Never Fall Down: A Novel

by Patricia McCormick

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AFTER SOMBO LEAVE, OTHER KID ARE FIGHTING OVER WHICH way to go. They finally pick one way; I go the opposite. They don’t notice I sneak away. They don’t care—now everyone just walking to live, not caring where we go, who live, who die.

  All I think is Thailand. I walk the direction to Thailand, one day, two, maybe three, sometime even at night, always walking to where the sun set. But this jungle so dark, you can’t even see the sky; you just keep walking.

  One week maybe, I come to a stream. Thailand! To get to Thailand you have to cross a river; I know this from what Sombo say. So now I am almost at Thailand. All I have to do, cross this water. I walk a little more, up and down this stream, looking for shallow place to cross.

  In the wood ahead I see strange thing, hut made of stick and mud. On the dirt, trail of blood. Then bodies. Old man, mother, child. I know this old man. He the one who give Sombo the Coca-Cola. These bodies, these the people Sombo kill from the hideout village. And I understand two thing: these people, they not die right away; they crawl till they die. The other thing: I been walking one whole week and only came back to the same place.

  No food, no water for a long time now. Up high, where I can’t reach, is fruit, green fruit I never saw before. Make me even more hungry to see this fruit I can’t have, so I walk only looking at my feet. Till one time I see this fruit on the ground. Fallen down, maybe. I rush to this thing and bite it, so sweet, so juice, like heaven. Then I look at it, and it’s all maggot inside. Small maggot, many, many, crawling deeper in the fruit. But too bad, I eat some already. So I eat the rest.

  Today walking, I step on something sharp, something white. Human bone. Small. Scatter around. Maybe some other kid also who was looking for Thailand.

  New thing to guide my way. Sound of fighting. Very far, but beat steady like a heart. I hear that noise, I go the other way.

  Tiger live in this jungle. They smell the human, they smell dinner. So nighttime, I climb up in one tree—banyan tree with low branch like hammock—and hide there and maybe sleep.

  I come down in the morning, grass under the tree all flat, all push down, like maybe the tiger, he sleep there, too.

  So tire now, each time I step forward it take all my strength only to lift my foot. I say to myself, “Just one more step, then you can rest.” Then I trick myself and say, “Okay, Arn, now one more.”

  Lotta monkey in the jungle. Monkey, they like to throw food at each other; I think maybe it some kind of game. So I stand under the tree where, up high, the monkey play and wait for them to maybe drop food on me. I make monkey sound, monkey face down on the ground, and they do it; they drop food on me. I don’t know what it is, but I eat it.

  Maybe I get sleepy from all that fruit. Maybe I sit down and rest under the tree. Because I open my eye and see little monkey on the ground, looking at me. One monkey, then two. Then many monkey. Many monkey eye looking at me. All curious. They look at me. I look at them. They talk, but I don’t know what they say.

  One guy, the biggest guy, he stare me in the eye. This guy, the boss, he take care of all the monkey—the mothers, the babies, and the old one. All the monkey, they live together like family. I see a mother and baby hold each other, and I think they lucky, very lucky.

  One monkey, a small guy, he come over to me. Up close, he look a little bit human. Like old man. He just a baby, but he have hand and face like an old man. I hold still, and he climb on my lap. He put his arm around my neck, and he hold me like he hold his mother. I put my chin on his head and smell his fur, a smell like dust and maybe milk. His little heart beat right next to mine, fast; and he look up at me, like he know me. I keep very still so this can last forever.

  Then the others start to leave, and he move a little. He watch them go, then finally, he jump off my lap. The others are all gone; this little guy, he’s the last to go.

  I grab him. I twist his neck and kill him. I feel very bad. I feel not like a human. Like beast or something. He give me his food and he hold me like he hold his mother, and I kill him.

  Why? Why I’m so bad? He don’t do anything to me. But I need to survive. I need to eat. Before, I kill human being, and now I kill this little animal. Why?

  Because every minute I have to think about surviving. Every minute.

  Chill very bad now at night. Teeth chatter, bone shake, even my brain, it shiver in my head. Also blister everywhere. On my back, my shoulder, my chest. Big blister, big as my hand, so sore it hurt even to lie down. So I walk. Daytime. Nighttime. All I can do. Walk.

  That monkey family, I see them in my mind all the time now. They throwing rock at me now, not food, rock and stick and shit; they throw their shit at me and scream at me. Scream about the baby. “Where the baby,” they say, like human talking. “What you do to our baby?”

  This screaming now, it sound like laughing, like crazy laughing, like insane. Then the monkey family, in my mind, they turn into my own family—all my sister, my little brother, my aunt—everyone laughing, playing a game, peeking from behind the tree; and I run to them, crying so happy, but they gone. Only laughing from behind the branch, laughing at me, like teasing, like they saying “Come find us.” And I think maybe they dead, they calling me to come with them.

  I talk to them; I say each name. And I say, “I will see you again, I will see you again.” Over and over I say this, like chant. And my family, then, all the voices join; and now all my family saying it, the whole jungle saying it—the leaf, the vine, the tree, the bug, the dirt—the whole jungle is chanting, “See you again, see you again, see you again.”

  Now the jungle, it slide sideway, then tip up in the air, and the tree all upside down, very crazy, very funny; and I feel, finally, happy and also sleepy and very good, warm, finally no chill, and my face is touching something warm, something soft, and I think: okay, Arn, now you can rest.

  Strange thing, death. Bad taste in my mouth. And the world, it look dark, not like nighttime, like shadow and dark cloud. And dirty. Also hard to breath. Because my nose, one side, it cake with mud. And my eye, also, one is cover with mud. Like I’m bury. Then I understand. I’m living still. Half my face is sunk in mud, and I am lying on the ground. Alive.

  Not even when I think I die, do I die.

  Maybe death will come if I just lie here and invite it to myself. If maybe I don’t move, don’t breathe. Maybe it will come gentle, not from bullet or ax or starving. Maybe like sleep, like dream—soft, little bit more each minute—maybe like not even knowing it. Like maybe my number one big sister, Chantou, her spirit can be like real girl, lead the way, her hair long like before the Khmer Rouge—long, shiny black—singing love song, wearing white dress.

  And now in the jungle I see something white. Tall. This thing looking at me. Eye like jewel. Like magic, this white thing, standing in the jungle. Rabbit. White rabbit. Tall as me almost, standing up on hind leg. Like human, and also spirit, this rabbit make a daze in my head, command me to follow.

  Again it’s a game of hiding; the rabbit, he peek out from behind the tree, then hide, then peek again somewhere else. And I follow like not even doing it myself, like I can watch myself do this thing.

  Until finally I see another magic thing: river. This river, on the other side is Thailand. I know it. Because over there, no more jungle. Across the river, no tree, no vine, everything open. Sky. And grass. And dry.

  And strange. And dangerous. No place for hiding, not like the jungle, which protect me all this time and hide me now from this too-bright sun, this open country, this Thailand. All this walking, I think, to get to this place, and I want only one thing. To stay where no one can see me.

  But the rabbit, now he on the other side of the river. He look at me with his jewel eye, and he make a daze in my mind; and now I am strong as a hundred boy, as ox, as tank. I watch my foot go into the water, then my leg, my waist, my chest, my neck, my chin; and the body I see in the water, so pale, so thin, like only bone, like bone of dead boy in the jungle. I watch th
is body floating, my mind also floating, until finally I am on grass, Thailand grass, my eye aching from this too-bright sun.

  And me, a soldier who kill every day, me, with body, with heart like old man, I crawl like baby.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MY BIG SISTER CHANTOU, THE OLDEST ONE, IS STANDING OVER me, chewing herb, then putting it on the blister on my back. Also my number two big sister, Maly, the one with the long black hair, she also here in Thailand and putting the medicine on me. And even my little sister, Sophea, the one I see in the jungle like skeleton, dirt all over her, eyes yellow, the one I almost kill on my own, she live also somehow. And I try to say to these three girl, “It come true! I see you again.”

  But the girl, they giggle; and this sound—girl laughing—is music to me, beautiful music. And they pick me up and carry me, all the time giggle, and I fall asleep to this heaven sound.

  My sister gone when I wake up. Still I’m lying on this grass, Thailand grass, but shady now, in like small forest, voice all around. Voice and also feet, feet walking by. I reach for one foot, and the person scream and run away. Now another pair of feet come, and a voice that says, “We thought maybe you already dead.”

  Looking down at me is girl, beautiful girl, and I try to ask her where are my sister, but my lip so crack from fever, from no water, no sound can come.

  “We carry you here from the border, me and my two friend,” she says. “But you didn’t move, for maybe five day.”

  This girl now I see is not my sister, is only a girl. The other girl, giggling, also come to look at me, and I understand that rabbit, he play a trick on me.

  These three girl, these angel girl, they come many time and chew herb and put on me, give me a little water, and every day I get a little bit more strong. I think maybe it’s a small village where I am, like the hideout village in the jungle; but not enough energy in me to ask question, even to say thank you.

  Strange voice wake me up. Like machine, this voice, saying same thing over and over. This voice is bullhorn. And I think maybe I’m inside a nightmare, that everything—the rabbit, the river—not real, and really I’m back in my hometown and Khmer Rouge truck is driving around telling all of us the Americans are coming, and the killing, the starving, the war, it start all over again.

  I listen hard, and now I understand this bullhorn voice. It says, “All refugee, come out from hiding. Safe now to come out. Come to refugee camp. Medicine for you. Food. Water.”

  I know what this is, this Vietnamese soldier, like at the toy village, telling everyone to come for free food only so they can kill them. The angel girl, they giggle and run to this bullhorn voice; and now I have strength, strength for these girl who save my life, to stop them, to tell them don’t run. I get up, very dizzy, my head like heavy rock, my neck like only blade of grass. But I stand and see these girl and many other people coming out of the forest and run; everyone run. And I only can close my eye now and listen and wait for the gunshot, the screaming, the moaning.

  But what I hear instead is music. Cambodian love song. Song call “Waiting for You.” Cambodian rock star, guy like Elvis, singing like before Khmer Rouge, like from my aunt radio, little radio tie with twine, singing to me, saying, “No matter where you are, I’m waiting for you here.”

  And I go to this song, like walking asleep, closer, closer all the time to this sound, until I see where it come from. Big bus. Bus with all the people running to get in. Angel girl and everyone from the village where feet go by me every day. All these people getting on the bus. And so I do it, too. I get on this bus that sings out to me, that says, “I’m waiting for you here.”

  It’s a big bus, nice bus, with fan, maybe air-condition, and I shiver, shiver the whole time. Thin clothes, also chill from sickness, I only can grab my arm to make the shaking stop. And I look out the window with big eyes. I see Thai people wearing different clothes—not black—color clothes. Bright color. Red. Yellow. Orange. Boy in jean. Girl in short pant. Not like Cambodian girl, always button all the way up.

  Window so tight, no noise from outside can come in. But inside, inside is music. Old song. Cambodia song. Love song. “Wherever you are, I wait for you,” the song say. The bus driver, he have microphone and he sing it, and all kinda voice sing along. Old man like frog voice. Old lady like cat. Terrible racket, this bus, this crazy, happy bus, thumping down the road full of singing people; but to me the most beautiful sound I ever hear.

  And oh, so much hunger in me, a greedy, greedy hunger to be like these people, to sing the old song, the song I kill in my heart, my heart that now is ache, that now is so swole I think my body cannot hold it, my body that now is shaking so hard I think my bone will break, where now something inside me break open and I taste salty tears on my lip and hear my voice, my own voice. Singing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  POWDER MILK. EVERY DAY HERE AT THE HOSPITAL—TENT, OPEN side—they give us powder milk with water. I drink it then vomit it up. Or shit it out. Like before, at the temple with the mango grove, I shit five hundred time a night; a thing like liquid is all that comes out. The food here, not real food, just water color white. Like Khmer Rouge food, this Thailand food.

  Not enough cot, some kids on the ground, on little stone, crying, moaning. All of them too sick to even steal my bed when I go to the latrine. Sometime I don’t even make it there. Sometime the shit just come out, and I lie in the bed and let the fly crawl all over me.

  But always the nurse, she come back. With more powder milk.

  I ask the nurse one day what day it is. She tell me Sunday. I say no, what day in the year. March, she tell me. March 1979.

  Four year I been away from home. Four year since I sleep in a bed. Four year of killing and fighting and starving and dying. I think now I am maybe fifteen year old.

  One night I wake up and hear a hundred thousand bullet hitting the roof. Quick, I feel around for my gun, but only thing near my hand is sheet, white sheet. Hospital sheet.

  I listen hard for sound of battle coming, bomb falling, people crying; my nose quiver for the smell of gunpowder, to see if enemy is close or far. But the only smell is soil, soil turning to mud. It’s a smell I know, of earth, of rain, a planting-soil smell, a smell of monsoon. And I understand. Raindrop is hitting the roof.

  One hundred thousand raindrop.

  Only raindrop.

  Special visitor here today. Lady with pink skin, long nose. White lady. Lady with kind face, she come and lean over me, smelling like flower. American.

  And very important person, this visitor, I think, because all the nurse, all the doctor follow her around to each bed. Missus Carter, this, they say, Missus Carter, that. And also I learn new American word after she leave. First Lady. She call the First Lady, maybe because she the first lady to come see this hospital; but I think also this mean she is high ranking, like princess.

  Here at hospital radio is always on. Sometime in a strange language, maybe Thai; but all the time I listen for news about Cambodia, about the war, about when it can be safe to go home, look for my family.

  Sometime the radio, it’s Voice of America talking. Speaking Khmer, telling all people in Cambodia to go to Thailand, war is almost over.

  But in my mind I hear Khmer Rouge radio, the voice of Angka, always saying the same thing, that war is almost over.

  All the same. All lies. War is here, too, where kid still are screaming from nightmare, dying every day.

  More powder milk. More shit. More rain. More high-ranking visitor. This one a big American man. Pink face, nose like ax, sideburn like Elvis. Jeans, business shirt, and fancy watch. Maybe the First Man. Not sure what this guy is. Not doctor, but always hanging around the hospital, asking question, pester the nurse, pester the doctor, very worry about the sick kid, very angry if one dies. And every time he cry, like he the father of each dead kid.

  I wonder if maybe he have kid back home in America. If together they ride in a shiny car, big, with radio playing rock ’n’ roll. And Coca-Cola and be
ll-bottom pant. And maybe a pet bird like Hong have.

  Pain in my gut is like snake twisting. Curling, twisting, making poison in me. Death is coming to me slow here at this hospital, just like kid in the field who die from starving, from malaria. After all I been through—fighting, bombing, running lost in the jungle—now it’s death for me anyhow. So now I say good-bye to my family. I say, “Sorry I can’t make it, sorry I can’t come to find you; this pain is too much.” And I talk to Death. Old friend after all this time, I tell Death, “You can come get me now, but please come fast.”

  Tonight rain is coming hard, so hard it’s like flood, and the kid on the ground screaming, crying, water in the mouth, the nose, drowning, and all the doctor and nurse trying to pick the kid up, get them away from this flood; but oh, the kid crying still. You pick them up too fast, too hard, they can die.

  And I see the American man walking through the hospital, his face cover in rain, or maybe tears. Now getting closer, closer to me, but he doesn’t see me. So I do it; I make myself fall off the bed so he will pick me up.

  But still he doesn’t see and now his boot is coming at me, coming at my face; and this giant man, now he’s gonna step on me and kill me, so I put my arm out, I stretch my arm up to him and now his boot goes away. He bend down now and stare at me like scared, like he thought maybe already I’m corpse and frighten of my arm coming up. Then he lean over and pick me up, very gentle, very strong. And carry me away before I pass out.