Free Across the Mekong River by Elaine Russell

drenching our belongings. Sleep eluded me. I lay awake for hours, listening to the old grandfather next to us snore and moan in his sleep as he tossed and turned. Babies coughed and cried. A woman two rooms down woke screaming each night. Yer crawled into the farthest corner of the sleeping mat in a tight ball, her spine a knot of barbed wire. The tremors of her sobs rippled around me, but when I reached out to her, she shoved me away. Rats scurried in the rafters. I cradled Nou in the crook of my arm. Mosquitoes droned endlessly in the sticky, fetid air.
    My heart ached with the overwhelming guilt that I had not saved my boy s, a guilt that grew each day. Yer turned cold, accusing eyes on me. I wanted to hide in a corner and weep. I could not even give my children a proper burial. I feared their souls might be forced to drift between worlds never reaching the heavens. Uncle Boua and I did our best. We burned incense and candles to light their way to the heavens, provided food for their journey, and made offerings to our ancestors to assist them. Yer stood apart, her face swollen from crying. Our words seemed to float above her.
    There was no comfort. Uncle Boua retreated into stony silence, walking for hours through the camp, his head down, drifting between worlds. He paid no attention to his own son. Poor Gia, thirteen years old, ran free with a gang of wild boys, sometimes going to the makeshift school, sometimes getting into trouble.
    And Yer, it was li ke living with a ghost. She did not notice or hear me. She shopped and cooked and filled the water buckets. She washed our clothes. But she never spoke a word. One afternoon I found her with Nou at the front gate of the camp, waiting for the buses with new refugees. She strained her neck to search the faces, starting each time a boy stepped off. I found myself looking as well, even though I knew better. Each day she seemed to slip farther away. I thought of the scenes in French films that I used to watch as a student in Vientiane where the screen slowly faded into darkness. I could not find a way to reach her. Sometimes at night I heard her whisper the boys’ names as she held her hand out in the darkness. It was possible the ghosts of our boys beckoned for their mother to join them. I was terrified I might wake one morning and find she had answered their call. I performed a bai si to protect her, tying strings to her wrist to keep her soul safely with her body. She paid no attention.
    Each morning I forced myself to go out, meeting with camp officials to learn anything, something to bring hope, to find a future for my family. Once a week I received a permit to leave camp and work in the surrounding fields for Thai farmers. It didn’t matter how little I earned. If I kept busy, I could push the anguish from my mind for a few hours.
    Only Nou brought moments of relief. When I returned to our place in the late afternoons, she raced into my arms, touching my cheek with hers. Comme ca , I would say, pointing to the other cheek. At night I played games with her to teach her how to count on her fingers and say words in Lao and French.
    I could hardly bear to watch her with her mother as she des perately sought her attention. She fussed over and cared for Yer, brushing her hair and helping her dress. As the weeks slipped by, and Yer retreated into her own world, Nou tried to fill the void. Somehow she carried the heavy water buckets one at a time from the tanks when her mother forgot. She gathered wood for the fire and struggled to cook the rice and vegetables for our meals. Yer lay at the back of the sleeping mat, lost to us. Nou tucked a cover carefully about her.
     
    In September, after two long months, at last I received good news. Thai officials had found my brother Shone and cousin Soua at another refugee camp called Ban Vinai. We could move there soon to be with them. My relief was great. When they had left our village three years before, I feared we might never meet