Across the Mekong River (19 page)

LAURA

I sat at the dining room table with Mother and my sisters. Our one air conditioner, mounted in the living room window, droned incessantly in a vain attempt to cool the suffocating air. Sweat dampened my shorts and t-shirt and formed beads on the plastic chair where my thighs rested. That second day of September, the temperature had soared to over one hundred degrees, and the evening brought little relief.

We were sewing new outfits for the New Year’s celebration in late November. For me it represented endless hours of tedious effort completing intricate designs on jackets, skirts, blouses, sashes, vests, aprons, and trousers.
Mother did the majority of the work. It was her favorite task, her labor of love for her family. She cherished this rite of passage between generations, the opportunity to teach us her secrets. I admired her fine stitches and artful combinations of patterns and colors, but I had no talent or interest in following her craft. After picking tomatoes and eggplant all day, my fingers felt stiff and unnatural grasping the needle.

I had nowhere else to go
. My parents had grounded me for the last two weeks of summer vacation because I had come home over an hour late one night. Even the phone was off limits.

“It’s too hot,” I said, putting down my needlework and
wiping my hands on my shorts. I spread out my blue and green sash on the table for Mother to see. I had used reverse appliqué and embroidery in a traditional snail-shell pattern to show connections to family, my feeble attempt to appease her.

She insp
ected the stitches and frowned. “Maybe add a yellow loop around the side.”

Moa held out her neat stitching, much cleaner than mine
, for Mother to critique. “Do you like the mustard flowers?” she asked, wanting nothing more than to please Mother, to do it perfectly.

“Yes.” Mother smiled.
“Maybe a little smaller here, like this.” She demonstrated by running several tiny, perfectly even stitches through Moa’s cloth.

I picked thro
ugh Mother’s basket of threads. “Do you think I should use this thread or the brighter one?” I asked, sounding like Moa, begging for reassurance. Mother simply shrugged in response.

Her indifference hurt me.
Over the summer we had been increasingly at odds. She criticized everything I did and demanded I help her more at home. Some days my frustration flew out of my mouth before I could stop the words. In quiet moments I burned full of despair, trapped in the narrow circle of my family and our Hmong customs. Across the freeway my friends lived tantalizing lives of plenty that seemed a million miles away, and then again, just out of my reach. Once more, disturbing dreams plagued me as they had in the refugee camp and later in Minneapolis after the two girls had drowned. I found myself alone on a bamboo raft, drifting into the current of a vast gray river. My father stood on a barren, rocky shore, waving for me to come back for him. Sometimes my brothers stood next to him, at other times the drowned girls appeared. Always, they were slipping farther from my view.

“Yer says Blia and Mee are excited to start high school,” Mother said wi
thout looking up from her work. “It is nice you will have your cousins at school.”

I kept my eyes on my sewing. “When Blia and Mee are togeth
er they don’t even talk to me.” My sisters sat very still, taking in my words.

Mother cleared her throat.
“You must try harder. Maybe you should spend less time reading all those books and be nicer to your cousins. Go visit them more.”

The heat rose in my cheeks.
I didn’t understand why Mother begrudged my reading. Once a week I retreated to the local library, a cool quiet haven, to bring home another stack of books. At the end of the year, Mrs. Wong had given our English class a recommended list of literature for summer reading. If we wrote short reviews for five books, we could get extra credit. Most students had groaned and thrown the list away in a fleet of paper airplanes floating into the wastebasket. But I wanted to read every book. Late into the night I worked my way through Jane Austin, Pearl S. Buck, Charles Dickens and Ernest Hemmingway, discovering amazing new worlds of dreams and possibilities, the secrets to how others chose a future, found love, defined happiness. Our culture seemed narrow in contrast to these vast other worlds. My Hmong life drew tighter around me like the tiny stitches looping over and under my cloth.

I dreaded the thought of my cousin
s at school. They could undo all that I had created for myself. I would have to confess to them about calling myself Laura at school and beg them not to mention it at home. The last thing I needed was for my parents to discover my secrets.

Mother gazed at me with a faraway look that so often came into her eyes. I wondered once more where she traveled
to, what she felt. Did she wish it had been me--not her precious sons--lost that night in the Mekong River?

Despite my fears, the school year progressed without a problem. Blia and Mee showed little interest in intruding on my life. Neither of them cared enough to cause me trouble at school or home. I introduced them to Mary once when we met in the hall, but they said nothing to give me away. For now, my secrets were safe.

A month into the first quarter my English teacher, Mrs. Wong, asked me to stay after class as the lunch bell rang and
students filed out of the room. She was my favorite teacher, even though I found her brusque and a bit intimidating. No one in class dared to challenge her. She had a talent for making Shakespeare relevant to our adolescent lives and drawing students into animated discussions. Her high expectations inspired me to work harder and think critically about what we learned. I could not imagine why she wanted to speak with me.

She moved one of the neat stacks of papers from the corner of her desk to the center a
nd leaned on the vacant space. She wore sleek black pants that fell straight over her narrow hips and a jade green silk blouse with one button open at the top. The composite of her features—high cheekbones, a small, flat nose with wide nostrils, full lips, and black hair that hit just below her chin—made her attractive if not pretty. I could not guess her age. She appeared neither young nor old with smooth skin and only the slightest insinuation of wrinkles around her eyes. While only standing a few inches taller than me, her air of self-assurance made her seem taller. I wanted to be like this—confident, capable.

She crossed her arms over her middle, wasting no time
on the niceties of small talk. “Laura, would you be interested in working on the school newspaper? You’re a good writer and we need another staff member.” She waited a moment and added, “You’ll earn extra credit.”

I
fell into the seat next to me. Mrs. Wong thought I was good enough to write for the paper. “How much time would it take?”

“
It’s usually about two to three hours a week, depending on your assignments.”

“I’ll have to ask my p
arents.” I wondered if Father would find it a worthy use of my time.

“Tell them it will strengthen your writing skills and look good on college applications.”

I focused on the ink stain on the floor beside of the desk, avoiding her probing gaze. I knew the limitations of my future, the culture I could not escape. My parents most likely expected me to marry by the time I finished high school if not sooner. Then my life would belong to my husband. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go to college,” I said at last.

Mrs. Wong frowned and slipped behind the desk next to me.
“I’ve talked with your other teachers and we’re all impressed. Is it financial?”

I nodded.
That and so much more, but how could I begin to explain.

“There are lots of options--scholar
ships and student loans. You could start at a junior college and transfer to university after two years.”

I ran a finger over the inside of my hand, still rough with calluses from m
y summer working in the fields. “I’m not sure my parents will think I need to go to college. Maybe only my brothers.”

She leaned forwar
d, hesitating a moment. “Because you’re Hmong.”

I lo
oked up, alarmed and uncertain. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

“
I won’t say anything.” She smiled a small, weary smile. “I understand your situation better than you might think. My parents emigrated from China right after I was born.” She explained how hard it had been growing up with parents who didn’t speak English well. They had scraped by to save enough for her older brother’s college education. He had always been their priority. “My parents didn’t have money for me to go to college, but I was determined. I got scholarships and worked part time. It took me an extra year to finish, but it can be done.”

And suddenly I saw her toughness and dema
nding standards in a new light. She too had struggled and knew the mark of being from somewhere else, of parents from a different culture. She understood.

“I shouldn’t make assumptions.
Do you want to go to college?”

A
spark of hope formed in my mind, and I knew I wanted this more than anything. “Very much.”

“Have you talk
ed to your counselor about it? Are you taking all the college prep classes?” she asked.

I shrugged.
“I’m not sure what I need.”

She moved quickly to her desk, grabbed a s
cratchpad, and began to write. “You have Mrs. Martin right? I’ll make sure she explains the university requirements and helps you plan your classes. I’ll try to sit in on the meeting.”

“Thank you.”

“If you have questions, come to me. I’ll help however I can.”

I sat very still, too awed and overwhelmed to speak. I wanted to believe her.
I wanted to succeed.

“Talk to your parents and le
t me know about the newspaper.” She turned and smiled. “Set your goals high and you’ll accomplish them, Laura.”

All afternoon I vacillated between the elation of hope and my nervousnes
s about talking with Father. To my surprise, he seemed pleased that Mrs. Wong had asked me to work on the paper. He said as long as I completed my chores it would be fine. Another choice had appeared before me, and my life took on new purpose. Mrs. Wong became my mentor, prodding me to try other activities like student council and French club to improve my chances for getting into college. With her encouragement, anything seemed possible.

YER

In January the familiar nausea plagued me once more. I craved sleep. I told myself it was the endless tasks at home that drained my body. But I knew. Another baby. The thought of caring for another infant as Chou remained strapped to my back and little Nao ran in every direction, overwhelmed me. Pao worked long hours. Even with my cousins and aunties to help, some days the demands seemed too much. I might become sick or too tired to carry on. I could not bear the thought of giving up my time in the fields. Only when turning the earth and tending our plants, feeling the sun on my back, listening to the cheerful chatter of birds, did I find peace. Only under the open sky with the wind brushing my cheeks could I feel the reassuring presence of Fue and Fong.

One night in b
ed I whispered the news to Pao. He reacted with little enthusiasm. In Laos when we first married, all we wanted was the blessing of many children to share our lives and honor us after we joined our ancestors in the other world. Throughout the war and long years of hardships each child seemed a precious gift. But the joy of new life had been slowly pushed aside by our struggles and disappointments.

As my middle grew large,
I gathered my four girls together when they returned from school one afternoon. “You will have another brother or sister by summer,” I told them. “I need all of you to help me.”

Moa and Houa jumped up an
d down and clapped their hands. They promised to do whatever was needed. Boa ran over to hug my legs. She put her ear to my stomach, eyes wide with wonder. Then I caught the frown on Nou’s face, the long sigh that rippled over her lips. I could not imagine why this news troubled her. I remembered her delight when Moa and Houa were born in the refugee camp. She had hovered over me and tenderly cared for the babies. I had called her my little mother. Now when I asked for help, it fell on her as a heavy burden.

What did my Nou want in life?
I hoped she would marry and have children of her own before too long. If she found the right man, surely it would settle her discontent. But these days all she wanted was to be off with her friends. Every request I made turned her hard. Against me.

I sent the other girls out back to loo
k after their little brothers. “Nou, help me fold this laundry.”

She drew her lips tight and dumped the large basket of clot
hes and towels onto the table. I watched her work for a moment. It always pained me to think of her young years in the aftermath of war. She was forced to sacrifice much of her childhood to care for me and the rest of the family. If only she understood that all I wanted was her happiness. My exquisite Nou, her dark eyes flecked with flashes of gold. She could have any boy she wanted. If only she felt for someone what I had felt for Pao. If only she understood the joy the right match could bring.

“We will have our f
irst New Year here next month.” I smiled as I smoothed Tong’s Superman t-shirt. “I hear it is a very large gathering. There will be many young men.” I paused a moment and added casually, “Maybe you will meet someone special.”

Nou remained silent, focused on folding a towel.

“You are getting older. You must think at times about marriage.”

Her head jerked up.
“I want to finish high school. Maybe go to college.”

“
Why would you need to do that?” I took a deep breath to wash away the impatience from my voice. “Still, you’ll want a family of your own. Don’t wait too long.”

She held out her arms to encompass our small ro
oms as angry words spewed out. “I want more than cooking and taking care of children. We hardly have enough to get by and now another baby?” Her voice rose into the high pitched call of a Mynah bird.

The shirt I wa
s folding dropped to the floor. My hands trembled. I could not believe the evil flying from my own daughter’s mouth. She had never spoken to me with such disrespect. Fury overcame me. I raised my hand to slap her face, then stopped, my hand frozen midair. We stared at each other in silence. She turned and slammed out the front door.

I collapsed on the chair.
I should have remained calm, not let the anger overcome me. When I became a parent I promised never be harsh and unforgiving like my own mother. I had never hit any of my children. I tried to be a good and patient parent. At times I failed when the darkness carried me away. All her young life, Nou had never complained. Surely she understood how much her devotion meant to me. Now everything had changed. She had grown as distant as the moon and stars.

I longed to share m
y life and traditions with her. Yet her eyes held only contempt for my cooking and sewing and hard work. I could see the embarrassment in her expression for a mother who did not speak English or understand about the world around us. Maybe Nou wanted a smart American mother. Not me. My mother had warned me not to tempt the spirits by pretending to be something more than a simple woman. After all, she said, I was bad luck from the beginning.

The day my mother’s labor began the wind shifted. The fires burning in newly cleared fields sent smoke billowing across the hills and into our house. Our village of ten families had moved higher into the mountains seeking virgin soil and refuge from the growing troubles below. The Viet Minh were creeping into Laos, trying to recruit farmers and take their land.

“So many hours passed before your birth,” Mother told me one day when she came to visit after I had given birth to
Fong, “even though you were the third child.”

I was the disappointing third girl, not the son Mother so despera
tely wanted to give my father. They named me Yer, meaning youngest girl, in hopes that the next child would be a boy.

“You should have falle
n into my hands before sunset. But the night passed and smoke burned my lungs and eyes. I grew very weak.” As she told the story, she stirred a pot of soup and stared into the fire with a distant look that often consumed her face. “You tried to come out feet-first, ready to run away and cause trouble. The midwife had to turn you around in my womb. You were bad luck.”

Mother blamed me for al
l the hardships that followed. No more children came to her. When I turned four years old my father died. Every evening as they finished in the fields, Father would stop in the forest to find a papaya for his “little Yer”. It was my favorite food. But one evening a giant hooded cobra, coiled beneath a bush caught him by surprise. He died before anyone found him.

Youngest uncle took Mother as his second wife, as custom required if we were t
o remain with Father’s family. It was a marriage of convenience. My Grandfather, aunts, and uncles were kind people who cared for my sisters and me. I knew laughter and love from this family. But Mother withdrew into her own private world.

After Father died, str
eaks of white peppered her hair. Her face might have been pretty, but I only remembered the downward pull of sour words. On the rare occasions that she turned her attention to me, nothing seemed to please her. No matter how hard I tried. I didn’t pull weeds fast enough or dig holes deep enough to plant the seeds. My sewing was too messy, my cooking too spicy. For such a tiny woman, she nourished a vast and unrelenting bitterness. She expressed her displeasure with me by a quick slap or a beating with a bamboo switch.

When I married, my mother said she was pleased I had made a good match.
I knew she was glad for me to leave home. To be rid of such bad luck.

In early February, I woke in the middle of the night with terrible cramping. I found myself in a pool of blood. Pao helped me wash and made an herb drink to slow the bleeding. He held me until at last I fell asleep. But in the morning the bleeding grew heavy again. He insisted I must go to the hospital. I felt very afraid, thinking of my poor cousin Yer. What if I too would never have another child? The doctor said our baby was lost.

I blamed myself.
I had not held good thoughts, not appreciated the blessing bestowed upon me.

Soon,
I drifted among the hills of Laos looking for my boys. They had disappeared into the forest. From the top of the mountain, I called to them. I heard the roar of engines. Giant green birds filled the heavens and opened their bloated bellies, dropping a stream of death. Bombs whistled through the air until it felt like my ears would explode. The sun glinted off shiny metal objects that spun and twisted, opening high above the ground and scattering hundreds of yellow balls. The earth burst into great plumes of brilliant red and orange. The grounded trembled and jarred my bones. Louder and louder. Deafening noise reverberated in my head. Mothers grabbed their children, raced up the hills, and hid among the trees. I had to find my boys. A hand touched my shoulder. I woke as I turned to find Nou standing behind me. Only her face was a blur.