The Rent Collector (20 page)

Sopeap hobbles in and drops her bag on the floor. I say nothing as she leans down and removes a small yellow paperback book. She opens it to a marked page and then holds it out away from her face so that she can focus.

“We’re going to read parts of a story today from a Japanese author, Yasunari Kawabata,” she announces. “This is a story I would often read to my students.”

I can hold my tongue no longer. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand.

She stops, looks me over, but I don’t give her the time to decide
if
and
what
I know.

“You’re dying,” I scream, “and you said nothing to me!”

She closes the book. “I told you I was going away.” She answers with such composure, it’s confusing. “I just failed to mention how far.”

I want to jump up, to cry, to yell, to hit her in the chest myself until she understands that I feel the same pain in mine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I had planned to—just not yet.”

“I deserved to know.”

“I was waiting for the right moment. It was your fascination with learning, your childlike desire to drink in the stories. It was so—refreshing. I just didn’t want to spoil it, for either of us.”

“Spoil what?”

“Your innocence, your hope for the future, your trust in the words and messages that stories carry. I didn’t know how to make you understand.”

“Understand what—that all stories aren’t happy? That life can be miserable?” I should settle down, but I can’t help myself. “You think I’m too stupid to realize that? Did you forget that I have a sick child, that I live in a disgusting dump?”

While I’m the one behaving hysterically, Sopeap remains calm. She takes a long and steady breath, as if drawing on a pipe. “You may have a point,” she says. “There’s a possibility that I may have been thinking about myself—trying to rewrite things that should be left alone.”

I don’t pretend to understand what she’s talking about, but her tone hints of remorse. I should tell her that it’s okay, that I understand—but I don’t. I am still too angry.

“What did they say is wrong with you?” I ask instead.

“It’s a long list, but if you’re referring to my medical condition, I’m told it’s a growth contracting the artery that feeds my heart. Apparently, arteries don’t like to be contracted.”

“Can they operate? Can they cut it out?”

“They could if . . .”

“If?”

“
If
I were younger,
if
I had gone in sooner,
if
I had more money,
if
I were living in America or Europe or any other country in the free world that has modern facilities. Life is full of so many ifs.”

“How long have you known?”

“A while.”

“Please, how long?”

“The doctor broke the news to me the day I threatened to kick you out—not one of my better days. It was a bit emotional and confusing.”

“You should be home resting.”

For the first time, Sopeap bristles; her voice hardens. “I’ll do no such thing! We’re here to learn about literature. I’ve taken the time to translate much of the book myself and, by damn, you’re going to listen! And just so you know,” she says, waving her crooked, pointing finger directly between my eyes to be crystal clear, “there will be no negotiation on this point. I’m going to show up here every day until I think you are ready, or until I . . . well, until you are ready.”

She opens the book and lets her finger find the sentence.

“Besides,” she adds, “I can’t die yet. I’m just starting to like you.”

*****

Our lessons become a blur. I listen; I make notes; I try not to ask contentious questions. Now that I know about Sopeap’s condition, there are little things I notice: long breaths from the teacher that I once thought were meant for drama’s sake in telling the story but that I now realize are to ease the pain in her chest; her choosing to sit beside me, not so I can see the page but because she’s too tired to continue standing; her finding excuses to end early so I don’t have to watch her stumble outside, fall to her knees, and vomit.

There are times my eyes water—I simply can’t help myself—though Sopeap’s eyes never do, and I admit to feeling a bit hurt. It causes me to recall a conversation I had with Ki the day I found out that Sopeap was sick.

“How could she sit there reading stories so casually, knowing the entire time that she was sick—and then never tell me?” I asked with complaint.

“She wasn’t angry?” Ki inquired, a bit surprised.

“No, she hasn’t been angry for a while.”

“Then don’t you be angry,” he said.

Since my husband obviously wasn’t understanding, I would need to better explain. “It’s just not right. She needs more time.”

He paused, letting me settle down, and then he asked a question that still lingers. “Does she need more time—or do you?”

How ironic that Sopeap is the one dying and yet I’m the one feeling sorry for myself because she doesn’t mind that she’ll be leaving!

I let my thoughts wander again and only snap awake when I realize my teacher is speaking to me.

“I’m going to bring one of my favorite books tomorrow,” she says.

“What’s it called?”

“It’s a story that is . . . well, it’s my favorite,” she says.

“What is it about?”

“It’s a metaphor, but then, what in literature isn’t? It’s an old story that seems tragic at first, but in the end . . . well, I don’t want to ruin it for you. No, this is a story best understood if you don’t know the ending.”

“Then you won’t tell me?”

“Tomorrow. We will read it tomorrow.”

*****

“Sang Ly! Sang Ly!”

Even from far away, the terror-filled echo of my mother’s cry yanks me from the floor to my feet. I bolt to the front yard. She is out of breath, chest heaving, eyes wide with horror, and Nisay is collapsed lifeless in her arms.

She mutters so fast I can barely understand her. “He was playing . . . on the floor . . . not crying at all . . . he slumped over . . . I can’t wake him up . . . I’ve tried and I can’t wake him!”

“Nisay? Nisay!” I pull open his eyelid, but his pupils are rolled back. I press my face close to his, strain to feel any signs of life. I think he’s breathing; I hope he’s breathing; I look heavenward. “Please, Grandfather, help him to keep breathing.”

I take him from my mother’s arms and, out of instinct, turn toward the house for Ki.
Wait, he’s not home.
It’s late. The sun is setting. He should be here—but he’s not. He is still picking at the dump. Who else can help? Teva Mao. I speak first to Mother. “Run to the trucks. Find Ki. Tell him what’s happened. I’ll take Nisay to Teva.”

I don’t know how, but Teva knows about such things. Surely she can help. She is just a few houses away, over the slight rise of garbage that separates the view of our two homes. With Nisay cradled in my arms, I do the only thing I can think of—I run.

My left sandal flips off, but I don’t turn to retrieve it. I fly across the garbage with a single bare foot toward Teva’s, oblivious to anything sharp or dangerous that may cut my feet. As I reach Teva’s home I scream, “Teva! Help!” There is no answer, no sound, no bustle inside to see who may be calling. “Teva, please!” Teva Mao is not home.

I check Nisay again and he looks terrible. I want to scream, to cry, to curse, to plead to the ancestors, but none of that will help my child.

The clinic! I will take him to the French clinic.

I retrace my steps back toward home. My lost sandal sits patiently in the trail and, miraculously, it’s facing the right way. I slip it on almost without slowing down. I pass our home, heading down the slope on the opposite side, until the ground levels out to the trail that leads to the city streets.

On a good day, I will walk with Nisay to the clinic. Today is anything but good. I am panting by the time I reach the street where the motos cross. I wave frantically but the first two don’t stop. Perhaps they realize I have left what little money we have at home. The third to approach jerks his
tuk tuk
to the curb beside me. He is an older driver.

“Please,” I beg, with all the motherly compassion I can muster. “I need help. I must get my boy to the clinic on Khemarak Boulevard, near the Russian hospital. He’s sick!”

He hesitates, as if he also knows I have no money to pay, but then he glances at my son. “Get in!” he says.

We climb into the two-wheeled cart hitched behind the motorcycle, and before I’m even settled, he lurches out into traffic. Any other day, I would be furious. Today, I am only grateful. As we weave in and out of the busy city traffic, I whisper encouragement to Nisay. “We’re almost there, son. They are good doctors. They will help and you’ll be fine.”

Except for the sway of the moto as it darts back and forth, Nisay is motionless. And then the moto brakes to a stop and I jump out. I pay little attention to the pained looked on the driver’s face. I ignore his grimace as he stares past me to the clinic entrance. Only when I turn do I understand—the windows and doors are all covered with grates. The clinic is closed.

“No,” I scream. “Open, please open!” I command the doors, as if I expect the chains to obey and part. They don’t.

And then time blurs. I am in such a frantic frame of mind, wishing, hoping, pleading for someone to help, that I can’t be certain what is really happening and in what order. I am riding again in the moto, but I am crying hysterically because I don’t know where the driver is taking us. It’s my worst nightmare. Instead of endlessly falling into blackness, I am riding though the nighttime streets of Phnom Penh with my dying son lying limp in my arms, unable to wake up or get out of the racing moto.

But I can’t be dreaming because surely in a dream, such pain and panic would have caused me to wake up screaming—and Ki would console me and tell me that everything is fine.

Instead I am alone and my dreams are not only real—they get worse.

We arrive at a tall glass building. When I realize the driver wants to put me out on the street, I refuse to get down. He pulls at my arm while I scream at him. “How could you! How could you!”

He physically yanks me out as I grasp my son, but I continue to stand in the street shrieking in anger and pleading for help. Then someone else touches my shoulder. She’s an older Cambodian woman, dressed in a white uniform of the sort that medical workers wear. I am standing in front of the National Children’s Hospital off of Kampuchea Krom Boulevard.

The woman escorts me to the entrance with my son. Just before passing through the doors, I turn to thank the driver, to apologize for my conduct, but I can no longer see him. He is gone.

My child is taken from me and I think I tell the nurse what is wrong with him, but later, as I try to remember, I can’t be sure. I’m asked to wait in a room, but when I enter there is no place to sit. The seats are full of other desperate people living nightmares of their own.

I find space against a wall, relieved to feel that it’s solid, and slide exhausted to the floor. I grab my knees as the adrenaline that has filled my body retreats. I may throw up, but I’m too tired to find a bathroom. I am uncertain whether I doze off or just stare blindly at the distant, whitewashed wall, but sometime during the night, the woman who escorted me into the hospital touches my shoulder to get my attention. She needs information. I give her my name and tell her where we live, and when she hears
Stung Meanchey
she doesn’t bother asking if we can pay. Before she hurries away, she says that my son is fine, that a doctor will find me soon to tell me more. To those watching, it must look as though she has delivered awful news, because as she walks away, I am so relieved that I cover my face and sob.

There is a clock on the wall and at 2:10 A.M., I remember my own clock at home. I worry about Ki and the panic that he must feel, not knowing what’s happened to his wife and child. Then, an hour later, he runs into the waiting room. He is sweating and breathing heavily. When he sees me, still leaning against the distant wall, the relief that spreads across his face is so palpable that I feel it from across the room. It washes over his body, and by the time he reaches me, he slumps beside me on the floor. He puts his arm around me and he asks, “How is Nisay?”

I hug back as best I can while sitting. “They are taking care of him. He’s going to be okay.”

We say nothing more for several minutes, content to simply be together in spite of the circumstance.

“How did you find us?” I finally ask.

“I’ve been checking all of the hospitals. I’m so glad you didn’t go to the one on the north side of Phnom Penh.” And that’s when I realize he ran to each one.

In Cambodia, it’s unfortunately common for husbands both to drink and to beat their wives. Other families are abandoned, left to fend for themselves. Instead, my husband runs through the city for the better part of the night to make sure that his wife and son are safe.

We sit together on the floor for hours, taking turns resting as we wait for the promised doctor. Late in the morning, a haggard-looking man in a white coat appears. He is rushed and I expect we won’t talk long.

“I am Doctor Chan. Your son will be fine. He was severely dehydrated and we’ve given him fluids throughout the night. We’ll be discharging him now, so you’re free to take him home.”

I can’t express enough joy that Nisay is okay, but I also understand that he’s going home because we have no money to pay for his stay.

“How can he be better so quickly?” I ask.

The doctor doesn’t answer but instead offers instructions. “It’s critical that you give him plenty of liquids and—”

“I try to,” I blurt. “But he has diarrhea so bad, and then he won’t eat or drink anything.”

“I’ve got some pills that should help.”

“When the pills run out, he always gets sick again.”

“Just remember, plenty of water. Now, I’ve got several other patients waiting, so if you have any questions, the nurse should be able to help you.”

And as quickly as the doctor appeared, he is gone. I don’t blame him, and I am not bitter. I sit in an overflowing hospital waiting room, brimming with desperate mothers, including many who lost their loved ones. How can I be anything but indebted to this man?