When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [65]
Around me, birds sing in the woods. Every sense is sharpened, and I’m amazed at my own energy. I struggle down to the ox path and slowly crawl up the other side. I pull myself up, grabbing vines along the bank. I’m numb with my good luck, can’t believe that I have been released. It seems like a strange, powerful dream. The voice of the man still echoes in my head.
As I crawl past the grove of trees, dragging my swollen left foot along through the dirt and dung, I’m elated to see our tattered community of huts. Never before have I seen the beauty in them. I’m anxious to tell Mak about my brush with death, my release. I’m giddy with the joy of survival. As I approach our hut, my eyes run hungrily over every detail. I can’t stop looking. A short time ago, I faced a certain death. Now I’m home. “My hut,” I call softly, crying, as if the palm walls were human, a close friend whom I’ve missed.
From the ground, I look up to see the pale, thinning shape of my mother’s face, old at thirty-five, peeking out at me from the hut. In the twilight shadows, her face is a dream.
“Oh, Mak,” I cry in joy and disbelief, “I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”
My words spill out, a tumbled, babbling story about leaves and a man in black cutting my head off. In that moment I feel I must never let her out of my sight. My heart clings to her, my eyes can’t let her go.
Mak strokes my hair. “You’re lucky. I’m so glad that you weren’t killed.” Tears stream down her cheeks. She reaches out to hold me, tightly embraces me. I feel Mak’s love. Her fear of losing me. Suddenly she stops crying. She wipes her tears. Then mine. Sitting near Mak, I’m lost in indescribable happiness. I’m oblivious to Avy or Map. I don’t feel the throbbing in my foot, the pain in my puffy leg. Only an unreal sense of gratitude.
Mak says, “Stop crying, Mak cooks leaves for you. Stop crying, koon.…”
The next day Mak, Avy, and Map come home with slark khnarng packed in the pouch of her scarf, wrapped around her neck. I’m grateful. Eagerly, I greet them. Their presence is medicine to me.
My foot gradually gets better from the daily cleaning with the slark khnarng. Guided by vague memories of my father, I prescribe for myself the care I think my foot needs to heal. Twice a day I disinfect it with the stinging acidic juice. With my thumb and forefinger, I gently scrape and pinch away the crusted yellow pus that has formed overnight, releasing a fresh stream of blood. Mak is like the head doctor, checking my foot almost every night.
I’m relieved, almost grateful, not to be forced to work. I sleep soundly, trying to make up for the restless nights caused by my throbbing foot. One morning I’m pulled from slumber by a fierce voice. The next thing I see is the ugly chhlop looking down at me.
His voice strikes like a fist. “Comrade, why don’t you go to work? Go to work, or I’ll take you to reform! You must go to work.”
I don’t know what to say to him—I’m ambushed before I have a chance to think. Tears come before words, but I abstain from crying.
Finally I spit out the words, “I can’t walk. My foot is painful, it’s swollen. I will work when my foot gets better.” Submissively, I show him my foot. Red blood spurts out the side of the yellowish curve of my wound. The bleeding is probably the result of getting up so quickly. The blotchy face glances briefly at my foot, recoiling from it. Then he is gone. I know he’ll keep an eye on me.
In time, my foot improves. In the cool evening I stand in front of the hut. For the first time, I feel as if I need to inhale more air. Suddenly I sense a weight upon me. The ugly chhlop is out hunting again. I hop up into the hut, frightened. “Mak, it’s him again!” I flatten myself against the front wall of the hut, hoping he won’t see