When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [10]
Pa decides to go to the office. He works for the government in Phnom Penh, overseeing import/export violations, but he also owns a number of pedicarts, which people rent from him monthly. My father is different from my uncles. He helps my mother around the house, washing diapers and even the bloodied bedsheets after she’s had a baby. Although culturally women are the preparers of food, I often watch Father work in the kitchen. He finds pleasure in small things, helping us clean and trim our fingernails, pouring water over us in our shower—things women do. I can feel my father’s ambition, and also his desire to escape tradition. An entrepreneur at heart, he imports televisions via Vietnam and rents out two bedrooms downstairs. He dreams of filling our home with children.
It’s only been about eight hours since I first encountered war, but already I am beginning to worry like an adult. I am so afraid that our family might be separated from my father if fighting breaks out again. Oh, how much I want to tell Pa that I’m scared, but I’m even too scared to tell him this. I’ve learned from grown-ups that you don’t think about or say terrible things or else they will come true.
They come true anyway, and Pa isn’t home yet. We shiver as the gunfire rumbles in the distance. At least it’s not close to our home, as it was the night before. We stay inside. I wish for the war noise to stay where it is. I’m too tired to stay awake. The next thing I feel is my body shaking, Chea waking me up.
The morning is cloudy and chilly as I stand outside the gate near our packed suitcases. I’ve been asked by Mak to watch for a bus to pick us up for Phnom Penh. I look at my home: the pine trees, three on each side, stand before our big two-story stucco house, almost as tall as the house itself. Along the front cement fence, a cool, shady row of mango, papaya, and coconut trees overlooks swings—a playground I already begin to miss almost as much as I miss my father.
Mostly, I feel relieved: We won’t be captured by the Viet Cong after all. We’re going to be with Pa.
A faded blue bus packed with people stops in front of the house. Everyone, it seems, has the same idea. On top of the bus rises a growing tower of suitcases and bags. Through the open gate, I run to tell Mak. As I begin to climb the cement stairs, my family is coming down. My mother holds Avy on her hip with one hand and a bundle in the other. Her black hair is combed neatly, framing her face and curving against her neck below her earlobes. She wears a colorful sleeveless blouse with a flowery long sarong, similar to that worn by Hawaiians. As always she is composed.
I ask Mak, “What about Pa? Pa’s coming home tonight, and we are not going to be here. Will he be scared when he doesn’t know where we are?”
“Your father will know. He’ll find us. Go on now. Go to the bus, koon Mak!”*
As the bus starts to leave, I look at my home, one last snapshot, click. With my eyes, I caress all that I see—the pine trees, the swings by the shaded mango trees near the fence, the balcony with hanging houseplants cascading from the ceiling. I remember how we used to come out and sit on the balcony and enjoy warm evening breezes together. I would chase fireflies hovering near the houseplants.
Everyone on the bus is quiet, even little kids. We glance at each other and see silent worry, especially on the adults’ faces. Some people hide it—they look out the bus windows, staring at trees and passing landscapes.
Pa somehow