Across the Mekong River (25 page)

I felt sick to my stomach.
Clearly my daughter had been seeing this boy, hiding the relationship from us, lying about where she was going. She had done this knowing he would never be acceptable to her family. And here, in front of everyone, Nou’s dishonesty had been revealed. Her reputation would be ruined, our family disgraced. All the years I had cherished my perfect, dutiful daughter, believed in her intelligence and purpose, supported her dreams. This is how she repaid me.

I asked Dang
to leave us to sort things out. Nou, stripped of all defenses, offered a tearful confession. She loved Pete with all her heart, she said. It could not be wrong to care for someone so deeply, someone who needed her and felt the same. This was America, she said, everything was different. Why couldn’t we understand?

Yer was beside herself,
full of angry recriminations. I was too upset to ask anything but the most basic of questions. I had no idea how to fix this, to stop the situation from ruining all our lives. There was the honor of the family and clan to think of. I forbid her to see Pete again and hoped she would see the error of her choice. But this would not fix the damage she had done.

Much later as I reflected on the dark and bitter weeks that followed, I thought about the
hu plig.
Uncle had never completed his travels to the other realm and retrieved Nou’s missing souls. She had recovered her physical health, but she was lost to her family forever.

LAURA

The judge concentrates on every word Mrs. Hernandez says, as if hoping to glean additional information beyond what is in the report he has read. Mrs. Hernandez stops to take a sip of water. The court reporter coughs and shifts in her seat. Mary leans forward and squeezes my arm. My heart begins to beat an irregular rhythm. My fingers feel tingly.

Mrs.
Hernandez speaks in a calm and noncommittal voice as if she is describing the temperature outside. “Your honor, as you see in my report, the difficulty began when Laura’s parents found out she was seeing a young man outside their culture.”

I want to speak up and add that m
y family took a chance coming to America, with its promise of freedom. Yet they cling to ancient customs and rigid ideas, which contradict everything we have strived for. Yes, I lied and kept secrets, trying to survive in a strange place. But I am a good daughter. How could it surprise them that I want the right to choose my future?

“
Her family is insisting she marry another young man, Dang Moua. Laura does not want to marry him. She is only seventeen, and has another year of high school. While many Hmong girls marry young, obviously, it is not acceptable for her family to force or coerce her into marrying against her wishes.”

Dang
and his father returned to our apartment that night with the marriage proposal. I pleaded with Father not to ask me to do this. I did not love Dang. I begged him to let me finish school. I promised never to see Pete again, even if it broke my heart. But Father was blinded by disappointment and anger. He said I had forfeited all rights with my lies and unacceptable behavior. He could never trust me again. The family’s honor was at stake.

My parents would exile me to another family with a husband I hardly
understood and did not love. How could I trust that Dang might behave differently in this life in America. I feared that as a Hmong husband, the head of the household, his expectations would remain rooted in the old ways. My dreams for college and a career could disappear before I ever had a chance to start.

I lay in bed
all that night, struggling to understand what was happening to me. Distress turned to panic like a vise closing in and choking the air from my lungs.

A
s the first hint of dawn turned the sky from ebony to sapphire and stars faded into nothingness, I slipped from my bed and crept out the door. My hand lingered on the doorknob a few seconds. I understood the consequences. There would be no turning back.

The metal stairs under my bare feet
sent cold chills up my spine. In the parking lot, I put on my shoes and began to run. Still sick and weak, my legs felt weighted down. My lungs strained for air. But I ran and ran, down the street in the shadows of the streetlamps, past the Short Stop and vacant lot full of weeds, and across the freeway overpass. The whine of cars below filled my ears like a siren going off in my head. I ran fifteen blocks past sleeping households to the sanctuary of Mary’s home.

Mrs. Hernandez shifts from one foot to the other and looks up at the judge
over the rims of her glasses. “Your Honor, Laura left home to stay with the Shannons. After a confrontation with her father, she called our office to step in.”

Father knew immediately where to
find me. He and Uncle Boua showed up a few hours later. I tried to explain, but he only became more irrational. I had never heard him so angry. He demanded Mr. Shannon let them take me home. Father made terrible threats, caught up in the fury of his helplessness. The whole time I was sobbing and begging him to stop. The police arrived and warned Father and Uncle they would have to take them to jail if they did not leave.

“Given the unstable nature of Laura’s father, the Shannons petitioned the court for temporary custody of Laura and a restraining order on Mr. Lee, pending a hearing on the case.
This was granted by Judge Owen.” Mrs. Hernandez turns to the next page of her notes. “A week ago Tuesday, Dang Moua, the young man Laura’s parents wish her marry, and several of his friends made an attempt to kidnap Laura on her way to school. In the Hmong culture, if a young man takes a woman to his home and keeps her there for three days, she is considered his wife. Luckily, Mr. Shannon drove by and stopped them. There is now a restraining order on Mr. Moua as well.”

Mrs.
Hernandez describes the two meetings with my family, which only antagonized Father more. “Laura is a very bright and dedicated young woman. Her teachers at school report she has worked hard and has an excellent academic record that will enable her to attend a good college with a full scholarship. She has a promising future. Surely her parents must realize what she risks losing.”

The judge nods and thanks Mrs.
Hernandez as she sits down.

My attorney steps forward and explains
that the Shannons have offered to assume full custody until my eighteenth birthday.

The judge turns to my father. “Mr. Lee, I have reviewed the facts in this case and fi
nd it very troubling. The court does not wish to take children from their families. But legally, you cannot insist that your daughter marry against her wishes.” He stares at him for a moment. “Do you understand?”

Father stands up, his shoulders squared
with tattered pride. “I am head of family. I decide what is best for my daughter. Dang will be good husband.”

I think of how others must view my father--a small and spare man in a worn jacket, speaking imperfect English, an u
nreasonable person. And I ache for him. I want to explain that he has been a loving parent, a source of strength in our unstable, shifting life. They cannot see both sides as I do. These people can’t understand how hard it is for Father to accept a system that will not recognize his authority over his family. My parents lost their relatives and friends, their village and homeland, now bit by bit America is tearing away their Hmong existence, luring their children down another path.

“But do you understand you cannot force your daughter to marry against her will in this country?” the judge asks.

“Yes, yes, but I am her father. In Hmong culture, elders decide what is best.”

The judge sighs.
“Mr. Lee, I cannot allow you to take Laura back into custody unless you guarantee the court you will not try to marry her.”

Father puts his hand
s behind his back, feet apart. “She is disobedient daughter who brings her family great shame. Marriage is the only way to save the family.”

“I will find you in contempt of court and place you
in jail if you do not comply. Is that clear?” The judge’s voice grows more impatient.

“How can you tell me wh
at to do with my own daughter? What kind of American freedom is this?”

The judge rubs his forehea
d and leans back in the chair. After a long pause, he turns back to me. “Miss Lee, I am going to give you the choice. The Shannons have agreed to provide you with a home for the next year. I am ready to grant them custody, if that is what you wish. Or you can go home with your parents and a court order that you are not to marry without your written consent. Do you feel your parents’ will adhere to the court’s terms?”

“
She is
my
daughter,” Father yells.

I turn to my
father, my heart breaking. “I love my parents and I don’t want to hurt them.” I repeated the sentence in Hmong to Mother. “But as you can see, nothing will change my father’s mind. For him this is about saving face and family honor. That is more important to him than my future. He gives me no choice. I will stay with the Shannons.” The words fall from my mouth like heavy stones.

The judge nods.
“Mr. Lee, I regret this decision. I understand there are cultural issues involved, but your daughter has a right to live her life as she wants. I hereby grant the Shannons custody of Laura Nou Lee until her eighteenth birthday. Mr. and Mrs. Lee, you may have visitation rights under the Shannons’ supervision, which can be worked out by Child Protective Services. I am also extending the restraining order on Dang Moua, and I suggest this young man stay clear of Laura or face charges.”

Uncle explains the outcome to Mothe
r, and she lets out a low howl. Father staggers toward the courtroom door, Uncle holding him up, my mother following behind.

I call out to them, “P
lease, I’m sorry.”

Father
slowly turns around. “You are no longer my daughter.” And he slams out the door.

I hurried from the library and across campus as the carillon rang the noon hour. Sunshine streamed down from a dazzlingly blue sky, but a chill touched my shoulders the moment I passed under the shade of the sprawling oak trees. The university was oddly quiet. With the semester almost over, many students had already gone home. I turned on Shattuck Avenue and gazed down the hill past the expanse of buildings spilling onto the shore of the glistening bay. In the distance a thick bank of fog hung over the hills of San Francisco and towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. Even after four years, the view never failed to amaze me.

But I needed to get home. Blia and her daughter May, now five, woul
d be arriving within the hour. I climbed uphill past tiny cottages painted rainbow hues with neat, tidy gardens lush with tangled thickets of climbing roses, dahlias, lavender, lobelia, and dark-eyed pansies. At last I reached my bright yellow duplex. Behind the picket fence that framed the front yard, my tomatoes, long beans, squash, lemon grass, Chinese broccoli, and bitter melons flourished. I knew May would have fun wandering through the rows to hunt for caterpillars and sow bugs, and I had a glass jar ready for her collection.

We were sharing a special celebration for Blia’s birthday, her graduation from junior college the week before, and my graduation fr
om Berkeley the following week. For four years I struggled to balance my studies with part time work to supplement scholarships and loans. I had made it. In the fall, I would start at Hasting law school in San Francisco. But it was Blia’s determination that I admired. After finishing continuation high school, she worked and saved for two years before enrolling in junior college. She had managed a heavy load of classes, worked full time, and raised her little girl with her parents help. I had balloons, streamers, sodas, chips, and a chocolate cake to mark the occasion.

I dropped my
book bag next to the desk in my bedroom. The answering machine flashed with two messages. The first was from Mary.
Nou, where are you? Call me as soon as you can. Josh and I are going out to dinner tomorrow night with a friend of his from L.A. I thought maybe you’d like to come. This guy is really cute. It’s just dinner. Call me!

I laughed.
She never stopped trying to fix me up. Even though we lived across the bay from one another and talked on the phone at least three times a week, we were lucky to get together once a month. Now she was engaged to Josh. There had been no one significant in my life since Pete and I broke up at the beginning of our junior year in college. For over two years, we trekked back and forth on weekends between Berkeley and Stanford to be together. But with only our past to hold us together, we drifted apart. That last summer, Pete traveled with friends to Europe, while I worked at Macy’s during the day and waitressed evenings. The disconnect between our lives became too glaring. As junior year began, the phone calls and visits became as perfunctory and strained as our lovemaking. The end came naturally, a mutually agreed upon parting without surprises. All that remained was a lingering emptiness and sorrow for feelings that had faded away.

The second message was Blia.
Hey cuz. We’re going to be about twenty minutes late. Sorry, but you know how hard it is for me to get out of here. May is so excited to see you. And we have a really big surprise for you.

It didn’t matter if they were late.
I needed the extra time to straighten up and fix lunch. I retrieved the sweatshirt I had tossed across a basket of journals and hung it in the hall closet. My roommate had moved out the week before so the living room was nearly bare. I had arranged enormous blue and green pillows on the hardwood floor along the left wall. Shelves, made of bricks and boards, ran along the opposite wall with my inexpensive stereo system, CDs, rows of books, and four framed photos. In the dining room, two chairs and a stool surrounded a card table, and a TV tray against the wall held the blue tea pot with matching cups Mary had given me last Christmas.

I selected a CD of classical guitar m
usic and turned up the volume. In the kitchen, I filled the electric rice cooker, pulled out the pot of soup, made that morning with fresh garden vegetables, and set it on a low burner, then assembled the ingredients for green papaya salad. Humming along with the music, I chopped and diced and tossed the salad. The drinks were cold, the table set, and streamers and balloons hung from the overhead light fixtures. I blew up five more balloons for May to play with and tossed them in the corner. I turned down the music and peeked out the front window. There was no sign of Blia’s car, only Mrs. Wilcox from down the street walking her cocker spaniel.

I lighted the blue, square candle that sat next to sticks of ginger incense in a bowl of amber sand and a picture of my family Blia had taken at t
he last New Year’s celebration. These rested on a black runner edged with embroidery, cross stitch, and reverse appliqué in bright colors, which I had made last winter. Here at this makeshift altar, I prayed to my ancestors and spirits. Another piece of my
paj ntaub
in red, green, and white interlocking lines that formed the family pattern was framed and hung above the book shelf. Ironically, I found sewing relaxed me after a long day of school and work. There was something reassuring in controlling the needle to create tiny stitches and mixing bright colors of thread. I liked to improvise on traditional patterns, to create something unique.

I studied the family photo as I often did. My sisters, brothers, and cousins were all at least a foot taller now, t
heir faces thinner, more mature. But I would know them anywhere. There were several new babies I had never met. Mother and Father appeared weary and somber, old beyond their years. Father looked thinner than ever, drowning in his clothes. The skin on his face hung in loose folds. I missed them all every day, an ache that never diminished.

Since that day in court five years before, I had been banished from the Lee fam
ily as if I had never existed. Senior year I had spoken occasionally to Mee at school, but even she distanced herself. If I asked about my parents or siblings, she shifted uncomfortably and made excuses why she had to go. Then one day shortly before my high school graduation, Blia walked into the drug store where I was working. She said she had thought about me a lot and realized how unfair the situation had been. She understood. The relief and joy of having one of my family reach out to me, even if it was the most unlikely person of all, reduced me to tears. She hugged me and said no matter what our crazy family thought, she wanted to see me. It started with lunches every few weeks. May’s presence helped bridge the awkwardness and distance. A friendship blossomed. She and May had been visiting me weekends in Berkeley whenever they could for the last four years.

As we grew closer, I finally gathered the courage to ask Blia what had
happened right after I left. She said it had been hardest on my mother. She had slipped in and out of her dark periods for months. My sisters were devastated, angry with our parents and then with me. My young brothers kept asking for me not understanding what had happened, thinking I was coming back. My parents continued to work hard and do their best. I could not help but wonder if they had wiped me from the slate, no longer giving me a thought. Did they ever feel regret?

I went to check on the soup and filled a bowl with chips. The doorbell rang and I raced back, flinging the door open, r
eady to scoop May into my arms. At first, all I saw was a tiny woman in a navy blue dress with a double row of white buttons down the front, a red bead necklace and earrings, and graying hair swept up on top of her head. She stood very still, clutching a package. I thought she must be one of the religious ladies who walked the neighborhood handing out pamphlets.

“Hello, Nou.”

My brain finally registered what I never could have expected, and my hand flew to my mouth. “Mother.”

She gave me a te
ntative smile. “I surprise you. I come in?”

“Please.” I reeled back, my mind spinning as she stepped into the room.
“But how…”

“Blia bring me,” she answered before I could finish my question. “She took May to park,” she added as I glanced out front.

My heart beat wildly. It was impossible to comprehend. “You’re speaking English.”

A grin spread across her face as she put her head to one side, like a s
hy schoolgirl. “I learn for almost two year. Your brother and sister help.”

She placed her package on the floor, lea
ning it against the bookshelf. “For you, later.”

“I can’
t believe you are really here. How are you?”

“I am happy now.”

“And Moa and Houa and all the children.”

“Everyone is fine
.”

“And Father?”

Her lips pulled together in a tight, hard line. “He is the same.”

I stared at
her with a million questions. Why had she come? Was she still angry? Did she want an apology? Or would she offer one? Did she still love me? I longed to throw my arms around her and tell her how much I missed her. But then again, I wanted to ask how she could have abandoned me, how she could have waited five years for this moment. Instead, I grabbed a chair from the dining room and asked her to sit down.

“You can show me your apartment maybe.”

“Of course.” I took her on a tour of the black and white tile bathroom and two small bedrooms--one empty as I waited for my new roommate to move in--then the kitchen with its ancient appliances and covered back porch.

“Everything nice.
I wonder for long time how you live.” She paused to inspect the simmering pot of soup. “Smell good.”

In the living room again,
she stood by the front window. “Good garden. You do this?”

“Yes. I like fresh things.”
While I was growing up, she had rarely said anything complimentary. It could not be easy for her to do it now.

She nodded her approval and turned to my shelves
, inspecting my books and CDs. She picked up the frame that held a photo of me with four other girls and ten boys, all Hmong, having a picnic in Tilden Park. I noticed the frame shaking in her hands and became aware that my own hands were trembling as well.

I answered her puzzled look.
“Those are friends from the Hmong Student Union here at Berkeley. We get together and talk about school and things.” I didn’t mention how many of my friends had to balance family demands and cultural restrictions as I had, or that two of the girls in the picture had gotten married and dropped out of college. “Last semester we sponsored a Hmong culture day with an exhibit in the student union building.”

“Blia told me.”
She put the picture down and brushed her hand over the black embroidered runner. “Who made this?”

“I did.
And the piece up there and this.” I held out the embroidered belt I had tied through the belt loops of my jeans. I sounded like a little girl asking for her approval as I had years before. “My stitching still isn’t very good, but I like doing it.”

Her face fell slack and her eyes filled with tears as she stared at the fami
ly photo with everyone but me. She turned her back as she wiped her eyes.

I wanted to reach out, touch her shoulder, but it was all
too new, too uncertain. “You look so nice in that dress,” I said at last.

Mother took a deep breath and faced me
smiling. “I bought for today. Only ten dollar.”

The sound of footsteps racing onto the porch filled the room. May burst through the front door and ran in
to my arms to squeeze me tight. I wanted a little girl just like her some day.

Bl
ia walked in and gave me a hug. “So, were you completely blown away?”

“I still can’t believe it.”
I looked at Mother, unsure what to do next. Silence filled the room.

“Mommy says I can have soda,” May said
in her sweetest voice. “Do you have any soda, Auntie Nou?”

We all laughed.
“Only for very special girls like you. I’ll get us drinks.”

Blia followed me into the kitc
hen with an anxious expression. “Soooo?”

“Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?” I whispered.