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
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