The Language Inside

by Holly Thompson

  you can become a monk

  during school break

  really? I say

  it sounds almost funny

  but I nod, solemn

  feeling the tension

  in the room

  Samnang shuffles his papers, stands

  Leap Sok looks away

  Samnang speaks to him gentle, steady

  puts on his jacket

  Leap Sok eyes the empty bed

  wipes the corner of his eye with his thumb

  Samnang sits down again

  and I step out

  to wait in the hall

  later in the elevator I say

  Chea Pen’s pneumonia—it’s that bad?

  and Samnang nods

  looking worn and tired

  I’m really sorry I say

  in the lobby we write the time by our names

  and Samnang throws the pen down

  which bounces off the desk

  and he strides out

  while I pick it up

  from the floor

  out in the cold

  it’s flurrying

  and for a moment Samnang

  looks mildly cheered

  as he holds out his palm

  to catch some flakes

  then he starts striding

  toward the bridge, the pizza place

  and I remember and stop

  a few paces on

  Samnang stops, too

  hey I say I’m sorry

  hating that I have to tell him

  but I can’t have pizza tonight

  it’s my grandparents’

  last night with us

  he stares straight ahead

  blows some air out

  shoves his hands into his jacket pockets

  and starts walking toward the car

  so I should just take you home

  his voice is so diminished

  and although I wasn’t intending to

  now I say you’re invited to join us

  he doesn’t answer

  as we reach the car he blurts

  they’ve lost so much

  these older Khmer—

  family, friends, homes, their lifestyle . . .

  you can’t imagine what they went through

  during Pol Pot . . .

                 Lok Ta Leap lost his father and mother

                 uncles, cousins, three brothers

                 his two youngest daughters . . .

  and they had nothing

  when they got here

  nothing

  it’s been so hard

  so when they’re old

  here in America

  these Khmer

  who can’t speak much English

  who have hardly any relatives left . . .

  or have kids and grandkids

  so different from them . . .

  when they lose someone else . . .

  Samnang turns away

  I stand nearby

  but not too near

  give him space

  and after a bit I say

  Leap Sok is lucky to have you

  but Samnang says sharply

  I don’t think that’s called luck

  to just have me

  he unlocks the car and we get in

  and I don’t know what to offer

  to his silence

  other than more silence

  when we reach YiaYia’s I say

  come inside, just for a bit

  I tell him that tomorrow

  Gram and Gramps return to Vermont

  and pretty soon my father

  will be back in New York

  it’s a big family meal

  with my mom joining if she can

  Samnang rubs his hand

  over his face

  eyes the clock

  tilts his head

  okay, sure

  and parks the car

  I wait while he calls Beth

  then we go up YiaYia’s walk

  YiaYia welcomes him right in

  and sets another place

  without my asking

  and Dad introduces him as

  Emma’s friend Samnang

  dancer and gymnast

  and Gram and Gramps throw him questions

  about Cambodian dance

  which they call the Royal Ballet

  going on about the artist Rodin

  and his sketches of Cambodian dancers

  visiting France

  and I’m wondering . . .

  how do they know all this stuff

  coming from Vermont?

  when dinner is served

  YiaYia chats with Samnang

  about people at the Newall Center

  she knew from when Papou was there

  Samnang talks soccer with Toby

  and Boston Marathon with my mom

  he explains his upcoming gymnastics season

  and assures my father, yes, he’s looking at colleges

  he’s lively and good to everyone

  and I can tell they all like him

  but now I know that

  even when Samnang is animated

  he’s still carrying all that loss

  after dinner I grab my jacket

  go outside with him to the car

  and ask if he’ll visit Leap Sok

  again this week or if I should drop by

  I’ll try to go he says

  but I don’t think you should bother

  he doesn’t speak much English

  and it’s slurred

  from the stroke

  I tell him I think I can handle that

  I work with someone who can’t even speak

  he gives a half smile

  then says thanks

  for dinner and everything

  and I tell him anytime

  and out of habit

  my head drops

  into a slight bow

  a little later

  when I’m helping YiaYia wash dishes

  I get a text:

                 39

  when I get home from school on Friday

  Dad meets me at the door

  and before I can even step inside

  he says let’s go for a walk

  we got the path report

  and I begin to panic—

  they already took off the whole breast

  the lymph node tested negative

  the tumor was only .3 cm . . .

  what’s left to report?

  it’s okay

  nothing unexpected

  no bad news he says

  and as we head down the sidewalk

  he goes on to tell me that the surgeon

  and the oncologist and the radiologist agree

  there’s the slightest chance of cancer cells in the chest wall

  and that radiation followed by five years of hormone therapy

  is considered the best course of treatment at this time

  no chemo? I ask

  no chemo he says

  well, that’s good I say

  breathing again

  relaxing my shoulders

  Dad says radiation will start just after Thanksgiving

  that it will be five times a week for seven weeks

  and that after those seven weeks

  she’ll start taking tamoxifen

  and her body will need to adjust

  nothing unusual Dad says

  I raise my eyebrows

  but I hold my tongue—

  this whole year has been nothing but

                 unusual

  how does this happen to someone who runs? I say

  and wears sunscreen

  and doesn’t eat much meat?

  it’s not fair

  cancer is never fair he says


  but lots of women are survivors, Em

  he says Mom will be fine but may be tired

  from the radiation

  and she’ll need lots of help

  emotional and physical—

  YiaYia’s help

  Toby’s help

  Dad’s help

  when he can be there

  and especially

  my help

  she counts on you, Em he says

  too much, I think

  but don’t say

  I pause on some bumped-up concrete where

  a tree root has cracked open the sidewalk

  like a wound

  how is she today? I say

  but we have to move down the sidewalk

  when a leaf blower starts

  okay, kind of deflated

  resigned, maybe he says

  we both know

  she’s going crazy

  without her running

  then Dad says I’m sorry, Em

  but it looks like you and Toby

  should just finish the school year here

  even if I have to go back to Japan sooner

  which, you know, I probably will

  maybe in winter

  I take a deep breath

  and stare across

  a long sloping yard

  dotted with Canada geese

  and I’m thinking

  what if I went back with Dad . . .

  but then I think of Zena’s poem

  of her daughter

  swimming off with her sister

  and how if I went back with Dad

  wouldn’t that be like

  abandoning Mom?

  I tell Dad don’t worry

  I’ll help Mom get back on her feet

  he says thanks, Em

  I know you will

  we walk back to the house

  but before checking in with Mom

  I tell him I need to go for a run

  I put on some sweats

  and dash back outside

  to get my head in order

  so I don’t blurt

  the wrong words to Mom

  I don’t even stretch

  just start running

  and right away I’m aware

  I don’t have enough layers

  for this frigid New England air

  I launch into a sprint

  bolt down my usual route

  then keep going straight

  where I’d usually loop right

  pushing, pumping, straining

  as if I want

                 to feel a muscle tear

  when I slow my pace finally

  I try to list what this all really means

                 1. my mother still needs treatment

                 2. Dad won’t be with us much

                 3. I’m staying in Massachusetts for a full school year

                 4. I won’t get back to Japan until way after

  the one-year anniversary of the quake

  as I reach mile three

  I’m relieved the list is only

  four points long

  that I can start to mull or stress

  as YiaYia might say

  on just those four points

  my body finally warms

  and I even have to walk

  awhile to cool down

  when I reach YiaYia’s

  at dusk

  my mother’s in an armchair

  with a lap desk and her computer

  which she closes when I sit

  down on the edge of the bed

  cancer sucks I say

  sure does she says

  but I’m not alone, Em

  about 12% of women in this country

  will get breast cancer

  and this is all standard treatment

  precautionary, okay?

  I nod, encouraged to see

  that glint of determination

  returning

  then she says

  I love that I can always count on you, Em

  and though it’s meant as praise

  it feels like a weight

  transferred

  strapped

  to my back

  Mom gazes out the window

  to tree limbs bathed in streetlight

  and sighs

  I wish we were in Japan she says

  I miss my running routes, my students . . .

  I can get enough America when I’m in Japan

  but I can’t get enough Japan when I’m here

  and this year, of all times, to have to leave . . .

  I want to agree

  add my own rant to hers

  but instead I say

  yeah, but we’ll get back home soon enough

  and you’ll run those same routes

  probably faster

  she looks away

  purses her lips

  and I know she’s fighting tears

  and I need to change the subject

  we sit in silence for a while

  then I say what’s clear to me now

  I’m thinking that somehow

  I have to help Tohoku from here

  and after a moment

  she says

  really? me, too

  let me know if there’s

  something I can do

  and I realize I’ll need to give her

  an assignment

  because she has to get her mind off

  her own body

  I glance around the crowded room

  that used to be YiaYia’s sewing room

  now cluttered with Mom’s stuff

  will we stay here?

  at YiaYia’s the whole year?

  we won’t move to Vermont?

  we’ll stay here she says

  near the hospitals and clinics

  well then I say

  if you’ll be an adviser

  for my Tohoku project

  I’ll cook you Japanese food

  deal! she says

  then she whispers poor YiaYia!

  and I laugh and she laughs

  until she hurts and grimaces

  and I make us both banana yogurt smoothies

  with protein powder and yuzu preserves

  and while we’re sipping the smoothies

  even though I feel like

  one of those surfers the helicopters

  hover over Sagami Bay searching for—

                 a surfer being sucked out to sea

                 tumbled and plunged

                 under typhoon waves higher

                 than anticipated

  we bounce ideas back and forth

  for helping people in Tohoku

  from here in Massachusetts

  after I finish my homework

  I sit on my bed with my journal

  and fiddle with a list

      in a year the snowcap

      grows to a full skirt

      then recedes

      a breast disappears

      the cat grows fatter

      kanji go fainter

      temple bells gong

      a father shifts jobs

      a boy loses language

      a mother stops running

      rubble is cleared

      a body is found

      incense is burned

      houses repaired

      and a daughter

      doesn’t know what to do

  I think of Miyagi

  and how much is gone

  I think of Mado
ka’s aunt

  so long unfound

  I think of Samnang’s mother

  and all that she endured

  I think of my mother

  I think of Zena

  and I wonder

  what to do

  Saturday Dad drops me at the Newall Center

  while he goes out to find an Asian market

  to shop for groceries—

                 comfort food and ingredients

                 that he thinks Mom may want

                 but YiaYia won’t know to buy:

                           soba noodles, miso, tofu, ginger, nori

  first I stop in to see Zena

  and find her in her room

  working on her new computer

  writing with the eye tracker

  I ask how it’s going and she looks up

  then she starts typing a line to show me

  the slow and deliberate process

  choosing letters to type

  or selecting words

  from the prompt list

  all with a blink

  then she spells

  h-o-w r u?

  turning the conversation

  on me

  okay I say