each other—and yet she persists. If my mother’s motives were pure, if she were trying to get two friends to make up, I would applaud the woman. Instead she finesses the less-than-brilliant pair together, just so she can sit back and watch the show.
“Shame on you,” I say as I take a seat beside her while the two women continue to argue about how far their cardboard should extend past their fabric roof. I would step in and break things up, but I know better.
“What would Father say if he were still alive?” I say to Mother.
“First of all, I don’t know what you are talking about,” she says. “And second, you should talk—you’re the one who killed him.”
Naturally I don’t remember, and the story would change every time Mother or Grandfather would tell it. It was said that during my childbirth, Mother was in heavy labor, pushing and pushing, while I refused to come out. She was encouraged by the midwife while my father smoked homemade cigarettes as he paced nervously in the front yard.
Grandfather said I refused to leave the ancestors, who must have been gathered around telling jokes. I suspect, instead, that someone there must have warned me about my future at Stung Meanchey. Either way, my birth took hours. When I finally filled my lungs and announced to the village that I had arrived, the midwife ran out to deliver the good news and found my father stone-cold dead on the ground.
As a child, I liked to imagine that he gave up his life for me, that whoever was in charge that day had decided to allow a limited number of my relatives on the earth at one time. I convinced myself that I was the one destined to die, but then, at the very last moment, my father somehow pulled a phlah bdo (a secret switch) and volunteered himself instead.
It was just a child’s silly story, but it helped ease the pain of one of my biggest regrets growing up: I never knew my father. To this day, I don’t know what he looked like. Pictures were rare in the province, and the single photo Mother had of him was lost when I was still a baby.
“Do you want to stay for more?” Mother asks as Sida begins to curse and Jorani starts to throw trash.
I don’t mean to laugh, but the two women are rather comical.
“It’s no wonder we’re both at Stung Meanchey,” I tell her as we lean back and resist the temptation to clap. “It’s no wonder at all.”
Only when the fighting winds down does Mother lean over and casually mention, “You should also know . . . I have made arrangements for the girl.”
I lurch forward. “Arrangements? For Maly? What does that mean?”
“It will be best if I keep the details to myself,” she says, “for everyone’s safety. Let’s just say I’ve found a good situation, away from the city, where she will be safe.”
“When?”
“I will leave with her tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“Yes, but there is one slight problem.” I hate it when Mother mentions problems.
“What kind of problem?”
“To make this work, we’re going to need the help of the Rent Collector.”
*****
I’m waiting outside my curtain when Sopeap arrives. I sent word that we needed to speak and, thankfully, she arrives on time.
“What is so important?” Sopeap asks, irritated.
“I’m sorry,” I begin, unsure how to explain. “I just . . .” When I pause, she loses patience.
“Is this about the girl?”
I take a breath. “You know about her?”
“Since the day I saw her sleeping on your floor,” she scoffs.
“I’m sorry. We wanted to keep her safe until—”
“Do you have a plan?” she interrupts.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Spit it out.”
“We need your help. The girl—Maly is her name—will need money for the bus trip, and then for the family, to cover her expenses.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Sopeap asks.
To me it seems obvious, but I continue. “The only extra we have is the money we’re saving for next month’s rent.”
Sopeap’s voice hardens. “Are
“Shame on you,” I say as I take a seat beside her while the two women continue to argue about how far their cardboard should extend past their fabric roof. I would step in and break things up, but I know better.
“What would Father say if he were still alive?” I say to Mother.
“First of all, I don’t know what you are talking about,” she says. “And second, you should talk—you’re the one who killed him.”
Naturally I don’t remember, and the story would change every time Mother or Grandfather would tell it. It was said that during my childbirth, Mother was in heavy labor, pushing and pushing, while I refused to come out. She was encouraged by the midwife while my father smoked homemade cigarettes as he paced nervously in the front yard.
Grandfather said I refused to leave the ancestors, who must have been gathered around telling jokes. I suspect, instead, that someone there must have warned me about my future at Stung Meanchey. Either way, my birth took hours. When I finally filled my lungs and announced to the village that I had arrived, the midwife ran out to deliver the good news and found my father stone-cold dead on the ground.
As a child, I liked to imagine that he gave up his life for me, that whoever was in charge that day had decided to allow a limited number of my relatives on the earth at one time. I convinced myself that I was the one destined to die, but then, at the very last moment, my father somehow pulled a phlah bdo (a secret switch) and volunteered himself instead.
It was just a child’s silly story, but it helped ease the pain of one of my biggest regrets growing up: I never knew my father. To this day, I don’t know what he looked like. Pictures were rare in the province, and the single photo Mother had of him was lost when I was still a baby.
“Do you want to stay for more?” Mother asks as Sida begins to curse and Jorani starts to throw trash.
I don’t mean to laugh, but the two women are rather comical.
“It’s no wonder we’re both at Stung Meanchey,” I tell her as we lean back and resist the temptation to clap. “It’s no wonder at all.”
Only when the fighting winds down does Mother lean over and casually mention, “You should also know . . . I have made arrangements for the girl.”
I lurch forward. “Arrangements? For Maly? What does that mean?”
“It will be best if I keep the details to myself,” she says, “for everyone’s safety. Let’s just say I’ve found a good situation, away from the city, where she will be safe.”
“When?”
“I will leave with her tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“Yes, but there is one slight problem.” I hate it when Mother mentions problems.
“What kind of problem?”
“To make this work, we’re going to need the help of the Rent Collector.”
*****
I’m waiting outside my curtain when Sopeap arrives. I sent word that we needed to speak and, thankfully, she arrives on time.
“What is so important?” Sopeap asks, irritated.
“I’m sorry,” I begin, unsure how to explain. “I just . . .” When I pause, she loses patience.
“Is this about the girl?”
I take a breath. “You know about her?”
“Since the day I saw her sleeping on your floor,” she scoffs.
“I’m sorry. We wanted to keep her safe until—”
“Do you have a plan?” she interrupts.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Spit it out.”
“We need your help. The girl—Maly is her name—will need money for the bus trip, and then for the family, to cover her expenses.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Sopeap asks.
To me it seems obvious, but I continue. “The only extra we have is the money we’re saving for next month’s rent.”
Sopeap’s voice hardens. “Are
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