Lucky Child (3 page)

On the ground, my hands lock in Meng and Eang’s, and we enter the airport lobby to bursts of flashes and loud whispers. Bright lights blind and
scare me, and I lose eye contact with Li as she and her family are swallowed up by the crowd. With white spots swimming in my retinas, I shield my eyes with my forearm and take a step backward. The room falls silent as the throngs of pale strangers shift their feet and strain their necks to take their first peek at us. From behind Meng, I focus on one woman whose long white neck reminds me of a defrocked chicken, all skinny and leathery. Next to her, another woman stares at us from a face so sharp and angular that I name her “chicken face.” Behind “chicken face” stands a man with round cheeks and a big nose whom I identify as “pig cheeks.” Surrounding them are more people I can only distinguish with my special nicknames: lizard nose, rabbit eyes, horse teeth, cow lips, and cricket legs.

“Welcome!” a man calls out and walks toward us. His body is sturdy like a tree trunk and he towers one head taller than Meng as they shake hands.

After him, one tall person after another gathers around us. Making use of his English classes in Phnom Penh before the war, Meng smiles widely and answers questions as he pumps everyone’s hand with vigor and energy. Standing beside him, Eang takes people’s hands limply and nods her head. Not wanting to be crushed, I step out of the crowd and stand alone until a red-haired woman walks up to me. Remembering to show her my respect, I bow to greet her; at the same moment, she extends her hand and hits me square on the forehead. The cameras stop flashing and the room grows quiet as I stand there rubbing my forehead. From his corner, I hear Meng laugh and assure everyone I’m okay. A few seconds later, the room erupts into laughter. Instead of casting my eyes on the floor, I stare at the crowd with anger until Eang tells me to smile. Weakly, I curl my lips upward for the crowd. Suddenly, the red-haired lady steps forward again and hands me a brown teddy bear as more cameras flash to capture the moment. In that instant, I realize that I’ve buttoned my shirt wrong, leaving my white shirttail jagged and crooked, and me looking like I’ve just gotten off the boat.

In the car, Meng talks with our sponsors, Michael and Cindy Vincenti. As Meng speaks, Michael nods his head while Cindy answers with a series of “uh-huhs.” Behind her, I stifle a laugh at her silly sound and pretend to cough. Sensing Eang’s warning eyes burning the back of my
head, I stare out the window and watch the world go by. Outside, the scenery moves at a slow speed, as short grass is replaced by thick shrubs and trees. Every once in a while, the rolling hills are dotted with small houses and running dogs. There are no tall shiny buildings in sight.

After twenty minutes, the Vincentis pull their car into the driveway of a small, two-story apartment building. The building looks old and dreary with white paint flaking off its front like dead skin. And right next to it, on the other side of the driveway, is a large cemetery where, inside, the summer wind blows gently on the trees and makes the branches sway and the leaves dance as if possessed by spirits. My skin warms at the sight of the cold, gray stones jutting out from the earth like jagged teeth. Beneath the stones, I imagine decomposed bodies trapped in dirt, waiting for nightfall before they can escape.

“You’re home,” the Vincentis announce.

Meng tells Eang and me to get out of the car as I direct a steely gaze at the back of Michael’s head.

“Eang,” I grab her hand, “it’s bad luck to live next to a cemetery. The ghosts will not leave us alone!”

“The ghosts here cannot speak Khmer,” she says. “They’ll make no trouble for us.”

“But …” I refuse to give up. “What if there is a common language all the dead use?” Before I can continue, Eang tells me to be quiet and motions for me to hurry. Glancing back tentatively at the cemetery, I slowly follow the adults into the apartment.

The Vincentis climb the stairs to the second-story apartment and wait for Meng, Eang, and me to catch up. While the adults talk, I take in the layout of our apartment. With rooms connecting in a long row, our new home feels like a train, and its narrow rooms look like boxcars. To the left of the stairs, Meng and Eang’s room resembles a square tan box furnished with a simple wood dresser and a queen-sized bed. Walking up to its one window, I am glad to see that it faces the parking lot. To the right of the stairs the kitchen is filled with all the modern amenities—a stove, oven, and refrigerator. In the middle of the room sit a small metal rectangular table and four matching chairs. Next to the kitchen, the bathroom is clean from the top of its ceiling to the white-yellow linoleum tiled floor. A few steps forward take me into the dining room.

“This will be your room,” Cindy tells me cheerily

With my hands clasped together in front of me, I turn a full circle to inspect my room. A frown forms on my face when I notice that the walls are not made of actual wood but a glued-on brown paper designed to look like fake wood. I have never seen such wall coverings before and reach out to slide my hand over its slippery surface. Suddenly I think of Chou living in a wooden hut in Cambodia. In an instant, I feel heavy and drag myself to the corner of the room where there is a small walk-in closet. Though I spy hinges on the frame, for some reason there is no door for the closet. My room is empty except for a small twin bed against the wall. I walk over and sit on the bed, testing its bounce with my weight while gazing quizzically at the drawings on my sheet. The drawings appear to be of girl and boy mice, ducks, dogs, elephants, and other animals, each playing or holding a musical instrument. All the characters are dressed in red, white, and blue costumes and smiling broadly. Covering my hands over my mouth, I giggle at the animals.

“Those are cartoon characters,” Cindy offers. “See, they’re at a circus.”

“Gao-ut taa ay?”
I ask Meng what she says.

With Meng as our interpreter, Cindy then goes on to tell me their names and that they belong to the Disney family. Tracing my finger over the mouse’s large round ears and the duck’s protruding fat beak, I smile and think what fun it would be to belong to such a family. When I imagine myself dancing and playing with these funny creatures, my insides swirl and unexpectedly giggles burst forth out of my mouth. As another chortle breaks to the surface, I think of Chou who always thought it was silly that I remember people by giving them animal names and characteristics. I wish Chou were here with me so I could show her this great new world where animals do look like people.

I get off my bed, cross my room, and enter through another large doorway into the living room. With its three bay windows, the living room is bright and attractive. Filling up the space is a couch and chair set, both covered in tropical floral prints. Standing in front of the middle window, I flatten my hands on the glass and stare at the traffic below before heading back to my room. It occurs to me that with no doors separating my room from the kitchen or the living room, there will be no sleeping in late for me with early riser Eang. I drop my shoulders in resignation and
walk back to my room, then cringe at what I see—my window looks directly into the cemetery.

“I am home,” I whisper. I have traveled so very far and for so long to reach America and now the journey is over! I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief, expecting feelings of calm and contentment to flow into my body.

“I’m home!” I tell myself, but the world remains strange to me.

I lie in bed with my arms wrapped around my belly and glance out the window at the dark sky. Outside, the wind sleeps and the air travels quietly as if they, too, are afraid to disturb the spirits. It is a silence that I find unnatural; in Cambodia, night is always accompanied by the shrill mating songs of crickets. I turn my face to the wall and pull the blanket over my head. Eyes closed, I wait for sleep to come and make me unconscious until the time when the living can reclaim the world. But instead of sleep, the mouse and the duck dance on my sheets in their full circus regalia and top hats. Beside them, their female counterparts twirl their batons and parade to tunes I cannot hear. Soon the other Disney family characters begin to come to life, but I blink them away and force them back into the cloth.

The clock on the wall says it’s eleven P.M. This is bad news. It is now close to the dark hours—the hours when spirits and ghosts roam the world and walk among the living. A long time ago, Kim told me never to be awake from twelve A.M. to five A.M., but I couldn’t help it. He warned that if I needed to pee, then I should do my business quickly and quietly and get back to bed. He said the more noise or movements I made, the more I would attract the spirits and ghosts. And once that happens, they won’t let me go. Kim didn’t tell me what he meant by the ghosts not letting me go. He never finished his story but preferred to let the ending form a life of its own in my mind. I used to get so mad at him for this that I would chase him, my arms swinging karate chops at him. Thinking about Kim makes my heart feel tight, as if too many things are being pushed into it.

In the dark, I sit up and lift the blanket off my body. I take the flashlight out from under my pillow, shine a beam on my ankle, and locate the black X on it. Kim told Chou and me that by marking Xs on our ankles and the soles of our feet, we let the ghosts know that our bodies are taken.
It is our mark of ownership. Satisfied that the Xs are still there, I tuck the sheet back under my feet and pray the ghosts will not unloose them. Ghosts are very fond of bothering people by tickling their feet with the purpose of waking them.

When sleep does not come, my mind drifts off to find Chou. It is eighteen months since the Vietnamese defeated the Khmer Rouge and chased them into the jungle, and nine months since I pulled my hand out of her grasp. Though she is two years older than me, Chou had the luxury to weep openly at our separation, as was expected of her for being the more fragile sister. But I had to stay strong and smile for her.

In Vermont, alone in my bed, I grind my teeth knowing that I now have to stay strong for myself.

2 chou

June 1980

Across the ocean in the tropical land of Cambodia, Chou stirs inside the hut where she has lived with Ma’s brother, Uncle Leang, his wife, Aunt Keang, and their five children since the end of Khmer Rouge. Suddenly, a heavy arm flings across her chest, and Chou grunts and pushes it off. Beside her, in the female net, cousins Cheung and Hoa sleep soundly facing each other, their breath inhaling and exhaling in synch. Under the same mosquito net, on the far side of their wooden plank bed, toddler Kung curls up with her back to them, her tiny arms and legs wrapped around a rounded long body pillow. Next to them under another worn gray-pink net, Aunt Keang lies with her arm above her baby girl, Mouy. Snorting loudly across the room on their own plank bed, Kim, Khouy, Uncle Leang, and the two male cousins lay sprawled out like fallen logs in their nets.

“Bzzzzz,” the mosquito whispers outside Chou’s net but she does not hear it.

Under her closed lids, Chou’s eyes follow the faces of Ma, Pa, and Geak. In her dream, they sit together at a teak table in their home in Phnom Penh as Ma serves freshly steamed pork dumplings. As she smiles, Ma’s full lips crack open to expose her teeth and gums. Like large, white square pearls, Ma’s slightly buck teeth line up evenly, as if to present a uniform team. Chou’s stomach churns hungrily, but instead of staring at the food, she is fixated on Ma’s mouth.

All of a sudden, a deep itch pierces her ankle and wakes her from her dream. In the dark, Ma’s face and teeth slowly fade as a pang of sadness spreads over Chou. Not yet fully conscious, her mind struggles to stay on Ma’s mouth, the only feature Chou believes she has inherited from her. Since the Khmer Rouge soldiers took Ma away two years ago, Chou has tried hard to keep Ma’s face in her heart. But as hard as she tries, with each passing moon Ma’s face slowly darkens until only the brightness of her teeth remains.

“Chou, do not be so sad,” Aunt Keang told her when she spoke of her worries about this. “Loung may have your mom’s face, but you will always have her mouth.”

“Yes,” seventeen-year-old cousin Cheung chimed in. “Your top lip points up like two mountains like your ma.”

“And when you laugh, you can see all your teeth and gum!” eight-year-old Hoa agreed.

“Your ma,” Aunt Keang added, “she was such a talker! She could talk about anything. Her lips were so big she could never keep them properly closed.”

“Stop pursing your lips together,” the cousins ordered and broke into laughter. Chou hadn’t even noticed that she was trying to pull her lips over all her teeth.

Back in her bed, Chou is about to fall asleep again when her ankle begins to burn and itch. At first, she senses invisible ghosts scratching at her feet. Kim has told her that ghosts are very mischievous and like to scare people for fun. Not wanting to see them, she covers her lids with her hands, too scared to even peek through her fingers. But as conscious thoughts return to her, Chou realizes her foot has escaped the net and is now being feasted on by mosquitoes. Quickly, she pulls it back into the net and out of reach of the hordes of hungry bugs. Fully awake now, she is suddenly aware of her throbbing full bladder. She wants to wake up one of the cousins to accompany her to the outhouse but she knows better. The last time she did that, they almost pushed her off the bed.

Reluctantly, Chou sits up, quickly throws the mosquito net over her to prevent any bugs from entering, and drops her bare feet to the dirt floor. Guided by the moonlight shining through the slits of the wooden walls, Chou makes her way to the back door. Beneath her, small pebbles dig and
grind into her soles but her callused feet do not feel them. The last time she owned shoes was before the war.

At the door, she lifts the thick wooden board off its hinges, unlocks it, and pushes one panel open enough to squeeze her body through. The door whines and creaks but it lets her through. Outside, the air is cool and fresh but she knows that by midmorning, the June sun will burn hot and humid. Thirty feet away, the wooden outhouse sits, dank, dark, and partially hidden by thick bushes. Too scared to venture that far, Chou walks a few feet away from the door to a low brush area. There, she hitches her thumbs at her pant waist and swiftly pulls them down. As she squats to release her bladder, her urine splatters on the grass, bounces onto her leg, and warms the grass beneath her feet. With her eyes half closed, her hands automatically fan her bottom to scare away mosquitoes. Once she is finished, she walks over to the large round water jug and reaches for the plastic container floating on top. She scoops a bowl of water, and pours it on her hands and feet before walking inside.