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By Root 1411 0

her eyes closed, Phlor rests peacefully in the shade. Her clothes are still wet from swimming in a clear pond. Lying on a flat rock near her and other women classmates, I feel the precious solitude of the Morong Bataan. I feel as if I’m connected to the calm, still earth. I feel as if today is a dream. The cool breeze touches my face. My arms. My soul. It has been a long time since I felt a sense of inner peace. Being in this camp has made that possible, for we’ve been given enough food to eat. We have running water. Electricity. We have school. We have clean, pretty apartments to live in. I don’t have to worry about the Filipino soldiers. I feel protected. I feel safe. I feel loved, accepted by the local people who work in the camp. I am finally free of life-threatening situations.

Ratha tells me that a doctor needs a translator. I hurry down the hall and check one examination room, but no one is there. I walk to the adjacent one, and the door is ajar. I hear a voice trying to speak Cambodian. I take a peek. Suddenly a set of big, dark eyes stare back at me. A new doctor? I ask myself. I’ve never seen him before. He wears a stethoscope around his neck. He looks Filipino and is cute—young with shiny black hair and dark eyes with long eyelashes.

Getting caught peeking, I need time to recoup. I take a deep breath, regain my composure, then knock on the door.

“Yes?”

I introduce myself, telling him my name and who I am. He stands up and says, “I’m Dr. Tanedo, Achilles Tanedo.” He reaches out to shake my hand. I shake his hand, and I’m not even embarrassed. Not a bit. Marie would have been proud of me.

I translate for the patient, but mention to the doctor that I haven’t seen him here before. He says that he works mostly at the hospital. A hospital? I didn’t know that this camp had a hospital. But I don’t ask for further clarification. All I want is to establish a rapport, and it isn’t hard to do so. I acquire the information from the patient regarding her illness. In about ten minutes, Dr. Tanedo writes her a prescription, and my mind is already at the pharmacy, trying to locate her medicine on the shelves.

Ry is excited, calling my name as if memorizing it. “Athy, Athy, I’ve got a letter, I’ve got a letter. We’re going to be with Uncle Seng.”

I look at her, overwhelmed by her exuberance. I’m between excitement and confusion. Ry catches her breath, calming down to explain. She says, “Do you remember I told you about my friend helping me write a letter? About bang Vantha saying he wanted us to go anywhere?” She pauses as if letting me digest what she has just said.

I reach for the letter in her hand, remembering what she is talking about. She asked a friend to write a letter on our behalf so that we could go to Uncle Seng in Portland and not be randomly placed, as bang Vantha has threatened. I open the thin letter and read the response: “Please tell these kids that the P.A. listed Mr. Leng Seng as a possible sponsor and did not say ‘anywhere.’ [signed] TP.” I gape, eyes widened. A burst of joy tumbles out of my mouth—I scream.

We didn’t have many patients today, yet I’m tired, and hungry. I slowly walk toward home. The day is still bright. Some families sit outside in front of their apartments. Then a person, a woman wearing a long skirt, darts out of an apartment, my apartment. She runs as if she is in a race with herself, heading toward me. Ry?

Smiling, I pause, watching her run. I’m amused—my older sister runs like an excited little girl. Her face beams radiantly. She is jubilant. Ry grabs my shoulders, she shakes me, she croons: “We’re going to America, we’re going to America—”

“Really?”

Ry nods, then hops, and so do I. We don’t care how foolish we look in front of our neighbors. We are oblivious, absorbed in ourselves. As we calm down, I ask her if she heard our family name and our BT number (a number assigned to each family) called over the loudspeakers. She nods repeatedly.

Facing the sky, I close my eyes and smile. Suddenly I’m in a whole new world, a world that gives me hope and makes me float.