Children of the River (15 page)

“She's gone crazy,” Moni said. “It's about your baby, Soka.”
“My baby? My baby daughter?”
“Niece, please calm yourself,” Naro said. “It's not so bad as all this.”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Sundara cried. “Younger Aunt, I'm so sorry!”
“Now, now,” They led her to her cot in the family room, where she collapsed in a fresh outpouring of tears.
“Why can't she stop crying?” Naro said, a hint of panic in his voice.
“Because it's not in her power to do so,” was Grandmother's reply, strong and surprisingly full of authority. “Can you not see what is before your eyes?”
Vaguely, Sundara was aware of them staring at her. What was it Grandmother could see that they could not?
“The spirit of Soka's baby,” Grandmother announced, “has taken over Sundara's body.”
A fearful silence, then the sound of someone else's crying mingled with Sundara's.
“Why is mother crying?” Pon piped up. “What's the matter with Sundara?”
“Son,” Grandmother said, “why not take this little one back into the bedroom. He's had enough upset for one day. The spirit will only frighten him. Let us women deal with it.”
The drapes were hastily drawn and in a moment, Sundara smelled burning incense. Grandmother perched on the edged of the cot.
“Little Spirit,” she said, rubbing Sundara's back. “Do not punish our girl this way. Please fly away from her body.”
Sundara kept crying. Was she crazy? Had the spirit of Soka's baby truly seized her? She heard their soft, chorused pleadings at a distance, as if she were underwater and the three women crooning to the spirit were above. She was swimming, drowning in her own tears, beyond caring, crying for every sad thing she had never cried about before.
“Oieee! Grandmother! Naro was right. I have been too hard on her, poor girl.”
Was it possible? Was that really Soka, coming to sit on the side of the cot, stroking her hair? Sundara didn't dare raise her head, as if to look at them would dispel their concern, break the aura as they took turns pleading with the baby's spirit.
Tears soaked her bedding and still more welled up. She cried for the baby. She cried for Chamroeun. She cried for the rest of her family and the thoughtless things she'd said to them, the loving things she'd left unsaid. She cried for the foolishness of having argued with her mother over a parasol, not knowing the last chance for /
love you
was slipping away. And, as long as it was pouring out like an endless torrent, she cried for Jonathan. All this to the soothing, continuous murmurings of the women.
After a long time, Sundara's weeping finally ceased, and she lay exhausted, not sleeping but not moving either. She heard a deep sigh.
“Grandmother, you must rest,” Soka said. “We will stay with her.”
“She's all right, then?” Naro asked quietly from the door.
“The spirit has flown,” Grandmother said. The cot creaked as she pushed herself up, letting Moni take her place.
Sundara lay there listening as Soka and Moni spoke in low tones. They seemed to think she was completely unconscious.
“It's true.” Soka sniffed. “I haven't been fair to her.”
“She thinks you hate her,” Moni said bluntly.
“Ah! Don't tell me that” Soka wept.
“How
do
you feel about her, then? Do you
like
your niece?”
A pause. “I … I don't know. Terrible, isn't it? I guess it is as Naro said. I've thought of her as a responsibility, that's all.”
“But she's such a sweet girl. And so smart.”
“Yes. She is smart. She knows so much more than I about so many things. But is that right? I'm older. I'm supposed to guide her, but how can I?”
Moni sighed. “Maybe the old patterns won't always work anymore.”
“Every time I look at her I … I see her mother. I worry that I'm not raising her right. You have eyes. You can see she is too pretty for her own good. If she loves a boy and something bad happens … Oiee! I could never forgive myself!”
“I wonder why we find it so much harder to forgive ourselves than to forgive others. You can't protect her from everything.”
“But she
is
my responsibility, even if Naro is mad at me for always saying that. I want to see her happily married, like you, to a good Khmer.”
“Well, maybe she will be someday, who can say? But in the meantime, why let yourself be eaten up by worry and guilt? Look at us. All of us. I'm tired of our guilt.”
There was a long moment of quiet, then Soka spoke. “She really thinks that was her fault? About the baby?”
“Apparently so. And imagine my surprise. Neither of you ever even mentioned this baby.”
“Ah, well. I guess I've tried to pretend it never happened.” She sniffed, fighting back tears again. “You have to understand, Moni. I was crazy sick and out of my mind on the ship. I remember opening my eyes and seeing her sitting there, trying to make the baby drink something.
The baby's going to die,
I remember thinking, and it was odd, feeling so calm about it. But you see, I thought I was going to die too. I thought we would all die. When I came to my senses and the baby … the baby wasn't there anymore, I thought, oh, God, why did I let myself get sick? That was my baby! I should have got up, I should have done something …”
Finally, Soka broke down and cried. She cried long and hard.
Sundara dozed off to the sound of her sobbing.
When she awoke later, the scent of incense was gone, replaced by the garlicky aroma of dinner cooking. Someone had pulled off her boots, but the rest of her clothes felt clammy. She changed into dry jeans and shirt, combed her hair. She was hungry.
When she appeared in the doorway, all eyes turned her way. She lowered her lids, embarrassed.
Soka guided her to a chair and put a bowl of sour beef soup before her. “How are you feeling?” she said with unusual solicitude. “I don't suppose you remember anything?”
Sundara looked down, her face warm.
“You see,” Grandmother said to the others, “it is as I told you. When this happens they never do.”
But Sundara did. She had heard Soka's private thoughts. She felt shy now, trying to pretend she did not remember Soka's arms around her.
She spoke with downcast eyes. “You are right, Grandmother. I remember nothing.”

CHAPTER
18

“What a surprising thing,” Naro said, coming into the bedroom where Soka and Sundara were changing sheets together. “Can you imagine who was just on the phone? That Dr. McKinnon. And listen to this: He wants our niece to teach him Khmer.”
Sundara lowered her pillow with the case only half on.
“Why?” Soka demanded.
“He's volunteered for the refugee camps in Thailand and he needs to be able to speak with the people.” He gave Soka a pointed look. “There now, aren't you ashamed to be looking so suspicious?”
“Well,” she said, somewhat humbled. “He
is
a good man, isn't he?” She avoided Sundara's eyes. “But why our niece?”
“Ah, well, he tells me she would be a good teacher because she speaks English so well, yet still remembers her native tongue.”
Soka's brows went together. “What shall we do? Shall we allow this?”
“Shall we
allow
this? Why Soka, naturally I've already told him we're honored he's chosen her.”
Sundara shook the pillow into the case.
“But what about the son? Maybe this is simply a trick for them to be together.”
“A fancy trick indeed. Would a man journey to the other side of the world just for a trick? Little Sister, if a man is willing to help our people like this, I am certainly not going to insult him by forbidding my niece to teach him Khmer just because his son is smart enough to know a pretty girl when he sees one!”
“Yes, I suppose that would be rude,” Soka conceded, her voice small. Then, as if her approval were still needed, as if Naro hadn't already given his consent, she turned to Sundara. “Very well, but you must spend every moment teaching him Khmer. No wasting time with his son.” Plainly, Soka meant what she said, but it seemed to Sundara her voice lacked its old edge.
“Yes, Younger Aunt.”
“Imagine,” Soka said, “a wealthy man like him going to the refugee camps. I have to admit, sometimes the Americans surprise me. Our upper-class Khmer people wouldn't
dream
of lowering themselves like that. But then, from the first time we met him, I knew this Dr. McKin-non was a good man, the sort who sees not only with his eyes. Haven't I always said that?”
Sundara and Naro exchanged glances, suppressing smiles.
“Yes, Younger Aunt.”
“Another thing,” Sundara told Dr. McKinnon. “You must never step over somebody who lie down on a mat. You do that, it kind of like shoveling dirt on them.”
“Good thing that doesn't bother me,” Jonathan said from the open French doors separating his father's home office from the living room. His back rested on the door-jamb, his worn-out running shoes were braced against the opposite side. Whenever Sundara came to tutor, he made this his spot, and his parents had to step over him every time they passed.
“But you sitting there not the same thing.” Sundara gave him an arch look. “You are the son. To show respect, you should stand.”
“Oh.” He grinned sheepishly, sliding up, dropping his feet to the carpet.
“You could learn a lot here,” his father said. He turned back to his notebook. “Do not step over people.”
Sundara smiled at Jonathan. She didn't care how he sat or stood in his father's office, as long as he was there, watching her, making her feel warm and loved every evening.
Besides teaching Dr. McKinnon useful Khmer phrases —Do you vomit? Do you bleed? Are your parents alive?— Sundara was also explaining Khmer customs. She told him about not touching the children's heads. She warned him not to be surprised at how the men stand close to talk, how they hug and hold hands with each other. “Not like here,” she told him. “There, nobody think anything about it.” She described the practice of
kaob
—how they rub the edge of a coin on someone, hard, for healing. Sometimes American doctors didn't understand. They saw the bruises and accused the Khmers of beating their children.
Mrs. McKinnon would pop in on their tutoring sessions when she came home from her own meetings, filling her husband in on things she'd found out while he was at work—immunizations he'd need, passport details. According to Jonathan, once his father had made up his mind to go, she had stopped raising objections. How could she argue when it was so clearly the right thing to do? The sort of thing they'd dreamed of doing when they were younger? Maybe they
bad
gotten too comfortable these last few years…
But in spite of Mrs. McKinnon's efforts at being cheerful and supportive, Sundara detected a certain desperation in the way she kept bringing in heavily laden snack trays, as if she feared her husband wouldn't get food at all once he left. And concern crept into her voice when she talked on the phone. “Just how easy is it to get malaria?” Sundara overheard her say one time, and, “Well of
course
I'm worried. What do you think? I heard on NPR today they're still shelling around one of the camps….”
On the Saturday before Thanksgiving, Sundara went with Soka to visit a new Khmer family. An awkward business—lugging the cardboard boxes of church-donated clothes up to their second-floor apartment while wearing sarongs. Soka had insisted they wear them, thinking this familiar touch might be comforting to the newcomers.
Gratefully, Sundara set down her boxes at number twenty-seven as Soka pushed the bell. When the door opened, Sundara and Soka glanced at each other in surprise.
The wife of Pok Sary!
“What are you two doing here?” The woman stared at Sundara.
You are the girl who goes with Americans,
her sneer said, making Sundara want to shrivel with shame.
But Soka drew herself up tall. “The church people have sent us to show the new lady how to turn on her stove and work the faucets.”
. The wife of Pok Sary blocked the door. “Perhaps they didn't realize,” she said in her shrill voice, “that the new lady is the widow of a very high-ranking military officer. It would hardly be appropriate for you to be telling her how to do things, would it?”
Sundara held her breath.
“Pardon me,” Soka said, “but I don't think whose husband was what in the old Kampuchea is nearly so important as who knows best how to get along in America now.”
How proud Sundara felt to hear Soka speak up this way!
But the wife of Pok Sary was not enjoying it at all. “I know perfectly well how to operate the appliances,” she said.
“I'm sure you do,” Soka replied, never relaxing her hard smile. “I think it's nice that you've decided to be neighborly. But as long as my niece and I are here, we'd like to deliver these clothes and pay our respects.” She nodded at Sundara. “Come, Niece.”
The wife of Pok Sary took a step back in surprise as Soka marched in and found the new family. Taking a cue from her aunt, Sundara put her palms together and bowed to the new woman, not a low bow, but a friendly one, between equals.
“We wish to welcome you to Willamette Grove,” Soka said formally, but with warmth. “If there is any way we can help you, please honor my family by calling on us.” Head high, she gave the wife of Pok Saiy a slight nod as they went out the door.
“I'm sick of the way she treats us,” Soka began raging to Naro the moment she and Sundara got home. “She might as well come out and call us dirty peasants! How long do they think they can hang on to the past? We've made a place for ourselves here, worked without sparing our hands. They think it's so wonderful to be born high-class, but I think it means more when you've had to work your way up. Oiee! When I think of those hard times when you had to ride a bicycle home from work in the freezing rain, how you'd fall down on the living room carpet and lie like a frozen corpse. Every night I thought, this is the end, he will break, he will never get up. But the next day you always went off to wash dishes again. Day after day after day.”
“Come now, Little Sister, that is past. We survived.”
“Yes, but it wasn't easy. And if they think we should just forget how hard we've worked for our house and jobs, just act like we're nothing and bow down to them …”
“Now don't upset yourself.”
“I'm only taking your advice, Naro. I've thought about what you said the other day and you're right. What do I care what they think?
Wé
are the ones who have been here almost the required five years.” She turned to Sundara. “Do you know what that means, Niece? We will become
American citizens,
and American citizens don't have to make themselves low to anybody! Why, we could even go rescue our relatives in Kampuchea and nobody would dare touch us! Not when we told them we are citizens of the United States of America!”
This tirade bewildered Sundara. Sometimes it seemed Soka couldn't decide whether being American was the best thing in the world or the worst.
She headed for the garage to change her sarong for jeans. Maybe their mistake was in feeling they had to choose, fearing they couldn't be American without giving up being Khmer. Why couldn't they be both? In the end, after all, what was more American than coming from someplace else, bringing another culture with you? As she stepped around the corner, she heard Soka's voice drop.
“And I'm especially tired of the way she needles me about our niece,” Soka said. “Even when it's just with her eyes. If her son is so smart, so much better, why are no doctors asking
bim
to teach them Khmer?”
Sundara pulled a pumpkin pie from the oven. Although she didn't much care for the taste, she'd learned the traditional recipe. It was important to celebrate these American holidays properly.
But somehow Thanksgiving always made her feel more sad than thankful. It reminded her of the Khmer celebration of plenty, the Water Festival. Even though the pageants had ended with the war, she still remembered the lighted floats on the river, could almost feel her mother's hand around hers as they joined the throng watching the colorful procession from the banks. The American Pilgrims were thankful for wild turkeys and Indian corn. But what about the Mekong? What about the Mother of Waters? A river that annually flooded their rice paddies with fertility. A river so bountiful with fish that when the monsoons were over and the Tonle Sap began to drain, the people had only to walk out and fill their baskets with the fish that flopped in the puddles! Surely America was an amazing country, and worth feeling thankful for. But the way some Americans talked, you'd think this was the
only
country on earth worth loving.
From the doorway she glanced around the crowded living room, disappointed not to find Moni and Chan Seng among those gathered on the spread-out mats.
“You invited them, didn't you?” she asked Soka.
Soka basted the turkey. “Of course, but I think—ah, she's not well.” Was Soka avoiding more questions or just preoccupied? Even if this did mark her third American-style turkey, preparing it still took concentration.
The feast was lively. Everyone wanted to know more about this Dr. McKinnon who was going to the camps. Was Soka's niece really teaching him Khmer? Had Naro and Soka seen the inside of his house? The Cambodians pored over the beautiful book he had given Sundara, a colored pictorial of Angkor Wat. And the letters! Everyone had something for the doctor to post on the camp bulletin board.
“Look at this,” Soka said to Sundara, pulling her aside at one point, producing a fat envelope with obvious satisfaction. “A letter from Pok Sary and his wife for the camps. They humbled themselves to have Prom Kea pass it to us.”
For once Sundara's family and friends had more than bad news and frightening rumors to trade. Although it was terrible to watch the suffering on the television, perhaps some good could come from it. The Americans were finally being forced to pay attention to the desperate situation in Kampuchea; maybe they could help. Everyone wanted to talk about that.
After dinner, while they were eating and politely praising Sundara's pies, the phone rang. A moment later a joyful shriek split the hum of conversation, and Soka rushed from the kitchen in streaming tears.
“It's my sister Valinn” she cried. “She's coming to America!”
“You know how Grandmother always says we must do good deeds,” Soka said, “so our next life will be better?”
“Yes, Younger Aunt.” The guests had gone now. Sundara and Soka were alone in the kitchen, cleaning up.
“Well, Grandmother might frown to hear me say this, but I am beginning to think we don't have to wait until our next life for our reward. I'm getting a reward in this life, aren't I, with Valinn coming?”
“Yes, it seems so, and surely you deserve it, Younger Aunt. You have helped so many people.”
“That's true, I have,” she said matter-of-factly, “but I don't think that's why God is rewarding me now.”
Sundara waited. She wished Soka would speak plainly. Obviously her aunt had changed since that terrible day when Sundara's pent-up feelings had burst out. But was it because of that? Or was it her change in attitude toward the family of Pok Simo? Or even her new respect for the McKinnons?
But Soka only wished to go over the details about Valinn again, to revel in her happiness, her hope that this might signal the start of good fortune for their family. Sundara murmured responses, sorry and a little ashamed she did not feel more excited.
“You are wishing it could be your mother, aren't you?”
Sundara glanced at Soka, startled. Were her guilty thoughts so plain to see, then? She slid a dry plate onto the stack in the cupboard. Good news was good news; one shouldn't complain. Still, another aunt was not the same as a father or mother, brother or sister.
“I'm sorry, Younger Aunt. I cannot help it.”
“Of course not. I, too, pray for the day when your mother and the rest of your family can come.”
Soka's sympathy surprised Sundara.
“I always loved your mother,” Soka went on. “If she ever
can
come, I want to be able to say, ‘You see, Elder Sister, how I've taken care of your daughter?’ I could never forgive myself if she decided she'd made a mistake in sending you to Ream. After all, I promised you'd be safe with me.”
“Oh, she didn't care about that.”
Soka's brows went together. “Of course she did.”
“But Younger Aunt, if she worried for my safety, would she have let me board a plane even as bombs fell on the airport? All she cared about was making sure you had plenty of help.”
“And you
were
a good helper. But Little One, you were only thirteen, and I did have a servant girl. Surely you didn't think helping me was your mother's main thought? Why, she was frantic to get you out of Phnom Penh. She would have sent Mayoury, too, except she was too little and the plane tickets were almost impossible to get.”