The Rent Collector (24 page)

“Grandchild,” I clarify. “Singular, not plural—and why would my reading interfere with that?”

“I think now that you’re reading, she worries you’ll find a job and move away from Stung Meanchey. She says you hate the place.”

“She’s right. I
do
hate the place. It smells. It’s filthy. The air is smoky all the time. Nisay never gets better. Here in the province life is so . . . peaceful. I miss being here.”

“Yes . . .” Auntie says pensively, “memory can be such a pernicious monkey.” And then she smiles.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“I’m saying that the province is no different from the dump. It’s just as hard and unforgiving—in many ways, harder. Have you already forgotten the reasons you left?”

“But you do okay.”

“Since your uncle started his new job, things are better. But they haven’t always been—and who knows what the future will bring? Most of the families here struggle. You know that.”

What she says is true but I’m not willing to concede so easily. “Yes, but—”

“Sang Ly, do you love durian fruit?” she asks, changing the subject so abruptly, I sense an ambush coming.

“Yes . . .” I say cautiously. “I guess so.” And it’s true. I do like the taste, though it does have a bad reputation. While it’s considered one of the tastiest fruits in all of Cambodia, it’s also the worst smelling—so bad, in fact, it’s actually banned at many hotels.

“I think, Sang Ly,” she says, “that the dump is a lot like the durian fruit.”

“You’re right. They both
stink.
”

“Correct, they do. But that’s not what matters. What’s important is what you find beneath. That is what makes the durian so popular.”

“Seeds?” I say, being obstinate.

It doesn’t slow her down. “It not only tastes good,” she says, “but it’s one of the country’s most nutritious fruits.”

And then she goes in for the kill. “The dump is like the durian. Though it’s smelly, it provides a way for families to stay together—families such as yours. Even though it’s putrid, it provides nourishment.”

I presume the lesson is over. It’s not.

“On the other hand, Sang Ly, the province is like the dragon fruit. Its bright colors are pleasing and attractive, and it smells delicious—and it is. However, if one were to eat only dragon fruit, he would starve. It doesn’t provide enough nourishment on its own.”

I lean over and clasp her hands, as if to offer thanks for her lesson. Only now, she stops scrubbing and turns to make eye contact. It’s obvious she is not yet finished.

I reply with a gracious bow as she continues.

“Coming home from time to time is a good thing—and you are always welcome. Returning to one’s roots is healthy and admirable. However, if it’s at the expense of following your own path in the world, or of losing sight of what matters most, then I think you’d be making a mistake.”

If she wants to get serious, so can I. “Auntie, what if fate tries to keep me in the dump? It’s so ugly there. That can’t be right.”

“If it does, then so be it. But remember, the province, though beautiful, has its own pockets of ugliness. While the dump is ugly, it also has pockets of beauty. I think finding beauty in either place simply depends on where you decide to stand.”

And then Auntie points to her scrubbed clothes. “Now, Nisay’s not that heavy. You have a free arm. Help me carry this wash back home, will you?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

As I hold Nisay in my arms while we travel up the river, there is a thought I can’t shake from my mind. If people are placed in our path, if events happen for a reason, if everything has meaning and the characters in stories and myths mimic those of our own lives and dreams, why did the Healer—a man who was always cold, uncaring, and distant—show up in mine? Is he an unlikely hero in my story, the man who finally helps my son? Or will he turn out to be just another shape-shifter and once again dash my hope into disappointment?

Ki decided it was best for him to keep working the fields, to ensure we’d have sufficient money to get back home. Auntie agreed to come in his place to help me. Now, as we step out of the small boat onto the riverbank, I must appear to be nervous because Auntie puts her hand on my shoulder and delivers words that encourage. “Everything is going to be fine. Don’t worry.”

The Healer waits nearby the path and greets us.

“Hello. It’s good to see you,” he says as he bows graciously.

He’s a wiry man of medium frame, wearing plain black shorts, sandals, and a dark T-shirt with white English lettering. I haven’t seen him in years, so I’m not sure exactly what I am expecting, but he’s not nearly as intimidating as I had remembered. In fact, if I passed this man on the street, I probably wouldn’t even notice he was there.

“How have you been?” he asks, and though I can’t imagine he actually remembers who I am, I’m impressed that he pretends.

“Fine,” I tell him, before I remember that I’m not fine at all. “Except that my son has been sick. That is why we’ve come.”

“What is wrong?” he asks, sounding surprised, though I don’t know why he would be, since he knew we were coming to see him, and he
is
the Healer.

As we walk, I tell him about Nisay’s diarrhea, his lack of appetite, his constant crying, and my despair. I tell him about the hospitals, the Western doctors, my treatments of
Koah Kchol
and
Choob khyol,
and the modern medicines that work only for a short while. He disparages none of it but simply says, “I’m sorry to hear. You should have come sooner.”

“We would have, it’s just that we live in the city now and—” His reply was so typical, so expected, that I’m halfway through my response before my ears tell my brain to hold up a minute and pay attention to the words he just spoke—
you should have come sooner!

In my dream his admonition was definitive and certain. Today his manner is casual and quiet. As I try to decide if there is actually a connection or if my imagination is now having a terribly good laugh, the Healer reaches out and touches Nisay’s cheek. At first it appears to be a friendly touch, something a grandfather might do, but when he leans forward to smell the child’s breath, I understand he has already started his work.

“Don’t worry,” he says, looking into my eyes, “I can help him.”

We reach the steps to his treatment room, a separate hut also on stilts that is apart from his home. He leads the way up and Auntie follows. I take a breath, tell myself it will all be okay, praying that this time it actually will, and then I follow with my son. I sit down cross-legged on the bamboo floor opposite the Healer, with Nisay in my lap. Auntie stands distant to stay out of the way.

We all watch attentively as the man unwraps a plastic bag tied with rubber bands and then separates several used syringe needles, a sharp silver knife, a spoon, and a small plastic jar that contains two irregular-shaped black rocks. Though I watch in silence, Nisay doesn’t. Just as with his treatments of
Koah Kchol
and
Choob khyol
—or at any recent doctor visits, for that matter—my boy begins to protest the moment we sit. The longer the Healer prepares, the more I realize Nisay may have a point.

After the man lights incense, he uses his knife to break off a measured portion of the coal-like medicine. He places it in the underside indentation of a broken, overturned teacup and grinds it with the corner of a wooden block into what soon becomes a sticky, pasty mixture that he continually sniffs, as if the odor will tell him when it’s ready. His splotchy fingers and the dark lingering residue caked beneath his nails tell me that this gummy tar—whatever it may be—is his medicine of choice.

An array of needles waits patiently in a tin, and he selects one that must work well because it looks as though it’s been used often. He coats the sharp end in the pitchy mixture. “We are ready,” he announces.

He instructs me to hold out Nisay’s arms, a task that proves difficult. Nisay too recognizes that the show is about to begin and resists mightily. The more I try to straighten his arm, the harder he pulls it inward, wailing his fear.

“Be calm. This will help you,” I whisper—words that I hope will console, but that I fear may instead confirm that this boy’s mother is nothing but a
neak kohak
(big, fat liar).

The Healer pokes Nisay first in the center of his left wrist—he wails louder—then again slightly to the left, and yet again on the other side to the right. The black tar must seal the wounds quickly because, though the needle pierces my son’s skin, there is no blood.

There is a Cambodian proverb Grandfather loved that says,
For news of the heart, watch the face.
At this moment, I think it would be more apt to say,
For news of a mother’s heart, watch her child’s face.
Nisay is terrified and my heart weeps.

The poking and screaming, the tense muscles and tears, all continue on the opposite wrist, and then the Healer moves to the boy’s feet. The man must sense that I reach a point where I can’t bear to watch my son’s fear and pain any longer because he sets the needle down. I expect him to say he is finished. Instead, he passes me the teacup that holds the rest of the menacing concoction and says, “Put some on your finger and place it in the boy’s mouth.”

My son is sobbing so hard in my arms that when I reach my finger into his mouth, he gags. I try again but only manage to spread more of the inky goo on the outside of his lips than inside. I look to the Healer for guidance, letting my despair-filled expression plead for mercy.

“Just a little more on his tongue.”

I scoop the last of it on my finger, push it deep inside his mouth, and let it coat his throat and tongue the best I can. The Healer then speaks words that cause my eyes to tear. “It is over.”

Auntie steps beside me and takes Nisay, while I take money from my pocket. “Let me take him outside,” Auntie says. “We will wait for you down by the river.”

My legs have gone to sleep, and it takes a moment to properly stand. There is a small table that holds the burning incense where the offering of money is placed. It is customary to leave payment, but there is no set price that the Healer charges. It is up to the patient to decide. Yet as I unfold our money and count, the Healer waves it away.

“No payment is needed today.”

He waits until my gaze meets his, as though he wants to be sure I share his conviction, his words that address the real concern still weighing down my heart. He speaks in a tone so matter-of-fact, I almost
do
believe him. “He will now get well,” the man assures.

I don’t mean to be a skeptic, to lack hope, or to harbor fear. However, experience has been my diligent teacher. Still, I hate it. I don’t want to raise a child of doubt. I want my son to believe, to hope, to dream that the future holds brighter days.

Grandfather, where is the balance between humbly accepting our life’s trials and pleading toward heaven for help, begging for a better tomorrow?

And then Sopeap’s lesson drops out of hiding and into my head. “Whether we like it or not, hope is written so deeply into our hearts that we just can’t help ourselves, no matter how hard we try otherwise. We love the story because we are Sarann or Tattercoats or Cinderella.”

And it must be true; some hope must remain in my heart, for I am standing in the hut of the Healer. If all hope had died at Stung Meanchey, I would not be here.

I am so caught up in my own internal brooding that it takes a minute for the Healer’s next words to register. “The way you stand there so perplexed, you look a lot like your father,” he says.

“You remember my father?” I ask with such surprise it causes a man who had yet to smile to offer what some might call a grin.

“Assuredly. We were good friends. We grew up together, not terribly far from here.”

“I didn’t know. Mother never mentioned that.”

“That is my fault,” he replies with reluctance. Though I wait for an explanation, he offers none.

“I wish I could remember him,” I say, speaking of my father. “Unfortunately, I don’t. He died the night I was born.”

“Yes, I know,” the Healer says, with a still solemn tone. “I was with him.”

“No . . . but . . . you couldn’t. You were with him? I was told he died alone, in front of our home, while Mother gave birth inside.”

“Half of your story is correct,” he says.

“Which half?”

His pause is evidence of his reluctance, but I don’t turn away. When it is apparent that I’m not leaving until I know more, he motions for me to sit once again. “Your mother was in labor. I waited with your father in front of his home. He was so pleased to finally have a child.”

“He was pleased?”

“Beside himself. I mean, he was also worried, as all new fathers are; but he couldn’t wait to teach you about life.”

“What happened?”

“As we talked, he lost sensation in his left arm, hand, and fingers; then he began having difficulty breathing. I was just learning the art of healing from my father, but I wasn’t married yet, and I was still trying to decide if my father’s path should also be my own. Sang Ly, what I’m trying to say is that when your father collapsed, I didn’t know how to help.”