Across the Mekong River (24 page)

LAURA

I abandoned all sense of caution falling in love. Nothing else mattered. I spent every possible moment with Pete during and after school, meeting at Mary’s house or the Sea Treasure, driving around town in the back seat of Kevin’s car, sitting close, holding hands, stealing tender kisses, content just to be in one another’s presence. I felt happier and freer with him than I had ever felt in my life, sharing my secrets, wanting him to know my family’s story and the confines of my Hmong upbringing. I explained the complicated situation with Dang, reassuring him that Dang was nothing more than a friend. Pete leaned on me as his mother slowly faded from this world.

I convinced myself our relationship could remain secret without consequences, even as I cons
tantly looked over my shoulder. We didn’t tell anyone at school we were together for fear my cousin Mee might find out. Of course it must have been obvious from our gazes and smiles as we walked through the halls, the way we casually brushed shoulders and touched hands.

My behavior at home bec
ame more erratic and volatile. I grew agitated trying to come up with ever more improbable excuses to be off with Pete. My appetite disappeared, sleep eluded me, and I found it hard to concentrate on my studies. At times I escaped into blissful daydreams, absentmindedly folding the dirty laundry, knocking over a glass of water at dinner, or forgetting to bathe my little brothers before bed. Mother chided me, asking where I had left my head. You must be thinking about Dang, she would say. My vehement denials only reinforced her beliefs.

I had tried for weeks to gently break things off with Dang, claiming I was too busy when he called or came by to visit, making excuses why I couldn’t go with the group on the weekend. Surely he would s
ee it was hopeless and give up. I couldn’t tell him there was someone else, someone my parents would never accept, or that I could no longer bear his attentions and expectations. Yet the more I avoided him, the more impatient and cold I became, the more he persisted. He loomed in the background like the specter of Blia’s ill-fated marriage.

Blia and her baby daughter had returned home to live with her parents much to the delight of her m
other and mine. They doted and cooed over the newest addition to the family, a chubby, demanding infant with robust lungs and a shock of black hair that stood straight up like needles on a frightened porcupine. Mother lauded the joys of motherhood and prattled on about how wonderful it would be to have a grandchild of her own one day. But all I observed were the physical and emotional scars left by Blia’s unhappy union and her obvious distress at the prospect of raising a child when she was still no more than a child herself.

One evening in the middle of April, Father sat down after dinner to ope
n the mail. I was doing homework on the sofa in the living room with my siblings scattered around me in front of the TV. Father called my name, and I looked up. He held two pieces of paper in his hand. His expression filled with confusion.

“This is from
a Mrs. Martin. About something called the SAT test.”

“
That’s my counselor. Remember? I told you I need to take the test to apply for college.”

He nodde
d slowly. “She says the school has funding to help pay the fee if I fill out this form.” He glanced at the pages again and frowned. “She refers to you as my daughter Laura.”

My stomach
lurched.

“Why would she call you
that?”

T
he absurdity of keeping this from my parents all this time, letting months and years slip by suddenly struck me. I licked my lips. “I meant to tell you. I decided to use an American name at school.”

“Since when?”

“For a while.”

Father narrowed his eyes.
“How long?”

I
paused and took a deep breath. “Since we moved here.”

Disbelief flickered across his face as
he jerked his head back. “Two years? And only now I find out?”

Words tumbled out, “I didn’t know what you would say.
If I use Nou, then I have to explain I’m Hmong and from Laos. No one even knows where that is.”

Mother emerged from the kitchen, where she had been listening to the exchange, and stood next to Father.
She shook her head. “What is wrong with being Hmong?”

I met her gaze.
“You know how kids treated me in Minneapolis, all the teasing and name calling. I didn’t want to be different.”

Mother threw her hands up and returned to washing dishes in the kitchen.

Father took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. At last he turned to me again. “You could have told us. Hmong people are always honest.”

I folded my hands in my lap, staring at the worn, dirt
y carpet beneath my bare feet. I dreaded his anger, but all I heard was disappointment.

“
What kind of life is it if you have to pretend to be someone else?” He let out a long, weary sigh. “How can I know if there is more you are not telling us?”

“I’
m sorry.” The guilt and lies and subterfuge gathered in a burning lump in my middle. I loved my father. I wanted him to be proud of me. This disappointment with me might pass, but I had damaged our relationship and his opinion in ways I couldn’t repair. A deeper truth kept us at odds, for I would never be able to reconcile his rules and expectations with the reality of my dreams. At some point, I would have to choose.

PAO

Everything changed overnight. Like a sack of rice split open, the grains raining onto the ground, becoming dirty and spoiled. The days took on a confusion that refused to end. I could not distinguish the sequence of events or reconcile the pain in my heart. I had not felt as lost and full of despair since our fateful journey out of Laos across the Mekong River.

It started in late April when the weather turned hot and our fields
sprouted healthy young plants. Everything seemed deceptively as it should be. Then Nou became sick to her stomach and ran a mild fever. That Monday we insisted she stay home from school. Yer prepared an herb drink for the fever and massaged her body with mint to relax the muscles. When this did not help, I rubbed her back with a silver coin wedged in the middle of a hard-boiled egg to draw the illness from her body. But these cures provided only temporary relief. I gave her aspirin, but this upset her stomach more. Still the fever persisted. She could not keep any nourishment down. Her cheeks became pale, her eyes dull.

Dang and Mary called every day, but she
was too weak to talk to them. Mee reported Dang was very worried about her. Yer reminded Nou how lucky she was to have such a good and caring young man. Nou only groaned, holding her middle and turning away.

On the third evening Nou burned with a high fever agai
n, drifting into fitful sleep. When Mary called, I told her Nou was sleeping and not to disturb her again. Perhaps my voice sounded too sharp out of worry. But I did not appreciate the interference of an outsider.

I
asked Uncle Boua to perform a
khov kuam
to determine what was wrong. He took his split buffalo horns from his altar and prayed to the spirits to tell him the source of Nou’s illness. Five times he threw the horns on the floor before the answer came. It was as I feared. Three of her souls had fled her body, and evil spirits held them in the other realm. He continued throwing the horns for twenty minutes, questioning what we must do to appease the spirits and allow her souls to return. After much negotiation, an agreement was reached. If she became better within three days, we would hold a
hu plig
, a soul calling, and sacrifice a pig.

When Nou woke again, I asked her if she could think of any event that might have caused her souls t
o become offended and run off. Was she burdened by a problem that she had not told me about? She offered no answers, but grew agitated and withdrawn when I persisted. The only explanation I could think of was her decision to change her name. Perhaps the weight of this secret, the disrespect of denying her Hmong heritage and ancestors, had offended her souls. This could explain why I felt her slipping away from her family, becoming more remote, already departed on another path.

That night Yer and I took turns watching over Nou, placing cool rags on her hot, damp forehead, trying to get h
er to sip a few drops of water. When I finally succumbed to exhaustion, frightening dreams woke me. Strangers called to me from across a vast, swift river with important secrets about Nou, but I could not catch the meaning of their words. I woke in a sweat, full of dread.

By morning Nou’s fever had subsided, and she
was able to keep down a cup of vegetable broth. Her breathing ebbed and flowed without effort. The spirits were keeping their part of the bargain, and I would keep mine. Yer informed the family we would hold a
hu plig
Saturday morning. She told Mee to invite Dang, saying this would help Nou feel better.

Auntie Khou and Kia arri
ved early that morning to help. Yer showed them the collection of fresh mangos, bananas, papayas, and flowers she had purchased the day before, which now decorated the dining room table. They bustled about the kitchen readying pots of water on the stove, chopping mounds of pork and vegetables and filling the rice cooker. I selected two chickens, a male and female from our coop, to help Uncle Boua in reaching the spirits. I had purchased a three-year-old sow to offer its soul in exchange for the safe return of Nou’s souls.

Nou, listless and silent, watched from her mattress as the family completed the preparations.
Uncle Boua brought his shaman’s bench, the horse he would ride into the other realm, and set it in front of our altar. Yer placed a bowl of rice with a raw egg on a small table by the door to welcome the spirits and her returning souls. Houa and Moa punched out patterns on special gold paper to make a stack of spirit money. Boa cut lengths of cotton string for each member of the family to tie around Nou’s wrist, which would keep her newly returned souls safe with her body.

As I watched the girls work, I thought of all the soul callings performed for
our family over the years—each New Year, during illnesses, and before we embarked on major journeys from Thailand to the U.S. and Minneapolis to Sacramento. The first time I tied a string around Nou’s wrist, she was only a tiny baby, three-days old. It was a moment of great joy as we held the naming ceremony. Yer and I had selected Nou, meaning sun, for our precious child. She had brought the light back into our lives after the dark chaos of the war finally ended.

A shiver snaked down my back thinking of how close I had come to losing
her that night in the Mekong River, her hand slipping from mine. It had taken all my strength to pull her back.

Uncle wore his black
shaman’s pants and silk jacket tied with a bright red sash. He placed his hood on the bench. He smoothed the patterned paper covering the altar, arranged his tools, candles, and incense, along with three cups of holy water and bundles of spirit money. Everything was in place.

The family began to assemble.
Gia, Soua, and I would assist Uncle. Dang arrived with Mee and Tou and rushed to Nou’s side. Nou frowned, hardly looking at him, as if his presence sapped what little energy she had left. The phone rang, distracting me as we were set to begin. Once again it was Mary inquiring about Nou, insisting she must talk to her for a moment. I explained it was not a good time and hung up, impatient with her intrusion at this critical moment.

Uncle
sat Nou on a chair in the center of the room, wearing her t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and best Hmong jacket made of black silk with indigo sleeves. She seemed weak and woozy, uncomfortable with all eyes focused on her. He lighted candles and incense to provide light in the realm of the unseen and put on his finger cymbals tied with pieces of red cloth, representing helping spirits. He banged the gong to alert the family to get ready to begin.

I
took over the gong, beating a slow steady rhythm as Uncle sang the familiar chants calling to the spirits. He placed a stack of spirit money on Nou’s shoulders, a payment for the renewal of her life passport. The gods had issued this paper before she was born, determining her luck in life and the date of her death. He must insure that date was not due for a long time.

Gia brought the chickens in from their cage on the front porch and held them one at a time over a plate, quickly slitting their necks. The animals’ souls would help
Uncle negotiate with spirits in the other world. Yer took the chickens to clean and boil. Later we would examine the chickens’ skulls, tongues, beaks, and feet for signs that Nou’s wayward souls had been returned. The two feet must match exactly and the tongue remain uncurled.

Shone and
Gia carried the pig, tied and wrapped in a sheet, upstairs from the pen beside the apartment. It squealed and struggled, its chest heaving up and down, as they laid it on the plastic sheeting covering the rug. The pig gazed up, eyes full of distress, straining to be free. Uncle ran a string around the pig’s upper body and wrapped the other end twice around Nou’s middle, walking back and forth between them and shaking his rattle to make contact with Nou’s souls.

He called to his
neng
, his
familiar spirit. On the second throw of his buffalo horns the pieces landed flat side down--his
neng
had heard him. He placed spirit money next to the pig and thanked it for offering its soul in exchange. The pig accepted with the first throw of the horns.

Gia swift
ly slit the pig’s neck. Blood gushed into a wide shallow bowl, sending the smell of hot metal floating through the air. Uncle dipped spirit money into the blood and placed it on Nou’ shoulders, and in exchange, took the spirit money already on Nou’s shoulders and placed it on the pig. He dipped his finger-bells in the red liquid to mark several lines on Nou’s back to keep her safe from any harm by evil spirits.

He
was ready to embark upon a trip to the heavens. Uncle slipped the black hood over his head to blind him to the outside world. Accompanied by his rings and finger-cymbals, he sat on his horse, ready for his
neng
to assist him on the long journey. The trip might take four or five hours, and afterward he would have no recollection of the tongues in which he spoke, the many places he passed, or his negotiations with the spirits. I continued the steady beat of the gong as he relaxed into a dreamy state and freed his mind of the present world. Soua and Shone watched to make sure Uncle did not fall as he stood on the bench bouncing up and down, shaking his rattle, traveling farther and farther away.

Then a
strange commotion erupted from the front porch. The front door flew open and slammed into the wall. A rush of air poured over me like the cool breath of a ghost. Kia gasped. I turned, temporarily blinded by the sun streaming through the open door.

Mary stood
in the doorway, a halo of light behind her. Her enormous eyes darted from the string tied around Nou’s middle and red streaks down her back to the slaughtered pig on the floor, the sheet covered in globs of blood, now turning a rusty brown. She let out a short, piercing scream.

Uncle collapsed on the bench and pulled his hood from his head
. Then footsteps pounded up the stairs. A young man, tall and blond, dressed in blue jeans and a white t-shirt, pushed past Mary. He looked around and rushed to Nou’s side. He threw his arm around her shoulders. “Are you hurt? What are they doing to you?”

Nou
shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s okay.”

Dang, standing against the wall, lunged forward, his eyes wild.
“Don’t touch her.” He pulled the stranger’s arm away and pushed him hard. They began shoving and yelling at one another to back off.

Yer
grabbed my arm. “Pao, do something.”

“Stop!
Stop! Please stop!” Nou came out of her chair.

I tried to step between the boys, but an elbow flew o
ut and hit me hard in the head. I reeled back. Everyone was shouting. Shone, Gia and Soua crowded in, dragging the boys apart, holding them by the arms.

Mary edged toward Nou.
“Laura, I’m, I’m so sorry. We thought something bad had happened to you.”

“Everyone calm down,” I said, finding my voice at last. “Nou, what is going on?”

Nou turned to me with tears streaming down her cheeks, her face as panicked and distressed as the pig had been before we took his soul to the other world.

“Who is this person?” I asked.
In the pit of my stomach I knew I did not want the answer.

The boy twisted free of Gia’s grip and offered me h
is hand, which I did not take. “I’m Pete Williams, Nou’s friend.”

He pulled his hand back, surveying the pig and
pool of blood, the lighted candles and incense, the shocked faces of our family. He appeared baffled and lost.

Anger welled inside me.
“What are you doing intruding on our family? What right do you have?”

He stood the
re haplessly, staring at Nou.

“Who is this guy?
” Dang demanded of Nou. He stepped toward Pete again. “She’s my girlfriend. You’d better get out of here.”

“You don’t own her,” Pete s
aid softly. “She can choose who she wants,”

Nou sank onto
her chair, sobbing. She looked up at Pete. “It’s best if you go.”

Pete glanced at me and turned to Nou
. “I can’t leave you alone like this.”

“I’m
fine. Just go. Please,” Nou begged.

Silence fell over the room as Pete
and Mary reluctantly departed. Family members quietly slipped out. Only Uncle Boua remained.