Candle in the Attic Window(71)
“Why won’t you listen to me? That sick man, he came from here. He’s the one who took your mother and father! And you want to help him?” Grandmother trembled all over and wagged her finger at me. “A good doctor, yes, but what kind of daughter, then?”
“I –” had nothing to say to that, nothing at all. Never in my life had I dreamed a face could be attached to the end my unremembered parents had come to. That I would be put in such a melodramatic moral quandary struck me then, as it does now, as a contrivance more fit for a Thai soap opera than a life. Maybe that is why I recovered so quickly and told her, “I’m still going.”
“It’ll be all right,” I heard my grandfather say. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
Grandmother wearily closed her eyes. I snapped my head around and there he was in the doorway, smiling softly like he always did when we were having a spat and he interrupted. Light-headed and wondering why everyone had tricked me into thinking he had died, it took me an instant to notice that his left arm terminated in a wide-palmed hand instead of a knotted stump. Then I did what any grounded, logical young doctor would do in my situation – I screamed and fainted.
When I came back around, they were arguing quietly and rain rattled the house. Most of the details of that afternoon are lost to me, but, somehow, I made peace with the impossibility of the situation. When I recovered, I inspected my grandfather with the sort of stoic practicality that only absolute shock could grant to one in my position. He appeared identical to how he had in life, khaki pants and a wide-brimmed hat his only attire. With a slight grimace of effort, he could pass through solid objects, clothes and all, but my trembling fingers were able to settle on his frigid skin. At this realization, I threw my arms around him and cried.
The rain slowed and finally withdrew, fog and twilight conspiring to provide a more appropriate atmosphere for the evening. Grandfather ate bowl after bowl of rice, and both Grandmother and I politely pretended not to notice that he kept a larger bowl underneath him as he ate to catch the food that fell through him onto the floor, so that only the same two bowls of rice were consumed over and over. Grandfather eventually set down his bowl and Grandmother joked that the reason for his insatiable appetite was his extraction – Grandfather had fled Southern China when Mao’s followers descended on his family farm like locusts, and emigrated to Cambodia to avoid the brewing war and famine in his homeland. He often lamented his ill luck in that regard, and now was no exception. Finally, the happy, surreal reunion came to a close, as the fog blotted out the setting sun, and Grandfather and I rose to leave.
My grandfather pecked my grandmother on the cheek as we descended to the bog of a road. When I later realized they both suspected they were seeing one another for the last time, I marveled at the brevity of their goodbye. Then again, few couples are afforded the reprieve that they were and they surely knew this. The jungle inhaled us into its misty belly, and I would have lost both my way and my grandfather had he not taken my hand in his. My fingers crept reflexively to his wrist, even though I knew nothing pulsed there.
“Malis,” he said, as we walked, “while you were asleep, Jorani told me you were planning on interfering tonight.”
“Not interfering,” I said defensively. “Helping. There’s a difference.”
“You think you can do more than Theary?”
“Theary?” I had forgotten the witch’s real name. “Oh, yes. I hear she rubbed you down with a nice chili oil liniment.”
“That didn’t burn as bad as the coals,” he laughed. “But look at me now! I owe my current condition to her skill. I approve of your work, but can the medicine you learned perform as well as hers?”
He had me there and he knew it. The damp, cold mud filled the sneakers I had foolishly forgotten to leave behind, but otherwise, the evening walk was as pleasant as any we had taken before ... before he died, I made myself think. The ethereal road vanished before us. I nearly panicked at the thought that I had somehow died and he was escorting me to whatever lay beyond.
“The sick man,” Grandfather said, his voice low and sad, “Jorani’s told you who he is?”
“She said he was the one who sent my parents to Tuol Sleng.”
“I went there, after the Viets took over.” His voice sounded harsh in the way it always did after he had been looking at my mother’s pictures. “They called it a prison. We knew then, but to see it – oh, Malis, can you imagine? To do such things to other people? And for what?”
I knew of no answer, nor did he expect one. I squeezed his hand and we came to a stop, the miasma thinning around the mouth of the trail to the witch’s hut. He rubbed his eyes and then squeezed my shoulder; I felt his phantasmal tears dampen my neck.
“He grew up here,” Grandfather went on. “That man and your mother played together, like you and Phirun. I never cared for him – he was cruel and cowardly. After the war, when your father came here and met your mother, I knew that little coward would cause a stink. But how could I know? How? We all deserved peace. The coward joined up right away, gone from the village overnight. Your father returned to Phnom with your mother and then you were born. By then, things were getting bad ....”
He stared past me into the mist, haunted by his own ghosts. When he finally continued, his voice had steadied. “They were going to come and stay with us, rather than risk being sent to a farm, risk being separated. Then he showed up at their apartment, and I know it was him because your uncle was visiting, recognized him through the window and knew enough to go out the backdoor with you. Then they took your mother and father to that hell, and your uncle took you to us. That is why I could not leave, yet, Malis.”