Across the Mekong River (17 page)

LAURA

The air in the courtroom grows heavier with each passing minute, warm with the vapor of sighs. Yet I shiver as Mrs. Hernandez stands up to address the judge. Her chair makes a small squeak of protest as it scrapes along the floor. Father does not turn to look. His shoulders hunch over once more, and I can feel his shame across the stretch of linoleum marking our division. Now the entire story will be repeated, splattered across the room for even strangers to hear. I regret this public display. The years of suffering and sacrifice, the poverty and insults, have left each of us worn down. I am thankful my mother cannot understand and will only catch the few phrases that Uncle Boua deems worthy of translating. She sits in stony silence, her tears spent now, looking frail and vulnerable. Her obvious pain gives me greater pause than anything else.

Mrs. Hernandez
is a plump, middle-aged Hispanic woman with soft brown eyes and curly auburn hair streaked with red highlights. From the beginning, she has been kind and fair. She listened to my story and asked dozens of questions, trying to understand the sequence of events. I was impressed with her knowledge of the Hmong people and culture, her understanding of our history as refugees coming to America from the war in Laos and struggling to adapt. She knew that many Hmong girls marry young and was familiar with the practice of kidnapping brides. It did not surprise her that my father and other men in the family would exert their will. Many conflicts from our community had come to her office in the past. She remained open in the meetings with Father and Uncle Boua as they raised their voices, attentive to their arguments, deflecting angry words, patiently explaining California’s laws, until finally their intransigence brought her to her feet, and she declared the meetings over.

She puts on her reading glasses, narrow black frames that sit on the end of her nose, opens a manila file, and pull
s out a single sheet of paper. After clearing her throat, she begins. “Your honor, I am Carmen Hernandez, the assigned social worker from Sacramento County Child Protective Services. Two weeks ago Laura Lee, seventeen years old, called our office and asked us to intervene on her behalf.”

I glance back at Mary and her parents sitting i
n the row of chairs behind me. Mr. Shannon appears stiff and uncomfortable, his arms crossed over his middle. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod. This family has been my source of strength, my protection. He has been careful in his remarks to me, but I overheard discussions with Mary’s mother where he raised his voice in outrage. Just like my father.

Mary has wrapped her arm through her mother’s, res
ting her head on her. She has been handing me tissues and patting my arm with each new spate of tears.

I could not get through this ordeal witho
ut them. It is because of this family that I found the courage to stand up for myself, to expect more of my life. I cannot help but wonder how things might have turned out differently if Mary had not become my best friend. If I had not chosen to take a separate path. Was this preordained? Would Father explain it as my fate written on my life passport? Or is it the consequence of my many, many lies, the ones I came to believe in?

My story c
ontinues. I cannot predict where it will take me, only that whatever happens will now be of my choosing.

LAURA

Rain dampened the promise of spring. Intermittent sunshine and occasional showers, breezy, almost warm April days, had succumbed to a week of gray skies and relentless downpours. I didn’t mind. It meant Mother was not working in the fields and I didn’t have to rush home from school to care for my five siblings.

Mary’s mother drove us to their home, and we i
mmediately retreated upstairs. Mary plopped down on the double bed in her room and hugged one of the rose colored throw pillows. Pajamas, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, underpants, and a jacket lay strewn across the floor. A faint odor of sweaty socks mingled with the rose-scented cologne she always wore. She complained about her room with its flounced sheer curtains and wicker furniture. It’s a little girl’s room, she would say, wrinkling her nose.

But I adored the swirl of pink and lilac peonies fanning out across her comforter and the alternating smooth and rough textures of pain
ted wicker under my fingertips. I longed for a bedroom like this, a place of my own, instead of sleeping on our living room floor on a lumpy mattress with my three sisters. Our tiny bathroom provided the only refuge where I could be alone, and invariably someone was banging on the door demanding to get in.

“Do you have lots of homework?” Mary asked.

“Only geometry. Want to do it?”

She made a face. “I hate geometry.
Mr. Hopkins picks on me because he knows I don’t get it.”

“Maybe he’s t
rying to help,” I suggested. I wanted to tell her she would do better if she paid attention instead of daydreaming out the window. She was smart, but lacked the motivation to work hard. My father expected me to do well if I wanted to stay in school. I didn’t have the luxury of being lazy or mediocre.

It still surprised me how naturally our friendship had evolved, how easily we slipped into each
other’s company. I loved her buoyant, guileless personality, her dramatic gestures and long rants on the injustices of life. I couldn’t help but shed my shyness with her endless flow of chatter and the way she welcomed me unconditionally into her life. What surprised me most was how she accepted my explanations about my life and the many inconsistencies in my stories. She settled for simple answers, vague on details. If she asked where I lived, I waved in the general direction and said it wasn’t as nice an area as hers. If she asked what I had done over the weekend, I answered with flippant remarks—
it was so boring, you don’t even want to know
—and shifted the conversation back to her. I never really told big lies, only omitted certain facts or stretched the truth to let her draw her own conclusions. Surely she sensed my hesitation as I played with the ends of my hair and avoided her eyes.

Everything in Sacramento was different, more approachable. Unlike Minneapolis, kids at school mixed without attention to color or background. I could not identify the presence of gangs, and only occasional scuffles or riva
lries broke out. Mary and I managed to drift among the group of girls who set the social pulse. If Mary demanded few details from me, these girls asked even less.

I leaned back into the rocking chair and glanced out
the window. Rain poured off the eaves and flowed in tiny rivulets down the divided panes. A row of two-story houses, each slightly different in style, stretched down the quiet street, bordered by manicured lawns, azalea bushes dripping white and red blossoms, and flowers beds bursting into bloom. The neighborhood was not anywhere as grand as North Oaks near Minneapolis, but the homes were spacious and well tended, comfortable in a way that was not as intimidating.

The Shannon
s’ house had airy rooms painted off-white and pale pastels, the luxury of four bedrooms and three baths, a family room and kitchen larger than our entire apartment. I marveled at the formal living room and dining room, spaces they only occasionally used. It was not stuffy or pretentious but inviting, with hardwood floors and plush carpets, polished cherry and walnut furniture, shelves of books, a vase of fresh flowers on the entryway table, and photos of Mary and her brother on birthdays. Framed prints decorated the walls and mementos were scattered on end tables and shelves. A pile of magazines and half read books sat next to the leather recliner. A collection of music was piled on top of the baby grand piano. Our apartment had never had any of these things.

Mary put the pillow under
her arm and propped herself up. “I forgot to tell you I saw Pete and Kevin in P.E.” She raised her eyebrows up and down.

I smiled and shook my head.
She obsessed over these boys, talking for hours about them, analyzing what they did or said, creating scenarios where one day they might discover us and fall madly in love. Her enthusiasm poured out unchecked by reality. They were the frivolous thoughts of a teenage girl who had everything she needed with no worries in the world. All I could do was laugh and play along, pretending to share her fantasies. But I fostered no illusions. There could never be a boy like Pete or Kevin in my life even if my parents allowed me to date, which they wouldn’t. And certainly not someone who was not Hmong.

“I’m
so excited about Jenny’s party. Pete and Kevin are coming.”

I lowered my eyes to the arm of the rocking chair and played
with a loose piece of wicker. I dreaded telling her. The night before, I had finally gathered the nerve to talk with Father about the party. When he asked if there would be boys attending, I had answered truthfully. He shook his head. His decision was final. I had been foolish to hope his answer would be anything different.

“What’re you going to wear?”
Mary jumped up and opened her closet door, pulling out a new top.

I surveyed the overflo
wing rack of clothes and shoes. I had nothing to wear to a party anyway. There were some aspects of my life I could not finesse. My entire wardrobe consisted of a pair of jeans, one pair of black pants, three faded t-shirts, a red blouse, a white pullover sweater, a denim jacket, and a pair of black tennis shoes, fraying at the toes, all purchased from thrift stores. Surely Mary and the other girls had noticed. I asked Father for money to buy more clothes, but he had nothing to spare. He said I should worry about my studies instead.

“I’ll have to ask my parents,” I said softly, “but I don’t think I can go.”

Her mouth fell open. “Why not?”

“It’s Tommy’s sixth birthday. We’re having a family party.”
When I spoke to Mary about my siblings, I gave them American names.

“I thought your brothers were one and two.”

I forced a laugh; a sick feeling spread through my middle. “I have three brothers. I guess I didn’t count the baby because, well, he’s just a baby.”

Over the weeks my convoluted stories had mounted one upon another like a tower of wooden blocks. I felt I might topple at any moment from the weight of my secrets, trying to keep straight the lies I had
spoken to Mary and my family. I had not told my parents that I was using the name Laura at school. Lots of Hmong children had American names, even my younger cousins. But Father could be old fashioned, and I did not want to risk his displeasure. I had larger offenses to hide. My parents had no idea that I spent afternoons and sometimes Saturdays with Mary. I pretended to be at the library studying, the only excuse that got me out of chores at home or working in the fields.

I lay on my mattress at night, listening to the roar of trucks and cars speeding down the freeway, as I agonized over how to disassemble the complic
ated puzzle I had constructed. What frightened me most was the possibility that Mary might discover the truth about me before I could find a way to tell her. I had never had a friend like this, someone outside my family and the tightly woven Hmong community, someone who trusted me with her every thought. Together we navigated the slippery path of high school. She bolstered my flagging confidence. I couldn’t survive without her.

“Maybe you can come to the party a little late,” Mary said, hangi
ng the top back in the closet. “I could wait and go with you.”

“I doubt it.
But I’ll ask.”

Her eleven-year-old brother Just
in stuck his head in the door. “Mom says to tell you she has cookies.” A wicked grin spread across his face. “You left this in the bathroom.” He pulled one of Mary’s bras from behind his back and dangled it in her direction.

“Give me that, you little shit.”

“I’m telling Mom what you said.” He threw the bra across the room and slammed the door shut.

Mary threw
a pillow. “I hate him!”

It shocked me the way Mary and Justin fought, t
he language she used with him. I still carried the guilt of the angry, hateful words I had blurted out to my cousin Ger many years ago, the words I could never take back before he died. And while my brothers and sisters were noisy and underfoot, a constant drain on my time as I tried to do chores or study or sleep, I loved them. My family was precious to me. Perhaps if Mary understood what it was like to lose a brother or cousin, she would act differently.

Mary grabbed a clip and pulled her hair back
. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs.”

Mary’s mother, Nancy,
stood in the kitchen transferring a batch of chocolate chip cookies from the pan onto a rack. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Her light brown hair, streaked with blond highlights, was pulled into a ponytail. She was always friendly and cheerful with us, so young and vibrant compared to my mother.

Mary and I settled on stools at the breakfast bar that divide
d the kitchen and family room. The sweet fragrance of chocolate made my mouth water in anticipation. I had never tasted freshly baked cookies until I came to this house. Sweets like this were not part of our Hmong cooking. The parents at my schools in Minneapolis were too busy surviving on welfare checks or eking out a living from minimum wage jobs to bake cookies for our classrooms. If anyone bothered to bring holiday treats, it was a package of Oreos or Animal Crackers.

Nancy smiled.
“How did school go?”

“Same old boring stuff,” Mary said.

“And math?”

“Terrible.”

“Dad can help you after dinner.” Nancy took a plate from the cupboard, filled it with cookies, and placed it on the counter. “Heaven knows I’m hopeless with geometry.”

“My point exactly,” Mary said.
“How can you expect me to do it?”

Nancy laughed as she pl
aced glasses of milk before us. She came around and took the stool next to Mary.

“I had three referrals from County Services and they all need
help immediately.” Nancy explained to me that sometimes she took cases from the county in her private practice as a family counselor.

“Tell them you’re too busy,” Mary said.

“They have serious problems, honey. I want to help. But I want to be home after school too.”

“Oh,
Mom, Justin and I are old enough to take care for ourselves.” Mary made a face of exasperation. “You treat us like babies.”

Nancy put an arm around Mary’s
shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Before we turn around, you’ll be going to college. And Justin’s not far behind.”

The warmth between Mary and her mother
created a yearning inside me. Such intimacy with my mother seemed impossible. On television families hugged and kissed, fought, and talked about their feeling. This was not the Hmong way. My parents had not demonstrated any affection since I was a small child. It was understood they loved me. My mother and I had never spoken of that night crossing the Mekong River or the loss of my brothers. We never acknowledged her dark moods. We never shared our sorrow. At times she seemed grateful for my presence and the care I gave her, but it was as if she had erected a barrier that I could never breach. Over the years the distance grew. I didn’t understand why she could not stop for a few minutes from whatever task filled her attention and listen, really hear what I had to say, and ask questions, be interested, or at least offer words of encouragement. Instead she glanced at me with a face clouded with doubts. The only things we shared each day were the details of cooking, cleaning, and caring for my sisters and brothers.

“The cookies are great. Thank you.”
I licked a stray morsel of chocolate from my finger.