroom. I hurry down the hall, my steps quickening to a running pace as my body dry heaves and my stomach cramps. Urgently, I shove open the door to a stall, dump my bag on the floor, and kneel down by the toilet. From my gut, a toxic emotion swells and bubbles to the surface as I retch into the toilet. The poison heaves itself up my intestines to my throat, burning my esophagus as it catches there. With one more convulsion of my diaphragm, the venom comes out, spilling onto the sides of the bowl, tasting like spoiled food and rancid liquid. The war comes then, hot and fast in between the burps and hiccups. Then more convulsions, until finally I spit out only sour water.