Lucky Child

by Loung Ung

  If Meng also could see Pa’s face in the moon, he didn’t tell me. I don’t know how or when it started, but Meng and I somehow have found ourselves in a place where we don’t talk about the war anymore. It’s not as though we sat down one day and decided not to talk about the war—it happened so gradually we barely noticed it. At first he asked me questions I was not ready to answer, and I would ask him for answers he could not explain, until eventually the questions and talking just stopped. There are times that I still want him to tell me more about Pa and Ma and what kinds of people they were before I was born. But I do not ask because I cannot bear to watch his face light up at the memory of them, only to see it dim and darken when he remembers they are no longer with us.

  When Meng and I do talk, we speak about our present and future. Of my past, Meng says only that he thinks I am ten years old but he is not sure. He shares that when he was a boy, Pa and Ma were so poor that they sent him to live with our aunts and uncles in the village. He says that each time he visited home, there was another little brother or sister to greet him until, in the end, there were seven of us. He tells me that what papers or records we had of our births the Khmer Rouge destroyed when they entered the city on April 17, 1975. Without the papers, Ma and Pa were our only memories of our entrance into the world, but now they’re gone, too. In Thailand, when Meng was required to pick a new birthday for me in order to fill out the refugee papers, he chose April 17—the day the Khmer Rouge took over the country. With a few strokes of his pen, he made sure I will never forget Cambodia.

  In the time that I’ve lived with Meng and Eang, it is clear to me that Meng’s thoughts are always focused on Cambodia and our family there. We have no way to send or receive words, so we do not know if Khouy, Kim, and Chou are still with us. In the Ung clan, Pa was the firstborn son in his family, and since Meng was Pa’s firstborn son, he now holds the title role not only as the head of our family, but as the eldest brother to all the Ungs of our generation. Meng wears this title with pride and constantly worries about the well-being of the younger Ungs and how he can be a good role model. Before leaving Cambodia, Meng painted a bright picture of our future to our aunts and uncles to justify our leaving for America. Once en route and on the boat, however, Meng’s eyes brimmed with tears and his face fell.

  On the plane, I climb on my seat and turn around to wave at my friend Li Cho, seated a few rows behind me. Only a year younger than me, Li is part of the seven-person Cho family also on their way to make a home in Vermont. Because Meng and Eang mostly kept to themselves at the Lam Sing Refugee Camp, they did not know the Chos before today. However, Li and I met the first night I arrived there. Behind the walled prison fence of the refugee camp and in the midst of the porous thatched-roof huts, Li and I explored our temporary homes together and became friends. We shared our secrets by the ocean while spying on grown-up women and making fun of their large breasts. Li told me she was born in Cambodia to a Chinese father and a Vietnamese mother. Her mother and her father passed away when Li was young and now she lives with her adult brothers, sisters, and nephews. Fully clothed and with our sweaty hands clasped tightly together, Li and I would run into the ocean and talk about how much we wished we could buy a bottle of Coke and a bowl of noodles. I would tell her about how my father would hold my fried crickets for me at the movies, and she would tell me how her father used to read to her.

  As the plane rocks and sways, Li looks green from motion sickness. Li’s small body slumps over in her seat as her sister Tee pats her fine black hair. Even in sickness, Li is pretty with her large eyes and a small chin. Watching her, I remember a time when I thought I was pretty, too. It seems unreal that only five years ago in Phnom Penh, Ma and her friends would coo and pinch my cheeks when I entered the room wearing a new dress or a bow in my hair. They would comment on my full lips, large almond eyes, and wavy hair. To this, I’d smile and extend my hands until they emptied their purses of candies and money, before Ma shooed me away.

  I turn back to look at Li. “Poor Li,” I think. She has been sick and throwing up the entire plane trip. Awake, she is a sweet and mild-mannered girl, exactly the kind of girl Eang wishes I would be. With that thought, I sit down in my seat and open another bag of peanuts. Though Li cannot keep her food down, my stomach has no such trouble and like a good friend, I happily volunteer to eat her food.

  As our plane begins its descent, the soft fluffy clouds part and open the world below to me. I lean over Meng to peer out the window and catch my first glimpse of my new home. Scanning the land, I am disappointed to see only mountains, trees, and water. I guess we are still too high up to see the tall, shiny buildings. My hands grip the armrest tightly, and I daydream about the America I hope I’m going to. In their attempts to prepare us for life in the United States, the refugee workers would show us Hollywood movies, where each plot took place in a large, noisy city with tall, shiny buildings and big, long cars racing down crowded streets. On the big screen, Americans are loud-talking, fast-moving people with red, blond, brown, or black hair, weaving in and out of traffic wearing heels or roller skates. In my seat, I imagine myself walking among these people and living an exciting new life far from Cambodia. These images set my heart racing with anticipation until Eang’s voice brings me out of my reverie. Eang brushes her hand over the front of my shirt and complains about the falling crumbs. Meng hurriedly primps his hair with a small black plastic comb just as the captain announces we are landing.

  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.